Dear Mr Levy,
My beloved Tottenham Hotspur are in crisis.
Two successive, devastating defeats have seen us concede eight goals as we plummet down from third place into the abyss of no recovery. We are a broken side. Momentum has deserted us. Lady luck preferring to lift her skirt up for teams that parade in the colour red whilst we stand in the distance unable to catch a glimpse of her panties. The brazen little hussy. Teasing us for so long and giving us nothing in the end. We had it all in the grasp of our hands and lost it. This is Tottenham in a state of capitulation. Surrendering, waving the Lilywhite flag of despondency whilst we fall to our knees and beg for the comfort of mid-table mediocrity where hope was nothing but a deluded dream. This is Tottenham, with six gut wrenching defeats in total that leaves us shattered in our quest for the title.
This is meant to be the best Spurs side of recent years and yet we roll over at home against Utd, schooled on how to suck in pressure and counter attack. Naive at the back, wasteful at the front. All the while, Harry sat on the bench doing nothing, watching from the bench rather than animating himself on the touchline when everyone knows that you only win games if the gaffer is dominating his technical box with various dramatic hand movements or jumping up from his seat and celebrating every goal like he's just beaten the tax man in the high court.
Okay, so we had 60% of the possession but I ask you, why did we not have 70%? Or 75%? Or perhaps just had the 2% or 3% that United used up when Rooney and Young scored? Elsewhere, Parker and van der Vaart were anonymous and Bale lost and alone once more marauding off somewhere between a black hole and supernova instead of remaining on the left wing. Yeah sure, we bossed it. But we bossed it like a club bouncer that stands tall in front of the main entrance, throwing punches but never landing any and then skipping off to the toilet leaving the entrance unattended for uninvited guests to dart in for free. Soul destroying Harry called it. I call it old habits die hard.
Stick. The. Ball. In. The. Net. It's not exactly a difficult ask. The universe doesn't collapse in on its self if you happen to score against United. Or did we dedicate the game in honour of Howard Webb, who unfortunately is no longer with us (technically speaking not dead, but wasn't present during the duration of the match).
I didn't get to hear any of Alan Smith's commentary on Sky Sports, however I completely agree with whatever it was he said. He always has it nailed down that lad. An unbiased harbinger of truth. You might want to cite the controversy over the disallowed goal and had it stood we might have gone on to win. Watched it again. I'm positively certain the ball crossed the line. Mendes was robbed, blatantly.
I've simply had enough of the mismanagement that is costing us the potential to dare to achieve to aim to capture to possibly attain sustained progression that might lead to silverware. At the start of the season if you had said 'challenge for fourth spot?' I would have responded with 'no chance, we have to challenge for the very top'. Think back, I know you remember it as clearly as I do, like it was yesterday. We had higher expectations for the season ahead. Fourth is simply not good enough. I remember it just like it was yesterday. Except it wasn't yesterday was it? Because yesterday I was crying into my hands uncontrollably.
Mind the gap? Mind the gap? What ******* gap? There is no gap. We've eaten it like a zombie savaging its own limbs, feasting on its own flesh and blood. WHAT AM I MEANT TO DO WITH THE LONDON UNDERGROUND TATTOO ON MY CHEST? I had to have my nipples surgically repositioned to fit it in. Then spent more money having it recoloured when I realised the tattoo was red (never red). I've got lopsided nipples now because I trusted all those photo-shopped images shared on the internet via Twitter and message boards. The only gap I can see is the one in the face of Tottenham, teeth smashed out, black gaping holes where brilliant white once shined. We've lost our bragging rights and everybody knows you can only ever smile in public when you're winning. You're turning me into a social media hermit. You and him.
Redknapp has cost us 18 points this season and you, Mr Chairman, have fuelled the disappointment by not being speculative enough in the transfer market in January. A prime time to consolidate. Instead you preferred to amputate. We should have signed several players. You know who I'm talking about. Them lot. The ones that got mentioned. We needed them. We all agreed as supporters when watching You Tube footage. Even the press linked us. We could have done with them to give us more options. One for that position one for the other position. Years and years of splashing out money on crap players when we were crap and now that we're supposedly good we can't be bothered to spend money on top drawer targets to consolidate our position. Six defeats the outcome of your incompetence and insubordination to act with ambitious ruthlessness. Six defeats that Redknapp could have avoided if he was a (better) tactically astute coach, say if he was someone else altogether with different ideas and methods to apply them. How can we accept such negligence?
Here's the Roll of Shame in full technicolor:
5 - 1 City (H) - Destroyed at home by total football. A catalyst for our future collapse.
3 - 0 Utd (A) - Seasoned orchestrated dance recital consisting mostly of ballet performed by the team in white, a prelude ceremony to handing over the three points. Let's dispense with the formalities next time and just forfeit the game.
2 - 1 Stoke (A) - Typical Spurs, losing to a side that likes to get 'stuck in' because we don't have the foresight to knit in towels to our players shirts.
3 - 2 City (A) - Ledley King costing us points. He's past it. This game and the one up next in the list proves this to be the case, above and beyond all the games where he never made any mistakes. It's irrefutable. Go and read the blogs if you don't believe me. Bloggers know what they're talking about because unlike ordinary fans they go to the trouble of setting up a website to share their soundbites.
5 - 2 Arse (A) - Expected result. Let's be honest, everyone predicted this. The home side a far superior footballing beast with exquisite talent playing with technicality and expansive movement. With rapturous loyal support behind them, we froze like a rabbit in the headlight. The brilliant Walcott, a beautiful hybrid of Neo and Henry, showcasing the effectiveness that the Emirates (or should I say 'The Matrix') have applauded all season long. An eleven man team of colossus performers that are not at all concerned with little old Spurs. No really, ignore all the insistent references and quotes alluding to Spurs. A simple misunderstanding of language from spoken word to print. They haven't even noticed us. That Wenger, what a genius. He's still got it.
3 - 1 Utd (H) - Defeated before the whistle was blown. It's a contractual thing. Had we won this game we'd be back in the title hunt again. Instead we are free falling.
Four out of the above six defeats were against the Manchester sides. Astonishing. Embarrassing.
How can we accept the indignity of losing points to these teams in the manner that we did? Imagine had we failed to win any of our other matches in addition to these ones. We'd be in the midst of serious relegation fears. I pinned my hopes on a title challenge and yet here I am having to accept the mundane in comparison with the additional distraction of some mickey mouse cup polluting our fixture list. Any chance you can drop a brown envelope round to Harry's home tomorrow, I'll call the HMRC in advance, they can photograph the drop off and we could have another court case again to inspire the team into action. Perhaps invite Newcastle back to the Lane? Or better yet tell the players Chirpy is in hospital and in a coma and they need to raise their game for him, finish third in his honour. Seriously do it, because otherwise I just wasted time and effort breaking his knee-caps. I stink of blood and sweat. It's not easy you know, especially when they plead for mercy as you stand over them with a baseball bat. And roosters, damn, the mess they make when they're scared. Don't get me started on the smell.
The last two defeats prove that Harry is way over his head, incapable of producing the knowledge in the form of tactical reshuffles and selections to out-think his opponents. The past few seasons have been virtue of the talented squad he possesses. It's plain luck. Anyone can hug a few players, turn up periodically to training sessions and then sit on the bench to woo and aaah the action ongoing on the pitch. He's not good enough. We should be doing better than this. This is not good enough. In fact had you the foresight to employ someone else at the start of the season, by my calculations we'd be 5 points clear at the top now. You have ruined the opportunity for us to win the title in full blooded HD. We've overachieved for twenty-seven games and now we find ourselves crushing back to the harsh reality of averageness. We were only in a position of elevation because others around us are under performing. It's a false position. A crown of thorns. If this was any other season, say five years back or so, we'd have spent all season long in and around 6th place. We've been fooled, hook line and sinker.
Harry's still with us but his head isn't. It's been turned by England, which means he isn't actually here. We've just got an empty shell. Can you not see the cracks? England is seductively flirting with him. Yes, England, the bewildered wh*re that offers herself to anyone that wishes to spend a night in her bed and will no doubt kick him out when she experiences his limp efforts between the sheets. Not even a semi, a quarter probably...and that will hardly touch the sides.
He's taken us as far as he can. Seated in the departure lounge to oblivion.
We need to act quick, much like Chelsea have done. Bring in new blood to rejuvenate this tired weary dog. Football, it's all about inches, as Al Pacino once said in a film about strapping big Americans that are so insecure they need to pad out in amour to throw a rugby ball and chase it around with endless breaks puncturing the play. We could do with some of that padding. Inches? Pacino couldn't save us now. We're struggling with far longer distances and I'm about to bury my head in a bowl of coke screaming 'say hello to my little friend...Aaron Lennon'. And what use is he all on his own? There are only so many bullets in his magazine. It's not going to end well.
Spurs will always let you down. Fact. Sure, we qualified for the Champions League that one time, but did we win it? No. Thus, let down. You're only as good as your last game and we are nothing more than an apologetic mess too polite to score, always inviting to concede soft goals.
This is the crux of why I'm writing to you Mr Levy. Not to offer you a solution of any type but as a gentleman, to offer you notice of a demonstration at the next game to be played at White Hart Lane. It's time to make a stand and visually assassinate your senses and those that dare to look into the eyes of the revolution.
I will be bringing with me to the game a pack of Bassetts Jelly Babies, just eleven of them, each one representative of the first team and laying them on my seat post-game then leaving the ground. The Jelly Babies are post-modern effigies (all heads will be bitten off and spat towards the directors box), a statement of transparency that I will not ignore or be quiet as you stand and allow my club to die of footballing leprosy.
I hope others will join me in this defiant stand against the current upheaval we are being put through. My vision is to see entire blocks, empty seated, covered with Jelly Babies with the supporters leaving the ground willing to sacrifice their support for the greater good. For the long term.
This was a pinnacle point in our season and we failed the test. We are in free-fall. It's all beautifully illustrated by our distinct lack of creativity with taking set pieces. A very subtle inception, if you will, that has been placed deep in the minds of THFC, unaware of its poison and influence. An inception that sees us losing 5-8 points minimum per season because we can never take one with any genuine intent and hit the target convincingly consistently. This is holding us back. How can a top tier side (if that's what we're disguising ourselves as) not be competent in taking free-kicks with bullish confidence? I'll tell why, because you know you'll make more money selling Bale and Modric in the summer than qualifying for the Champions League. Hence why no set piece expert was signed in the last window. You can't fool me. I see it all. The hurtful truth screams out to me.
11 games to go. Just 11 games. Have you even looked at the fixture list? Daunting. 3rd place. Seven points above 5th spot. Four points ahead of 4th spot. A poor demoralised showing for our endeavours. Doomed. We are doomed. This is no position for our club to be in. We are stranded in the ocean without a paddle for our surf board. The crest of a wave nowhere to be seen. Sharks circling us. Slowly sinking.
This, Mr Levy, is the end of days. The dawn of the Jelly Babies is upon us.
Biting regards,
Spooky