I love Martin Jol, I like Harry Redknapp

There was something rather special about Martin Jol and the relationship we shared with him. It was a two-way thing. He loved us as much as we loved him. Although he never broke out in song and serenaded the Park Lane he did take to the mic on one occasion to thank us all for the support. Poor bastard even thanked Daniel Levy on that day.

He’s the dad you had in that parallel universe you often dreamt about where you're half Dutch. He understood how to make a connection with the supporters without any of it appearing contrived. His personality was so infectious that for the first time in an absolute age Spurs would get decent press from the journos. Perhaps they were scared of a Jol bear-crush hug, but regardless we all lapped it up. He was sincere, jovial and yet commanded a presence strong enough to inspire team spirit and unity. Football was good too. His soundbites were also pretty decent. English cup of tea, anyone?

We all know how it ended. The Director of Football system corrupted and soured and destroyed, leaving Jol checking his text messages whilst sitting in the dugout mid-game to discover he was going to be sacked. At the time there was genuine guilt felt by myself. Not that I was taking responsibility for anything the chairman and the DoF were cooking up. Rather the fact that it was inevitable it would lead to this. The Berbatov saga and the overly ambitious agenda to step up a further level undermined him and although we don’t truly know what happens behind closed doors, the script had been written months earlier and everyone just went through the motions. The football suffered. Whether it was because of the problems behind the scenes or because Jol had reached the end of the road, we wont ever know. Bit of both perhaps.

I felt guilty because I struggled with the latter. I felt the end of the road had been reached.

The question marks surrounded our inability to compete with the Top Four clubs at the time in games against them. As much as I’d have loved to have found out if he had it in him to build on 2006 he had not a chance in hell to do so because of the interference. Club obviously believing a transitional season was too much of a risk and a better quality appointment was required (the irony, I know). Stories of him interviewing/inquiring about the Newcastle job didn't help either.

Since he’s left he’s not been outstanding in his other jobs, enough to perhaps answer some of the questions (I) we had. But life doesn’t work on such comparisons. Had he stayed, had he the support of the board, chairman and DoF then he might have found that extra spark we required. Instead, it went pear-shaped as we are accustomed and conditioned too. Ramos won us a cup (which I’m forever grateful for) but language and headaches relating to over-complicated selection and tactics left us with...a certain quota of points from a series of games played.

It’s sad because Jol was a fantastic bloke. What he did do is set the foundations for hope that there was a chance of breaking into the Top Four. Give him credit, at the time it was a far more difficult challenge to achieve. The Ramos dip proved to be the shortest of transitional seasons and we all know what happened in the aftermath (some back to basics reconstruction work to make us look pretty again).

There will always be an argument that Jol’s personality masks his weaknesses. The fact we took him into our hearts with such comparative ease made it difficult when he was eventually sacked because deep down it was the only conclusion to a sorry mess. But if you think back, quite a few of us quietly hoped for change. A most uncomfortable sacrifice.

Another argument is that there is nothing to suggest you need to necessarily like your manager. Jose Mourinho has a certain manner about the way he works. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea but you’d hardly complain if he was your gaffer if he won you silverware but you might still do because his media siege mentality irks you. Jol managed to give us the two things that matter most: Pride and good football without the necessity of self-serving his own agendas.

That isn’t a dig at Harry Redknapp but parallels are always made between the two. Their game to game record is quite similar, but you can’t compare two different states of play (in terms of where football currently sits and where it sat when Jol was last with us).

The reality is; the past is the past and the future looks bright with Harry leading the way. Personally, if Redknapp wasn’t so mediacentric we’d probably not complain too much about him (don’t ignore the fact that Jol was susceptible to tactically questions and scratches of the head many a time during his tenure). Harry’s achievements are aided both by the squad we possess and the collapse of the monopoly’s overpowering dominance – but kudos to his man-management and he deserves credit. His associations with other clubs and his single-mindedness to look after number one actually rubs off on the club in a good way on the pitch as he knows the better he does the better the Redknapp brand looks. I’d rather he didn’t pretend to be one of us if he doesn’t truly feel affiliated and continue being a custodian of team affairs as we cement stability in the top tier.

Jol gave it a right old go and I'll be forever grateful for that. Redknapp did something very few expected and continues to prove many of us wrong. Its the state the club is left in when he leaves that will allow him to secure a legacy in our history regardless of whether his personality is not our cup of tea.

I’ll let you decide if Jol could achieve similar success with the current squad we have. But then it doesn't matter what you theorise, Harry is in charge now even if Harry doesn't have many songs sang for him.

So thanks Martin. My only regret is that you didn’t push Wenger to the floor when you squared up to him. Although that would have been a little bit like a Polar Bear fighting an Ostrich.

Thank you Harry. Might not agree with certain elements of how you handle team affairs and not a fan of your media work (yes, we're popular with the journos) and your them and me word plays, but you've got to take the good with the bad and thus far the good out weighs the bad.

COYS.

Love the shirt.

My eyes see no glory

guest blog by Chris King

My eyes are closed.

All I have is darkness. The black of darkness illuminated only by memories; of a time when peace existed in this land. It was a land where fan stood together with fellow fan, each with the same song in voice and heart. Each with a dream they held true.

My eyes are closed.

All I can hear is the noise of unrest; the incessant din of anger and hatred. We are in a battle with ourselves. No longer do we cherish those same dreams. No longer do we sing from the same hymn sheet. We are now heading in different directions, with tears and bitterness the only likely outcome.

My eyes are closed.

Open them he says. Open them and see the majesty of our plans; the glory those plans will bring. Our time here is up. The future is elsewhere. This land is dying. If we stay here, we will also die. He extends his hand. Come with me. Let me lead you to the Promised Land. We will set up home on yonder plains. This is our destiny.

My eyes are open.

But still I cannot see. I cannot see the truth. I cannot see the shared vision. I cannot see the future in exactly the same way others do. Oh eyes, poor misguided eyes. Give me the clarity this issue calls for. Give me the chance to soar high in to the sky – to look upon the dying soil, that very Promised Land and see. See for myself why this is the only option left to us.

My eyes are closed. Only my heart can see.

When it’s hard to be objective, it is always easier to be dramatic. That’s what a lot of people will be accusing Spurs fans of in the coming months; being overly dramatic. Yes we do like a moan and our board does like to install an element of drama in to our lives. But this drama is not ours. This drama need never have started in the first place.

If London hadn’t have won the Olympics, we would not be at this stage in our club’s history. If those who had organised the bid had nailed down a definite plan moving forward, from the point Boris stumbles on stage and drops the Olympic torch at the feet of the delegates from Rio, we would not be at this monumental precipice, which is forcing supporter against supporter; tearing the fabric of our beloved club apart.

I hear and read different views on a near hourly basis at the moment. ‘SAY NO TO STRATFORD’ reverberates around the stadium, outside on the streets, on WebPages and through a multitude of twitter timelines. Those who shout or type with venom and anger, do so with an unwavering passion. They know not what the answer to this mess is. All they know is that the final outcome has to rest with their club, our club, your club still residing in N17. To some this battle is just about a postcode. To others, it is all about the postcode.

Yet their actions don’t hold true with everyone. “It’s all right for them, they have a ticket… they can moan about leaving, but leaving would mean I may also get a ticket.” For the dissenters, history is unbending – we are Tottenham, we have to stay Tottenham. For the, shall we call them free thinkers or liberal minded supporter, a football club is more than just its history – it is its future as well. Mr Levy now claims we have no future in Tottenham. The NPD is dead in the water, as will the club be if we fail to secure the Stratford move.

Clearly this argument can be countered, and has been in this open letter from Martin Cloake.

The sermon appears to have changed and some, not all, are buying in to the new faith. It is a faith that appears to rely on the highest bidder taking some kind of control over the future of the club. A future existence that may rely as much on concert ticket sales as goals scored on the pitch.

My heart has been blinded.

A good friend of mine doesn’t want to move, yet he is far more objective on the subject than I am. His view is that the soil is no longer fertile. That the land is dying. Football is more than just 90 minutes of watching over paid, often underachieving stars. It is as much about what goes on between fellow supporters; before, during and after the game. We are all sold the view that the atmosphere is far better away from the Lane, but it’s surely made worse by the fact that our patch is being eroded, killing the pre- and post- game enjoyment associated with a trip to the match. 

Think of the number of pubs that have come and gone, even since the start of the Premier League.

The Cockerel, The Corner Pin, The White Hart and Northumberland Arms. It’s like a roll call of fallen soldiers. All gone, replaced by expanded merchandise outlets or blocks of flats. A last game ritual for him was to finish the season off with a pub crawl along the High Road; a pint in 12 pubs. That last happened three years ago. Now there are simply not enough pubs. Instead they drink in Liverpool Street and dive in and out, spending just enough time in N17 to watch the match, before heading somewhere else for their fill of beer, stories and football songs.

If that picture mirrors your very own, then what difference does it make where you go to see the game? The pubs around Stratford will be no better, but at least – and this is Mr Levy’s argument, we’ll be able to leave our meeting points later with no fear of getting to the ground.

My heart is closed.

He may have a point, the mate that is – not Mr Levy – but I don’t buy it. I’m blinded by passion, by familiarity, by a need to remain true to our history. Clubs have moved in the past. We all know about Arsenal and nomadic teams like QPR, but that was in a time before I was born; before football was the beast it now is. I can’t think of any club that has proposed such a dramatic move (other than when Wimbledon threatened to go to Dublin), where they’ve adopted the almost American like franchise model. Putting pressure on their local council before moving to another, more welcoming venue – do they even want us in Stratford?

A lot will be said until a final decision has been made by The Olympic Park Legacy Company. Mr Levy will claim, in cloaked daggers aimed at the heart, that those who do not follow the exodus are putting the future of the club in jeopardy. He will wipe the slate clean, go back on every highfaluting statement he ever made about NPD and use us, the fans, as pawns in his battle against the local council and the decision makers.

Some of us will be made out as bad guys in this; accused of fighting an unnecessary fight. They will say that we will bring the honour and heritage of the club down with our protests. They will mock us – as they do Liverpool and Manchester United fans that stand up for their own causes.  They are the very people who wear the same replica shirts, sing the same songs and once shared the same dreams. The club is split and it’s hard to see where the winners will come from in this argument.

But there will be winners. More fans will get access to tickets; more revenue will be made by the club if we fill a 60,000 stadium out. Bigger, better stars may be attracted to the club, bringing bigger riches with them. In 20 or 30 years time, a new legion of fans may wonder what the fuss was all about. Why we even cared that we were leaving our home, when you consider the better home that we may move to. It just doesn’t have to be in Stratford!

Yet all of that, the future, rests with a body of people charged with making a single decision that could throw the club in to turmoil either way. Move to Stratford and Mr Levy alienates a body of supporters that will turn every public outing in to a protest. Lose the Stratford bid and there is nothing. No NPD, no Plan B (Stratford) and apparently no Plan C - and definitely no answers as to why NPD is no longer viable?

This whole internal battle appears to hinge on one thing – are you for the future or stuck in the past? You can’t be for both. We all know we have to move. To move, not just to challenge for the top honours, but to potentially compete just to exist, as money strangles the life further out of the beautiful game. Our argument is not to stay in the current stadium; it is a simple request for clarity and honesty. Something we feel our loyalty as fans at least deserves. Misguided? Very much so!

The battle lines have been drawn – are you with us or are you against us? Say no to Stratford.

Say no to Stratford – but then, do we really have a say?

Chris King was 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 20 month old daughter the words to Spurs’ songs.



Tottenham till I die - reprise

Off the back of tehTrunk's article about the club, N17 and Stratford causing one or two ripples of fragmented opinion within the Lilywhite fanbase, someone reminded me of a prior blog that asked the simple question 'How did you come to support Tottenham?'.

That article and the comments shared is drenched in the type of nostalgia and history that a number of us wish to remain anchored to. We're a bit soft like that. So here's the article again, to hopefully stir up one or two new stories.

Original article and comments posted can be found here. Comments are really worth looking at.

Ta.

-

A question was posed on a forum asking why you support who you support. Not highly original, I know, but it's always interesting to delve into the responses to see how other peoples allegiances were birthed.

Your answer ought to be geographically influenced, but commonly it's down to immediate family and on occasions, if you are devoid of having a dad (or mum) or siblings who are interested in the beautiful game you just pick whomever is top of the league. Which is why when I was a young lad everyone in London seemed to support Liverpool*.

*Two minutes silence for their current plight please people. Two minutes.

Of course, not everyone glory-hunts. And many live abroad and simply fall in love with the history or traditions of a club in another country, based on a game they've witnessed or a book they've read or the majesty of a shirt. I appreciate that not everyone is pre-selected.

I had the privilege (curse) of having a family of Spurs supporters around me. I was also born in Tottenham. Well actually, no I wasn't. A hospital on Tottenham Court Road. Well, actually the hospital was just a brisk walk from Tottenham Court Road. Nowhere near N17, but that's just a  technicality. Tottenham Court Road, right? COYS.

My grandfather (God rest his soul) was a keen follower and frequenter of White Hart Lane during the 50's and 60's and my uncle, a fanatic during the 70's hardly missed a game. The latter, the one who influenced me and guided me into the light that is Lilywhite.

No rebellious I want to support someone else or I like their badge so I'm going to choose this lot instead - which wasn't uncommon, again, with people who had no given affiliations to a club when they were old enough to understand and make their selection. A successful team, usually defeating the local team as the winning option if they wished to fast-track themselves to the top tier. But plenty followed their hearts instead.

How some families managed to be split down the middle between two clubs always fascinated me. It's fragmentation that can never be resolved. My dad supports Spurs. My brother. My sister. My uncle's kids. We have no split. I did celebrate Trevor Brookings goal in the 1980 Cup final by running outside into the garden and attempting to head the ball into an imaginary net but that isn't confliction, it's a natural reaction. An acceptable lapse. A Newcastle supporting father and a Sunderland supporting son a story I remember hearing about. They hardly spoke, always fought. Football before family, always.

Reminds me of a bloke who stood in front of me in one of the East stand turnstiles back in the very early 90's. 1991 season I reckon, home to the scum. 0-0. Gooners waving their wallets at us from the Park Lane. Gazza almost scoring an own goal as I stood in the corner of the Shelf side in those cracking days of terraces. So this bloke in the queue had a Spurs and Arsenal badge on his jumper. A ridiculous paradox.

"I support both", he stated proudly.

The steward looked at me and I just blankly stared back. If you support two clubs, two rival clubs, then you've not quite grasped the concept, have you? It's like people who ask the question: Who's you favourite team? There is no place for favourite team in football. If you do it properly, you don't have a favourite team. You just have the one. A relationship for life. No break-up. Plenty of heartaches and headaches, and the two of you are together until your very last breath.

'Yeah, so, I really love Man U but I dig Real Madrid in their all white kit and also adore Wolves because they got a cool name. So Utd are my best, Madrid my second bestest and Wolves my third bestestest. If any of them play each other, I'd like a draw'

If you ever met someone who stated a resemblance of the above, I wouldn't look down on you if you smothered and buried him in a shallow grave in Epping forest. Favourite? There's no room for favouritism. Following the results of your local side, if you perhaps don't actually support your local side isn't betrayal. There are no affairs and no two-timing. 100% unequivocal commitment. You love your team, but you can have a soft spot for your local side. Bit like some Spurs fans I know who watch Barnet or Orient. They don't 'love' Barnet. They would practically (heavily metaphorically) die for Spurs.

However, every now and again we do get some Sol Campbells amongst us. Ooh.

My brother-in-law knew someone who, after a depressing Saturday at the Lane in a depressing season (I guess the mid-90's), and partly thanks to some peer-pressure from outside his group of friends, 'quit' supporting Spurs and not long after ended up an Arsenal fan. Quitting because your team lost? Spare a thought for supporters of clubs who never climb out of the lower tier divisions. The spirit of Benedict Arnold lives on with some.

I knew someone a few years back, a Hammers fan, who revealed he was a Spurs fan when he was a teenager but ended up following the Irons because his group of mates got involved with the ICF and he was more interested in the friendships and fighting than the football. It was, to him, more about being part of a group. A hooligan rather than standing on his own every Saturday at 3pm. Each to their own I guess.

My personal favourite (I'm using that word here because it's in context) has to be the story about these two blokes (in Leyton at the time), one of whom was completely disinterested in football and the other a West Ham fan. They both lusted after this one girl who was an Arsenal supporter. And both of them became gooners as a consequence to win her over. They both actually dated her, one after the other (she went out with one, dumped him then went out with the other one). The two blokes even had a punch up at one point outside the local pub. Heated stuff. The bloke who supported West Ham and defected for the sake of having her thighs wrapped round his back, paraded himself  in a JVC shirt often without shame.

It's a bit like sh**ting yourself in public whilst wearing white trousers. You will never live it down. Nobody will forget the humiliation. The white trousers are bad enough, but the diarrhoea? It will define you forever. How could anyone look you in the eyes and take you seriously after something like that? You would automatically lose all credibility. For life. A few years later I spotted him back in a West Ham shirt. Pathetic.

You simply cannot disdain the fabric of football and the lack of its complexities relating to allegiances. It's quite simple. You choose your team and are bound to them for life. No get out clause. That's it.

As for me, I have an almost five (edit: almost eight now) month old baby daughter (I've managed to part name her after our beloved club - work it out yourselves) so getting her to follow the Spurs might be a difficult task if her mother pampers her with shopping trips, Jimmy Choos and Gucci handbags when she's old enough to succumb to the frivolous vanity driven past-times of womanhood. However, there is hope. When she was just two months old, she projectile vomited when Cesc Fabregas appeared on the tv during a Sky Sports News report. There's hope for my THFC family bloodline yet.

TTID.