The Book of Daniel - Chapter Six - The End

by Ryan the Perplexed

It was just two weeks to go before the season started. The Tottenhamites were restless. They prayed.  They repented. They worried. It was their custom since the dawn of time. Boaz asked Daniel how the negotiations were going regarding the striker signing. ‘Fantastic’ replied Daniel. ‘We have bid £7m and they will accept £8m. Not far to go now.'

The next day, Boaz asked Daniel if the deal had been agreed. Daniel replied ‘Yes. We settled on £7.5m’ And so Boaz was pleased.

The day after, Boaz asked Daniel if the player had completed a medical. Daniel said ‘Not yet – I have reduced our offer to £6.5m in instalments, which includes a performance bonus and part-payment in WH Smith vouchers which expire in 4 days. I am confident they will accept.’

And the next day the deal was dead and Daniel’s efforts whistled in the wind. And the end of days loomed when the season started and the squad was weak. False prophets arose proclaiming 4 signings in one day, an end to hunger, world peace and the demise of Mark Lawrenson in fiery furnace. And the false prophets cried and squealed when the Tottenhamites turned upon them in great numbers when their prophecies did not come to pass. 'Things change' they howled. It was true, things do change, but not always for the better.

Yea, there was truly only one ITK and he was Daniel, but many suspected that Daniel did not know much after all, rendering the entire exercise rather meaningless.

And so Boaz was greatly vexed by the actions of Daniel. The promises of squad rebuilding became the dismal reality of failed brinkmanship. Boaz sojourned in the training ground where he watched balls bounce harmlessly off the heads of Defoe and Kane and prepared a midfield of Livermore and Jenas.  And even BAE started dreaming dreams about the lack of strikers. He became a Nazirite, refusing to bathe, cut his hair or tweet until a striker had been signed. The camp was in utter disarray as the transfer deadline approached, and Daniel spent his time sourcing fax paper which would be the most likely to jam in the machine at 10.57pm on 31 August. Transfer windows came and went. Vanity of vanity, all was Daniel's vanity. There is nothing new under the golden cockerel gleaming in the sun.

And Ari found employment in management again in a job suited to his ways. As brand ambassador for Bettaq247's online management and gambling game he had found his true calling. He even found jobs for the Bondsman and Jordan in the call centre, where they shared jokes and stories about what might have been with Juande Ramos and Jacques Santini, who had found employment in the admin and HR deptartments.

And the Lord came back from his all-inclusive holiday in Torremolinos and was keen to know what progress had made with signings. 'Don't worry my Lord' replied Daniel. 'I am pleased to say that the Club are much stronger than last season. We have agreed deals with software developers, caterers, toilet cleaners and kit manufacturers. No-one can doubt these huge achievements'.

'Oh' said the Lord. 'What about the football side?' And Daniel drew himself up to a great height, puffed out is chest and proclaimed:

'My Lord. We have agreed a partnership with Real Madrid'

'But what does that mean?' said the Lord.

And Daniel replied 'it means they can have first choice on all our players, have free membership of One Hotspur Bronze, have parking permits on the High Road, and we can hide the fact of Luka's sale in the some sort of botched PR spin'.

'Hmm...' said the Lord, 'botched - that is a word many of the Tottenhamites associate with your efforts. What about Moutinho? We are sitting on huge amounts of cash from the sales of the last 3 transfer windows. We have lost two world class players in Modric and VdV. Boaz needs Moutinho to work his system - which is the one of the reasons why he failed at Chelsea.'

'We will try' said Daniel.  And so the clouds gathered at Spurs Lodge. The skies darkened. Outside there was a gathering of teenage chavs, taxi drivers and Sky Sports news teams. No one came in. No one came out. Eventually Daniel brought forth Dembele and a goalkeeper. He even stole Dempsey whilst the Kopites weren't looking. The irony.  But there was a large gap. It was called world-class creativity.  Embodied by Moutinho. The deadline passed. The Tottenhamites hung their heads it despair. Another 'almost' signing. Of course. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

'What happened?' said the Lord.

'We just couldn't agree a deal' said Daniel. 'We had known that we were losing Modric for the past 14 months and needed a world class playmaker. When the clock struck 10.50pm, I was just not prepared to pay the bank transfer fees. Boaz was most upset. Don't worry we have signed Clint Dempsey and Harry Kane is off to Norwich to work in their mail order warehouse.'

The task of Boaz was made much harder by Daniel's actions. Boaz talked more and more about player's particular dimensions - as humans, beasts or attacking half wing backs. It was all very hard to understand, and the Tottenhamites feared that Boaz was a manager of less than average dimensions when it came to success.
 
And the Lord was greatly displeased with Daniel and his efforts to lead his people to freedom. Even Daniel's loyal followers started to doubt the trust they had placed in him. All had grown weary of Daniel's inability to look at the bigger picture, to take the next step and to act like a man of ambition rather than just talk like one. As the wise elders amongst the Tottenhamites had realised, for over a decade Daniel had sold well, bought well only in patches and the less said about most of his managerial appoinments, the better.
 
Yea and to many Tottenhamites, it seemed that their support of the club taught them lessons they could use all the days of their lives. And thus the Tottenhamites assembled and enshrined their 8 proverbs on a scroll:

1) Never trust information from a supposed ITK who won’t name names, constantly promises vague delights, and uses idiotic winks and smileys ;) to communicate.

2) If Spurs have a goal lead to defend and there is about 5 mins to go, it is better to accept sedation rather than witness the inevitable horror unfold, if a Tottenhamite values their health.

3) There is no more soul-destroying announcement than ‘Half-time substitution by Spurs – Gareth Bale off, Jermaine Jenas on’.

4) Unless they work on the London Underground, a Tottenhamite must never utter the following words in sequence again if they do not want incur the wrath of the Almighty – Mind. The. Gap.

5) Tottenhamite Transfer windows are much like the phases of love – evaluation, optimism, small success, unsubstantiated optimism, frustration, anger, hysteria, disappointment and finally dismal acceptance.

6) Tottenham will always have 4 right backs but never enough wide midfielders.

7) The earth is made of 5 indestructible elements - earth, wind, fire, air and David Bentley.

8) If a man wants success he should support Man Utd.  If a man wants good football he should support Barcelona. If a man wants to blindly agree with everything their manager says he should support Arsenal. If a man sees John Terry as a positive role model he should support Chelsea and seek counselling. If a man wants to see his club never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity then he should support Tottenham.

And the scroll was bound in a surplus Pony kit circa 1997 and displayed before the Tottenhamites who read from the scroll every week.

And so Daniel looked back at his efforts over the summer and the previous decade and was proud of all his works. Yet the Lord and the Tottenhamites were less so. So Daniel was better than Alan Sugar and that was about it. Great things were promised by Daniel – a 60k capacity temple, brilliant managers, world-class players and regular CL campaigns and titles. Instead the Tottenhamites received a new toilet in the North Stand, Jacques Santini, Grezgorz Rasiak and one Carling Cup.  Many prayers were offered to Daniel but he could only answer few. A great burden was placed on his shoulders. That is the burden of leadership and following the ways of the Lord. Only those who truly Dare end up Doing.

And thus ends – for the time being at least – the Book of Daniel, written by the humble hand of the scribe Ryan the Perplexed. He hopes that you enjoyed the journey with him, as we watched Daniel navigate his way through a summer of choppy seas – his little round bald head flashing like a belisha beacon, silently lighting the way whilst the Tottenhamites waited to cross the road into a new season, hoping that the approaching juggernaut of hope braked in time, and they all got on and drove together into the warm embrace of the setting sun.

Come on ye Spurs.

Previous chapters:

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Five

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Four

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Three

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

The Book of Daniel

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Five

by Ryan the perplexed

And so after many years of service to his people and visits to the doctor, King Ledley finally rested at Mt Kneebo.  The Tottenhamites paused and reflected on the end of an era. He was humble, gracious, supremely talented, lightning quick.  Everything the Great Sinner Terry was not.  And yet Terry had the luck of Heaven and Prince Ledley had the luck of Hell.  And so Daniel donned his priestly vestments and took Ledley onto Mt Kneebo, which overlooked the promised land of regular CL football and subjugation of the Goonite hordes.

‘Look at this land before you Ledley’ said Daniel. ‘This is the golden future of the Club’ And Ledley became greatly distressed as Daniel seemed to be pointing at Harry Kane. ‘No –not him. He’s useless. See there on that far mountain, a small man with ginger hair and a neatly trimmed beard is talking to the players. His name is Boaz and he had one good year at Porto and has managed the British Virgin islands in the Maccabi Champions League.’ And Ledley looked, shook his head sadly and devoted the rest of his days to the Hotspur Foundation and the Darren Anderton Institute for Sports Science.

And Daniel was proud of making Boaz a Tottenhamite and brought him before the Lord to dazzle Him with his football wisdom. Daniel asked Boaz to explain to the Lord about bringing Bale into the game more. And before Boaz could speak, the Lord placed a small frog inside Boaz’s mouth for His own amusement.

‘Felicitations Holy One’ began Boaz. ‘We plan to introduce Bale more rigourously on the more vacant placements on pitch <cough>.

And the Lord turned to  Daniel and said ‘I have no idea what he is saying’.

But Boaz continued ‘ It is imperative that Bale finds and creates <croak> outlets for attack-minded runs in order to create dissonance within the minds of the opposition.  We intend to <splutter> utilise retro-functioning runs by the more advanced players –to alter the targeting of the defenders.  That is my project. Here is my pencil case.’

And the Lord said ‘What does that mean?’ And Daniel said ‘ I have no idea but it sounds impressive doesn’t Oh Lord? There can be no comparison between the wise verbiage of Boaz with the tics and twitterings of Ari.’

And the Lord mulled over this for a while and opened up Google Translate on his Godphone.  He changed the settings to translate from ‘Technical Waffle’ to just ‘English’ and used this to translate the words of Boaz.  When the Lord ask Boaz what would his advice be to strikers when bringing them on with 10 minutes left, Boaz replied ‘they should find scenarios to their advantage to create maximum likelihood of success-enabled objectives’.  The Lord then translated this to ‘Cockney chancer’ and it was translated as ‘ Go and fakkin run about a bit’.  He then translated it to Wengerish and it read as ‘I did not see the incident but the opposition did not deserve to score 5 goals against us. They bullied us and fouled my superior players – the brutes, the brutes!’

And the Lord strongly suspected that Boaz was actually an android created by Aurasma to fulfil Daniel’s footballing needs.  Suddenly it all made perfect sense.  Boaz’s robotic joints occasionally seized when he was in a crouching position, and that is why Daniel brought in a German mechanic to be at Boaz’s side to oil him and maintain his parts.  A year ago, Abramovich had spent £13m on Boaz, thinking he would be a fantastic protocol droid who could entertain and astonish guests on his lavish yacht.  Only when his restraining bolts were removed, did Boaz make his way to Chelsea, where he downloaded Aurasma's new ‘manager’ software.  Daniel had purchased Boaz at a knock-down price and could save the money for the world-class striker he would never manage to sign.

And Bale approached the Lord and said the wanted to look beautiful. He said that his ears flapped in the wind and he would do anything to pin them back. And the Lord agreed, providing that Bale would survive a test of faith. Yea, and the Lord put Bale into a deep sleep.  He woke in the morning and his ears were streamlined. He rejoiced and sang hosannas to the Lord.  But being a Spurs supporter, the Lord has a dark sense of humour and did not forget his test.  And so the Lord took from the Kopites a beastly creature with unbridled aggression and no football talent.  In order to strike fear into Bale, the Lord gave the creature a mouth with teeth that looked like the windows of a derelict warehouse and ensured that Irn Bru coursed through its veins. And so on the fields of Bal-timor the creature, confused by its own ridiculous price tag, attacked Bale on his ankle. And Bale wrestled with the creature all night.  In the morning a physio of the Lord came down to tell them stop.  Bale's ligaments were sore but he had prevailed and survived his encounter with the wicked beast. And the physio touched Bale's ankle and Bale was ok.  And that is why Tottenhamites from that day to this do not eat the ligaments served by a Kopite.

And after the early light, suddenly there was darkness from the ITKs. Many Tottenhamites argued that many had got lucky with a few guesses, but all was quiet.  Darkness moved upon the surface of the deep and even Gio was talking about staying. The Tottenhamites looked at the holes in the squad and with the season starting soon, waited for Daniel to rise, do deals and accept the crown of true kingship.

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Four

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Three

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

The Book of Daniel

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Four

by Ryan the Perplexed

Daniel knew that his credibility depended on the success of young Boaz and so he set to work assembling a group of helpers for him. Though it was evil in the eyes of the Lord, Daniel engaged in sorcery to help Boaz, creating human-like creatures from inanimate objects to form a low-cost backroom staff.

Daniel obtained an old Pony kit stained with blood, an unhinged ferret with an unnaturally large neck and weapons-grade testosterone. He cast them all into a boiling cauldron, whispered incantations and out jumped Steffen Freund in a cloud of smoke. Freund looked around, his face turned an interesting shade of purple, and he ran up to Hudd who was taking one of his frequent rest breaks. Freund screamed various Teutonic exhortations inches from his face. Terrified, Hudd ran off, as fast as his massive legs would carry him. And so Boaz had an assistant manager.

Excited by his new found sorcery skills, Daniel obtained a satsuma, the wool of a black sheep and a crab in an attempt to revive Vinny Samways. Daniel had hoped to install Vinny as Head if Conditioning and Coaching. The experiment malfunctioned unfortunately, and instead he created a depraved Steve Sedgely, running in ever decreasing circles. Finding no use for him, Daniel installed the creature as head of the ticket office. Daniel finally abandoned the project after his third attempt ended in catastrophe, and a lumbering, stuttering abomination was created. Having no choice, Daniel made this shambles the official website, whose motto was never knowingly first to a story. Once its homepage was eventually opened, the Tottenhamites could be first hear about the signing of Jimmy Greaves from Milan and post either sarcastic or mindlessly optimistic comments in the Facebook sidebar. The Tottenhamites cried in dismay.
 
And Daniel decided to test the Tottenhamites with the launch of the new kit. Images appeared showcasing the players garbed in the Under Armour vestments. And the Tottenhamites were much vexed by this. Was the absence of Jenas a reflection of his impact on games? Were the players who looked angry or sad about to be sold? Why was VdV mysteriously moved? Was Friedel auditioning to be some comic book villain? Was Sandro imbibing noxious substances? No-one knew for sure.

And Daniel realised that like many things Sugar of Essex did when he ran the club during the 1990s, the old Spurs Lodge was cheap, nasty and not fit for purpose, much like the signing of Jason Dozzell. 

Daniel wanted Boaz to have the best training facilities. So with help of the Lord, he created a garden for him, not as far east, in Enfield. And Daniel placed the hulking frame of Kaboul at the gates to protect the Garden of Enfield by day and by night. A pack of blood crazed Tarricos were set to watch over those entering and leaving the Garden so that none would dawdle, wind down their windows and chat to the Sky Sports cameras, as was the custom of Ari.
 
And so Daniel placed in the Garden of Enfield everything Boaz needed to prepare him for his quest. Pitches, swimming pools and gyms were built, along with a cryogenic chamber to freeze the DNA of the better players and create perfect clones, as part of a new cost-effective youth policy. A wise move thought Daniel, for he could utilise the sponsors Aurasma for this, which seemed to many Tottenhamites to be another faceless multinational corporation engaged in shady, morally ambiguous scientific activities. A bit like Manchester United.
 
And so Boaz got to work, focussing on 'Dead Ball Situations', which Ari had believed to be a slapstick 1970s comedy starring Burt Reynolds. And at last a use was found for Jenas, Bentley and Gio to utilise their free kick abilities. They excelled at forming part of the wall against which the better players practised.
 
Confounded by these new ways and worried about his reputation, Ari sent his loyal disciple Joseph of Jordan to protest against the attacks against Ari's tactical abilities.
 
The Jordanite placed his teeth in his mouth and scolded the doubters 'Yea. End thy jesting about the tactics of the wise Ari. I worked with him for many years and a greater tactical mind will not be found on the face of the earth. He would study for hours thinking, scheming, about when the best time would be to phone Talksport. Ari would have sleepless nights mulling whether to go with the 'alwight lads/ down to bare bones/ 2 points from 8 games' angle. When he knew he had to win, he shifted to the 'we battered 'em/ Spurs never had it so good/ you'll ave to ask the Chairman' formation. Sometimes he could even adjust mid-game to the 'what a shot from their right back/ the keeper had a worldy/ the lads are tired' option'. But the Tottenhamites groaned and remembered Villa away.
 
And so Boaz set out to do the exact opposite of Ari to find favour in the eyes of Daniel. Whereas Ari would only talk about England instead of Spurs, Boaz would talk too much about Chelsea. Before he was banished, Ari only talked about his strained relationship with Daniel, yet Boaz would talk about his fractured relationship with the Roman. As Ari would target fourth, for Boaz, first would be targeted. If Ari would train them once a day, Boaz would train them thrice.
 
And the players were shocked at the taskmaster Boaz. Constant training meant that Benny's afro withered, and the tattoo parlours and nightclubs of Essex faced an uncertain future. For the elders amongst the squad, they recalled the days of old, under Ramos, with a modern technical Uefa cup winning manager, intense training, fitness work without end, nutritionists, statistics, and analysts. Knowing how that ended up, Daniel and all the Tottenhamites became as one and prayed to the Lord that history would not repeat itself...

Previous Chapters:

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Three

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

The Book of Daniel

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Three

by Ryan the Perplexed

After the demise of their beloved Ari at the hands of Daniel and the impending crowning of Boaz, the Hacks assembled their tribes from the foul swamps from whence they came. They were joined by the Goonites and Chelsea Despicables in their belief that there would be a great mutiny at the Lane. Yea, said the Hacks and the Haters, an uprising will take place, so disgusted would the Spurs players be with having to work with Boaz. The exodus will happen again.  Doom was guaranteed. They prophesised a great rebellion. The great stars would depart, Jenas would force through his move to Barca and Gio would join Seville, Pienaar would be off to Everton.  Tottenham would be left with the bare bones as Ari's prophecy predicted.  Corluka and Krank had already run off to Russia, though it was taking them a long time to get there because they both ran so incredibly slowly. Even Chirpy would be so alarmed at Boaz's treatment of Terry and Lampard, he would immolate himself with fire and oil and be consumed by Huddlestone at Chick King on the High Road - once Daniel had been forced to sell him for an undisclosed fee. None would be left. The Lane would be a wasteland, the new training ground abandoned except for some over-elaborate tactical plans, some untalented youths and an unfulfilled Project. The Hacks' false prophecy was sinful in the eyes of the Lord and, in the manner of their great leader Ari, He banished them to go and fackin run around a bit.
 
After their gloating at the Tottenhamites, the Goonites fell silent and wailed once they realised that their Holy Persie had studied Wenger the Blind's spreadsheets and, after conducting some variance analysis, concluded that his figures did not stack up.  Van Persie addressed the Goonites and told them that their future was bleak.  Talent had bred arrogance.  But then the arrogance had eaten the talent. And just a husk remained in the form of Theo Walcott.   Holy Persie announced he would seek a new flock of pathetic wretches to protect with his miracles and goals. Wenger the Blind would have to find a new Saviour.

And so Daniel spoke to Bale an a bid to entice him to stay.  Bale said he already had 3 year contract. Daniel was desperate for good news for his Tottenhamites, so told Bale he would increase his salary from £70-£90k per week.  'What do you want in return? asked Bale.  'An extra year on your contract and the number of your hairdresser' said Levy. And so it was done.

Before he could join the club, Boaz underwent a lengthy period of ritual purification to cleanse his soul from the vile impurities of Chelsea. For forty days and forty nights he bathed in scented oils. He would confess his sins to Daniel and show true penance for his sins. And Daniel prescribed punishments fitting the sins as follows; for the sin of arrogance - 40 lashes; for the sin of poor man-management - a week of fasting and good deeds; for the sin of upsetting the media - ritually shaving Martin Samuel; for the sin of tactical naivety - having to watch Chelsea win the CL on a loop for 24 hours; and for the sin of prolonged proximity to John Terry - cleansing with industrial strength detergents and a visit to a competent doctor.

And Daniel was satisfied that Boaz was his new prophet and he set about obtaining adornments for him to succeed with the Tottenhamites and fulfil his dream. A dream to build a Temple on Earth with 56,000 seats, extensive corporate hospitality and viable transport links. And so Gylfi joined, amidst much gnashing of teeth by the Kopites, who could not believe that he would chose Boaz over Brendan, just as they could not believe that it was no longer 1984 and they were no longer good.  With their riches wasted on mediocrity, they would be doomed to walk on, walk on, forever, sustained only by hope in their hearts, spearheaded by a ponytailed giant with a brain the size of a flea's dropping.

'Where is Vertonghen?' the Lord said to Daniel.  And Daniel replied 'Am I his agent's keeper? He should be announced soon'.  After much back and forth, Jan was signed. The Lord grew frustrated as he could not believe how long it took Daniel to complete a deal, for the Lord himself had managed to create the entire Universe in a week, and with lower agent's fees and less ITK leaks.

And the Tottenhamites were greatly excited by Daniel.  There were rumours within the camp that Daniel would sell part of his birthright to mysterious men of the East who had pots of gold and whom he had told that vast untapped wells of oil would be found below the club shop.  Twitters circulated the camp that these redeemers would be appearing imminently, bearing money and hope, and would strike mortal fear into the hearts of the Goonites.  The Tottenhamites waited with baited breath but nothing happened. Yet. 

But Luka was a thorn in Daniel's side, complaining that he was dreaming of Madrid and causing Daniel great discomfort when he texted him naked pictures of himself, just as Daniel was about to sit down and eat.  Luka enlisted a team of Croats to leak stories to the media about his impending departure.  It seemed that Luka was much better at scoring stories on Newsnow than he ever was at scoring goals. But the Lord hardened Daniel's heart.  He summoned Luka to his underground lair and told him that if he thought about releasing a statement like Holy Persie's, he would not be sold for four more years and be banished.  And Luka trembled but still made a glorious sideways pass. Storm clouds gathered.  Daniel stood up, waved his staff and thundered to the cowering Luka 'When was the last time you saw David Bentley? He was last seen somewhere in East London kicking balls into skips.  He tried to defy me and look what has happened to him.  Do you want to rot in the reserves? Do you want to see Tim Deadwood every day?'

Luka then bowed down and retreated, astonished at Daniel's new resolve.  Pleased with himself, Daniel ordered his chamberlain to polish his little bald head, but he was soon disrupted.

'We need a striker Daniel. Quickly' said the Lord. 'Preseason has started.  We only have Defoe. And he is on holiday. How do you expect Boaz to succeed if he has no strikers?'

And Daniel did what he always did when he was short of strikers.  He reached for his file marked 'THFC loan signings 1995-2012' and looked through the list to decide who he should sign on a permanent basis - Stephane Dalmat, Mido, Gudjonsen, Andy Booth, Adebayor, Konchesky, Frazier Campbell. Such rich pickings, Daniel thought, who should I sign...

Previous chapters:

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

The Book of Daniel

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

by Ryan the Perplexed

Yea, and Ari the Blameless was cast out into the wilderness by Daniel, amidst much crying, wailing and confusion amongst the Hacks. And the Hacks took all their gold, columns and tweets and melted them down to cast an idol of Ari who they revered as a God and who had bestowed twitches and quotes to them from the days of old. And the name of the place where the idol was erected and to where Ari was banished was called Sandbanks, because it was felt that Daniel's case gainst Ari was built upon banks of sand. This displeased Daniel greatly but he was humble and knew his tongue was quiet, his bald head shone like a jewel in the sun, and that PR was something that happened to other people.

And the Tottenhamites were in turmoil, every man against his brother and every father against son in their views over whether Daniel had done the right thing. The camp was split and feared Daniel and what he would do next.

Chaos reigned.  Who was ITK? Who was not ITK?

Many of the wise elders of the camp were  bemused by Daniel's actions, saying that stability was required and though Ari had faults, his PPG record was excellent and unless the new prophet was holier, this was a reckless move. They claimed that Daniel did not provide Ari with enough shekels and he had to work miracles amongst the old, the sick, the lame and the other January transfer window signings.

Yet the younger Tottenhamites were noisy in number and  believed Daniel had done right in their eyes, for they hated Ari and the dung that spewed forth from his mouth by day and by night. They looked upon Daniel favourably and saw he could do no wrong. They did not care for a new Temple for which Daniel had toiled to no avail. They thought the squad was worthy already. They forgot Daniels sins with Santini and Ramos and Pleat. They did not recall selling Berba for Frazier. They did not remember Rasiak. Or Bentley. Or Bunjevcevic.

And so Daniel hid in a cave and considered his options. After eating 10 rubbery smoked salmon bagels from the West Stand, Daniel fell  into a deep sleep and dreamed a dream.

He had a vision of White Hart Lane glowing and throbbing. Across the battlefield gleaming metal was held aloft, the Tottenhamites had the Rapture and rejoiced in victory. Strewn across the battlefield the shattered remnants of the Goonite hordes, broken and no more. In the dugout Wenger the Blind was destroying vessels of water beyond measure and wailed. The Goonite smugness smashed forever. The Rapture grew, the Angels of '61 sang and in the Spurs dugout was a Portuguese, who had won with Porto and managed the Chelsea Despicables. The Portuguese smiled, realising that after all his travels he had now found a home, a dynasty and a calling. He looked up at Daniel in the Director's Box and waved. The Tottenhamites took this as a sign, purchased and donned official apparel from the club shop and prostrated themselves in front of Daniel, their King crowned at last.

Daniel was ecstatic and woke knowing what he had to do.

And so after many warnings, signs and wonders, such as the unholy luck of the Despicables, the Lord spoke to Daniel.

'Daniel, did you see the vision I gave you? A way for you to be loved by your people. A way forward after the days of Ari? The Man from Porto is the One'

And Daniel replied 'Yes O Lord. I have secured the man. He was surprisingly willing and ready to come, and for a very reasonable salary and bonus plan. Andreas is just packing his male grooming kit and will be here soon.

And the Lord shook his head and Heaven groaned. 'Daniel. I meant Mourinho. My child, your people look to you for I have set you as their Leader. But you need to learn from your mistakes. Andreas was a disaster for the Despicables. He even upset their evil men, which takes some doing. He talked and talked about his Project, he is of few years, he did much worse than Ari who had less shekels and no luck. He even lost to Aston Villa. At home.'

The Lord continued 'So you've got Andreas. It could have been worse like Martinez. What else has happened? What have you done following my clear warnings and lessons? I assume Kevin the Bondsman has gone and River Jordan crossed?'

'Yes' replied Daniel. 'I have cleansed the Lane of all of Ari's disciples, even Clive the Oneseasonwonder, though his love for the Club was pure.'

'So it is' said the Lord. 'And I hope you got rid of Tim Deadwood too. And no return to the DOF system. It has never worked in the PL. You were closest to glory and honour without a DOF confusing, meddling and stopping the manager doing his job and giving you somewhere to hide from your people. Why are you scared and what are you scared of? You should assemble the people, speak to the Tottenhamites and show them the way to redemption. You may try to hide, Daniel, but I am the Lord. I can find you easily.  I just have to turn up to the AGM. I hope that you have learned these lessons now Daniel, as you try to lead the Tottenhamites to the Promised Land with your 7th prophet in eleven years?'

But Daniel was silent and gulped uneasily. He looked at his calendar. It was two months and eleven days until his own personal transfer window opened at 11.50pm on 31 August and lasted for just 10 minutes.

Plenty of time to sit and wait...

Read Chapter One here.

Spurs try Greek. Doesn't hurt.

Thanks to outside interference (baby, missus) watching our 'shadow' team play the first of our group games on an internet stream (10 seconds behind the actual live coverage) was proving to be as tricky as a eunuch auditioning for a porno. Decided it would be nigh impossible to write up a match-report myself. Considering I spent 15 minutes thinking we were 1-0 down thanks to a penalty, I thought it best to ask Twitter if anyone would be able to review. Couple of people stuck their hands up, so thanks to @DDDL_MSainsbury for this entry. I might have another match report available to share too, so in the interest of fairness will post that later if its fired across.

From a personal standpoint, the game (in the moments I caught it) hardly looked spectacular (other than Pav's shooting) but was surprised at the 0-0 scoreline. Did we get away with it or was it a shrewd selection? I can't comment. You can, so go ahead and do so.

PAOK Salonika Vs Tottenham Hotspur by @DDDL_MSainsbury

One of the more FUN things about the Europa League UEFA Cup campaign this season is going to be mid-afternoon/early-evening kick-offs. Did I say ‘Fun’? Make that annoying! After a Kamikaze blitz home from work in the Mini there is barely enough time to swap into my new (hopefully lucky) cup shirt.

The build-up to the game and pre-game coverage has mostly centred on our ‘inexperienced’ travelling squad, which makes a good story but is not entirely accurate. Our starting XI contains Cudicini, Bassong, Corluka, Gio, and Pav who are all experienced internationals, as well as Livermore and Walker; who have started 1^st team games for us this season, Carroll, Kane and Townsend; who all debuted in the Hearts match. The only real newcomer to the side is Falque, but to be honest I’ve been viewing him as more of a new signing for the first team, as opposed to a ‘developmental’ player. He makes his first team debut here.

The dressing room does throw up some interesting visuals though, in shirts numbering as high as #59 and #60! Out of all of these though I’d be keeping an eye out for #54 Alex Pritchard. I was really impressed with him in the Barnet friendly at the start of this season. Tidy midfielder, comfy on the ball, though so short my mate Easty and I were convinced he was a mascot at first!

Our team prepares to walk out, as the strains of AC/DC’s ‘Hell’s Bells’ blare out of the PA. This has to be a sign surely? My favourite band? Can’t fault the Greeks for their taste in anthems anyway.

1^st Half:

Team starts as a 4-4-2 with Townsend at LB (out of position technically but he’s played there in friendlies and the Hearts game). Gio starts on the left wing with Falque on the right. The first 5 minutes pass almost like a training match for us, with our second/third-string side knocking the ball around and coming under very little pressure. Thought some of our shirt numbers were high, but I see that their goalie is rocking #91!

PAOK start to get into the game, bringing down Townsend in possession in our half. A period ensues of the Greek team’s players going in with lots of niggley challenges, repeatedly fouling, breaking up the game. Possession passes back and forth but there are no real clear-cut chances on either side. Our ‘makeshift’ team is performing better than I had expected us to, tidy passing, particularly between the defence and young Carroll.

A word about the Greek fans: MENTAL! Firecrackers going off, massive flags and replica shirts are being waved around in the air instead of being worn. Need to have a bit more of that at the Lane maybe? Well the shouting anyway. Doubt we’d get the firecrackers past the turnstiles? And for that matter I’ll pass at seeing many of my fellow Block 23 occupants topless as well! Come to think of it I like the match-day atmosphere at home as it is!

Kane has the first real clear-cut chance of the half, being released into the penalty area and brought down. Referee chooses to book him for simulation however? Replay shows that contact was made. Isn’t that what the 4^th and 5^th official is there for in these games?

Almost immediately after this travesty PAOK are down our end and win a penalty. It’s really Cudicini’s fault for coming out and stretching for the ball when the attacker was running away from goal. When are we going to learn not to commit to challenges in the box if the player is running away from goal? Lino (their LB I believe) steps up and buries the ball in the back of the net. He sprints off to celebrate enthusiastically with his team-mates BUT THE REF CALLS THEM BACK FOR A RE-TAKE. Replay shows that Lino’s stuttering approach meant that his team-mate encroached in the box before the ball was kicked. He drags the re-take wide with Carlo covering it. It's still 0-0 and a lucky escape for him and us.

Our best chance of the half follows; we win a free kick roughly 20 yards out and left of the goal. Pav sizes it up and hits a strong shot, which curls up, over the bar to land in the top of the (slightly sagging) Greek net. A cheer from our fans who think it’s in! It’s our only real shot at goal though; half time and a very even match so far even for all the penalty drama.

Half time thoughts:

I’ve been quite impressed with Tom Carroll, he’s been sitting deep and linking Defence and Midfield, as well as being comfortable in possession. Easty told me after the Hearts game that he reminded him of McEachran of Cheatski, have to say he looks a similar sort of player and hopefully can grow into a first-team role.

Gio has been full-of running and working hard for the team. He’s been swapping flanks with Falque, who has looked tidy in possession himself. Indeed they seem to link up with one another well (I know that they’re on separate flanks, but they’ve conspired to link up a few times with Falque drifting inside and Carroll filling up the space left out wide). It’s refreshing to see Gio in the team, last season I felt he might have a breakout year after his impressive pre-season? Was sadly not to-be.

2^nd Half:

Uneventful start to the second half, besides the commentators referring to our away-kit as ‘violet’? Very macho? We’re also treated to a close-up of the red Summer-Moon in the night sky, which cuts to the graphic of the Europa League logo…all this time the ball is in play? Let me see the match damn-it!

Our two full-backs have impressed me, Townsend and Walker are both getting forward in possession and offering lots of width, though Walker has been caught out once or twice out of position up-pitch. In defence though they are well marshalled by Corluka and Bassong, keeping a high line playing an effective offside-trap. Impressive for players who have never played in that particular combination before? Charlie has played well at CB. Early in the 2^nd-half he tracks back, shields the ball from an attacker at the byline and calmly slips the ball to Bassong for the clearance. Didn’t Harry say he’d never play him there again, as he wasn’t good enough?

Kane appears to have switched out to the left-hand side. Think we’re playing a more 4-2-3-1 with Pav up top and Kane/Gio/Falque supporting him. Unfortunately this takes Gio out of the game a bit; he’s certainly not as involved as in the first half?

Our first real chance on goal from open-play comes from Pav chasing down the keeper and winning possession from him on the right-hand side of the area, going away from goal, he plays in Falque on the right, who skips inside and hits a curling left-footer in at goal. A bit more pace or curl on it could have got us off the mark, as it is the ball goes wide.

PAOK have looked more dangerous this half, more possession in our half but no final ball thankfully. When we attack they defend deep and effectively, getting bodies behind the ball.

What follows is a pretty exciting period of play however. Best described by my notes:
 
60: Free Kick Pav shoots low but wide. Not enough curl. Followed by the 1st real chance for PAOK; cross from right blasted over. Close.

71: Pav goes down and looks injured? Not good! Not been spectacular but led the line and he’s held-up the ball well. He’s back up and staying on for now.

75: PAOK free kick - left of area. Tense. Low cross but Contreras balloons it over with the outside of his right foot.

80: SUB – Falque off for Fredericks

Fredericks is playing well up the right-wing. Not a bad turn of pace and fairly dogmatic when it comes to chasing lost-causes. Needs to work at getting his cross away though, he’s getting in good positions but not pulling the trigger.

82: 2 good short range efforts from PAOK. 2 good saves by Cudicini. Resulting corner marshalled out of our area. We make a quick-counter but Pav puts his shot wide.

86: free kick won by Townsend – left-hand side of the PAOK area about 25 yards out. Harry Kane fires it in hard but the shot goes over, never low enough to trouble keeper.

Maybe time to make some subs to break up play Harry?

Ref is very card happy. Books Carroll for taking Free Kick too quickly. Re-take is crossed into box but doesn’t beat the first man.

90: good save from Cudicini. More pressure from PAOK, a header off the bottom of the bar! Hanging onto the point by a thread at the moment!

Finally a sub; Parrett on for Gio. This will hopefully take up some time!

90+2: Whistle blows. Points shared.

Full-time thoughts:

The draw is a good point for our opening group game, particularly away from home, I can see the other teams in the group struggling here. We need to take advantage of our rested first team against Liverpool though or 'The Great Experiment’ will have been for nought! Not sure if I’d pick any of this side for the Liverpool game. Livermore, Gio and Falque would probably be good options from the bench for me? I’d be looking to bring them on if we look to be struggling creatively on Sunday.

Man of the Match is a hard one: Livermore played well, unspectacular but kept the engine-room ticking over. I’d pick Cudicini though. Without his saves this would have been a wasted trip, as it is we go back to London with a point from a tricky away game. COYS.

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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To talk or not to talk, what was the question?

guest blog by Tricky

So here we are 2011, and yet 20 years ago seems like only yesterday, a day that I was working out how old I would be in the year 2000 and thinking that it was half a lifetime away. Those were the days when my naivety hadn’t quite had the sh*t kicked out of it, in order to be replaced by cynicism. Life was good, we’d been to the twin towers, beaten Forest in a cup final after a nervy extra time own goal. Even the fact that it was Gazza last cameo could not dent the joy to be had from being the FA cup holders once again.

That was 1991, and so the following year the single most important creation occurred; The English Premier League. We were promised bigger, better, faster and more powerful than you could possibly imagine football, a cascade of footballing frenzy, with successive matches each more significant than the last because each week ‘this one matters’.

Fast forward that 20 years and we find ourselves looking ever forwards in a perpetual cycle of pursuit of information, a day when news of events like 9/11 spread around the world like a virus within minutes of its happening.

And so now the 24/7 media frenzy that is set to ramp up as the season beckons has all fans clamouring for information, and the only thing happening for sure is the hit count at NewsNow is marching on as far as I can tell.

We seek out snippets and our ability to access information at the touch of a button has set an expectation, well beyond those heady days of picking up a newspaper and that was it for the day. I am fortunate to work from home a lot of the time, but the downside is that the ability to ‘refresh’ a media stream is all too easy, and the lack of updates in itself an exercise in futility. And yet I still do it, sucked in by the ability to access information, despite knowing full well that it is as likely to be a re-hash of last week’s news.

It’s almost as though I somehow crave the inevitable disappointment which has been so much of my history of supporting Spurs in some twisted perverse irony. And that in some way the recent ‘success’ at the club I adore, has found me lusting after mediocrity and ultimately at least some form of failure that doesn’t finish with ‘LOL’.

The irony being that this activity of seeking ‘news’ of any form, is in turn fuelled mostly by in the absence of information, a vacuum which is conveniently filled with ‘the big yellow tickers of conjecture’ (tm). SSN for their part provided a ‘service’ in the early days of ‘up to date’ information. Forgetting conveniently that in order to fulfil this service it required this mythical beast called ‘content’.

Clearly in a desperate scramble to fill this void (in order to boost viewing and therefore advertising revenue) they cottoned onto the idea of the ‘sound bite’, media reigned supreme once more, because a five minute interview meant a further 2 hours of programme ‘content’ with ‘analysis’.

The clubs for their part were complicit, because for them ‘brand’ was suddenly the goose that laid the golden egg, something that could be trading upon without really having to do anything, fans were no longer fans they were ‘revenue streams’. And so they in turn decided that allowing their manager to talk about the club was a way to promote the club itself, because the only thing worse than being talked about was not having a reporter stood outside your training ground, preferably with the club emblem prominent in the background.

In fact if you could squeeze a mascot in the shot somewhere to appeal to the next generation of 'revenue', partially through subconscious reinforcement of identity (and I'm sorry folks, but Chirpy is a keeper for that reason alone) and brand then that's a tick in the box for the PR folk once again.

This then escalated to a point where ex-managers/players opinions weren’t deemed up to date enough, and current manager and players were courted. With their views now even more important and worth of even greater over-analysis, and because each media stream can edit interviews, two different outlets can report completely contrasting views. Further allowing opposing sides of the same debate to linger on, polarising fans and opinions, when sometimes based purely on conjecture or ‘what might happen’.

So should our manager be allowed to provide the inevitable sound bite? After all there is good sport, and drinking games to be had, but the reality for me has become a parody. This blog, which covers a cross section of fans, exists (in part) as a result of the collective need for information.

And what about his writing for a newspaper? Well, if fans want information, what better way to get it than from the horse’s mouth?

Now I personally wouldn’t give any tabloid the satisfaction of actually buying a paper, not even for the purposes of cleaning out the cats litter tray (FYI, FT is the best for this as bigger sheets and better quality paper). 

Also, and this may seem like a crazy notion, I personally believe that a manager should manage, and shouldn’t have enough spare time to be writing the sort of guff ‘our ‘arry’ does, which is so heavily edited that it has all real content of any note taken out. And for me it is Levy’s job to dictate what work he can and can’t do, he writes the bloody employment contracts and surely £x million a year is more than enough income who describes current players wages as ‘obscene’.

Maybe then we wouldn’t have seen the last twelve months ‘charm offensive’ with opposing fans and the media in general by our erstwhile manager. Something Levy has to be partially to blame for a) not controlling his triffic manager and b) not employing a PR department that can provide information two days before every other media outlet has already announced it, released it and discussed it as opposed to two days after the event.

And then there is ‘Twitter’ a medium which has all its credibility gained by having Lord Stephen of Fry as its king, reduced to tatters by the ramblings of a man so stupid he couldn’t organise a p*ss in cup. I wonder at the way it is all evolving, and was slightly surprised to learn that Goon central's PR department thought it was a good idea to re-tweet all of the player’s posts on their official site!

Just imagine how dull and sanitised that will become, and don’t go thinking that our players would be any better (excepting of course perhaps VDV who, having never met a sane Dutchman in my life, I imagine is beyond ‘editing’).

So what becomes the point of Twitter? To engage with the fans? To make them feel ‘part of the club’ and closer to players? To fill that disconnect that we now feel when we look at these multi-millionaires? Or is it simply just another way of promoting ‘brand’?

You’d have to be one dumb (or naive) tw*t to suckle on that particular lactating mammary of a media stream, which probably explains why goon central have gone down that path.

Three wise men?

When all is said and done, we now find ourselves in a situation where ‘What is said’ now has as much weight as ‘what isn’t said’ and with a little editing what is said, in fact is completely out of context and now made to look like ‘someone somewhere might have alluded to something’. Sorting out the lies, from the edits, from the truths, from the opinions is half the battle, but then perhaps where most of the debate comes from. And I sure as hell don’t know what the answer is.

But then what is the alternative? Well, for many of us our memories may be short through years of self abuse, but a certain Mr Ramos and his performing Poyet springs to mind. And the ‘fans view’ back then ‘he doesn’t talk to the fans enough’ was quoted more often than not. Fickle? Us? Surely not...

For the record, I also crave information as much as the next person, acutely aware that I have become that ‘revenue stream’ whilst perversely also being able to bitch about it to anyone who cares to ignore me, or to tell me to GWTFP of STFU.

But what I really want, just for a few years at least whilst this frenzy continues, is a manager who didn’t have any other jobs and whose sole interest was being the next ‘Bill Nicholson’.  At least then it would give me something different to bitch about at least, when the only news available is that form the OS (which will of course still be 48 hours out of date).

Having said all that, do I really miss the ‘old days’? Well what do you think? I work from home a fair bit, with broadband and access to the largest portfolio of free porn that the world has ever seen.

But, I do wish that our manager would manage the team and that the press would deal with the media, then perhaps we could all get on with the, ‘ahem’, the, err, important things in our day.

-

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A case to change allegiances

A CASE TO CHANGE ALLEGIANCES
By (a somewhat frustrated) Forza Huddlestone

 
A mate here in Florida supports Fulham, which I've never quite understood and he's never listened to my pleas over the years outlining the futility of such a gesture. Fulham is not a team in the Premier League an American would obviously gravitate toward – for that, see Manchester United, Chelsea, Liverpool, etc. But then, Tottenham isn't a team that has that sort of allure, either.

Or it didn't when I started following them.

That was in the beleaguered last days of Glenn Hoddle, trying to make a team work with players such as Teddy Sheringham, Les Ferdinand and Gus Poyet on their last legs. Make a team work? In those not-so-halcyon days, just not being relegated was a minor feat. I watched my first game in the West Stand, saw Spurs beat West Brom 3-1, heard the Park Lane Stand singing their lungs out and fell in love.

In the time since then, Tottenham found ambition. Or perhaps rediscovered it. We qualified for Europe for the first time in an age, we fired a manager when he looked to be incapable of leading us to the Champions League, we won silverware (the Carling Cup, which to be fair, Birmingham captured this past year so it’s not anything more than a nicety), finished in the top four and finally qualified for the Champions League (where we played in famous glamorous stadia such as the San Siro and Bernabeau). Off the pitch, we shifted our attentions from the NDP across to East London and the OS. Our charming (to us, mostly) White Hart Lane simply isn’t big enough but Stratford will not be our destination with the club looking to make the project in N17 viable.

During this time, the prices of season tickets crept upward. Say this for our chairman, Daniel Levy – he knows how to make a buck (or pound, rather). He also knows we would pay that extra pound(s).

We were sold on the idea we were a big club. We finally broke the hold of the Sky Four and the bank account of Manchester City. Big things are ahead, they claimed, we claimed. Players will clamour to put on a Lilywhite shirt! Glory Glory!

That hasn't quite happened as we drop back into the chasing pack. But then Levy did warns us Champions League would not be a given every single season thanks to the renewed competitiveness of the Prem. But there were more personal reasons for our failure second time round.

The big-time striker never surfaced, whether Harry Redknapp felt we didn't need him, we never seriously tried to land one or we were just inept when the transfer market turned to high stakes. When Tottenham obviously (and desperately) needed a striker last January, Spurs tried to bring in non-striker David Beckham (failed), then in the final days of the window, reportedly threw around big-money bids for players that were never coming to White Hart Lane – Aguero, Rossi, Llorente and the likes.

Rafael Van Der Vaart was our consolation prize.

They say you can't win if you don't try, but...

The season ended with a fifth-place finish, a tiny bit of bitterness after the taste of Champions League ambrosia from the year before. The Europa League beckoned again. Luka Modric, the heart of much of what we do on the pitch, apparently decided he'd rather play for a real “big club.”

We're still no closer to that elusive striker, while trying to convince ourselves that Tottenham is a big club, while the price of my ticket in the East Stand creeps to the four-digit mark. We’re a big club in terms of support. But then one or two others could claim that also.

So my thoughts return to my Fulham-supporting mate. His reason for supporting them are less complicated than mine (his ex-wife's granddad supports them) and he wears his Cottager heart on his sleeve, bless him. (I've offered for years to pay for him to put PANTSIL 4 on the back of one of his shirts and he always refused.)

I have history at Fulham. I remember going to my first game at Craven Cottage and one of my pack sidled up to me as we walked with the supporters through Bishop's Park and said with a grin, “Be prepared to have your breath taken away…with underwhelmedness.” But what the hell, it's a better neighborhood than the N17 to be sure.

I saw the reserves play there when Ledley King was on his way back, after many of us had written him off with arthritic knees (some things will never change).

So why not support Fulham anyway? (Admittedly, I say this from the perspective of a Yank who comes over to see 2-3 games a year, not someone who was brought up watching Hoddle, Lineker and Gazza.) After sitting down and thinking about it, I decided to play around with the idea (not that swapping affiliations is something I’m serious about…but what if for the sake of argument...?).  

I found a few reasons that supporting the Cottagers could/would be appealing. No seriously, I did.

There is no illusion that's you'll ever be a big club.

In a 20-team league, how many “big clubs” can there be? Four, maybe five? This puts Fulham in a difficult spot to ever breathe such rarefied air. Even if they hit a purple patch where everything went right, they'd need to hope not only that one of the big boys stumbled, but that one of the chasing pack weren't prepared to catch them as Tottenham and City were the past two years. Sort of like the golfer in the middle of the pack who shoots a 65 on the final day of the Open – you need to hope that nobody in front of you plays well. In Fulham's terms, that pack includes Spurs, Liverpool and Everton – and at least two of them will be spending money to keep them close.

This is not to say there won't be big moments. Remember, Fulham are two years removed from a ‘European’ Cup final – one of five English teams to do so in this decade, whether Fulham's was a Mickey Mouse cup or not. And unlike Spurs, they do seem to be capable of beating Man United when the mood strikes.

But you wouldn't expect to see, say, Chelsea getting nervous over a trip to the Cottage. Or any other team in England, really.

On the other hand, if you don't have the expectations of being a big club, you won't be let down when you don't become one. Surely that's worth something.

Bluntly speaking, your games are in a better part of London.

You walk through a lovely, leafy park to go to Fulham games. To be polite, Tottenham is not a garden spot. Yes, the Chick King is a fixture, but could you see yourself going there on a day when there wasn't a match?

Fulham has the Thames to admire on a sunny day. Tottenham has pubs that are slightly seedy. As a community, it's a Premier League team away from being Hackney. The toughest thing about the area around Craven Cottage is the crush of supporters trying to make the train at Putney Bridge.

But then, Fulham actually does have an Underground station. Point Fulham.

Big Martin Jol is now managing Fulham.

You remember the big man, don't you? The lovable Dutchman that took Tottenham to European football for the first time in years, then was surplus to requirements when Levy's crack football mind decided he wasn't good enough to get us into the top four? (Where did we finish last season, by the way? Damn that Comolli).

You remember the big man squaring up to Wenger on the touchline, then saying afterwards, “He doesn't know how strong I am.” I've never been so proud to be a Yid.

He's now at Fulham. Judging by some comments on various message boards, he might get a bigger cheer than Harry Redknapp when the two teams meet at White Hart Lane next May. Assuming Redknapp is still at Tottenham, of course.

When has Fulham ever lost a tug-of-war over one of its own players?

These battles to keep players seems to occur with Tottenham every other year, at least. It's not as if Modric was the first. He follows a long distinguished line of players who have used Spurs as a training club before moving on to greener pastures. (Note to the more romantic of supporters: Skip to the next paragraph as the next few sentences will stir bitter memories.) Dimitar Berbatov. Robbie Keane. We couldn't even hang onto Stephen Carr, once upon a time. Since then, Carr has proven to be dogsh*t, but did we know that at the time?

(The “big club” Carr went to so he could win trophies? Newcastle United, speaking of dogsh*t. No offence.)

Notice how you don't see Ferguson bigging up Bobby Zamora the week of the Fulham match, talking about how lovely he'd look in a United shirt. Or Roman Abramovich having Clint Dempsey on his yacht for a few cocktails. Or Jonathan Greening telling the press how Levy promised he would let him go to a big club if an offer ever came in. Yes, they're not up to so-called Tottenham standards, but you know they're going to be there next year.

Who was the last player Fulham lost*? Louis Saha? How many teams has Saha played for since then?

*Yes, okay, Smalling. But that doesn’t fit into the standard template akin to the one at Spurs re: losing players.

Lastly, season tickets are half the price of Tottenham's.

Of course, this doesn't mean as much as it should because Tottenham season tickets generally aren't available unless you already have one. According to seasonticketwaitinglist.com (which might be as useful as redtube.com, you never know), the paid waiting list for a season ticket at Tottenham is more than 30,000 strong. In other words, you could fit the entire waiting list in Craven Cottage and still have about 5,000 left over.

On the other hand, you can get a season ticket at Fulham for as little as ₤379. Or ₤415 will get you a seat in the Hammersmith End, where you can “enjoy the fantastic atmosphere created by the Fulham faithful.” (Insert snarky comment here.)

Say what you want, but ₤415 will only get you halfway to a Spurs season ticket, if that. But then, Spurs season tickets aren't widely available, and the waiting list means Levy and Co. don't really give a toss if you renew anyway. That new stadium so imperative to so many waiting patiently in the wings.

Of course, the natural reaction is to say, “Football isn't about money.” Sort of like Levy tells prospective transfer targets during the window, just before, “Yeah, but we won the double in 1961. Isn't that marvelous?”

Football's not about money? Try telling that to Chelsea or Manchester City. I'm not saying you have to like it, but it's as much a part of the game as Jermain Defoe getting caught offside is.

Having said all this, I'm not sure I have it in me to chuck in my Spurs season 'ticket' card and support Fulham. We (Yanks) are not all akin to Bill Simmons, swapping teams like an American football franchise swaps states. I couldn't possibly look elsewhere. Would doing so mean that I had to disavow the memory of a 5-1 victory over Arsenal at the Lane or the lasting memory of watching Edgar Davids score his only Spurs goal at Wigan? Or even Woodgate's game-winner in the Carling Cup against Chelsea?

Well, no. Memories are forever. Great moments are great moments. They stay with you. Whether you stay with a club is another story. And paying Champions League money for a team that balks at going after Champions League talent might make me think twice.

Besides, I still have a shirt or two bearing Jol's likeness. I wouldn't mind wearing them again. And their  colours aren't that dissimilar to Spurs, at least when they don't have a red away shirt.

On the downside, I would be watching home games – I shuddered just now typing that – at a ground featuring a statue not of a great player in its history (Fulham does have one of those, right?), but of Michael Jackson.

That's probably the point sending me back to N17. And feeling just a little bit like a sucker in doing so.

But hand on heart…all that emotion, anger, disappointment, déjà vu, the head shaking and the air punching I get watching Spurs, the perpetual ‘almost’ team…is what makes supporting them so impossible not to. I’d rather take the pain with the pockets of glory than sitting by the river.

The quiet life is not for me.

Forza Huddlestone has been a season-ticket holder at Tottenham Hotspur since 2006.

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.