The Tottenham Prophecy - Part Three

guest blog by Chris King / @NorthernWrites

Click on the following for Part One and Part Two.

In the concluding part of The Tottenham Prophecy, Nostradamus leads us down an old familiar path where “wandering minstrels enchant us with songs of old – where towers once stood, before history was sold.”

It is the fourth month of the year of our Lord, Sir Bill Nicholson. The sap is rising across the village. Even crumbling towers do take on new life; new interests to the villagers below. The ass-men have woken from their winter hibernation – full of vim and desire to show, with one last hurrah, that they too could be proud cocks of note.

A harsh winter has condemned the village to remain, but the sixth tallest tower in the land. The knights, battle weary from the darkened months, see chance to redeem themselves out on the plains of their foes. First they travel to the land of Sunder, where no man will put our knights under. Blood does run the colour of their tunics as our knights slash through their defences. The village with the seventh highest tower has not looked further than at this point.

A flock of canaries does descend upon our village, only for the ass-men and the baby Jenas – who has risen from the dead (subs bench) – to shoot them down from the skies. No greater sight is it to see fine birds draped, lifeless across the grass as the knights do stand over them, shaking their battle tools until they are drained.

And so to the fields that once mocked the gods, where no grass covered their surface – only fibres made by the devil himself. The knights who do fight for the Queens are no match for this resurgent battle force. Cannons aim straight and true. Ass-men, Jermain of the Jews and Pav of the Romans do run amok as though skirmishes are but friendly in nature – where swords are as wooden as the opposition’s defences. Great fire comes from Jermain of the Jews – as he does once more call to the crusades in timely fashion. He will not fight in the east this summer. His days of crusading are long since past.

The Dictator is so pleased by what he sees that he does take counsel from his battle knights, before gathering sources close to the scribes in dwellings on the edge of the market square. There he sends whispers across the land, that the sun god’s position at the head of his army is secure for another battle season. The sun god does stride in to the market square and proclaim through the criers that he does love this village, and that he had never intended to travel with the crusades – accept when accompanying Lord Lineker and his band of jesters.

The battle of the Elders (FA Cup) does draw to an end, with but four villages fighting the good fight upon neutral soil. The Valiant Knight is found upon trusty steed and does take to battle against the advice of the men of magic. It is three long months since he has appeared in battle, though you could be forgiven for thinking that he was fighting just yesterday. He comes through unscathed, and then, upon dismounting loyal steed – he does trip over lowly ass-man and is rushed straight back to the sorcerers. Ass-man, the one named after carts so luxurious – is apologetic, yet is sent to market square to be flogged.  The knights win this battle by three destroyed towers to one and proceed to final conflict – upon old familiar soil.

The final battle of the month is against no more than mere chicken farmers who offer no resistance. The race for the sixth highest tower is confirmed.

The final battle month of the fighting season holds only one true test. After beating the villainous villagers and the stuffed pigs of Egyptian rule, the knights do return to the market place, where they strike up song with wandering minstrels, two. On lute and harpsichord, Charles and David do sing tales of old – where man from Columbus Land does suffer convulsions of the lower extremities, knights do repeat the success of battles from but one year ago, and the gods do shine upon the village when one is scratched to confirm luck in the passing of the years. They sing new song of ass-men, of valiant knights, of the way the village does recover from the difficulties of the previous year – and of how the sun god did pay taxes on time to keep the elders happy.

The minstrels do lead procession of villagers and knights across the metropolis to where twin towers once stood. The sun god does look upon the gaudy basket of the elders and gives proclamation that, for today alone, no Is, Vs and Xs matter – only success upon the battlefield.  He walks up to each knight and kisses them with warmth and compassion. He then turns to scribes and does say, that today will be the moment of his elevation back to the gods. The scribes do ready the cloak of purple. They also ready their knives – for no back is safe when the scribes have their doubts.

The Valiant knight tries to mount trusty steed, but finds he has neither the strength nor the conviction. Gaul-ass does try to help him, but in doing so does damage the Valiant knight further. Foul play is expected – he will be rightly dealt with – but not before final battle commences.

The proud cocks take to the field against knights from the united northern wetlands. The battle rages long and hard, until opposition knight of Spanish heritage, does spill cannon ball in front of his own, poorly defended tower. In what is to be his last attack as a proud cock, Jermain of the Jews rides with pace and bravery and does punish this mistake – firing cannon straight and true at the base of the tower. At first it appears as though foundations remain intact. Village elder, Webb, consults fellow elders on the edge of the battlefield, and does at once point back to the middle ground. Son of Fergu is outraged and does remonstrate with anyone who will listen. The fourth of the chosen elders is covered in bile, spittle and sap from the gum tree. His remonstrations are in vain, as with skirmishes resuming, Elder Webb watches as tower comes crashing to the ground – thus ending the battle season.

Dictator, sun god, villagers and knights all ride upon, or gather round cart of many levels. They proudly return back to the market square, with songs of the minstrels playing loud and true. Their success in that final battle has once again confirmed their ability to fight on foreign soils. An early start to the battle season will mean that those fighting in the crusades will have limited time to spend with loved ones where sand will meet the sea.

Not everyone will return to fight as a proud cock next battle season. Some, like the ass-men and the baby Jenas will be burnt at the steak. Others will find home in a new village, where they will have to grow to love their new tunics. The dictator and the sun god will argue over which knights to bring in – looking once more to the lands of Columbus, the Gauls, the Goths and the Romans – before finally agreeing to spend riches early this time. But that is for another scroll, another prophecy, another time.

For now, all that is left is a disclaimer. For this prophecy is only true if you want it to be so. It has been written in a time before the elder Bryan Swanson has access to magical horns and illuminated chalk boards. Before yellow rivers do flow with the names of knights who come and go; before Sheriff does proclaim that tax has been paid.

This is my word. This is our future.

Nostradamus, aged 54 and three quarters. 

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The Fighting Cock is a brand new THFC podcast. You can stream it or download it here on DML (make sure you have a Quicktime plug-in installed).

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The Tottenham Prophecy - Part Two

guest blog by Chris King / @NorthernWrites

Click here for Part One.

In Part Two of the Tottenham Prophecy, Nostradamus reports that all is not well in the valley of the sun god. That his villagers can expect a hard winter ahead – and that “broken windows cut through the dreams of the crusaders.”

Come dark winter. Come hail and rain – send down your worst and watch the sun god toil. For in the twelfth month there will be nowhere to hide; no kings with gifts (that’s Ledley out for another month at least) – nor babies to offer salvation (our boys out on loan are sent back from their clubs due to attitude and performance issues).

A tricky lunar cycle lay ahead. Should battles be fought so long and hard during the Janus period? (That’s the roman god, not the wrong time of month to try it on with an Eastenders’ star). Proclamation from the village elders in relation to a break in battles at this time is long overdue. The sun god does struggle to focus on so many battles – confusing his Is, Vs and Xs and demands as to the number of battles he expects his knights to win.

Two birds will be slaughtered and offered up in humble sacrifice to the baby Jenas (nope, seriously, that’s not a quillo – kinda like a typo from the 16^th Century). The baby Jenas shall feast first on canary and then swan. The scribes will condemn the latter – casting it as barbaric and linking it to the death of the Queen of Hearts. 

Before those events shall come to pass, the important return of one, once loved, will dominate the thoughts of the village folk. The silver merchant will ride in through castle gates upon an eight wheeled cart. He will be greeted by the infirm who seek official seals on parchment and to heckle opposing knights. The silver merchant, resplendent in tunics despised, will seek council with the proud cock’s knights. Swords will be touched (we hope this means handshakes – otherwise, that’s not something we want to see in public), helmets tipped– before battle commences. A crushing blow cascades down upon the silver merchant “from a fearsome beast” (another, well timed, Tom Huddlestone tackle) leaving him but a passenger as his fellow knights are put to the sword. Brief resistance is put forward by a Spanish mercenary, though his best efforts hit the next village some two miles away.

The first month of the year of our lord, Sir Bill Nicholson, two thousand and twelve, is but scant relief from the battles of the previous year. Demands from the villagers for extra reinforcements fall upon deaf ears - as the dictator chooses to spend this lunar cycle watching distant targets move, but further away. Pursuit of knights in the land of the moors, Goths, Romans and girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls comes to nothing. With interest in battles across the channel still in the thoughts of the dictator, he seeks only good knights who can fight in all battles; not ones restricted by Europa’s elders. He looks to the low lands and finds a knight who has thus far slaughtered 38 pig’s bladders in 25 battles. He joins our trusty knights, but is not once sent on to the field of the battle by the sun god.

The village elders responsible for the progress of the crusades do call the sun god to their temple and ask questions. They seek knowledge on his use of youth, battle formations, relationship with scribes and his current taxation status with that of the Sheriff of the village. The sun god does beam. The scribes do once more dress him in the purple of a king. The villagers start to look elsewhere for their salvation.

The second month sees battle with resurgent birds, barbarians with no shirts – even in the depth of winter – and weakened artillery. No Xs, not even an I from this bleak month leaves the elders to proclaim that the sun god is not the deity best suited to lead the crusades. The sun god turns to the scribes. Cries curses upon the elders. The scribes join in with curse and hex upon those elders. The elders laugh and appoint a regal knight from the Burgundian Netherlands. The village folk are up in arms at such traitorous activity and set scribes to secretly read both letters and proclamations of the elders without removal of official seal. The sun god is so distracted by the underhanded way in which the purple tunics have been torn from his lithe, naked body that he fails to stop his knights crashing to defeat on the battlefields of Europa – leaving only the battle for fourth highest tower left of this fighting season.

The third month of the year sees dictator rage at the sun god in the market square, as the women folk prepare to clean week old clothing. The dictator questions the loyalty of the sun god to his knights and village folk. The valiant knight tries to intervene with soothing words, but falls from his steed and is rushed straight back to sorcerers. The weakened tower is daubed with words of remembrance of the good times it has seen both in this village and others – but the sun god does proclaim that his mistress be a better tower in size and finishing ability. In the absence of focus, Son of Daw tries to defend the battle lines, but does inexplicably hack down a returning knight just as he is set to fire canon for the army of the northern wet lands. Village elder Howard Webb instantly points to a painted spot in the market place – from where a troll like creature does fire canon straight and true. Another battle lost – another confession to the scribes as to the limitations the sun god has been placed under without support from the dictator.

Not even a fight on the plains overseen by the silver merchant can bring fire back in to the bellies of the proud cock. The dictator’s thoughts turn to other deities, as he witnesses yet another battle lost. The scribes no longer pen the words of the sun god, so instead he turns to the town criers, especially he who holds the keys or is “gray” in colour, and laments his fortune in this battle season. They remind the villagers of the mistakes of the elders – though few listen. Memories of their earlier proclamation – of women and love – still anger some in the village.

But then, when all looks lost – sap does rise, flowers do bloom and a hero from the Burgundian Netherlands and Jermain of the Jews give hope to the villagers around them. Spring is in the air – as is evensong of the villagers - for all want to be in their number, when the knights go marching in to battle.

In part three, the dictator and the sun god do clear the air in the village square – the ass-men do get one last chance to become knights bold and true, and a final battle with the stuffed pigs of Egyptian rule does give hope to all.

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The Fighting Cock is a brand new THFC podcast. You can stream it or download it here on DML (make sure you have a Quicktime plug-in installed).

Love the Shirt.

Flav, tehTrunk, Spooky, Ricky, Chicago Dan.

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The Tottenham Prophecy - Part One

guest blog by Chris King / @NorthernWrites

In some of the most exciting news to reach Dear Mr Levy in years, we can exclusively reveal that a manuscript written by the original ITK, Nostradamus, has been found lying amongst the rubble of the Tottenham riots.

We have employed a crack team of weirdoes, heretics, believers and Benoit Assou-Ekotto  to decipher the manuscript, as we are confident that this was the last great work of the infamous seer – devoted solely to the fortunes of Tottenham Hotpur’s 2011/12 season.

Some of the writing is vague in patches. We have had to assume that passages that refer to the “silver merchant” could be attributed to both Luka Modric and Harry Redknapp – though he does also refer to a “sun god” which is quite clearly a nod to Harry’s tie in with that filthy rag he “writes” for. He also refers to the “man-ass” of which we assume he means donkey. We have had to take the context of which the phrase appears within, and guess which of our fringe players he is referring to. Robbie Keane is mentioned once and once only at the start of the piece.

Please note. As this is the ramblings of an ITK – who once predicted that Queen Elizabeth the first would join Real Madrid at the time of the Spanish Armada – some of it may not actually come to pass. Only Bryan Swanson can really make this prophecy happen.

Here is part one of the manuscript translated in full:

“It is the year of our lord, Sir Bill Nicholson, two thousand and eleven – a great disturbance will herald the start of the new battle season in the capital parish of Tottenham. Flames will lick at the base of the castle. The absolute monarch will summon his people to abandon their fortress and to look to all four points of the compass for salvation - yet find only disquiet and rebellion from the landowners that mark the boundary of his castle.

The dictator and his sun god will, with great difficulty, try to reinforce their army of knights. A number of their men will be blighted by an illness that affects their ability to take to the battlefield (our scholars have read this as a series of players are rubbish and won’t get a game this season). The one from the green isle will find his first true love was not whom he thought them to be, settling in to the bosom of another. He will leave the castle, hopefully never to return.

The eighth month is one of upheaval and turmoil. The silver merchant, who has been held captive against the wishes of his money men, finds clear passage through the smouldering carcass of the local village. There he agrees to meet the horseman of the neighbouring landowner (here we assume this means helicopter of Abramovich).  However his plan is foiled - as in a desperate attempt to find work, a repugnant ass-man alerts the dictator – who immediately shackles the silver merchant until such a time when ransom is paid. The ass-man finds work tending the reserve field with the young of the village. He is to die a lonely death. That or move to a village that has recently had its status upgrade from that of a hamlet (Bentley will train with the kids until Swansea panic and sign him on the cheap).

The proud cock (hazy, though we think this is Spurs rather than Levy or Redknapp) will face two armies from the wet lands of the North. A visit to the money men who engage in the outcome of dice games will favour a defeat for our travelling army, whilst out fortress will remain intact when challenged by an array of barbarians, those of ancient Rome and tribal folk from the land of Columbus.

The sun god will be prepared to sacrifice the lame and youthful amongst the village as our army travels once across the wall of Hadrian. Here they will fight the army of Vlad, the mad tyrant from the east. Should they return as one, they will be sent back to the reserve fields – to tend to their wounds, of a physical and mental variety, until such a time when the army full of heart, but little fighting skill, challenges them on the flat lands of their own village.

The dictator tries to move a weakened tower from view of the villagers. Alas the foundations are too weak and therefore it must stay (Crouch till Christmas at least then).

The ninth month will see our weakened army besieged by animals rather than human foe. We will first fight with wolves and then liver birds, before facing up to the most fearsome animal of them all – the outspoken dictator. The sun god will make proclamation that this lunar period will show that three Is equal one I and an X. So it has been said, so it will not come to pass.

The lame and young will once again be called in to battle, this time against evil from across the water (either this is in reference to playing someone like Crystal Palace or Millwall in the League Cup, or Nostradamus is confident we will still be in Europe).

Memories of the silver merchant have now long since vanished from the corridors of our majestic castle. He will forever ply his trade in the richest market squares of the known world – toiling with haste but no profit as he sees foreign dominions flourishing in their trade of silver. He will soon move on to tin and scrap iron. No longer loved – the path he follows will finally end in Columbus land.

Sir Pav, of the once great nation of Romans, does take to sitting on the side of battlefields with grimace etched across his face. His brow as furrowed as the Wigan Athletic pitch.

The tenth month sees the return of the valiant knight who leads the army but once a week, and never against a lesser village or hamlet. His steed will buckle under the weight of expectation, and he will be sent once more to the sorcerers house for ointment, potion and prayers for recovery (at least we’ll get one game out of Ledley before Christmas).

The sun god will pay close attention to the fortunes of the Crusaders, who will fight one more battle before heading east to take on the barbarians of Europa. The scribes will present him with the purple cloak of a dictator. Should the sun god appear too comfortable in this cloak, the village elders will be quick to tarnish his name across the land. (Will the FA really make Harry the ruler of all England?)

This lunar period will see two battles fought both on land and in voice, as the proud cock will vanquish those false gods of displaced power and money. Those loud yet damaged guns originally from across the water, and the peasants who found a rich seam of gold upon their land, will be no match for the army of the sun god. The battle will rage heard, yet it will be the true villagers of this London parish that will use diagrams, beacons and evensong (we think he means the internet, twitter and radio phone in shows) to mock those fallen soldiers from local parishes.

Lord Jermain, honourable knight of the Jews, does at last fire canon straight and true.

Come the eleventh month, and come yet more proclamation from the sun god. For here he will lean to the scribes and town criers and inform them merrily that there are five stronger castles than that of his chosen parish. That he will need his dictator to scour the lands of the Gauls, Goths, Romans and Barbarians in pursuit of taller, faster, stronger knights than he has at his disposal. That he has instructed the sorcerers to put hex ‘pon the ass-men of the village and that he has Goth magic to ensure the valiant knight is ready to take to the battlefield once the winter solstice has passed.

The battles rage on, but are less brutal – less need to be applied to tapestry, more forgotten as soon as the army leaves the field. If the sun god takes eyes from his assailants, then these are battles that can quite easily be lost - for it is these battles that so do regularly cripple the chances of his army – reducing the position of our castle to that of sixth highest tower in the land. The wider village seek knowledge of only one result – that from the battle with the stuffed pigs of Egyptian rule. For a local fight stirs the loins like no other, keeping spirit and hope alive in these darkened times.

Gaul-ass (French Donkey?) does proclaim a lack of spirit in both our fight and our foes and makes comment as to his future at this time".

In part two – the dictator and sun god do battle over whom best should spearhead the army’s attack – preferably a small Columbus land knight with Roman heritage but based in the land of the moors. And the silver merchant does return to pick pocket, but leave shame faced once more.

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The Fighting Cock is a brand new THFC podcast. You can stream it or download it here on DML (make sure you have a Quicktime plug-in installed).

Love the Shirt.

Flav, tehTrunk, Spooky, Ricky, Chicago Dan.

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Ain't no pleasing you

guest-blog by Chris King

When is it no longer acceptable to complain? To moan about a service provided, an experience gained or an attitude presented to you?

What makes it unacceptable? Do you have to take in to consideration everything that has gone before – to apply a “mus’n’ grumble” attitude to everything you do – as hey, there is always going to be someone far worse off than you; someone below you – way below you.

When do you hand over your right to complain? As soon as UEFA doles out their 30 pieces of TV silver; or does it go back further than that – to Eastlands last term, to when Harry signed, to when Jason Dozzell went back east?

This is the picture currently being presented to Spurs fans – fans who feel they want to exercise their right to politely point out where the team has gone wrong over the last couple of months. To comment, complain even criticise (lick windows and howl at the moon as some in the media are suggesting us “nutters” do). Yet we are being reliably informed that we are clueless; that we have no right to moan about this past season – as this is the best it has ever been (since circa Sky and all that).

Swallow your penance, shut up and accept your lot.

But what if you are one of those book learning types; you know – those that can read. Can look at a set of results, the names in a squad; understand maths sufficiently well to add up points that could (read: should) have been gained against those clubs below yours. What if you then came to the conclusion that all was not right? That something had gone wrong; horribly wrong – and the slight swagger you presented to the world back in March – was now a hunched shuffle, which had you sloping back in to the pack – to where most believe you truly belong.

City beating us was no great shock last night – eggs, paper bags, and the geek’s even nerdy dad could have Spurs in a rumble right about now. Yet if you read twitter last night, or skimmed through the obituaries – sorry – I mean match reports this morning - you’d think we were just popping off cloud nine for a pint of milk, a decent keeper; and we’ll be back amongst the big boys before next season was but a few weeks old.

It was official – we weren’t allowed to complain. We weren’t allowed to pluck figures like one win in 10 (I appreciate it’s more, I just like round figures) out of the cold, hard facts. We weren’t allowed to comment on the apparent lack of desire at times against West Ham, West Brom or Blackpool. 

We weren’t allowed to question the tactical acumen applied to the team selection in those game, or last night – or the switches made, and the personnel introduced. 

Unbeknown to Spurs fans, a new law was passed across the land placing the penalty of treason on any negative comments directed at the Red Top’s new “King of Hearts”. Harry is lauded as a very good manager who had a bad run with a few dodgy decisions, sendings off, injuries – it was always someone else’s fault.

But what if we want to complain? What’s stopping us?

Well there’s the ever so slightly patronising undertone that we’ve been shockingly bad for so long that, To Dare – is apparently above us. We should be happy with the fact that we’ve beaten AC and Inter Milan – we’ve had a run in the Champions League that no one expected of us, and that we took our beating against Madrid like men.

If there’s a Spurs fan out there that can’t find a positive from the season, then there is a little more than something wrong with them – and in fairness, to those baying for Harry’s head, only Vicente del Bosque would get the sack after some of our European results this term – but there is no disputing that our season was derailed sometime in March – and if we can’t moan, then at least let us ask why it all went so wrong?

I don’t buy in to the notion that the European experience did for us. We’ve been all over clubs at times – West Ham at home, City home and away – and what have we got to show for it? If we can’t criticise Harry, do we point the finger of blame at Dear Mr Levy? – who is so cunning in his transfer bargaining that he left us a striker light, and gave us Pieenar – a player who appears to have left what form he had, back up in Liverpool – no doubt a victim of that gang that targets the prized possessions of their local players.

But we can’t moan – nor question. So what do we do? We do what all Spurs fans do at such times, we argue with each other. If no one is prepared to listen, we find someone to at least shout over the top of on the same subject matter; though for once, we all seem to be shouting the same things.

No Journos will return our tweets, opposition fans only see the folly in our arguments – we’re no longer the darlings – back to being the overly expectant, laughing stock we’ve been since the ‘80s.

If last season delivered the earth, this season promised the moon and the stars as well. There was, daft as it now seems - the faint glimmer that we might even be the club to take the title race in to May. Looking at our last 13 league games, the teams we’ve played and the points we dropped – would it really have been so daft?

Though I guess it is not really our fault. United, Chelsea and Arsenal are where they supposedly belong – City have bought their place at the top table, and Liverpool – well, they’re just the Liverpool of old; same efficiency, same manager, same reliance on the back pass to the keeper. So if it feels like we robbed ourselves of glory; chances are it just wasn’t meant to be.

So if you feel like moaning – ask yourself a few questions: are we better than we were under Francis? Have we enjoyed some fantastic European nights down the lane this term? If the Red Tops want Harry for England, surely he’s still the man for us, right? If we’d have won half of those last 13 games, would we be back in the Champions League next year?

Actually, don’t ask that last question; it’ll only cause you to question, to moan….. To ultimately, be wrong!

Chris King, a regular on the old Shelf and held a season ticket in the Park Lane Upper. He now lives in Leeds, where he spends most Saturdays trying to teach his daughter the words to Spurs’ songs. Writes for In Bed with Maradona and his own blog Northern Writes.

When it really isn't more important

guestblog by Chris King

I was planning on writing something witty about the worst Spurs XI of my era.

I’d spoken to a few mates, asking them for the players that really struck them as being so bad – that they were the sort of acquisitions that you’d debate against ever really being Spurs players.

It could even be argued that writing down your worst XI is actually easier than trying to hand pick a team of Spurs legends – limiting your choice to a simple 4-4-2 formation.

And then Dean Richards died. And then the wittiness died with him.

When Richards joined Spurs, he did so for a fee that was then the highest for a non-capped player. He was the epitome of everything that was wrong about the Hoddle management era – a lot of promise, but ultimately failing to deliver.

When trying to plan the piece – for we bloggers do occasionally put a little thought in to the words we write – I put in “worst Spurs players” in to a search engine, and Richards’ name bounced around on more than one occasion. Some defended him, others questioned his fee; a fair amount did agree he was below par - whilst others gave him the benefit of the doubt due to his prolonged injury situation.

What I took from it all was that, and forgive the lazy pun here – he simply failed to earn his spurs. The fee went against him, the fact he only managed 73 games in four seasons went against him – the fact he retired for reasons that simply weren’t concrete went against him.

Yet, what Richards really suffered from was the fact that most of us expected more from him. There are countless Spurs players that were abject, hopeless – simply not Spurs players. Yet we half accepted them for their failings, and would happily buy them a pint should they ever wander in to our local pubs.

We give nicknames like the “Ginger Pele” to our bad players. We accept that some might simply have been signed to boost sales of shirts in the Far East market – we even embrace very average players who simply gave their all. There were periods when we expected too much – most of our worst players seem to come from the 1990s – there were other times when we just simply accepted what we had. Yet know one, when picking their worst Spurs XI, ever seems to agree that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Managers buy players based on a whole host of reasons. Usually it’s if someone has a good game against us, or a scout sees something no one else can – or DML has a highlights reel from Revisita la Liga. There are then a myriad of reasons why players fail to make the grade – to earn their Spurs. Yet the vitriol aimed at them is more often than not misplaced; over the top and not really becoming of fans that will stand up because they hate another team – then slag off their own players when another under-par performance is registered on the pitch.

Dean Richards dying doesn’t reverse his time at the club, but it does seem to have made a few people tweet or text their RIPs and condolences not long after their original view of his time in the side. Is in death, really the only time when we will forgive a player for their sins on the pitch?

There is another player who “we” are all supposed to hate. A player who accepted his 30 pieces of silver to travel, not too far down the Seven Sisters road – in the desperate hope that they may boost their career with a triumph or two. I wonder if, in death, he will be viewed differently – if all the bad Spurs players will be viewed differently when they finally pass away. For you can be sure that the club will wheel out the black armband – and a token minutes silence will fall upon the ground, followed by the customary round of applause to mark their passing – but will you be able to remember the last time you applauded their actual passing, or tackling, shooting, heading etc.

If Dean Richards sits in your worst Spurs XI of all time, does his death change that? Has the sad news that a 36 year old has been taken from us far too early in life, meant you’ve slotted another central defender in, in his place?

Football fans are a cruel bunch. The argument is that if you pay good money, you have the right to pass judgement in what ever way you want – at which ever player is the target of your abuse this time around. But when an ex-player dies, who is only a year older than the person writing this piece – it makes it all seem so pointless; futile, not really worth debating.

Our worst Spurs XI is the side that lost to Blackpool. Our best Spurs XI will be the side that wins our next league or UEFA Champions League game – that’s how football should be viewed. Dean Richards was never going to reach such heights, but was it really his fault – or was he just an unfortunate victim of a Spurs era that made average players look bad?

Someone once said that football was more important than life and death. But then he at least lived to the ripe old age of 68. When you die at 36, having failed to beat a long term illness that took away your dreams, your hopes, your life and than handed you an early death – football must seem ultimately pointless to the people you’ve left behind.

Dean Richards will be warmly remembered by both Spurs and Wolves fans when we meet next week. Very few will talk about how bad he was for us, or how much he cost – all they will do is simply give up a minute of their lives to think what a travesty it is that someone in the 21^st Century is still able to die at the tender age of 36.

Then, when the whistle goes – he will be nothing more than a passing memory to both sets of fans who desperately want three points from the match.

What a waste. What a callous way to view a life.



European dreams

guestblog by Chris King

It’s the 23^rd May. The Year is 1984.

A nine year old boy is watching his mates run around on the stage at the Curzon Cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue. His Mum leans in to him, nudging him on the arm. She asks why he is not up there playing with his mates; why he looks so serious, on this his birthday. She offers popcorn, sweets and a sip of fizzy pop, but nothing seems to wake him from his near trance.

“Come on” she says. “Don’t be sad, do you not want to see the film?”

“It’s not that Mum”

“Well, what is it then?”

“Mum. How are we going to stop Enzo Scifo?”

Some of that has been Hollywoodized for the narrative to introduce this piece, but I did spend the afternoon of my ninth birthday watching the Fox and Hounds at the Curzon. I can’t really recall much about the film, it wasn’t until I saw it on video some months later that I realised the fox…. Well, I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t seen it.

Only one memory burns bright from that day, and “If you know your history” the opening sentence to this piece will tell you everything you need to know.

It’s been all too easy to think of negative things to write about Spurs for my contributions to this site over the last month or so. I don’t get down to as many games as Spooky, so compiling match previews or reports is a bit of an ask, given that we often have to rely on the incomprehensible ‘Mers’ on Soccer Saturday, to fill in the blanks in the wilds of the North.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t change tack. To look both forwards and back; to be like a nine year old again – both anxious and giddy with emotions at the prospect of another massive European night of football for the Spurs.

"It's magnificent to be in Europe and this club - a club like Tottenham Hotspur - if we're not in Europe.... we're nothing. We’re nothing."

That quote comes directly from Bill Nicholson. He’s right. Some would say he was always right where Spurs were concerned. The year after that majestic night in 1984, we had another good run – falling agonisingly short to the eventual champions Real Madrid by the odd goal in the Quarter-Final. We’ve had some moments since then, including the Inter Milan game at home this year – but they have been all too few and far between. We’ve been hopeless in both getting in to Europe, and re-establishing our place once we get there. But it used to be all so different.

There will be people reading this that weren’t born in 1984, let alone got to see that penalty shoot out – who will remember Tony Parks the player rather than the goalkeeping coach. A player, much like Newcastle’s Steve Harper, who spent eight fairly unproductive years as back up keeper – amassing the sort of game time Gomes will do in a less than a season this term. But no one cares about that. All those that saw the game can remember is his one great game. The sight of him diving to his right, getting both hands to substitute Arnór Guðjohnsen’s penalty and pushing it out towards the west stand; reeling off with both hands in the air, before being mobbed by his team mates.

It was our third major cup success in four years (to add to the 1981 and 1982 FA Cups) and I couldn’t imagine it being any different as a Spurs fan. How wrong could I be? Thanks first to Heysel and then one poor mid-table side after another, we only managed two further appearances in Europe in the nineties – neither of which amounted to much; especially given the own goal Stephen Carr conceded in the last minute to send us out away to Kaiserslautern.

Since then we’ve had a couple of decent runs in the now defunct UEFA Cup; but the Jol era aside, it has never really felt as though we were really 100% committed to the task in hand.

That is until this season.

A terrible start to the campaign seems to have shaped our season a touch – hopeless in the opening phase of the first half away from home. But at home, in front of our fans – what a joy it has been to watch European football again at the Lane. Young boys, Twente, Internazionale and Werder Bremen - all blown away by the sort of attacking, entertaining and heart lifting football we’ve craved since those Glory, Glory nights of the 60s, 70s and 80s. We’ve played with a spirit that shows we fear no one, even during those calamitous passages of play – but do pray to whatever sporting or religious deities you hold dear, that no on dives in for a reckless challenge in our box in the opening 10 minutes tonight.

To have the chance to play AC Milan, at the Giuseppe Meazza on one of our biggest European nights since that fateful birthday back in 1984, I can’t but help paraphrase Bill Nicholson’s quote. For it is magnificent to be in Europe, and this club – a club like Tottenham Hotspur to be playing the Italian league Leader in Europe without fear proves we’re something. For even though the internet appears to have written our chances off for tonight at least, especially with the absence of key players – for once, we as fans still all seem to believe. How great is that!

So today, as I sit at work – slightly fed up, slightly distant – looking south east out of the window towards Milan I can’t but help being transported back to that cinema seat in 1984. As my mum leans in, nudges me on the arm and asks why I’ve not completed the Project Plan I should have had done by lunch time…

“Come on” she says. “Can’t you do your work?”

“It’s not that Mum.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“Mum. Let me tell you how we’re going to stop Zlatan Ibrahimovic…”