Dear Mr Levy...Job well done?

The Tapestry - Part I

Dear Mr Levy,

Man City at the Lane tomorrow, and then that's your lot. Other than the minor visit to Anfield the following week we can finally say goodbye to another travesty of a season.

I'm being a little too harsh, aren't I? It's not quite been a travesty, though arguably, digging up the body of Stan Laurel, reanimating him and then placing him in charge of first team affairs would have been significantly better and more productive than placing your hopes on Juande Ramos to get his selection and tactics spot on.

Harry Redknapp's arrival and subsequent Houdini act is not as tricky a task as he would like us all to believe. It wasn't even a masterstroke appointment from your good self was it? Harry was the only real candidate as another continental coach was never going to be an option after the Ramos debacle and there was no obvious ex-legend to come and do the job (and that's never actually worked before). Had to be an English manager. Had to be someone who could hit the ground running. Had to be a back to basics appointment. Had to be Redknapp.

Director of football. Ironic that this is the sole reason behind the failure to build on two 5th spot finishes. Not that we ever looked likely to finish 4th in the second season thanks to the fact that we never quite replaced Carrick. The DoF was responsible for the sudden urgency to replace Jol with a more experienced coach to further elevate us towards the Top 4. And yet why, after so many barren years, did we have to suddenly get ahead of ourselves when it was obvious our 'success' in those two seasons had a lot to do with the fact that Arsenal had suffered a slight blip which saw us sit in fourth spot for four months. Comolli decided Jol could not take us any further. Added to the mix, was the mess that Dimitar Berbatov was making, requesting a transfer a season into his contract. Disruptive player, disruptive board room. Jol had no chance to continue on his learning curve. Because you and the board deemed that patience was no longer a virtue. And that was that. The rest is history which ended with two points from eight games. That’s two league points from eight Prem games. II from VIII. 2 from 8. Two points from a possible twenty four points from eight games, meaning not a single win from opening said eight games. Two from eight. 2 -8, 2-8, 2-8, 2-8, 2-8, 2-8.

Two from eight.

Step in everyone's favourite escapologist and let the re-birth begin. Which it did. And apart from the odd stutter away from home, it's been a dizzying climb to within touching distance of 7th spot including a stunning home record (just nine goals conceded all season). All this from certain relegation, as believed by many during those early season months anchored to the mire, which saw our only victory come away to Walthamstow (a 3-1 win).

Modric has been a resounding success, adapting to the English game after a new lease of life from Harry, sticking him out on the left and allowing him to float inwards to dictate play. Lennon has reclaimed past form and is beginning to add a little end product to his game. And Palacios was an inspired signing. A player that this club has lacked for several years. So kudos to Comolli for Luka, one of very few bright moments that the Frenchman gave us. In fact, kudos to Harry and the players for stepping it up and taking responsibility, leaving relegation behind for others to worry about. Kudos to you (yes to you Mr Chairman) for the re-development plans of White Hart Lane. Although I'll take some of that back if you end up selling the naming rights for the new ground to Nintendo with Mario looking down at me from the east, standing on a ball in place of the cockerel, as I take my seat in the Cookie Mountain stand. Although I'm quite partial to having Donkey Kong replace Chirpy.

But this is not a letter of commendation. I'm not here to pat you on the back. I'm here to keep you on your toes so that you aim to excel. Because there is plenty to be critical of and plenty of mistakes made that must not be repeated. And one or two other curious hiccups that require a sharp cold glass of water.

2 from 8.

I'm here to mull over the tapestry of naivety that plights your governance of the Lilywhites. I decided to write to you after I watched you have breakfast in your home. You seem to be a little too relaxed for my liking. Walking around in a robe and slippers watching Desperate Housewives. Man up for God's sake and watch The Wire. You have to be ruthless and perceptive at all times, and not allow yourself to display signs of weakness. That's why I'm here. I'll do what I can do help you. But, the games out there, and it's play or get played. That simple.

There's a lot I can see from the shrubbery in your garden with a Bushnell Elite 8x43. It's got 90% light transmission with premium BaK-4 roof prisms with a majestic PC-3® phase coating producing outstanding image clarity and contrast. I can see you bite into your Crunchy Nuts and thanks to the voice-activated credit card transmitter carefully hidden in your kitchen, I can also hear every word spoken and every egg cracked and solider dipped. By the way, please refrain from singing Kelly Clarkson songs whilst washing up. It's wrong. You look like a slightly melon collie Dr Evil drowning a screeching cat.


So, onto the tapestry. Let's begin our journey...


TO BE CONTINUED IN PART II

The 'tapestry' will cover the following topics:

• The Aftermath of the Berbatov Saga
• David Bentley
• Jenas
• Re-signing ex-players
• The Opus
• Harry Redknapp
• The Summer Transfer Window

Stay tuned.

Tales of the Unexpected

So there I was, effigy in hand, in Daniel Levy’s basement.

How did I get there? Let’s just say it involved snorkels, eye-goggles and a faeces filled sewage pipeline. Was just about worth dating the rather mature lady from the Drainage and Irrigation department to get my hands on the underground layout. Only way in now that there's improved security on the ground level. The less said about swimming in shit the better. And don’t even ask about the night in the Holiday Inn with the irrigation lady. I couldn't sit down for three days after that little exploit.

The effigy remained undamaged, wrapped in air-tight plastic. Very proud of this creation. It’s the head of a Damien Comolli. It’s not the actual head of Comolli. That would be first degree murder. Its simply a very well done effigy of the Frenchman's boat race, eyes screaming ‘no’, neck ravaged, all very arty. The plan was simplicity. Enter the Levy Mansion via the basement and place the Comolli effigy on the bed of Daniel Levy. His wife will be in the gym, while Levy has an extra hour or two, probably enjoying a lucid dream where he is revered and worshipped by all. When he awakes, he sees Comolli’s detached head and understands the message after wetting the bed. The Director of Football hierarchy does not work.

Although I did not get the go-ahead from Martin Jol directly, I know in spirit, he approves of this evasive action. Unfortunately, there was no way out of the basement and into his home. My plan was fruitless. The steel door at the top of the basement stairs appeared to be triple-locked. The basement itself looked like it had hardly been used in sometime. Darkly lit, dusty and not what I expected from a millionaire chairman. I was thinking pool table, jukebox and possibly a tv. Not here.

There was a stack of old Mayfair magazines in one corner and a few hundred VHS tapes in the other. Old toys and bikes along with countless boxes made up the rest of this mundane underbelly of Levy’s crib.

Within all the tattered boxes was a crate. Very nondescript, but its wooden exterior made it stand out from all the cardboard, making me open it. It almost called out to me. Curiosity, I suppose. I was aghast with what I found. I momentarily blacked out, managing to avoid collapsing to the ground. I could taste puke in my mouth. The crate was positively rammed with Arsenal FC memorabilia. Old programmes, magazines, mugs, posters, scarfs and dozens of replica shirts ranging all the way back to the 1970’s. It was a sea of red and white. My throat ceased, I couldn’t scream out my pain. Suddenly, breathing in the fumes of shit in the sewer was a far more pleasant alternative than casting my eyes on this hell-in-a-box.

I closed the crate shut. Then kneeled down and stuck two-fingers down my throat. Several gag throw-ups later, I wiped away the tears and stood up feeling much better, all things considering.

I’ve seen some things in my life. I remember this one time, in a pub in Chingford, this bird (Emma Jenkins was her name) was there in the tightest white all-in-one body suit you’ve ever seen. Fit as anything you would wish to break your wrist over in the comfort of your own home. Maybe it was food poisoning or maybe too much drink, but she proceeded to shit herself a brown waterfall so sick that several other people started gagging with one poor soul slipping on the crap that had now covered her surrounding area. It was horrid. She stood there panic-stricken. Much like how I felt standing in Levy’s basement.

Our chairman has this darkest of secrets hidden, lost in time, in his basement.

I decided at this point it was time to leave, with effigy in hand. I could always Parcel Force it. I did however salvage the original Chirpy mascot outfit which sat in some black bins. Although I had no use for the ball-gag, handcuffs and anal-plug that Chirpy was wearing.

As I swam my escape route through the chocolate river of waste, only one thing bounced around my head. I truly am fighting the anti-cockerel. Daniel Levy is evil in its purist form.

And now I understand everything. Its crystal clear. Unlike the shit that leaked through my goggles on the way out.

I am In The Know

So, there I am. Downstairs in the living room. Considering pouring myself a glass of port (but not doing so) and looking around for any mislaid documentation or a blackberry (no such luck). Showers running upstairs, and I can hear singing. Now, I’m no Jason Bourne or James Bond. But I have certain skills and abilities that allow me to, let’s say, find a way in when I’m uninvited. And this blog entry (devoid of any actual circumstantial facts) would be inadmissible in a court of law. Just a deluded fantasy of an obsessed fan, your honour.

But even though I spent just 5 minutes before departing into the night, I took with me two rather glorious tips that would suggest that two new signings are in the offing. On Sky+, Derby v WBA is set to be recorded. And as for the singing in the shower? Do do do…..

That’s right. There’s no need to hang around the Lodge up a tree or rely on a tea-lady that might have heard something in the corridor while taking tea and biscuits to a board meeting. No sir. This is nailed on.

Giles Barnes and Nigel Reo-Coker are done deals. Literally, from the horses mouth and his programme planner.

And if you’re curious, he has a subscription to Television X.