Dear faithful Tottenham supporters,
You might know me from White Hart Lane and any given Spearmint Rhinos VIP area. I was, up until this past weekend, the Tottenham Hotspur official mascot. Handshakes, cuddles and smiles galore and for the more disconcerting amongst you, a gram of coke or bag of weed (what, you think I suddenly grew a pair of t*ts?). I cater for all. I don’t discriminate. Unlike my ex-employers. I’ve been at Spurs for a number of years now having replaced the original ‘Chirpy’ who suffered a quite horrific accident involving decapitation and a Bosch oven. I was on holiday at the time. Abroad. I can have this verified by Smith Allen Mitchell Associates. Contrary to popular belief the original Chirpy did not have plastic surgery and I am not him. These cheekbones are 100% original works of art. And much like several other candidates, I interviewed and accepted the position with some pride.
Now some of you might think that I'm ‘scary’ looking what with my big round intense dilated pupils. Let's be honest here. I am scary looking, in that same brooding way Ryan Gosling was in Drive. But you need to understand and appreciate it’s not all about photo opportunities, PR and waving to the crowd. There was other work to be had, behind the scenes. Sorting out the riff raff in the executive boxes if they claimed to have issues with the service and got a bit lippy with the waitresses. "What's that sir? You don't like the ribs? How about a knuckle sandwich instead". I then punched them in the gut and followed-up with, "How do ya like them ribs now?". Seriously, you had to be there, it's a visual thing, and the waitresses were easy pickings in the aftermath. They were more wet than a rainy Tuesday night in Stoke. I was part of the furniture, as much as that gold cockerel. Just a bit more sociable. Seriously, the old git just sits on that roof every day mumbling anecdotes about the 60s, the senile fool. Can never get him to the pub.
Okay, sure, I had my moments of unprofessionalism. The reverse gangbang in the middle of the pitch on New Years Eve, pulling Martin Jol’s trousers down during half time in the dressing room and exposing his little tulip. Setting David Bentleys foot on fire. The squirrel and mayo sandwich I left in the fridge over the Bank holiday weekend. Just to name a few. Then there's the incident with Gunnersaurus and a blow-torch. You know he's a eunuch now? That's right, his balls are extinct. Mascot banter innit. Just standard mishaps. I'm a lad. Outside of work I did have a weakness for whores and crystal meth, but then again, what modern man doesn’t? I'm not perfect, I've made the odd mistake.
Couple of weeks back I’m told to take a holiday, rest up they said. I accepted. I spent one week in rehab and the following week in Amsterdam ****ed out of my head on mushrooms. I checked Twitter, I see something about something about a Chirpy re-launch. I think to myself ‘that’s nice’, they’re making a big deal of my return. I get back to Blightly, turn up for work, then get marched to HR. There, it's explained to me in rather abrupt fashion why my P45 is sat staring back at me on a desk separating myself and Donna Cullen. I was proper ready to kung-fu her but little known fact, she's a black belt in Aikido. And I don't like to slap women. Unless I accept the £400 premium and pay upfront. Is there a difference between a slap and a spank? Regardless, can I categorically state I do not want to slap Donna Cullen. Or spank her. I took my P45 and walked out with the words 'we want a wholesome family orientated look, a new and improved friendly faced mascot', still ringing in my ears like fingernails scratching down a chalkboard. Friendly faced or maggot faced? I can't tell the difference.
I was basically 'sacked' and replaced by a cartoon chicken. That’s about the sum of it. Some fat **** character actor that was previously dressed up as a hen for some poxy pantomime up north. A big massive fake botoxed smile and goofy idiot eyes and the most pathetic set of eyebrows I’ve ever seen. Like two electrocuted caterpillars. Since when do cockerels have eyebrows? He's also blatantly into paraphilic infantilism, the diaper wearing sap I can smell his stink from here. Well done Spurs for removing a rock’n’roll edge to mascoting and replacing it with a tumour infested bargain bucket.
I will be fighting this decision and I will have my day in court for unfair dismissal and ownership of image rights along with the freedom to continue manufacturing the love doll range I’ve been selling to stockists in Soho. It's got detachable parts. Caters for all. Because I don't discriminate.
So, this is not the last of me and if you can please contact the club in the mean time in support of my reinstatement as official mascot it will be very much appreciated. Thank you listening.
Smith Allen Mitchell Associates would like to clarify that at no time during Evil Chirpy's employment at THFC did he deal recreational drugs and no illegal substances were handled inside White Hart Lane. Further to this, Chirpy has now completed his 50 days community service for the incident at the Chick King takeaway establishment on the High Road when two hundred live roosters were let loose on the premises. In addition when the original Chirpy 'passed', Evil Chirpy was in Goa.