Group therapy: Transfer Wishes and Memories of the 90s

It’s often in languorous times such as these that I wish the summer window was more like an episode of Supermarket Sweep. In the vain of those tubby funsters who’re allotted a minute or so to net all the industrial-sized tubs of mayonnaise they can get their paws on, it would be interesting to see managers bestowed a similar licence to bomb around the Continents, nabbing any flavour of the month which caught their eye. You want Bastoni? Well, if you can get your hands on him… he’s yours. In the same instance, how much easier would our lives be if, like those contestants flinging mistakenly snatched bags of lettuce out of the trolley, all our unwanted goods could be simply dropped out at sea and left to the whim of ol’ Mother Nature? 

As a plan, it’s water-tight. You heard me…

Assuming we could operate in this way, then, who exactly is floating the collective boat this window, and, equally, whose very presence in the squad is dragging it toward the twinkling abyss? Centre-backs seem like the option du jour for Antonio Conte, and there are plenty of names being circulated in the transfer rumour mill. Paratici likes Clément Lenglet. He likes Bastoni. He likes autumn-day walks and someone with a GSOH. But how about your good selves?

Who would you like to see trot through the gates at White Hart Lane in the coming weeks, and who would you prefer to see washed up on the beaches at Calais?

Memories of the 90s

Okay, part two of our group therapy session. Supporting Tottenham isn’t always fun like visiting best au online casino—in fact for most of the late nineties and early noughties it was bloody terrible. A devil’s decade (of sorts) wedged between the new dawn of Champions League infamy and the eighties/early-nineties of Hoddle, Waddle and Gascoigne. A time of relegation fights, Swiss bond-villain-managers, Hewlett Packard, a perpetual conveyor belt specialised in churning out footballer-shaped turds. Nicola Berti. If this point in time was a colour it would be gruel coloured. If it was conveyed by the medium of expressive dance it would be sitting in the corner quietly weeping. 

Were it not for the ’99 Cup win, beating United 4-1 at WHL (I still remember the headline: ‘United Roast at White Hot Lane‘) and David Ginola knocking about the place, I’d wager it’d be a page in our history most would rather have ripped out and swallowed whole. Nothing to see here.

So, people, let’s hear some of your gruesome memories of the nineties/early noughties. When did you realise things were firmly in the cack for your beloved Hotspur. That F.A Cup draw at Hereford. The signing of Andy Booth? When it became clear Rebrov wasn’t quite as good as Shevchenko? With the blessed virtue of hindsight, it’ll probably seem like quite a harmless exercise—like guffawing at old yearbook photos of yourself with a back-combed mullet and bright red power fringe. Probably not quite as funny at the time when you’d spend the majority of weekends sighing a lot with your palm and face at close quarters.

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