Vertigo by John Crace - copies up for grabs
Wednesday, September 21, 2011 at 12:12PM After finishing 4th in 2010, I'm sure John Crace was not alone in losing himself in a new dimension of anxiety thanks to the fear that accompanies renewed hope and progression. You know, rather than be joyful and live in the moment you think of all the negatives and how they might play out. That's the fear of success. Some struggle to be content at the best of times and I'd hazard a guess that the vast majority of Spurs fans are cut from a similar template; incapable of controlling the emotional spikes between happiness and sadness.
For those fans that always anchor themselves to the darkness, then Crace will speak directly to your tormented heart. His book 'Vertigo' chronicles the comedy that consumes us from one game to the next as we simply accept the reality that you just never quite know what direction our wonderful club will turn towards. His journey begins from the point of qualifying for the CL, travelling through last seasons adventure on the continent along with our domestic headaches and his family/friends.
I'm quite optimistic these days, but I still found myself drawing parallels with the way Crace and his life inter-connect with Tottenham. Especially the way his wife is completely disassociated with his love for Spurs (my missus just doesn't get it).
It's essential reading. I'm past the half-way mark and its fairly evident that regardless of the mannerisms associated to you and the way you follow and behave as a Spurs fan...because of how the club manages to shape us all, we pretty much share the same ilk of experience. It's the way we handle said experience that is so unique from one fan to the next.
Enjoy this wonderful Champions League extract from the book as a way of a teaser (details on how to win a copy below the extract):
It had been a simple reflex response to decide to go to Madrid. Though not to tell my wife. As Matthew pointed out, ‘What kind of weird world would it be where you had to ask permission to go to the Bernabeu for the Champions League quarter-final?’
Getting to Madrid was more of a problem. Within seconds of UEFA finally deciding which day the game was to be played, direct flights had leapt in price from £40 to £600. There gain, the route we ended up taking probably didn’twork out much cheaper: British Airways from Gatwick to Barcelona and then a high-speed train from Barcelona to Madrid. Factor in the hotel and match tickets and we could have had ten
days in a four-star hotel in Majorca for the same money.
‘Did she want to know how much it was costing?’ I asked Matthew after he had finally revealed his travel plans to his wife a week before the game.
‘This time I told her we’d got a really good deal on the hotel,’ he said.
‘Did that work?’
‘No. She just said “I suppose you’re overpaying for everything else again, as usual”.’
‘Phew,’ said Theo, as we cleared a queueless airport security. ‘Thank fuck you made us arrive three hours early for a 6.30 a.m. flight.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Matthew agreed. ‘I’d have hated to cut it any finer.’
Personally, I thought my travel arrangements were working out just fine. And so they were when we arrived in Barcelona with four hours to kill before our train. It
proved to be only just enough time as, when we got to the barrier at the station, it turned out that the tickets Theo had bought in advance were for the day before.
‘ Um, sorry guys,’ he said, leaving Matthew and me hovering near the platform entrance. ‘My fault. I’ll go off and see what I can do about it.’
‘The good news is that I’ve managed to get us on the train,’ he said when he reappeared just a few minutes before it was due to depart. ‘The bad news is they wouldn’t exchange the tickets and I had to get new ones. And as second-class is fully booked, we’re in first-class. Still, apparently we get lunch included in the price.’
This wasn’t quite as wonderful as it sounded as we’d just had a big meal while we were hanging around. An expensive trip had just got that bit more expensive.
When we reached the hotel, Matthew announced he was exhausted and needed a snooze, Theo had some urgent twittering to do, and I managed to find a Spanish TV station showing highlights of the Wigan versus Spurs game the previous weekend. They didn’t last very long.
The inside of the Bernabeu was breathtaking: unquestionably the best stadium I’ve ever visited. Where the San Siro had a grandeur that was crumbling beneath your feet, the Bernabeu was a temple to inherited wealth; even the toilets had attendants and individual urinals. Inside it was more magnificent, with the stands steepling into a night sky that itself appeared newly painted. It was an amphitheatre of dreams. Though not one where dreams came true.
I’m not sure at what point Matthew, Theo and I had decided Real were beatable, but we weren’t alone. Every other Spurs fan I had talked to over the previous week had come to a similar conclusion: that it was our destiny to win. This delusion lasted until kick-off.
It felt as if we were playing with ten men when nobody bothered to mark Emmanuel Adebayor, Spurs’ arch nemesis when he used to play for Arsenal, at a corner and Real went a goal up after three minutes. Within fifteen minutes we really were playing with ten men as Crouchie got himself sent off for a second yellow-card offence. He hadn’t attempted a tackle all season but now he had made two hopeless, unnecessary lunges in Real’s half of the pitch, and his sending-off was a formality. A friend texted me to say he reckoned Crouchie must have had an early date with Monica Mint. She did live in Madrid.
‘If we can keep the score down to one or two, we’ll still be in with a shout for the return leg,’ I said at half-time.
We couldn’t. Madrid ran us ragged and romped home 4-0 winners. Long after most of the crowd had left, we remained in our seats, each of us lost in a private grief.
The very worst had happened. We had been outclassed on and off the pitch. The Real supporters even had their own cheerleader, who orchestrated their singing and kept his back to the action the whole time. Worst of all, Jose Mourinho had been really, really nice about us – something he only ever does when he doesn’t respect you.
The extent of our humiliation was brought home by the absence of any crowing texts from Kevin. Normally he can’t resist, but this night he was abnormally respectful, as if he understood this was a bereavement more than a loss. Though I’m sure he couldn’t resist having a laugh with his Chelsea mates. I did with my Spurs mates when Chelsea got beaten by Manchester United the following night.
Eventually Theo broke the silence. ‘How did we ever come to imagine we would win?’ he asked. ‘Look at their substitutes. Kaka, Higuain, Benzema . . . Most of our team wouldn’t make it on to their bench.’
We nodded, saying nothing.
‘Never mind,’ Theo continued. ‘I’m being taken out to a flash restaurant by a client. Enjoy some tapas and the rest of your miserable evening, and I’ll see you both at 9 a.m. in the hotel for breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
The next morning I woke up feeling as if someone had been kicking me all night. All plans to combine the match with a bit of cultural tourism were instantly shelved. Madrid was a tainted city. The streets that had felt so interesting and welcoming when we arrived now felt hostile. I just wanted to get away as soon
as possible, which wasn’t as big a problem as it might have been as Theo had also bought our return tickets for the wrong day, so we were now free to get any train we wanted. So long as we paid for it again.
Going to Barcelona proved a wise choice as we did feel less oppressed by defeat, though I could have done without Spurs showing their usual exquisite sense of timing by sending me an email inviting me to renew my season ticket while I was on the train. Getting to the airport four hours early was no bad thing either, though it cost Theo £60. He had a guilt attack in duty free, and rang his wife to see if there was anything special she wanted. There was. I bought chocolate for Jill, Anna and Robbie, though I had eaten half of it before we took off. Matthew bought his family nothing, nada. I’m only saying.
There were several other Spurs fans travelling back from Madrid on the same flight. In the row in front of us were Tony and Jared who we’d talked to on the way out. But there was no sign of their mate Ross.
‘Where’s Ross?’ I asked.
‘He’s moved to the row in front,’ Tony said. ‘He’s chatting up a Spanish woman.’
‘Does he do that often?’
‘Always. He can’t help himself. The man is a legend. He’s got huge ears and is the ugliest man alive; yet women find him irresistible because he’s interested in whatever they’ve got to say.’
Four days later I got an email from Tony. Ross had been out on a date with the Spanish woman. It was the closest any Spurs fan came to a result in Spain.
Extract taken from Vertigo – One Football Fan’s Fear of Success by John Crace, Published by Constable at £12.99 pbk.
Got 2 copies to give away here on DML. Share a story/anecdote of how Spurs and life intertwined together resulting in disaster (or joy). Best two stories win.
Good luck.
PS. I'm out of office until 29th September, so will announce winners when I'm back. Also listen out for Ep 9 of The Fighting Cock podcast as we have more Vertigo copies to give away.
Reader Comments (38)
Thanks for posting this extract. I had read some of John Crace before, so I knew he was good, but that was brilliant. I will definitely be buying the book.
Or winning it?
A few seasons back was desperate to go to Spurs but also had commitments with the other half so agreed to watch just 45 mins of the game to travel back to meet her but only if we were comfortable in performance. 3-0 up at half time I danced my way home. Went out had no idea of final score and to be honest didn't even bother seeking it out until the next day on the tube reading the paper.
3-4 to City.
I was actually happy I left at half time as at least I lived under the illusion that we had won the game.
I had a massive fight with my brother before we played Arse in the semi final of the CC. We have a volatile relationship always have had. He said 'fuck you aint talking to you again' just before kick off. He sits in front of me at the Lane. With every Spurs goal we seemed to build bridges. When the 5th went in we're hugging and kissing each other like footie fans do when getting all emotional and high.
"That argument"
"Don't worry about it"
Conclusion? Football heals.
It's an excellent book that is well worth winning; and if you're not lucky enough to win a copy then definately buy it.
First met the missus through some friends at uni in Leicester.
We organised a group come down to our hometown one weekend and duly spent the weekend trying to get to know her a bit better. Spurs were due to be playing the FA cup on telly so the group of us headed down the pub to watch.
Game got snowed off, most headed off, we stayed to play a bit of pool.
During the evening I convinced her I owed her a Spurs game, so she needed to come back, just her, and watch a game at the Lane. Agreed if we won the game that had been called off, we would go to the next game.
She agreed, we won and the rest is history. That's the joy.
Disaster = Vividly recall some guy falling all the way down the South Stand Upper steps when we scored at that game. A long walk back up for him.
Good stuff. I shall have to buy a copy unless you want to give me one of yours.
Spurs and life entwined: A couple of seasons ago we lost 0-4 to ManUre at WHL. When we got home we were surprised to find the chain was on the front door, on the inside of a supposedly empty house. I broke the chain (surprisingly easy, not sure we we bothered to have one).
We had been burgled while watching the lads get stuffed. End of a perfect day.
I already told this story here but my very best Spurs memory is also the first one. My Dad and his brothers are huge Man U fans and visit OT at least once or twice a year. They are all very decent business men types but when they reach the ground they turn in to happy teenagers at an amusement park. The first time i could come along i was nine and they played a team called Tottenham Hotspur at home (1989) and they bought me a Man U shirt and all that.
But once the game started i noticed that i found myself rooting for the other boys in white and especially Gary Lineker (who i never heard about before that). The fact that Spurs won against Manchester united (, the club i'd been hearing about for ages (well since i was 9 - ages isnt all that long) settled the deal. I have been a fan ever since , was never invited again to the Manu trips and have been ridiculed every time we get hammered over there.
The best part ... my little brother , aged 16 is a vivid spurs fan too. Makes my dad mad when we arrive at the annual family gathering with our spurs shirts.
Despite being born and raised in the shadow of Old Trafford, Manchester, I have been a committed Spurs fan since the late 60's. Some years back, I was best man for my younger brother and my duties involved organising a day out at Haydock races for him and 27 other Man Utd fans. The day was progressing well and couldn't get any better when the news came through that Spurs were beating Utd 3-0 at WHL at half time. Quite a few disappointed reds conceded defeat at this point and, with faux magnanimity, insisted on paying me the winnings on bets I'd been pressurised into making over breakfast that morning. I'm naturally pessimistic about my team (no surprise there!), but even I was fooled into thinking all my Christmases had come at once on this occasion. My unbridled joy and giddiness quickly turned to anxiety, and then to fear and downright devastation, as I received each second half scoreline update: 3-1, 3-2, 3-3, 3-4, 3-5. Yes, we lost 3-5 to Man Utd in Aug/Sept 2001, and the pain is as raw today as it was back then.
Imagine what it's like to be in the company of a bunch of rabid, alcohol-sodden Man United supporters who, in the absence of stag night strippers and the like, saw me as fair game as the main source of entertainment for the rest of the evening celebrations. Making me stand and be photographed in front of our hired corporation bus showing the number '35' was the least of my humiliations that fateful day.
In December 2006 an ex of mine decided to treat us to a weekend away when she got a large bonus at work. She decided upon buying us tickets to go and see Newcastle play Spurs at St James' Park as she was a Newcastle fan. At this time I hadn't been to many away games and had never been to Newcastle so I was understandably excited by it all.
The next weekend we flew from Gatwick up to Newcastle, booked into our hotel and went out on the town (minus our jackets so we'd fit in). The next day we went to the game and to my horror found that she'd bought us tickets in the Newcastle stands (I didn't think to ask before). Fortunately I hadn't worn my Spurs shirt but she found the whole situation hilarious.
After a pre-game drink at Shearer's, we Sat way up top and proceeded to get outplayed by Newcastle. At half time I was in a pretty bad mood but thought a beer might cheer me up.
My ex went to the Ladies and I queued up for a pint when I was accosted by two Geordie Chavs (Charvas) who wanted to talk to me about the game. Looking at these cracked out scum bags I knew that my South London Mockney accent would show me up for a Spurs fan, in a Geordie stand, in an instant and I was also a little scared by their twitching. I threfore proceeded to put on my best Geordie accent to respond to them. My accent was shit and they knew straight away I was a Londoner so i did my best to convince them that my Dad was a Geordie instead.
A couple of mins later they offered me a couple of grams of coke and a bag of pills for a knock down price, but I was not about to buy drugs at a football match from two cracked out kids. I made my excuses and went to find my ex before returning to my seat and promptly seeing us get smashed 3-1, all the time having to stand and cheer each Newcastle goal so I didn't look out of place and get beaten up, which actually happened to another Spurs fan in the same stand, the poor bastard.
I didn't talk to my ex for the rest of the day after that. Bitch.
If I was John Crace, I'd get David Badiel's testimonial off the front of the book.
I'm reading Vertigo right now. it's spot on. Crace even talks about the comedic sense of insanity which seems to surround and upset everything we do, which I've been aware of since day 1 and which no other club can lay claim to. Peter Cook's writings on the Spurs evoke the same.
Here is a recent Spurs related disaster epic: It was the Monday night we played Manu-the first game of the season no less. I had decided to have a few beers at home watching on the computer as monday night's not alright for fighting anymore, nor is it alright for any other rocknroll related devilry.
I was preparing to leave work at 5pm and cycle the 15 miles from Stratford to Cheshunt when the phone rang. My cousin wished to meet me for 'a pint'. i of course agreed, what possible harm could 'a pint' do?
5 pints later - on an empty stomach- in a pub with no tele, I realised i'd not make it back in time. I suggested we head to the nearest pub with a screen but my cousin was not interested. He 'used' to be a Spurs supporter in the 80's but now he isn't. Yes.
Alone and wasted, I made for the nearest hostelry with a screen and arrived 10 minutes after kick off, got myself a pint - there was no sense in stopping- and stood watching a fairly confident spurs performance.
At the start of the 2nd half, it was 0-0, and sniffing victory I headed to the bar thinking I'd better get myself some food. I'd spent all my cash and so i produced the debit card, which was promptly refused. Its obviously had it's day, says I, I'll pop out to the cash point.
at the cash point I punched in the numbers and a demand for £20 cash. Immediately it replied 'insufficient funds'. I checked my balance. £-1.98. As the despair began to bite, I heard it, a roar from the pub across the road. I knew instantly-the pub, being in east London, was of course full of Manu supporters. nonetheless i ran back in, hoping beyond hope it was a spurs goal.
No sooner had I arrived, the 2nd was scored. I'm now 6 pints of lager on an empty stomach to the bad, with no money and no way home except a 15 mile bike ride in the dark with no lights. Then they scored again.
I left with gnawing stomach, found my bicycle and went for it. It was hell, I threw up at Waltham Cross and everything. by the time i staggered in, I can honestly say I thought I might pass out. And then I passed out.
I awoke on then settee, cold and sweaty, hung over and sick. I forced down food and threw up again, repeatedly.
It was horrible.
I'm convinced that had spurs scored the first goal, the cashpoint would have produced the money as asked and i would have thoroughly enjoyed a meal and another couple of pints whilst watching us outplay and defeat Utd at Old Trafford for the first time since 1989, before sensibly getting the train back home and basking in the glow of a night to remember. But no.
"I'm reading Vertigo right now. it's spot on. Crace even talks about the comedic sense of insanity which seems to surround and upset everything we do, which I've been aware of since day 1 and which no other club can lay claim to. Peter Cook's writings on the Spurs evoke the same"
We're an emotional bunch. I'm sure any fan of any club could pick up this book and find themselves agreeing and laughing at some of the incidents - but not sure most fans are as self deprecating as we are. Or perhaps that's just me thinking we've got the copyright to it.
February 1999 - Spurs were in the middle of their seemingly never ending run of fixtures against Wimbledon, where we played them 5 times in 4 weeks.
Both my brother and I were members, and had been to a few home games, but not yet managed anything away from home. Having witnessed the 0-0 draw in the first leg of the Worthington Cup, we had managed to get tickets to the 2nd leg at Selhurst Park. We figured, not only would it be a great night of glory, but it would put us in a good position to get tickets for the final, thanks to the old loyalty scheme.
However, fate would now intervene. After a long battle with illness, my grandmother passed away the weekend between the 2 legs. We had expected the funeral to take place on a Thursday (isn't that tradition?), but were horrified to discover that it would take place on the afternoon of the 2nd leg. It wouldn't have been much of a problem if the funeral had been in the region we lived, but it was 200 miles away in North Yorkshire.
After much arguing with parents (removal from will etc.) my brother and I had a decision to make........
We went down to Selhurst Park and witnessed Steffen Iversen's late winner, celebrated like mad, then came home very sheepishly. We also succeeded in obtaining tickets to the game against Leicester at Wembley!
Even 12 years on I don't think we've been forgiven by the family.
@NorthernSpur re the 5-3 against United...... I was captain of my team that day and the new girlfriend had come along to watch me for the first time. It was pretty cold where we were playing, so she ended up just sitting in the car listening to the Spurs game on Radio 5. She'd let me know that we were doing well and had a comfy lead at half-time. My team were also in a relatively commanding position (1-0 up at h/t). The rest of my game went just as badly as the one at the lane. We lost 2-1, thanks mainly to the skipper (me) attempting to head a corner clear, only to see it go the opposite direction and into the top corner...... in the last minute!
Fortunately the girlfriend saw more in me than my ability to fuck things up on the pitch..... and she's been my wife for 9 years.
great post as always spooks...
My story? well, I was 15 and already something of a tearaway and was about 3 years into my spurs following (attending games unsupervised)... I decided one day at school at lunchtime that id like to see Spurs play that night in their League cup match. Only problem it was at Sunderland.... I managed to hop off school, bunk the trains to Seaburn (i think) and then hung around a very crappy roker park area utterly starving and not daring to speak to anyone..... I'd heard of the norths treatment of cheeky flash landaners and didnt want to get a shoeing on my own....
Finally hunger got the better of me and i went and ordered chips n curry sauce (first time for everything) in my Harry Enfield esque attempt at a Georgie accent...
I also hadnt told my mum what i was up to and though that i should. Poned her (reverse charges) and she kindly reminded me that I had my first day in court the next morning for some spurious charge that the local plod had nicked me for on my charming council estate.... (didnt se em coming that time the b#stards)... she also wasnt too impressed but could fek all about it as i was 200 miles away.....
The game was awful, freezing cold on an open roker park terrace...we lost 2-1.... i ended up bunking in with the season ticket holders on the supporters club train back to london, bunking right accross london until I got to my home station where i was promptly nicked at 7.30am for fare evasion. Mum came and got me from the cop shop at 9, took me to court without a change of clothes (now been wearing em for quite a while) or food....
I copped a bind over for that morniing and a talking to re the fare evsaion. And a massive shoeing from me mum.... bless her.....
Enjoyed the post Spooky, here is my Spurs related anecdote:
A few years back in the 2007-08 season, during my gap year, I worked at White Hart Lane in the catering department. I had been working there for 2 years but 07/08 is significant because it was the year I got moved from my previous role (waitering in an exec box) to my new role as barman in the player's lounge. I somehow managed to get this job role by turning up late, and as you can expect I was over the moon. I remember on my first day shaking whilst pouring and a handing over a cup of coffee that had been ordered by Didier Zokora, such was my nervousness at the situation.
After a week, however, I had settled down. Unfortunately my second week in the players' lounge was Juande Ramos' first at the club. It took me 4 attempts to understand Marcos Alvarez's requests for a board and two pens (for an early tactics talk, something that was not done under Jol), finally understanding when Ramos himself came in with his 'fluent' English. The players then arrived and were sitting down socialising, waiting for the manager, so I went for a dump.
Now, the week before I hadn't been for a poo so I didn't realise that this toilet was for players and coaching staff ONLY. As I settled down, I found a newspaper and started to read it, then 2 minutes later a bunch of people rush in the toilet and start banging on the cubicle door. At this point I am panicking about who could be outside, so I finish up, flush and open the door to see Younes Kaboul and Aaron Lennon waiting while Jermaine Defoe and Robbie Keane are having a piss at the Urinals.
'Oh y'alright man?' asks Robbie, out of politeness and surprise. I respond sheepishly and walk over to the sinks, at that moment Younes Kaboul roars out;
'Oh man, that STINKS', before taking a look inside and following up with, 'That's disgusting!'
I had only gone and left a skid mark on the back of the toilet bowl, in my rush I hadn't had enough time to check, and clean it with the toilet brush.
Aaron Lennon has a look, he finds hilarious, bursting out with a classic rudeboy laugh, if that wasn't bad enough, Jermaine Defoe takes a look, looks back at me, does't say anything, just shakes his head in disapointment. Robbie Keane looks on in sympathy as I wash my hands, crestfallen as a result of this ridicule by my heroes. With a meek 'Sorry guys' I skulk out the toilet to find that all the catering staff had left, and it was time for one of Juande's secret tactic talks so the players had been given a opportunity to go to the loo beforehand.
I had literally chosen the worst time to have a shit.
For a Guardian and Observer man he has some pretty dozy friends.
Will certainly buy the book if I don't win one.
You've unleashed another torrent of embarrassment and pain here Spooks.
Good stuff.
Think matt and northern spur are leading the line at the minute, great stories guys.
A great article from the book and if i dont win then i will definately be purchasing myself a copy. - now mines long winded but you just have to get the full thing to appreciate.
Best story I recall about following Spurs was going to Moldova in the UEFA cup a few years ago.
It was funny, tragic, entertaining and memorable for many reasons some of which I retell here some will have to stay just as a memory.
We turned up at Stansted to go and were directed to gate 32 or a gate as far away as was possible without leaving the airport. We waited, No plane in view.
Eventually we are told to go for boarding…….still no plane. We go through the gate down stairs and onto a coach. The coach heads out over Stansted to the point where I truly thought we were in the next county when an object resembling a Second World war relic hove into view.Stanstead were apparently so embarrassed to have this thing at the airport they parked it just south of Cambridge.!
It was an ex Aeroflot turboprop with rust running down the engine cowlings. It was so old it still had the wire ariel running from the cockpit to the tailfin, you know the sort of thing ,looks like a washing line…….hang on a minute maybe they were the captains underpants we saw flapping in the breeze rather than the stewardess waving us to come forward.
Two people on the coach said “We aint getting on that” and demanded to be taken back to the terminal.
We clambered on board…….two more people refused to take a seat and asked to leave the plane. I sat down pulled at the seatbelt and it came away in my hand…..the whole strap, buckle, everything. The interior of the fuselage had been carpeted to hide the rusty interior, and I am talking the roof not the floor. As he started the engine and taxied a load of condensation (I hope) ran down the sagging carpet and came out through an exposed join like a small waterfall onto a passenger in front of me.
One guy, one of the more erudite fans said “fuck this I m going for a beer”…….walked up the aisle to the galley which was in the center of the plane ……..just took a slab of beers and walked back to his seat happily passing out the beers on the way back, this as we are actually rumbling rather sedately down the runway like an old dear being pushed along Bournemouth promenade for a Sunday constitutional.
We get in the air, an announcement is made about switching of Electronic devices, and a shout goes back “there’s nothing on this fuckin plane that could be possibly interfered with by anything electronic!” Which I had to agree with.
We droned on until, I think it was seven hours later, the guy organizing the trip comes round asking us for a few US dollars. Curious we asked him what for?
Apparently we had to bribe the pilot to land the plane! I have always wondered what would happen if we refused?
We bribed the customs on landing we bribed the coach driver to take us to the hotel….everyone wanted a bribe. Thing is that because the wages were so piss poor out there (a receptionist in the hotel got the equivalent of $30US a month) a couple of dollars got you anything you wanted.
The match was an unspectacular 0-0 draw but afterwards was a lot of fun.
We went back to the hotel. One of the guys pulled a local and was doing her on the balcony when it gave way under him; I bet she pushed back for that one as the earth certainly moved for her that night!
We asked the girl on reception where the best place to go in Chisinau was…she directed us to what could be described as Moldovans Stringfellows….a top club.
As we approached the guy saw our shirts and said “no football fans in here, not allowed” Then just as quickly “but you wouldn’t have known that …come in”
As we went in some Moldovan comic was mid act and he was obviously taking the piss out of us but it didn’t matter we were just glad to get a beer.
We went to the bar and as the comic finished an exotic dancer came on and (I will remember this for ever) danced to Joe la Taxi a real crap song of the time or at least it was until I saw the dance that went with it. She clocked that we had money and her and another dancer spent the night in our company ,dancing having a laugh and really paying attention to a guy who was with us who will remain nameless, but we asked her to look after him as I don’t think he had ever really been in the company of woman for any period of time. She made him feel a thousand dollars and lavished attention on him, I was grateful to her as he died a few years later aged 48 and I still think that was one of the happiest nights he had.
There were eight of us plus the two girls, we drank hard and copiously until the wee small hours the bill when it came was $80 about 50quid at the time.
The club was huge, in another part of there was a wedding reception, the bride had a lion cub on a chain…….a bloody lion cub it really was that sort of a place.
I went in the reception pissed as a fart to stroke it…….the cub not the bride…….no one batted an eye as I got on the floor and started playing with it ( the lion cub again!)
About 4 I decided to leave, I walked out the club toward the hotel along this tree lined road. Two old bill pull up and walk over to me out comes a gun, into the stomach….
And he stuffs his hands into my pockets looking for cash……unlucky Sergei…..I have left all the money with the lads in the club. They started babbling on in Moldovan or whatever, I said “I don’t know what the fuck you are on about but I ve got jack shit on me” and with that they either understood English all of a sudden or thought we have a right silly c#@ here best go back to the station for vodka.I must have been trollied as Christ knows why I just didn’t crumple into a gibbering wreck.
Next day we went for a beer in town, wherever we went everything was a dollar, and rather than give change (which we didn’t expect anyway) you’d get a lighter or a pack of mints, We saw the woman painting the kerbs and asked why it was because they could not afford to turn the street lights on……..wether that was true or not I don’t know but it sounds plausible. Anyway that was about it a memorable trip and somewhat better than Carlisle on a Tuesday night but that’s another story…………
@betambeau88
^^^^ Asked my old man (season ticket home and away) for his best story. so thanks to him for typing this one out in my behalf.
But man do i wish that was my story.... fancy a trip to moldova anyone??
Xmas somewhere around 1952.
Taken to Spurs as a Xmas treat and left in the boys enclosure with strict instructions to meet them outside after the match.
It was Arsenal on Boxing Day. We lost and uncles went off to drown their sorrows and forgot to pick me up.
Spent the nxt twop hours wandering round the outside, the last hour in the company of a Tottenham supporting copper.
Uncles eventually remembered and after severe telling off from policeman i was released into their custody
They gave me a ten bob note not to tell my mother and 60 years later it is a fond memory
as all concerned except me are now dead.
Great stories! Slightly off topic here, but I was wondering about a few songs from the 80s and whether they would re-surface. In your Liverpool slums (for the scousers) and QPR, QPR, QPR, QP-HAH, HAH, HAH, HAH, HAH (to the tune of the Happy Wanderer). Anyone remember those?
There are a couple of big mistakes in the details in this book. For example, the author says that Kaboul scored against Young Boys, it was actually Bassong.
Bloody typical!!!! Not a mohican in years - then two turn up at once!!
Someone needs to have a word with Sandro
Spooky, enough time out of the office eh?
Even though I know Spooky's not back till the 29th, I come here everyday hoping he might just have a new write-up done about the Wigan game/Shamrock game. I can't explain it.
When was it ever agreed Spooky that you could have a life?? Its been a week now and I am getting withdrawal symptoms every day here more tumbleweed........
2 years ago the coming together of Spurs and their greatest rivals laid the foundations of my future relationship with my fiance. Despite a pathetic showing from Spurs (a 3-0 defeat on Halloween 2009) I met my fiance during the match, her wild celebrations (she's a huge Arsenal fan) at the table next to mine (sitting in a pub in Manchester) attracting childish name-calling from myself. We ended up speaking for the rest of the afternoon, we each ditched our friends and she ended up accompanying me to a Halloween party. Anyway skip forward a year and after one thing led to another and I'd decided to propose following our 1st league match against the arse last season regardless of result. At 2-0 I having second thoughts, but after Kaboul had scored which would eventually be the winner and she broke down in tears I knew luck was on my side. That night I proposed, she said yes and we get married next year. If it hadn't have been for Spurs greatest rivals and our mutual dislike I'd never have met the (2nd) biggest joy of my life. COYS
I'm a Spurs fan and I never had any fear of my favorite NBA team succeeding especially during The Finals. I'm an all-out Spurs fan, I don't care if they lost a couple of playoff games, I love them. And maybe that's how it should be. If you're passionate about something, you don't chicken out on it because you're scared of what could happen.
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Say what?!??!
Euh , should somebody explain to our probably US friend over here that this is not about the SA Spurs but the Tottenham kind ?
Maybe he just really wants a copy of the book...
1981. I was married and working in Saudi. I used to work 6 weeks away and get three weeks leave. On one of my work trips my wife gave birth to my son. I couldn't get the time off and return to the UK so missed his birth, much to the (ex) wife's and families disgust. Forward 5 months and we are in the cup final against Man City. As luck would have it, I'm home, queued and got tickets with my dad and all his mates and went to Wembley. Draw!!!
So I'm due to go back to Saudi on the Tuesday. The replay is on Thursday night. Queued on Sunday again, got tickets and told the (ex) wife I was staying back to see the replay. Couldn't let my dad down and all that.
I rebooked my flight to Saudi, at my own expense, for the Friday morning after the replay. Come the day of the match, wife with baby son, at the door at 1.00, not happy that I'm spending my last day and evening at home at football!! Don't worry I say, I'll be home by 10ish.
The game is played and won and is history. Of course, we go to the pub to celebrate for a quick pint on the way home.
I eventually woke up on the front lawn of my house at 5 in the morning, being kicked by my (ex) wife. I stagged into the house grabbed my bag, kissed my 6 month old son bye and still pretty hammered, staggered off to the station to get the train to Heathrow.
It's why it hurts when we lose!
This is worse than Tevez refusing to come on as a sub. Spooky, we are deducting 4 weeks of pay.
Matt and @betambeau88 - you win. Email me (use contact form) your names and addressees.
Spooky, Spooky, wherefore art thou Spooky? The blogosphere misses thee
Fresh Spurs moment from yesterday: Woke up way to early and was nervous about the game , thought taking the dog out for a walk in the fields would be a good idea to take my mind of things. So i took the car and drove to the countryside , where there were some signs signaling a temporary no park zone. Reckoned it was for works on monday so paid no attention to it.
Came back at around 3 pm only to find my car was blocked by the cops , turns out it was parked next to a MTB course and i had to wait untill the race was over , had a talk with the cops and convinced them not to fine me. Had to race home and result of that got me a speeding ticket (dont know how costly yet , just saw the flash go off when i drove past it)
Came home at 4 pm sharp thanks to a parking spot next to my house opening itself up , rushed in , set up PC and hearing the noise from the crowd instantly cheered me up , not to mention the final score. Screamed so loud after Walkers goal that my dog stayed well clear from me for about an hour.
All in all : happy days