Pienaar Butter Jelly Time
I think Gerard Houllier may’ve taken my assertion that Spurs could do worse than re-sign Darren Bent this window a little too literally- about ten million pounds too literally by my estimate. All’s well that ends well, though, as the frankly ludicrous amount being shelled out by Villa for our erstwhile hitman seems to have had a knock-on effect in the market. In that Steven Pienaar is now certifiably one of us. A fully-fledged yid the minute the powers that be have a cursory nose over some work permit kerfuffle and extend thumbs skyward.
Those with a keen eye will no doubt recognise that the South African looks almost nothing like the hulking great centre-forward we’ve all had our hearts set on; the one who doesn’t negotiate every ball fizzed towards him like a drunk praying mantis. And you’d be right. But one could hardly argue the price hammered out by Levy and the team. Three million. Just to recap that’s Pienaar, Kranjcar and Van der Vaart for nearly half the cost of James Milner.
Crumbs.
But now for that striker.
Moving on. The United game was a curious watch. A stalemate always the likelihood as neither team looked all that clever when asked to do the obvious and meet ball with net. For every bumbling moment in front of goal from Peter Crouch, there was a baggy, skewered touch from Rooney just around the corner; for every poking out tongue and goofball smile there was the irritable, ref-faced scowl of someone whose form is undeniably kapuut. In the land of the misfiring frontman, the giants of Vidic and Dawson are king. Oh and alright, Luka Modric can be prince. For, once again, being utterly breathtaking.
The burning issue of Stratford continues to smoulder away. An interesting article here for those who don’t mind wading through a few paragraphs of off-topic contextualising to get to a point (you’re here so I doubt that’s a worry). It highlights many of the concerns being bandied about amongst fans; the loss of White Hart Lane, the loss of identity. Leaving North London in the grubby hands of Arsenal. And, of course, the terrifying notion that our very name might be malformed in the relocation process itself. Progress is fine. Evolution, I’m all for it. But some of the measures being touted in order to do so leaves me feeling quite cold inside.
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