Welcome, if you’ve managed to get this far. We’re having one or two server problems, you see. Hence why this page may’ve taken longer to load than an episode of Casualty. On a lighter note, I did find a Dairylea Dunker in the fridge last night, so it swings in round-a-bouts.
Watford dans la Cup, then. It’s quite a task these days to see the phrase cup magic written down and not mentally inscribe your own inverted commas; such has the stock fallen for the F.A’s premier knock-out competition in recent years. With the big club’s waning interest until the later rounds (seeing it instead as another breeding ground for those wet behind the ears or splintered about the buttock) coupled with the additional ‘prize’ of Europa League football for the winner- for some, it would appear, the road to Wembley is one paved with casual indifference as well as good intentions.
If you watched the farce at Craven Cottage last year you’ll know Spurs have been as guilty as anyone.
So, what about this time around? Have we mustered even just a little more interest? Too early say, I guess, but I do know that with the Oil Barons running themselves ashore in the last round and two of either United, Liverpool, Villa or Arsenal certain to go out this weekend, success at Wembley represents Tottenham’s best hope of hauling something into the trophy cabinet come May. So we possibly might want to give it a whirl. What’s the worst that could happen?
Oh, well. Yes. That would be quite terrible, actually.
Also, football on a Friday night? I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to feel about that.
0-2 (Pavlyuchenko, Walker)
This’ll probably be the end of this site. Who the hell lets a Chelsea fan write on their Spurs blog, anyway? Well put the flaming torches and pitch forks away, folks. This one cometh in peace and he’s here to save the world. One person at a time. Trailer Trash’s Harry Thompson talks racism…
This being a Spurs site, and I, ahem, being a Chelsea supporter, I understand the absurdity of the task writing for an audience that already hates me. With this in mind, allow me to bring you doom heaped upon gloom. Football, you see, has a rotten and troublesome core. I’m not talking about the 22 men kicking hopeful balls into nets – the exoskeleton principle of the game remains pure. Here’s a clue: it’s tried to be stamped out, kicked-out, and shown the red card. I am, of course, talking about racism (not Scott Parker’s head).
Some of us find it hard to believe John Terry could have shouted a racist slur on such a heavily multicultural pitch without being heard. If anyone could crunch the statistics of non-Caucasians per m² in that stadium and the sonic range of his loathsome, ignorant voice, it’s likely he’d be heard by another player, right? Is this some top-flight Omertà – silence compounded by weak players with too much to lose? Liverpool and their pro-Suarez T-shirt PR stunt after the player had been charged with using ‘n*****’ repeatedly, with machinegun frequency would suggest it is.
Please don’t tell me Liverpool’s black players accepted Suarez’s ‘lost in translation’ defence without club interference or pressure. Or maybe I’m underestimating their squad’s skewed penchant for the absurd.
I, for one, survey the street I’m standing in with wide-eyed apprehension before uttering the word ‘black’, even when it’s not apropos of race, such is my fear the political correctness police will take me away.
The whole effort to rid, or at least deter racism in football has been undermined by these two high profile incidents. That John Terry still captains England and Chelsea, despite clear video evidence of him screaming racist abuse, says more about England’s interest in a successful Euro 2012 tournament this summer than any convincing attempts by the FA to create a more tolerant football community.
The irony now is John Terry’s a mascot for everything wrong with white people. It’s only a matter of time before supporters invade the field mid-game to lynch him with their football scarves. Indeed, I have a dream everyone will join in, all clubs, creeds, and races alike – united in one cause.
**If he can handle the abuse and dog turds in the post, (sorry, that one was me) Harry is going to be writing a weekly guest column on here- about football in general. I’m also looking for other contributors, if anyone feels it could be their bag-I know they’re plenty of smart-writer types among you and I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts. Meanwhile, I’ll be back in the morning for some delicious pre-Watford waffles. Crispy.**
Well, what a day in the old Anglais de Premiero that was. (Pretty sure that’s a flawless translation) Barely had we put on a pair of trousers that could be deemed fit for public display was Fernando Torres and his new chums doing a hilarious job of not beating Norwich at Carrow Road. Torres, of course, at the heart of the Lol-cano; spewing out Lol-ten hot lava for everyone to see. He’s all about the comedy. Then, it all got a bit weird when Robbie Keane started peeling the years back in the Midlands derby in early afternoon. Weird in the way that you might go to a nightclub with your dad. You know? You’d laugh if only it wasn’t so pathetic.
Oh, yeah. And then Liverpool lost to Bolton in the evening kick-off. Only they said it was Bolton. To me it looked suspiciously like Real Madrid. Nigel Reo-Kaka doing some lovely things in the white shirt of Los Blancos as Andy Carroll did some equally puzzling stuff in the rouge of Merseyside.
Now, of course, it’s Spurs’ chance to benefit while others have stumbled. Whatever joy there was to be extracted from the results yesterday, it’ll count for the equal sum of bugger all if nothing’s taken from Manchester in the cold light of the here and now. Thems the breaks, kiddo.
So what are we to expect? Well, one thing I will guess. If there’s any of that pretend card waving nonsense in the technical area, I’d imagine it wouldn’t be too long before a rather angry Joe Jordan made it his personal business to reduce the number of limbs Roberto Mancini was able to use for such skulduggery, down to zero. Nothing says ‘keep a lid on it, son’ like an arm dislocated at the elbow and shoved up one’s nether regions. Shocking stuff from the silver- plumed Italian in recent weeks. And doesn’t his voice sound like a zip? Yes. Yes it does.
On the pitch it’s likely to be even more exciting. There’s every indication that there won’t be a repeat of the August fiasco, and that can only be a good thing. Both teams are missing key men. Suspension and The Africa Cup of Nations claiming two of City’s finest- while so-called ‘contractual obligations’ leave our most potent striker in the stands. The colossal Ledley King is a doubt, too.
Much, then, rests on the shoulders of one Jermain Defoe and his capacity to operate as a lone-striker. The force is strong in this one but so far in his career there’s been little to suggest this is entirely his bag. A terrific finisher with oodles of raw, explosive talent but he’s more of a ‘cover me, boys- I’m going it alone’ type of player and his greatest gift is perhaps is his greatest weakness. Selfishness. Harry, though, seems to have little doubt that he’s up to the task and that’s more than enough for this humble onlooker. So there. Bring on the City, says I.
So that’s the title challenge put to bed for another year- I must say it was terrific fun while it lasted. Barely had I got the blue and white bunting down from the loft after our win against Everton, was I then tossing it into the fire with all my tax returns again on Saturday evening. Easy come, easy go. Sunrise, sunset and so forth.
And who’s to be held responsible for this uncharacteristic damp flannel of a performance? Well I for one blame those breakfast cereal companies who’ve spent years trying to cover their muck in sugar and marshmallow to get the kids on board. But that, I fear, is for another day.
The weekend’s result is what it is. Or was what it was. Two points dropped against a team who’d struck money early and were more than happy to park their defensive big-rig across our penalty area and jimmy it into neutral for the remaining minutes. Despite the super-serious look on Alan Shearer’s face on Saturday night- telling us, in no uncertain terms that we’ve got nay chance, pet- it’s far from terminal for the chaps in Lilywhite. What’s that saying? One swallow doesnay make your career choices questionable? Erm, no that doesn’t sound quite right…
Talking of Wor Alan. Notice how his resolve about our lack of title credentials on MOTD were about equal to those which backed our chances on Football Focus a few hours earlier. It goes without saying that the man was dropped on his head as a child. And possibly numerous times since.
Right, this is boring. Who’s got some transfer gossip to share before we talk City?
Seriously, make something up.
Do a Twitter and I promise I’ll recycle.
Any hopes we had of tiptoeing under the radar were swiftly punted into the Thames on Wednesday evening after every man and his lame dog in the days following declared Tottenham of Hotspur as genuine title contenders™. Alan Hansen, David Platt, S’ralex- even our own Heemskerk Howitzer, Rafael Van der Vaart, has pitched his tent in the side of ‘why the heck not’. It’s all making me jolly uncomfortable, if truth be told. And the quicker we can start ballsing it up like the good old days, the quicker we can all get on with our own pathetic, horrible lives.
What do you mean, speak for yourself? Well I’ve never heard such…
In all seriousness, though, just what have we become? And more importantly, is that thing we’ve become something that’s got a title challenge in…er…it? I honestly couldn’t tell you. But one thing’s for certain: it’s going to be ripping good fun to find out. Why the heck not, indeed.
Before we get ahead of ourselves, of course- and, frankly, it’s hard not to with every fibre of my being screaming LOOK AT THE BLOODY TABLE! LOOK! LOOK AT IT!- we’ve the small matter of entertaining Wolverhampton Wanderers at the Lane tomorrow afternoon. Yes, dear reader, the weekend is upon us and it’s served up a cold, uninspiring puck of Mick McCarthy gristle. I will really despair if he manages to do a number on us. Rather encouragingly, though, unlike last season, our record against the bottom sides has been exemplary; having beaten all of the teams south of 13th(including Wolves) and plenty more besides. In fact, only Swansea, from 9th downward have managed to get change out of us this term. We’re flat-track-bullying our way through the dross at an alarmingly proficient rate. And for consistency’s sake, I’d imagine tomorrow would be no different.
Smithers. Release the hounds!
**Note from the Ed. I’d like to think I’m an all-embracing sort and I know, for the most part, the regular readers of this cockamamie enterprise are, too. Thoroughly decent folk, I would say. Smart cookies, too. On the same hand, however, I’d also like to think that newcomers to the site- no matter how off party-line their views appear to be- could air such views in the comments box without being called a Gooner. To a point where they felt they couldn’t post on here without copping a load. Without wishing to come over all Paul McCartney- we’re all in this together, and, I’d imagine, all after the same thing. Success for Tottenham and playing with a bit of style along the way. But it’s no surprise that opinions on how we ought arrive there vary from person to person. In short, say what you want- and throw as much dung my way as you wish- but I won’t tolerate any posters getting flack for daring to have a view. Now let’s all forget this silliness and have a big group hug…Guys?**
I’m on Twitter like all the cool kids.
Ruddy nora and crikey hell! What about that, then? An absolute thunder-punt from everyone’s favourite Smart Car-driving, Oyster card-carrying Evening Standard columnist/community support worker/international superstar footballer/all round good egg. If I was describing it using the medium of retro beat ‘em, Street Fighter II, I would conclude thusly: sonic boom + flaming hadouken x hurricane kick= that goal. Deflected slightly, on closer inspection, but the type of person who’d want to take the gloss off of Disco Benny’s moment in the sun is the same person who, as we speak, is looking for a nice bridge to abandon that puppy they bought home for their children at Christmas. Sit back, press play and enjoy the sheer wonder of it all. Tottenham are joint second with Man United. Imagine.
Follow me on Twitter. We’ll make weird, beautiful music together
First Paul Scholes and now bearded volleyball whizz, Terry Henry. Two mammoths of the game busting open the crypts of their Premiership careers for one last undignified waltz under the lights; with every possibility of coughing up something unsavoury into the laps of their adoring fans and making a mess of everything that was once good. So it got me thinking; perhaps there might be hope for us, too. Maybe there was some former Spurs hero out there; sat at home waiting for the Bat-Signal to zip through the night sky, (a cockerel in this case) waiting for that call from Redknapp to say: get your kit on, lad-we need you!
Then I realised Robbie Keane was at Villa and we’d rather been there before.
Everton at The Lane. That’s what the reports are telling me. Did anyone else feel a pang of sympathy for David Moyes yesterday after he spoke about his misery of watching Tottenham pull away from the Merseyside club? The Toffees have become unstuck from the teeth of the Champions League chasers in recent times and instead spiralled off into mid-table anonymity. Of course, a lack of bones was highlighted as the underlining cause for the club’s halted progress (there’s no denying the Scot operates with funds akin to that of a village hall’s pastry budget) but they struck me as words of a defeated man. I hope everything’s alright at home…
We’re not without our own problems, of course. Sure Tottenham are sitting high and handsomely as we speak but there’s definitely the whiff of crisis about our potential selection tonight. Sandro’s out, Parker’s almost certainly out. King, too, is buggered as is Gallas. Leaving us with a potential midfield pairing of Luka Modric and…erm. Well, let’s not dwell on the details, shall we?
Suffice to say, it doesn’t look good. I wonder if they’ll be any calls for some eccentric tinkering from ‘Arry tonight? Pushing Kaboul into midfield, perhaps, and slotting Bassong in beside Dawson? It’s risky- madness, some would say. But it’s exactly the kind of hair-brained genius that gets you noticed (not to mention the women). Alex Ferguson does this kind of stuff all the time. So, you know, it might just work.
In other news we drew Watford in the Cup. Not a bad little result, that. Not only did it see us miss some of the stickier trips of the round it’s also given me a tremendous scope with which to come up with some clever and more importantly hilarious headlines for the upcoming tie. Something about girls kicking hornet’s nests. It’ll need work but I’m pretty sure it’s a winner. Three points tonight, please.
Follow me on Twitter and I’ll stop listening to your answer phone messages
It’s January, as you might’ve noticed; and if you hadn’t I’d suggest those New Year’s resolutions about not drinking anything that really ought to be kept on a shelf in the shed aren’t going all that well. For the rest of you, you know the score. It’s the beginning of the year and that can mean only one thing: the always-good-for-a-laugh-don’t-believe-everything-you hear-better-off-not-opening-any-tabloid-newspapers-or-football-websites-for-a-month-pick-any-name-out-of-a-hat…January Transfer Window. May lord have mercy on us all.
All quiet on the Western Front so far but our taciturn supremo has given us this little nugget:
“Unless someone very special came on the market, someone that could improve the team, I’ll stick with what I have”
Hmm. Is this some kind of sophisticated ruse from Redknapp? A large part of me hopes so. I’m sure we can all agree that it would only make sense to upgrade our stock if the right kind of player were to become available, but this seems to suggest that he’d only consider purchasing if improvements for the first team were up there for our grubby mitts to paw around; rather than the squad as whole.
As the excellent Sarah Winterburn opined on Football365 this week, although we posses a super first eleven (arguably a midfield without equal) there’re certain areas of our ranks where the quality doesn’t run all the way down. For one, there’s an awfully big gulf between that of Adebayor and Pavlyuchenko, and, likewise between Assou-Ekotto and Danny Rose. What happens, say, if Walker goes down with some hair-related malady? Is Corluka up to speed these days? I’m not so sure. It’s all very well saying Niko Kranjčar can slope into a Van der Vaart shaped hole if the Dutchman’s hamstrings start tightening up again- but the Croatian looked positively shattered after his brief cameo on Tuesday. I counted around thirty seconds before his brow was alarmingly sodden. That’s not the type of thing you build title-challenges on, that’s not even the sort of thing you build Lego on. Depth isn’t the only problem. While we have excellent centre-backs in King, Gallas, Kaboul and Dawson, we have tremendous difficulty keeping the b*ggers all fit.
Certainly, then, there’s fine-tuning that can be done in a few places. And fine tuning that should be done. Especially if our current broken list elongates further and we’re entirely serious about challenging for that big hunk of metal they give out in May. I’m fully behind Redknapp but now’s the time to consolidate, strengthen and take these swines on at their own game.
But who the Dickens should we be looking at?
**Follow me on Twitter and I’ll let the hostages go.**
Excuse me while I cough up an organ momentarily- I’ve just made the dreadful mistake of going on a post-New Year jog in weather I can only describe as ‘a bit blustery’. If I don’t crumple onto the keyboard before the day’s out it’ll be a minor miracleeeeeeeeertttttttttttttyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyhjjj…
Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.
So, everything just got a little bit more interesting up at the top. The Toon performing an unlikely demolition job on the league champions yesterday evening and the feline is firmly among the sky-rats. Without wishing to overstate our good position any more than is necessary, a win against Everton next week- our game in hand; the fallout from August’s Spazz Parade in the capital- and we pull ourselves level with United with only goal difference betwixt us. Lordy.
My advice, and this extends to the lunatic in the video, don’t bloody look down now…
Follow me on Twitter or I’ll write a strongly worded letter to your local MP.
So ‘Arry reckons he might get a bit bored managing England:
‘I enjoy the day-to-day coming in to work with players, said the media-introvert on Radio 4 this week- going out on the training pitch every day, seeing the players.
I don’t know if seeing players once every six or seven weeks….it would be different for me and I would find it very difficult.’
Talking of which. You know what I find boring? Listening to Harry Redknapp discussing the England job. And what could be even more boring than that? Listening to Harry Redknapp discussing the prospect of being bored whilst doing the job of being England manager. Honestly. Bore off, with the whole charade. In case you hadn’t noticed we’re doing rather well at the moment. A bit of focus, please. You wouldn’t see a heart surgeon stop mid-operation to tell the patient’s family that he’s got a cracking appendectomy lined up for this afternoon.
It’s too good a gig to turn down, to be fair. It’s every surgeon’s dream. Er… sorry about your son.
And now to the main event. West Brom are in the building. It feels like only yesterday that Adebayor and Co. were making a nuisance of themselves up at the Hawthorns- and I suppose in football speak that’s more or less how long ago it was. The Baggies will tell you a lot has changed since then; they’re more than just a team who’ll hang on bravely for forty-five minutes only to roll over like a wheezing dog when it really counts. Their stalemating of Man City last week was something to behold.
We of Tottenham will need to be at our most cunning, then. And, likely, those in residents at their most patient. If we’ve not fully obliterated them off the park within twenty-minutes- leaving only their dental records and the odd loose stud- no need to panic. The goal(s) will come. Life, as Jeff Goldblum says in Jurassic Park, will find a way. And this is probably exactly what he had in mind. Let’s make pre-history of them WBA berks.
Follow me on Twitter or else I’m telling.
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