We Don’t Speak Americano
New York, New York. Sinatra told the world he wanted to be a part of it; Tottenham quite happy to parachute their troops just south of it and get their hands on some pre-season Tupperware. And we were awfully close- an extra goal or two and ‘Arry and the chaps would be jetting home with the more than just walnut tans- the likes of which you’d normally find bottled in Danielle Lloyd‘s medicine cabinet. The Challenge of Gotham City is over. And the prognosis makes for interesting reading.
Robbie Keane. Player of the Tournament. On first glance at our double-return-fare hitman and you’d guess he’d been sleeping rough for the last few months. In the woods. Eating nothing but tree bark like some kind of grizzly wild-man. Thirty going on retired. Peel off a few layers, though, and things are not as they seem. He almost- almost– looked interested. Sunday’s peachy little number was even met by the open arms of beaming team-mates- who appear to have warmed to the idea that Uncle Bob might be hanging around for a while. Gawd help us.
Alan Hutton and Jermain Jenas’s efforts over the tour have earned pretty guff appraisals. One such review wasn’t even constructed with words- just a smear of faeces at the foot of the page. I’m worried for them. I am. Some form of witness re-location programme might be in order. Perhaps to a balmy little cul-de-sac in Solihull where the angry man on the street can’t hurl the contents of their pockets at them.
As well as knocking up a few stamps on their passports, the younglins have been getting decent hours in. Obika amongst the goals in New Jersey- a moment he confirmed to a US reporter to be his best of the season. It being July, we might all have arrived at the same conclusion. Elsewhere, Adel Taraabt reminded us, if only in flashes, why we’re still a little reluctant to let him squirm through the net. He does look awfully good at times. Real Madrid will no doubt be faxing over the contract details as we speak.
Fo-shizzle.
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