Quite a few days we’ve had. If you’re not one for surprises then there’s a good chance you might not have enjoyed it as much as the rest of us. First ‘Arry dishes out some more social hand-grenades in front of the rolling Sky Sports cameras on Saturday- turning a few phrases that’d make your average betting shop clerk blush- all before popping his feet up on deadline day with no plan of action, only to somehow pull Rafael van Der Vaart out of his sleeve like a balled-up handkerchief. What the heck have you got there, ‘Arry? It came so far out of left-field that it actually inverted on itself and went into right-field. I’m not sure where that is exactly, but I’d hazard a guess you’re not allowed to say f*ck on telly there either.

So, this is what we’ve ended up with. Until the January sales at least. No room for that planet eating, juggernaut of a centre-forward we were all pining for. Whom that might’ve been I guess we’ll never know. Our midfield looks frightening, though, doesn’t it? If creativity were a bio-fuel, in Modric, VDV, Lennon, Thudd, Bale and Kranjcar, we’ve enough to power a small country. Lithuania, perhaps. That’s not even mentioning Bentley, GDS and whoever else I’m bound to have forgotten in my haste to get a point. We’ve an embarrassment of riches, to excuse the tired expression.

Jenas. There’s Jenas, too.

My question’s a simple one, then. What’re we going to do with them all?

Answers on a postcard or by the usual methods.

Let’s hear your best elevensies. For all weathers and occasion.

“But if you try sometimes, you might find
You get what you need…”

Hours after dragging ourselves from the wreckage of SSN’s relentless deadline day howitzer on the senses, all that’s left to ask is: what exactly have we ended up with? Well, for the most part, no-one’s entirely sure. Still we wait for confirmation on Van der Vaart’s arrival. A deal which has come so far out of left-field, ITK’s all over internetland are being forced to back-edit three months of archives with digital Tipex. Did I say Parker? You must have misheard me…

From where I’m sitting, eight million sounds like deal of the bloomin’ decade. Particularly when you throw in ‘Arry’s claim that Munich were willing to pay ten score above that only last week. An assertion I’d believe were it for the fact that I didn’t believe it. This whole window’s made me awfully cynical.

In the cold light of day, though, despite stark absence of a glittery new frontman, ( but then who did get everything they asked for?) I reckon our dealings have been pretty solid. It may feel like we’ve been dormant for the majority of the summer; days have tumbled on with plenty of fireworks and circuses in the media without much of the happening actually happening. But when you look at the squad- even without VDV- it has some real depth to it. Quality, too. There’s quality. No fooling, mister.

My advice, then. Take stock, be thankful that we’re still in one piece and press on. There’s a long season ahead. Failing that, if you’ve got the stomach for it, there’s always January.

Despite having one or two new dates embossed into our diaries since you last called in- most notably one pertaining to a trip to the San Siro in early November- the haste in which our next fixture has bounded over the horizon means we’ve been afforded little chance to gaze too far off into the distance. Time waits for no man and Wigan make their way to White Hart Lane on the back of some ghastly form. A cataclysmic opening day fall-out with Tango FC, followed shortly by an even heavier, if less surprising, defeat to Chelsea in Week Two and Martinez’s lot are already bailing water out of the dingy with some urgency. I don’t profess to know any Wigan supporters but I imagine there’s more than a few quivers of concern at camp DW.

But, as they, say, a week is a long time in football and any hint of points for them later and things will look remarkably rosier. Much as anything other than a win for us would put the dampeners on our mid-week antics and have the doomsayers out in their droves again. It can all change in an instant. Look at Villa. A plot graph of their season since MO’N left would look like a Toblerone.

The crumbs of team news as I write this has Gomes and Modric still sidelined; the former’s groin remains tweaked from Wednesday night. All that leaping about after Crouch’s opener, apparently. From what I’ve seen of Cudicini since his return from injury, however, there’s no reason to believe that the Brazilian’s short stint on the treatment table will give us much cause to panic. He’s  as cool as that new Dyson bladeless fan, is our Carlo. Nay bother there.

Everything points to a win today. Should we find messrs Bale and Lennon in favourable mood then you’d struggle to locate anything in Wigan’s backline that would have any means to stop them. The Welshman’s in the form of his life and his right-sided counterpart is just clicking through the gears. Somewhere near six, if you ask me. And, without sounding disrespectful to them, I reckon that might just be enough.

Up and atom!

3-0 to The Spurs

Yo, Adrian. We did it! And boy howdy didn’t we just. It seems odd to be amid such a delirious hullaballoo in late-August; the season’s only just wobbled onto its feet and we’re already cavorting on the streets in our underwear; blue and white scarves tied atop our head, all frothy at the mouth, baying at the moon like certified lunatics. It’s just not normal. And yet here we are- three months after Eastlands- at it again. In the comfort of your armchairs, in the stands, in nefarious back-alley watering holes- watching The Hotspur gouge another slice of history for themselves in a pulsating night in North London. Champions League, baby. It’s coming for you… It’s coming for all of us.

Nervous? My hands are still sweating as I plonk the keys this morning. Even without the deficit left over from Switzerland, there were plenty of routes the tie could potentially head down. And not all of them ended with us piling out of bars at ten o’clock, signing ourselves hoarse. Some involved drunk, cold showers and inconsolable weeping. Lots and lots of weeping. As grey clouds roamed about the country early yesterday afternoon- bringing with them many a gallon of rainwater- so the doubts started to roam also.  A soggy pitch, jitters amongst the ranks, an early defensive blunder. Really everything was there to make this an uncomfortable experience for us humble supporters.

But there should’ve been no such worry. Peter James Crouch saw to that. Say what you want about the long man- I’ve been known to raise the odd quizzical eyebrow in his direction as he skirts about the pitch on a Saturday afternoon- he certainly knows his way round the big games. Cometh the hour, cometh the all important goal. We are indebted to him. Immeasurably. I wonder how our European neighbours will take to the bag of bones that is Peter Crouch? I’d like to wager they won’t have the foggiest idea what to do with him.

Elsewhere, Huddlestone was miraculous. It’s now a cliché to remark about our Tom’s range of passing- but if any of his numerous millimetre-perfect balls is worthy of mention, then that outside-of-the-boot little piece of sex he pulled in the first half- causing Jim Beglin to undo the top button of his trousers and purr like a old cat- is definitely it. I hope he’s not showboating, remarked Peter Drury. Is he ‘eck.

One thing that irked me slightly about ITV’s highlights show- on such a mammoth night for Spurs why did Southgate have to keep blithering on about Capello’s presence at the game; and how the national side would ultimately benefit from our involvement in the CL? The brink of creating club history and all that concerns Gareth is: ooh I wonder if this means England will be good now, too? Here’s a thought…who cares? England are boring.

Anyway, that’s not important. What is important is that access has been granted. ‘Arry’s privileged dining card has checked out and we’re sitting at the top table with the rest of footballing gentry. Real Madrid, Barcelona, Milan, Inter. The list will make you giddy. Champions League comes to White Hart Lane. Almost disnae feel real, does it? Any of it. Well, as sure as I can feel cheap Chinese plastic under my fingertips as I type, it’s real. We did it. We did it.

And now the season can really get going. Awfully proud.

And what a pleasing weekend that was. A dogged, Stoke-shaped obstacle lay between ourselves and three points last Saturday afternoon, and, while we didn’t float majestically over the blockade with the grace of an Olympic hurdler, we did, at least, roll our sleeves up and clatter our way to the other side. We burrowed deep and slogged the f*cker out. Selection headaches, steadfast opposition, a rather anaemic looking forward line; all factors which might’ve persuaded us all that a well-tussled draw would’ve been no cause to grumble. They’re a tough nut to crack, you might’ve heard muttered at the back. Such is the rate that our resolve has stiffened over the last twelve months or so, however, we were determined to flee home with plenty more besides. These days, tough nuts are the accoutrements of our morning cereal. And we eat cereal for breakfast.

Bale’s rather good, isn’t he? Quotes from ‘Arry yesterday-remarking on the Welshman’s stratospheric ascent into the big leagues- were typically underplayed. If you believe Redknapp, all that was required of Gareth to fast-track his career into superstardom was to a) stop fannying about with his hair, b) refrain from being such a limp petal in training, c) hit some weights and d) grow a moustache. Granted, the last one was made up but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. Whatever the cause, whatever the advice, the goal he scored at the Britannia was the humdingiest of humdingers I’ve seen for an age and typifies where this boy is at. Off the freaking chart. What, exactly, his left leg was doing at that altitude is one thing; how he managed to jettison the ball back across the keeper and into the opposite corner is another altogether. He’s a star. A bona-fide star. And, however straightforward ‘Arry has made the job of nurturing Bale over these last few months sound, he’s done extraordinary work and deserves praise from anyone in back-slapping distance.

Gomes had a strange one. On the odd occasion his services were called upon, Heurelho’s charge of the box looked less than secure. Most notably for Stoke’s equaliser, where the Brazilian, to put it midly, was all over t’shop. Meh. These things happen. Show me one goalkeeper who hasn’t had a game where they’ve put the fear of god into their defenders with some bat-shit-crazy antics, and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t exist. It’s only lazy commentators who blurt such guff as ‘that’s Gomes’ career at Tottenham in a nutshell. Brilliant save one minute, blunder the next.’ It’s the sort of thing I’d imagine Jim Beglin saying. Newsflash, poindexter. Gomes is the f*cking bomb.

I don’t why I’m swearing so much. I think it’s the nerves. Wednesday night and all that.

Anyhoo, a win, then. All that we could’ve asked for. Trips around this small isle over the next few months will be littered with stern ordeals such as these and I’m all for going about it in this manner. Win. Win ugly if you have to. If it was United or Chelsea doing so it would be filed under a professional job. The best teams do it, apparently. And, if we’ve got any plans to progress further in this ol’ League in years to come, I suppose we ought to get used to it.

I think I could.

Morning, campers. I shan’t keep you long.

To Stoke we travel, then. The burning question in my eyes is; are they still any good? They’ve certainly ballyhooed some money about this summer- with the air of a team on the up- most notably in procuring the working man’s Adebayor, Kenny Jones. Eight million they shelled out for him. Not quite the twenty we reputedly were close to handing over a few moons back, but enough to make Pulis and the board slap palm to face when he pirouette rather nastily on his ankle after only thirty-minutes last weekend. Amazingly he’s fit enough for a start. Elsewhere, it should be the usual compound of grit and gravel with licks of pizzazz in the shape of Tuncay and Etherington. Rory Delap is still open for business, too: doing a remarkable job of prolonging a football career by virtue of having ferocious guns.

He could literally play like Uri Geller and still be first on the team sheet.

Our team sheet is looking less straightforward. The Legoland pitch of midweek has played havoc with our frontline and only Crouch has returned home in good health. Modders, JD, Keane, Pav- all absent with varying degrees and shades of gammy leg. Some of which rife enough to make Wednesday’s Euro qualifier a doubt, too. Cripes. In the meantime, everything points to a heavyweight five-man midfield with Palacios shimmying in alongside Huddlestone and one other. Or, even, GDS linking off Crouch in an alternate vision of the big man/little man routine. There’re options. Plenty of options.

Right. That’s it from me. Time  is not my friend this morning. Let’s hope the men of the Britannia are more wieldy this afternoon and permit our lot to run riot. We’ve already reached must win territory. That didn’t take long.

3-0 to the Hotspur.

COYS!

**On an entirely different note, Edgar Davids has signed for Crystal Palace. I do hope we get a home draw with them in the Cup. Davids? Back at WHL?  Standing ovation? Ooh, go on then..**

So, it appears the Willian Gallas relocation programme is going swimmingly. If you’ve kept an eye on your sources this last couple of days, you will no doubt have discovered that it’s a little closer to home than you might’ve wished for. According to SSN- via a nefarious looking sort looming outside the club shop in a trench coat and an eye-patch- the Gallic princess is having a medical at the Lodge this very morn and an unveiling looks imminent.

Lordy lord.

This has every intention of dividing the lot of us. In one camp, the promise that we’re reeling in a bona-fide stalwart centre-back; Champions League experience, a leader, a double winner- for free, no less. And in the other, the clappers of doom ring out reminding us that he is, in fact, a damp  little ballbag. Ex-Arsenal, best years behind him; a sulking, whinging, dressing-room agitator. One, whom when called to guide his men in an hour of darkness at St. Andrews two years ago, sat defeated in the centre-circle like a weary old dog. That’ll be my lasting memory of him. Then again, if he can do a job for us, why the heck not? Splinters, you say?

I guess that’ll be me sitting on the fence.

I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts…

Jimminy jilickers. That wasn’t quite what we had in mind. Before there was even a chance to sit back in our armchairs and breath in all the Champions League paraphernalia dotted about the place- ooh, look at them arm patches- Young Boys had already spanked in three without riposte. It could’ve been eight. A thirty-minutes I imagine none will care to re-live. Did you ever watch that documentary about those mental Swedish sisters running amok on the M6 a couple of years ago? If you haven’t, then start thumbing the key words into Youtube. It’ll bring back familiar memories of last night. As the thing unfolds, you know damn well something terrible is about to happen. And when it does- ie: one of them is hit by a truck- it’s worse than you imagined. You start sweating. You feel queasy. You’re watching Tottenham Hotspur.

And it’s just awful.

The lego pitch certainly didn’t help much; as ‘Arry insinuated, nay, outright declared after the final whistle. It was clear from the get-go they looked spooked by what they were treading on. It had them rattled. And while the bag of air bounced and flubbed around their molded studs like a bonus ball in Camelot, belief waned only further. I don’t fancy this much, they seemed to nod in unison. An excuse? Hardly. Contributing factor? I dare say.

There’s no getting away from the fact that many of our best men had shockers in Switzerland. Wilson- whose dimensions seem to have squat a few inches over the summer- looked particularly uneasy. As that kamikaze back-pass will testify. In a game which required calm heads and measured thought, Palacios charging about the pitch; giving the ball away, bullishly clattering people, possibly wasn’t the modus operandi we were after. As appose to Huddlestone, whom was like liquid nitrogen when he came on. He changed everything.

Plenty to garner from such a hellish performance, then, and even more so from the two goals which we take back home with us. We’ll not see worse, I’m certain. The Young Boys may’ve had us vomiting in our paper bins for those opening minutes, but there’s nothing in their make-up that would discourage my optimism for the second-leg. A fluke? A one-off? Let’s bleedin’ hope so.

Well, what can one say? Tottenham bolted out of the gates like a well-oiled thoroughbred on Saturday afternoon. A first-half of complete, exhaustive dominance which, at its most one-sided, left City looking as if they’d stumbled into a warzone in their pyjamas. Title contenders? Pfff. They couldn’t get near us. For long periods. And, in spite of all the dazzle which the Eastlander’s new playthings hoped to blind us with, it was a man costing the equivalent of three weeks of Yaya Toure’s wages who wrestled the point from about our person. Joe Hart. Their savour. Lip-readers among us might have discerned the thoughts of Fabio Capello- who watched from the stands-as another ball ricocheted away from the net via the England stopper’s mitt… Sheeet.

But enough about him. Points dropped aside, there was joy to be found under many an upturned stone this weekend. Mancini may’ve bulked out his midriff for the occasion- on the day outnumbering us centrally by three to two- but it was Huddlestone and Modric who ran the show. Privy to the Italian’s selection, you’d be forgiven for thinking ‘Arry might’ve slotted Palacios in there- if nothing else, to temper City’s numbers. But, such was our Croatian’s own doggedness, Wilson was barely missed. A few misplaced passes you can forgive when Modric- supposedly a bantam-weight attacking midfielder- puts so much exertion into winning it back again. He harried, harassed and zipped his way along. Cracking stuff.

Gareth Bale has hit the ground running. And running very quickly at that. On each instance Micah Richards was required to trackback, the portly Midlander’s face contorted in the manner of someone whose appendix had just burst. It’s no exaggeration to say that Bale was exceptional; echoes of a young Ryan Giggs, if you wish. And as such, I propose the lickety-split winger should never be asked to play left-back again. He’s far too precious. It’d be like asking a Neurosurgeon to take the bins out. BAE’s good enough anyway. Plenty good enough.

So how didn’t we win? The bone of contention, I guess, is whether missed opportunities were down solely to the superhuman efforts of Joe Hart, or, rather, the lack of ruthlessness proffered by our frontmen. I’m inclined to argue that, while Hart was remarkable on the day and anyone might’ve found themselves wanting in the face of such heroic goalkeeping, there’s a genuine concern that what we have isn’t quite good enough. Collectively, there’s a varied and- for the most part- talented quartet of line-leaders there, but nothing individually that looks bang on the money. Defoe can be devastating when in the mood; as can Pavlyuchenko. And Crouch, too, is fine as squad player. But even against minor opposition he tends to look at odds. We appear to be  one or two notches away from an immense proposition. I’ve no idea who- or even who’s available- but it just feels like we ought to shake things up a bit. Install some new ideas into a forward line, which, I have to say, at times looks bereft of ideas.

Other than that, little to moan about. The wrong result, granted, but very much the right vein in which we should continue. More of the same, please.

Now let’s bring on the Young Boys.

*ahem*

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’ ” – Jack Kerouac

So, dear reader, this is where we find ourselves. On the brink. It’s perhaps fitting that while our season gets up on its feet this weekend, it’s done so against a team with which our last great odyssey ended. That delirious night in Manchester, three months ago, when the collective hoorahs of a million Spurs fans could’ve been heard by Joseph Kittinger at the edge of the Stratosphere. As he plummeted toward earth. Crouch. Eighty-second minute. Header. You remember the rest. It were reet good.

But, as they say, if that was then- this is very much now. Things have moved on a bit since May; at least from the point of view of our Mancunian cousins. City have had a busy summer. You may’ve noticed. And not busy in the sense of getting bizz-ay with some salacious lady of the night in the back of a minicab. Roberto has splurged gazillions on some real cushty items since we last met. Just scrolling through their squad list on the pages of Wikipedia and it appears they’ve not only nabbed the only worthwhile packages in the shop window, they’ve ejected most of the chuff, too. They’ve stream-lined. No sign of the forty-five strikers they were addled with last year. Sure, it may still be an abundant forward line to say the least, but anyone who can hand-pick from Adebayor, Bellamy, Tevez, Robinho, RSC and, most likely, Balotelli (having a medical as we speak), is probably not doing so badly. Defensively they look strong, too. Kolarov, Boateng, blah, blah, blah.

You get the idea. They look awfully decent sur la papier. Wherein lies our advantage, however, and part of the reason I think an opening day ruckus with Citeh is perhaps more favourable than, say, the turn of the year, is we’re a good team off paper, also. Comings and goings have been sparse but it’s still the same compound of players which dismantled Arsenal and Chelsea at the business end of last season (my word, I just said business end and it was relevant to Tottenham). Key players remain and the nucleus of everything good about this side- a world class goalkeeper, a pair of clean-heeled wingers, Modric, Dawson, etc.- are all elements which have not only stayed firm, but with any luck, improved. And will continue to do so as the season tumbles along. Man City, you’d hope, will need games under their diamante encrusted belts; time before the whole begins to look anything like the sum of its parts. Tactical and cerebral harmony doesn’t happen overnight. Not often, anyway. An early goal from us we could see the whole thing unravel.

Team news, you say? Well, I’ve got just thing. Baring any eleventh-hour coups, I would guess that the line-up be might be something we’re familiar with, albeit with a take your pick affair with regard to our men up top. Robbie Keane is flavour of the month again so he could well lay in wait for a start. With whom, by anyone’s reckoning, is hard to tell. If I were a betting man or inclined to have a shot in the dark, I’d suggest the exact pairing ‘Arry began last season with: Messrs Jermain and Robert. And I suppose that worked out okay. So, other than that, it’s all systems a go-go.

2-0 to the Hotspur.

Altogether now.

Ceeeermonyouspuuuuuurs.