It’s Alive!

Well this is getting interesting. Just when the season looked to be shuffling off its mortal coil, to quote the Bard, Tottenham have ploughed the infertile landscape and miraculously found new life. Thrill-seekers or, indeed, masochist will no doubt be enjoying themselves in the current winds. Me, I’m still on the hunt for a quiet life but know in all honesty I chose the wrong club for that. And you can’t say the pure drama of it all hasn’t captured the imagination. Can you? No, you can’t. So there. Two games remain; a single point between 3rd and 5th. It’s going down to the wire.

So, one or two arbitrary thoughts on Wednesday’s game, with no particular mind for order or importance. Modric’s opener. My what a thing of loveliness that was. It’s been noted on several occasions- in this very parish, for one- that the Croatian appears incapable of scoring an ugly goal. In fact the thought alone looks to make him quite nauseous. The by-product of this net-bothering snobbery, of course, is his rather meagre return in the goal-scoring charts. I guess we’re supposed to stop belly-aching and just admire the vision. When will I score? This is unimportant. What matters is that when I do, the gods themselves will weep in the wake of its beauty. I am Luka.

As high on the splendid scale that Modric’s effort was, the same won’t be said of Owen Columba Coyle’s touchline attire. I can’t put my finger and what’s so- shall we say- unsettling about the Paisley Panther’s sporty get-up. Ostensibly there’s nothing wrong with a manager dressing like he’s ready to peel back the (considerable) years at the drop of a hat- and I’m sure there’s a certain freedom of movement that comes with prowling the technical area with bare thighs- but I do wish he’d put some bloody trousers on. Maybe I’m scared I’m going set eyes on a shrivelled testicle.

Apologies if you’re just about to have your tea. Maybe watch the highlights to take your mind off things. Doesn’t everybody look happy? Yeah.

In other news, of a less puckered variety. Kyle Walker has been busy with the fizzy this week; scrawling his name all over a brand spanking new contract. Using joined-up handwriting or not, it’s yet to be confirmed, but the important details are that he’s committed himself until 2017 and presumably his bank account is about to get a whole lot more awesomer. Just rewards for a fine season (on the whole) which has seen him play a lung-busting 47 out 51 games for Spurs and pick up the YPOTY gong along the way. Top stuff, Master Kyle.

Now a goal and a clean-sheet against your erstwhile team-mates and we’ll call it quits?




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