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Entries in international break (20)


What's going on?

I’m in one of those places at the moment. Much like Dexter Morgan (in the hit US tv show ‘Dexter’) has a dark passenger that lusts for blood (he’s a serial killer, but a good one, he only kills people that deserve it like...other serial killers) I also have dark thoughts. Mostly about ordering a kebab at 11pm or attempting to induce lucid dreams that consist of me scoring last minute winners away to the scum then diving into the stands to ‘sort ‘em out’. Although I could be more like Dexter. Kill other bloggers. Alas, never red, so lusting for blood is a step too far. Click whores, you're safe for now.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, it’s international break time and I am suffering from a creative lull. There’s not that much going on to be fair. Here's some snippets of things that might muster up a discussion or two.



Might as well. I tuned in with 30 minutes gone, caught the goals, sort of half watch the second half. Was all very mediocre but that extra bit of quality allowing us to comfortably pick off San Marino. To be honest, I found myself watching more of the Wales v Scotland game. Football irony in your face with Gareth Bale’s winner, leaving Adams in his wake as he finished brilliantly to add to a dubious penalty which saw him win the spot kick by tripping himself up in the area. It was against the Scottish so allow it. Defoe sat on the bench (from what I saw) and Walker and Lennon didn't pick up injuries. Good enough for me. Elsewhere, three of the back four (Smith, Caulker, Rose) of the England U21 side were Spurs. Some of that.


Manager of the Month award

So Andre Villas-Boas had the better record than winner David Moyes? Who has the better beard and why isn’t a monthly award given out for that instead? Talking of which, I’m sporting hobo chic at the moment. I look rough and I like it. The fact I’m even talking about my irreverent fashion sense pretty much tells you everything you need to know about my opinion on the Manager of the Month award.



The Olympic Stadium and Tottenham. It’s like stepping in dog **** and no matter how hard you try to wash it out you swear you can still smell the stink. Britain, gold medals, glorious scenes aside...back in the real world if we had to play away from the Lane for even half a season, would rather Wembley than a structure not purpose built for the sport our team actually plays. Hopefully the original plan (of playing at the Lane with building work on-going) sees fruition. Unless the OS has purpose built caravans shifted onto the running track to double up as executive boxes for corporate hospitality. That’ll work.



Win against Villa. Noel Gallagher. Diving. Walker. How to get out of doing something with your missus and going to Tottenham instead. Midfield beasts. Cannibalism. And trikes. Click here for it.



Hello. Remember me?

It's been a fair few days since I last blogged. I've spent past International Breaks drafting and crafting articles to amuse and entertain whilst waiting to welcome back Spurs. Can't say I've been that inspired this past week. Less so for the sake of keeping up appearances. I apologise for that. It's not like there hasn't been any worthy points of discussion.


Spurs spy

The whole Olympic Stadium debacle can be summed up as follows:

"We're going to hide our bullshit by covering it up with your bullshit"

"That's what we're going to do"

That's basically it. Since when has anything not been susceptible to corruption? 14-0 suggests something in the bidding process was shady, not that I'm complaining personally being pro-NDP. Politics and business, dirty tricks and deflections...are we shocked? End of the day, we're not moving to East London and Gold and Sullivan are going to remain despondent (running track) even if Brady continues to churn out propaganda about 60k+ West Ham fans turning up at Stratford.

Whether Levy took it too far or not remains to be seen.


Boris ITK

A regular of Glory Glory dot co dot uk had a conversation with Boris Johnson. He shared the main discussion points on the forum, with photograph included. No cryptics. Spurs annual report out soon so we might see an update on where the NDP stands with the government. The main jist of the ITK:

An offer of £7.5m has been tabled to Tottenham Hotspur, from the Mayors office to help with regenerating the area and jobs if they stay in the area.
A new station will be built in close proximity to help with congestion.
Daniel Levy is being very stubborn apparently!

Not sure about that figure quoted (hence stubborn chairman I guess) but would dearly hope and pray the new station becomes a reality.

N17 > the sheer volume of people in and around Stratford station on a weekend



Did you manage to catch the Paul Gascoigne interview? Ignoring the host, I tuned in regardless. Gazza was the player I idolised when growing up. Even before he signed for us, I was a tad obsessed. Powerful, mesmerising and a genuine personality back when football was football, before it started to self-mutilate. You can cite sadness and tragedy and pity but I prefer to remember his time at Spurs and 1991 in particular when he practically dragged us screaming (with joy) to Wembley before self-imploding on his second visit. He hasn't had a drink for a while, hope he never has one again. Fake breasts practical jokes aside, they don't make footballers like him any more.

I love you Paul.



Discussed this on Twitter, I just don't get that emotive kick out of watching England any more. It's not that I'm not patriotic or not proud, just there's a lack of spark and no excitement when we take to the field. Other than perhaps crossing fingers that Scott Parker doesn't get injured. Italia '90; every time I see flashbacks to it, hairs stand on the back of my neck. Euro '96 too. I don't know, perhaps modern football has left me a little disillusioned thanks to my dislike of so many of our untouchable internationals. There is so much wrong with the whole England set-up from grass roots to the FA and the media that I have some how managed to marginalise myself.

The media have always built us up to knock us down and perhaps as underdogs we'll perform better (England Expects no more) but there's a sense that club football has surpassed national aspirations. For me at least. Once upon a time had you asked me 'World Cup or Spurs title win?' - I would have struggled to answer it. I probably need to go away and think about this in more detail because I know it seems like I'm abandoning my country but I'm not doing so because we're 'not that great' or always under-achieve. I'm seasoned at disappointment, considering what the 1990s were made of supporting Spurs. Even under Graham and the pre-Jol 'era' before Martin rebooted us, I never considered turning my back on my club.

Why have I allowed myself to turn my back ever so slightly on my country?


Death and taxes

Jan trial for Harry. No surprise there. Either they're p*ssing in the wind or have more than enough evidence to make an example out of him. Will be embarrassing (considering how high profile Redknapp is) for the HMRC to go to court only to see the case thrown out or found in favour of England's next manager©. Harry has always been confident, laughing it off. Bravado I'm sure. Fact is, I can't influence or change anything relating to this court case and anyone associated with the club (manager, coach, player, whatever) are simply custodians of the shirt I adore. Daniel Levy appointed him and it has worked a treat. We have stability and we have swagger. Regardless of what happens (he could be found innocent of any wrong-doing, he could be found guilty, he could be found guilty and be sentenced, etc) and whether he is with us next season or not, the club will still be looking forwards. Levy, no doubt, has had contingency plans drafted for months and months.

And let's be honest. This is THFC. It wouldn't be THFC if there was no drama unrelated to football at some point.


The window; can you feel the draft?

Bale to Barca. I'm sure I saw a few 'headlines' covering this. That's the Jan transfer window gossip-puking machine being switched on, very gently humming as it builds up to full motion come 2012. It's November, if its early enough for Coca-Cola to start showing their Xmas ads then its early enough for half of our players to be linked with moves away.

Movember Update (day 14)

Movember update.

Visit The_Fighting_Cock 'My mo space page'.

We've also been updating the page and the thread over at The Fighting Cock forum with weekly photos and updates on the growth and styling of our majestic moustaches.

To donate or join the team, click on the link and ‘donate to my team’ or ‘join team’. Rejoice the 30 day journey of moustachery.


Almost at the half-way mark of the month now, and I'm still sporting the Lemmy look that is being mistaken for the Village People Blue Oyster club moustache. Classy.


The Fighting Cock

It's a podcast. It's on itunes. It's also hosted here on DML but its the website you need to be visiting - click here to see it. You can listen to the pods, sign up to the forum and generally get involved with all the debauchery. Your mother is welcome too. Blogger wannabes/contributors also most welcome. Our fledgling community accepts all lost souls. We all know how fragmented Tottenham fans are (especially on-line) so if you've been rejected from one of those forbidden closed off message boards or simply want to mix your football with topical matters such as how to execute the camp-fire method, feel free to pop in and say hi.

16 episodes in we've decided to have ourselves a logo make-over which will go live later on this evening (click on the image below for a countdown...yes, a countdown because we're nerdy like that).


Not that we actually have a logo at the minute. Hence the necessity. If you listen to the pod and can't get through the first 10 minutes of random chat but take the time to post your abuse about not liking it, remember its not you rejecting us, its us filtering you out ;)

Love the shirt.



International break killed the Tottenham blogger

International break is the bane of blogging. I usually take the opportunity to write without the anchored constraints of what is expected during a busy build up to a Spurs match. But alas, could not even inspire myself to muster up something (anything) to drown out the snoring that accompanies another England match. The North London derby seems a world away now, so far in fact, I almost expect to trip over a Betamax copy of the 2-1 win whilst searching for the remote control. Has anything of note happened in the past week?

Paul Gascoigne opened his heart for the Guardian. Harry Redknapp cited Cahill and how we are still interested in signing him. Some no mark made a joke about Spurs playing like girls. What like Arsenal's silverware hauling ladies team? I don't get the joke. But I do get that his team choke more often than a casting couch starlet. No laughing matter on the pitch, no laughing matter off it, it seems for anyone in red and white these days.

So to answer my own question, no. Not a lot has happened in the past week. I'd recommend that Gazza interview. I idolised Gascoigne back in the day, even when he wore the black and white of the Toon. They don't quite make them like that these days. Robust, cheeky and brilliant. Mackayesque (with smiles) no head screwed on with an additional destructive personality. The lack of head being screwed on and his personal issues his downfall off the pitch and arguably on it, although injury plight punctured his form. He still entertained, he still carved out moments of sheer magic. Clown prince of football he was called once upon a time back when it was pranks aplenty in amongst the powerful driving genius of his play. Tragedy aside, he's the type of player that would rekindle my love for internationals. Instead we have Theo and Jack. Sad face. I love you Paul and I miss your ilk.

As for England (might as well), we drew 2-2 and we qualified and I still don't seem to give a **** about it. Rooney gets sent off and there's discussion on how we plan to cope with his suspension. Does it matter if he plays or not? We never seem to do well either way. This disenchantment I have for the national side, I wish I hadn't. Maybe when the old guard are finally gone I can push on rediscovering my love for the Three Lions. Then again, if Redknapp takes over...well, that wouldn't be too bad. If anything, just to see how the media treat him in comparison to his red carpet VIP currently. Elsewhere, Bale scored for Wales and Rafa played 78 minutes for the Netherlands. The latter a minor miracle.

At least now we can start looking forward to Newcastle away. We never seem to get much up there. We seem to get bossed and for a long time it was a guaranteed defeat in the league. Okay, so they're in form and unbeaten but perhaps punching above their weight akin? Pound for pound, we should be able to contain them and beat them. Should. Sandro and Parker in the middle, Modric free to dink and dictate...we need to be looking at the three points. More on that later in the week when it's clearer who will be available for selection.

In the mean time, check out The Fighting Cock website and register for the forum. If you've not heard the podcast before, then listen to episode 11 for some NLD glory. We're not recording this week. Blame international break.



Benny, the weight of the world is on your shoulders son

It's been, what, a week since I last blogged? Hardly a sabbatical but still, sorry about the Lord Lucan. Blame International Break. Not forgetting the fact that transfer deadline day left me emotionally drained. I've struggled ever since to regain any form with keyboard and fingers. But is that the smell of a Premier League game making my nostril hair dance a merry jig?

We're back baby.

So, hands up if this season still doesn't feel like it's kicked off proper for us? Hopefully I won't be asking that question come the first week of October. But it still feels like we've somehow been cheated out of watching Spurs. Our Spurs. The crowing cockerel. The fighting cock. All we've had is the limp chicken with hardly a cluck to write home about.

I guess we now enter that point in the season (LOL - 3 games in, ridiculous) where there is nothing anchoring us back. No excuses primed and ready to be spat out. And why is that? Deadline day, done and dusted. New players for key areas willing and able to wear the Lilywhite. There is surely no reason to blame lack of minutes and only a passable nod at injuries.

Parker will bring that work ethic, that much need industry and perhaps even that missing quality of leadership we seem to crave for. Adebayor has that ilk of arrogance to lash the ball in from all angles. He can move about a bit. In and around the box, meaning he is not someone to be used as a target but someone who can actually play football on the turf. That isn't a dig at Crouch by the way. Crouch is Crouch, it's not his fault he's limited. But even at his limited level he still produced for us, on occasions. The reality is, much like Darren Bent can do a job for a team that sets itself up to support his strengths. It was time for us to admit that Crouch simply doesn't fit into the Tottenham template (that and Levy needed to cut the wage bill).

I'll attempt not to go on a tangent here, but the fact Harry Redknapp probably wanted to retain Peters services suggest that he would have persevered with a formation that was/is fundamentally flawed. For the time being at least, he can embrace back to basics and start with a 442. Defoe, I would hope, will be galvanised by playing along side Bad Ade. Same with our flankers. Will be staggered if Harry has not taken both Bale and Lennon aside and instructed them that standing isolated and apologetic on the wings waiting for a ball is hardly showing signs of hunger and desire. Cut in or cross it. We have a player up front now that will slide all over the place to make a point and allow us to earn some.

It's time for the team, collectively, to stand up and get a grip of the situation. We have class in abundance. We'd like to see that again please. Starting at Wolverhampton.

Going back to the 442, Rafa out is the reason we'll be blessed with this more traditional set-up. I don't feel the need to bury myself in the depths of discussion on this, but dance around it for a moment. Some people (that's some of you lot) should consider it isn't van der Vaart that is the issue in terms of having to accommodate him in the team and thus causing strategic issues. World class players, you don't accommodate them. You bloody well play them and you make sure they give the side that air of authority that's required and expected. Perhaps when he's back it will be easier to play Ade up top on his own, but not so much on his own with Rafa playing just behind him. Such a partnership will probably hold up more than the good olde ball in the air knock down to feet tactic that worked in pockets for the Dutchman and Crouch.

Only concerns around Rafa remain fitness (looks to have improved) and not being rushed back from injury (six weeks out is now apparently only two).

Back that Prem game. We've struggled at clubs like Wolves in recent seasons. Professionalism please Tottenham. Three points will be all the evidence I need that we have regained some self-belief. Two or three one in our favour too cheeky to ask for?

Back to the international break...

Parker looked good for England. England, relatively average in both games. There was a point in time that I actually got a buzz out of International games on the same level as I do with Spurs. It's been a decade I reckon since I could last state that as fact. Now I watch and hope we don't lose players to knocks. There is something overwhelmingly unexciting about it all. Guess that will change once Harry takes over. You'll wake up in the morning and he'll be sat next to you in bed giving you an update on training and how he plans to sign a couple of solid African players to bolster up the Three Lions midfield.

Should also mention Sandro. He's signed a new 5 year contract (having spoken up about a potential future move to Italy and cited Roma and they're alleged summer time interest). Cue several jokes about gentleman's agreements and the fallacy of loyalty. Not that we needed it, but we obviously did...the Luka Modric was a wake up call. Contracts now exist as a means of insurance for the club to be able to sell at a high valuation price. Although some might suggest the club has a habit of rewarding players with new contracts based on performance (but that still doesn't mean its not to safe guard our investment).

I like Sandro. Has that BAE look about him in terms of becoming a hero. The worry is, if he turns into the beast of a player he's expected too, then his head will also turn if we fail to match his individual expectations. Alas - modern football bites back again. Players practically deemed more important than the club, as its the club that has to appease the individuals ambitions. Rather than the other way round. I'll leave you with this email from Tricky (regular reader and guest blogger) that inspired the whole hero aspect of this concluding rant, just to depress you that little bit more in preparation for the weekend:

Given the transient nature of footballers today, and the way footballers have become, perceivably, individually more important than the clubs they play for. Are there any more heroes in the game? A quick stat for you to throw into the mix as a comparison:

Ricky Villa - Appearances/goals: 124/18 (LG), 21/3 (FAC), 15/3 (LG CUP), 8/1 (EUR) Total 168 / 25

Jermaine Jenas - Appearances/goals: 155/21 (LG), 10/2 (FAC), 13/2 (LG CUP), 23/1 (EUR) Total 201/26

Comparable stats (frightening really) however, anyone arguing that Jenas has been a spurs Hero is clearly not, as the sight of JJ warming the touchline to my memory never made the crowd at WHL stand up in unison and sing his name.

Benny, the weight of the world is on your shoulders son. No pressure.




I did manage to sneak in a little interview over at Backpage Football during my lost week of blogs regarding our up and coming Europa League clashes with Shamrock Rovers, so take a look when you've got a second.




It's Episode Seven. No Spooky this week, Thelonious Filth deputises, gentle applause please. Part I kicks off with a colourful round-up of what the Fighting Cock team have been up to. It's massively off-topic, so deal with it. We've got tall tales and blatant cheek from engineer Al, the defending of the C-word and a transfer deadline review. We also ask; What does Rafa van der Vaart do exactly? Part II sees a surprising head to head finale in a game of killer. We've got feedback, including an email that asks the poignant question: At what point does glory and success meet? And there's a NextGen report (via WindyCOYS). If that isn't enough, TehTrunk provides comedy voices aplenty. We end with a Twitter re-tweet mission update (come on Tommy, you've been warned). Also THANK YOU to Case. Listen in.

Love the shirt.


Adventures in lucid dreaming, part II

Part I here.



So how exactly did Goran Bunjevčević kill me?

I’m dreaming. A standard run of the mill dream. I’m walking along a high street whilst watching a commotion across the street. Nothing serious. An argument which then turns into a fight. But it was still nothing too serious. More comical. It looked like they were all flapping their hands at each other in the most wimpish way possible. I laughed, lost concentration momentarily and tripped over.

I fell.

But rather than allow gravity to do it’s clever pulling me down to the ground thing, I end up floating before hitting concrete with face. And for the next twenty or so yards, I continue to float (just above the ground) until repositioning myself upright and on both feet. I think to myself, ‘that was pretty cool’. And then the trigger kicks in.

‘I can fly. Just like in a dream’.

Almost there.

I look around and can’t quite place my surroundings. I’m still uncertain, even though I’ve accepted that flying isn’t possible in real life. So if this wasn't real life...?

I’ve yet to go completely lucid. I keep looking around and then look back on the street I’ve walked up from and try to and picture how I got here. How did I travel to this place? I can’t quite remember. So I attempt to think back to the last thing I was doing before being here.

I then have flashes of being at work. Travelling. Getting home. Eating. Watching tv. Then going to bed.

Bed. That’s it. I went to bed. And I can’t remember getting out of it. Which means I'm still asleep.

I'm there.

The trigger is unequivocally pulled. I’m dreaming. So I say it out loud. ‘I’m dreaming’. The surrounding area is then engulfed by Technicolor and I awake in my subconscious playground.

Now, usually when this happens, the first thing I do is look around to see if there are any fit women to harass. You’d do the exact same thing so don't you dare shake your head at me. Alas, nothing of interest that I can see, other than the skirmish which had literally snowballed into a mass ball of punches which rolled past me as it made its way up the street.

And up the street is where I decided to go.

As I made my way towards what resembled a town centre, the street curved and I’m suddenly bang in the middle of what feels like a carnival atmosphere just without the music and floats. I also notice it's now late evening. I can smell burgers cooking. The sky is a moody and a majestic red. I continue to walk through the crowds of people made up predominately by blokes.

Blokes who are all staring at me.

Nothing malicious in their glares. In fact, I’m almost being drowned in waves of smiles and comforting pats on the back. People nodding and winking at me with star-struck recognition and gentle applause. The further into the crowd I go, the more smiling which then turns into (inaudible) chanting. I can’t make out what they’re singing but it’s in my honour and it’s a good-feel vibe.

Centre of attention. Quite a rare experience because usually I prefer not to attract too much attention – unless I want hordes of people chasing after me. The crowds were no longer walking, just buzzing around outside what looked like a 1970s football ground. Old fashion boxed in stands. Plenty of wood and painted signs. Looked completely out of place but quite magnificent with the evening sky brooding over it.

I decided I was going to be playing football. I have to be playing football. Why else would I be recognised and have songs sang around me as I approached the ground?

The crowds queued for the turnstiles. I walked towards what I assume has to be the reception area and I’m greeted by an old(ish) looking bloke who welcomes me without words and shakes my hand. I decide that he’s Bill Nicholson. He’s not. He looks nothing like him. And when I hug the man and ask ‘where you playing me tonight Bill? Centre-mid or up front’ he just stares back and laughs nervously, almost like he was embarrassed for me for embarrassing myself.

This is one of the many quirks of dreams. This old man, his only role was to greet me. It’s like being in a movie where the main star improvises a scene and the actor opposite him has no idea how to react to something not in the script and wants the director to just shut out ‘cut’.

I continue walking and find myself weaving in and out of hall ways, eventually finding one that leads to the main tunnel which leads out onto the pitch. Either side are the dressing rooms. Home and away I guess. I walk up to the end of the tunnel and take a quick glance at the ground. The stands are heaving. Wonderful dream dynamics at play in the way of visuals. The ground is like the Tardis. From the outside, small and compact. Inside, there are about 60,000 to 70,000 fans. Noise is immense. The chanting, once again inaudible. I can’t work out the club and can’t tell if there are any away fans or not. Banners and confetti and drums. And the red sky above is still looking down majestically with moody night clouds gathering.

It's a beautiful beautiful image.

I go back down the tunnel and attempt to open one of the dressing room doors. It’s not locked, but it feels like someone (or perhaps more than just one) is pushing the door closed. I can hear voices, aggressive shouts of disdain from within. I decide to try the other door. It opens, I walk in.

There’s a battle cry, not because I happened to walk in. All the players getting changed and prepared punch the air and shout ‘FOR THE WAR’. I’m not greeted or shown the same type of attention the fans outside gave me. Just a knowing nod here and there. I was expected to be present. One of the lads.

I get given a kit to change into. The kit colours are white. A detail I’m thankful for. The badge not something I recognise. A combination of beast and tree.

I look around, and ask out loud ‘who are we playing?’

‘The enemy, for the war' I’m told by John Charles. The Gentle Giant himself, in black and white (literally, he was completely grey like he was plucked out from an old newspaper). I also see George Best lacing up his boots, bearded and youthful. And next to him, George Best. Twin brother? Doppelgänger? Who am I to question being in the presence of two Bests? For the record, twin Best had no beard and was also wearing a tight top. Yes, it was pink.

Also present in the room wearing shorts and boots:

-The Jolly Green Giant (I have a theory that seeing John Charles inspired the sudden emergence of the rather big animated quaint hulk).
-Various 1930s style footballers all looking rather debonnaire and serious.
-Sergio Aragonés ‘Groo the Wanderer’.
-Lord Lucan (with an accompanying afro and Sony cassette walkman).

The more I look around trying to put names to faces, the better it gets.

Greaves. Di Stefano and Puskas. El Diego. This is more like it. Genuine footballing legends to go alongside the aforementioned Charles. My brain is beginning to churn out the players I’d like to stand alongside with on the pitch.

The sound outside the dressing room, down the tunnel and within the shadows of the four stands is now thunderous. We’re all dressed, all ready to go. Smacking each other around the face to pump each other up. Yes, smacking. I got smacked around the face by a rather impish looking Steve Archibald who had to jump to get his hand up to plant a right-hander across my cheek. Archibald was a hobbit, complete with fat hairy feet (he wore no boots). I slapped him back. I had to bend down to do it and he was annoyed I didn't smack him hard. Which I didn't. Because he was so small and I took pity.

He bite me in the leg and run away.

The team then walked out of the dressing room and into the tunnel, all twenty or so of us. Probably more in fact. It was hard to tell, I kept seeing new faces and losing some old ones. The other dressing room door remained closed.

‘Don’t worry about them’ I hear voiced.

I also hear what sounds like a muffled song, a radio playing, but can’t focus or see where it’s coming from.

The dream had me a little mesmerised at this point, just moments away from taking the field. I was lucid, yet accepted the role of a passenger. A tourist. I found myself in a football ground and part of a super-human team of players plucked from the history books, randomness and probably bits and pieces of daily consumption that my brain had processed during the course of the day before I feel asleep.

I also had questions that needed answering which I looked forward to finding out.

What was the war? Who exactly is the enemy? What the f**k was behind the other dressing room door?

Up ahead of us, the ref and his assistants. Around six or seven men dressed in all black with sub-machine guns and swords. New FIFA directive I guess. Maradona approaches me and begins talking in what can only be described as Queens English. Very posh. He also had a quivering Rio Ferdinand lip. He tells me I’m a good lad and to be a team player. Very concise and articulate and also in context what with it being more than passable as a pre-match pep talk. He also tells me not to swear or curse.

‘It’s wrong and God will judge you’.

I smile. I’m now the one star-struck. I’m really lost in it all by this point. The players start running out onto the pitch, not waiting for the away team to line-up. Their dressing room door still closed.

The Jolly Green giant, on all fours, crawls past me making his way through the tunnel then stands tall once out on the pitch to rapturous applause and begins to tap dance.

I look back at the closed dressing room door. No sign of the other team. Maradona waves at me as he takes to the pitch. I can hear the radio again and distorted singing and talking. Then, directly in front of me as I walk under the archway before stepping out into the cauldron of noise – my grandfather appears.

This is a reoccurring trend. He points at me, gesturing his finger widely. I don’t move. Even a lucid dream can leave you feeling haunted. I walk up to him, with one eye on the pitch and it looks like the game is about to start. The opposing team were already on the pitch. Either that or they somehow made it there without me noticing. Another wonderfully annoying quirk of the dream arc, jumping around like a Quentin Tarantino movie ignoring a traditional linear narrative.

I looked back down the tunnel, noted the ‘away’ dressing room door was open. And my grandfather was now standing there, ignoring me, as he walks in.

The game had now started. I still couldn’t work out who the opposition were made up of. I could see Maradona who was clearly infuriated at my lack of movement, watching from within the tunnel. He continued his screaming at me to run onto the pitch as I walked towards the dressing room that my grandfather had disappeared into. He got so irate he removed his head and throw it at me, missing me by inches as it bounced down the tunnel and disappeared. I looked back at Diego on the pitch, who had now grown a new head and had turned into fat Diego. He sank into the turf and disappeared like a man caught in fast working quick sand.

I remained standing at the away dressing room entrance. The room was completely empty. It felt eerie.

"Screw this".

I decided instead to just go and play some footie. I'd be damned to be following ghosts around and no doubt my grandfather will appear in another dream at another time. As I jogged up the tunnel eager to hear the crowds reaction as I appeared before them, I suddenly felt a numbing feeling across my waist and I suddenly found myself being pulled down to the ground. Except, I didn’t actually fall down. The reason gravity was winning was because my legs – both of them – were no longer attached to the rest of my body.

No pain felt in dreams. But it was still unnerving. The radio sound was now very loud. Indistinguishable, but it dulled out the football chanting. I looked around to find my legs. Shuffling. Struggling. I couldn’t muster the strength to attempt to re-attach. I couldn’t change my dream environment either. I was stuck there, on the floor. I  felt a disturbing lack of control over my predicament.

I was alone.

And then I was not alone.

Out of nowhere stood a sinister looking Goran Bunjevčević. With lightsaber.

Which explained the sudden loss of my groin area and legs, leaving me a little stumpy.

“You will never play football again” he said, without the need to move his lips.

The tunnel no longer led out to the pitch. No archway, replaced by a wall. I could no longer hear any noise from the stands. Just the increasingly annoying radio.

He held the saber to my face and then lifted it up, holding it tightly with both hands. I could see where this was heading.

Two choices. I could quite easily let go of the lucid state and just wake myself up. All I would need to do is just think about the dream being lucid and that it’s a dream. The more I think about waking up will trigger me to actually wake up. I decided no harm could be done by just waiting for him to hit my over the head with the Jedi weapon of choice. So what if he does?

It’s a dream. I can’t die.

I look up at Goran and tell him to f**k his mother.

‘Die’. He replies.

Down comes the lightsaber. The radio music is now very clear and I can hear people talking and laughing.

I guess he split me in two because I can remember peeling to the left and to the right, my vision sliced.

'Don't come back' he says as my lucid dream begins to quickly evaporate. I wake up in my own bed, staring at the ceiling. Questions left answered. Not a single ball kicked. I playfully rub my forehead, just to make sure I'm awake and I have no lightsaber lodged in my skull.

The sonofab*tch killed me. He killed me and he woke me up. A dream character with an agenda actually succeed in removing me from my fantasy. I was evicted from my own subconscious in brutal fashion.

The radio and the talking coming from outside was the usual Monday morning wake-up call, market traders setting up their stalls directly outside (on the high road). It was around 7am.

I attempted to fall asleep and re-enter lucidity but failed. In the months that followed, I also failed to cross paths with the Beckenbaueresque defender and equally failed to conjure up his return by fixating on him when lucid. My quest to find the Serbian Sith continued for months in vein.

I also found it nigh impossible to play football in a lucid dream (or normal dream) since he cut me in half then quartered me. I was jinxed. I never found a football ground in a dream or any known footballers or even kids kicking a ball about in the road.

Jinxed? Cursed. Goran had activated a fail safe blocking me from fulfilling this one important past time. Who or what was he? I was never destined to find out.

That is, until two months ago. When I came face to face with him again.

And this time, I was tooled up.





This was part 6 and the final part of the International Break Diary II

#5 Forget about the price tag

#4 Adventures in lucid dreaming, part I

#3 Back in the day, isn't half as good as it is now

#2 The Spurs Madrid El Clásico

#1 Hands up if you want to stand up at football matches




Forget about the price tag

Moving on from Eminem, Stan and stalking the chairman...

With thanks to Jessie J (she hasn't got a clue but she wont mind) and the other credited writers (takes a team of people to write a pop song these days) for the original lyrics from her hit single Price Tag, borrowed and butchered for this blog and turned into a musical musing about our current forward plight. I’d ask you to enjoy but it’s no laughing matter. Much like auto-tuned music.



Okay, Comolli Man, Frankie Arne and Pleaty
You ready?


Seems like everybody’s forgot to score,
I wonder if they should train all night
When the cross comes first,
And the miss comes second,
You stop, for a minute and

Why is everybody so calamitous
Acting so damn Rasiakious
You got blindfold on eyes
And boots back to front
That you can’t even show your t-shirt


Everybody pass to the left (bale)
Everybody hoof to the right (no)
Can you feel that (oh dear)
We’re never gonna score tonight…


It’s not about the money, money, money
Levy will spend our money, money, money
We just have to sign a striker,
Forget about the Price Tag

Ain’t about the (tall) Cra-Crouch Cra-Crouch
Aint about the (Russian) Pav-Pling Pav-Pling
Wanna make a signing,
Forget about the Price Tag

[Spooky - Verse 2]

We need to take it back in time,
When Harry made us all unite
And it wasn’t all mis-hits and sitters,
Am I the only one gettin…twitchy?

Why is everybody so obsessed?
4-5-1 can’t buy us Prem success
Can we all slow down and play it on the ground
Guarantee we’ll be swaggerin’


Everybody moan to the left (ffs)
Everybody groan to the right (christ)
Can you feel that (oh god)
van der Vaart’s gonna get subbed tonight…


It’s not about the money, money, money
Levy will spend our money, money, money
We just wanna sign a striker,
Forget about the Price Tag

Ain’t about the (JD) Off-side Off-side
Aint about the (Orish) On-loan On-loan
Wanna make a signing,
Forget about the Price Tag

[Park Lane]

Yeah yeah
Levy pay any price tag
No need for money back guarantee
Forget about Jan, just give me world-class, give me glee
How about that La Liga Kun Sergio? Does he have a better goal ratio?
Otherwise kiss goodbye to Bale, Luka, so gotta bolster our portfolio
And all we...
Yes all we need is a striker
Unlike Berba one that won’t leave us for United
Let's not be stuck with playing Chirpy, cause I won’t be so delighted
It’s like this man, you pay up, don't be blinded
We dare to do so we fight and sacrifice for every glory night
Got to look to go all the way, believe, we just might
Waiting to see, a sign for a DVD uh uh
So we gon' keep everyone marching on their feet
So bring back the drummer and everybody sing
It’s not about…

[Chorus x2]

It’s not about the money, money, money
Levy will spend our money, money, money
We just badly need a striker,
Forget about the Price Tag

Ain’t about the (tall) Cra-Crouch Cra-Crouch
Aint about the (russian) Pav-Pling Pav-Pling
Wanna make a signing,
Forget about the Price Tag.

It’s not about the money, money, money
Levy will spend our money, money, money
We just have to sign a striker,
Forget about the Price Tag

Ain’t about the (JD) Off-side Off-side
Aint about the (Orish) On-loan On-loan
Wanna make a signing,
Forget about the Price Tag.

[Spooky - Outro]

Yeah yeah
Forget about the price tag, just make a summer signing...





This was part 5 of the International Break Diary II

#4 Adventures in lucid dreaming, part I

#3 Back in the day, isn't half as good as it is now

#2 The Spurs Madrid El Clásico

#1 Hands up if you want to stand up at football matches



Adventures in lucid dreaming, part I

I'm content with my life. In part, it's been extraordinary.

I've stood, with studs on ball, wearing a yellow jersey with Garrincha to my left screaming for the pass. His gesturing drowned out in the noise the Maracanã is making as they chant my name.

I ignore him and just run forwards, beating every man and majestically passing the ball to the back of the net instead.

I've scored goals that defy gravity. Single-handily rushed into an away end to fight hundreds of hooligan fans because they dared to give me the finger having scored a last minute equaliser in the goal directly in front of them. World Cups, FA Cups, the North London derby. Been there, done that. Countless times.

Content I said, and I meant it.

I've also flown through a star going supernova, indulged in Roman orgies which involved no males other than myself (it's how I roll) and have visited places that to this day remain indescribable because they do not exist in the known universe. Mainly because they all exist in the depths of head.

Welcome to the world of lucid dreaming. It's fantastically tinged with Guillermo del Toro and a dab of David Lynch.

The subconscious mind is a vastly under-rated commodity we possess. We are mostly all far too busy in the waking world playing with our iPhones and Playstations to care about tapping into this rich tapestry of entertainment available when snoozing. And there of course far easier ways to achieve a higher state of consciousness if you wish to go on a personal journey every now and again. That particular route is bad for your health. No brain cells are damaged when partaking the path to lucidity.

Fact is we are too tired and consumed with the troubles of reality to bother about something that probably sounds quite whimsical and irreverent if you hear someone else talk about it in passing. When you go to bed, you do so to unwind and relax and boot-down. Yet it remains quite possibly the most intensely real 'unreal' reality available to us. And its free. However, it's not an easy task to achieve, which is why it remains a niche for casual dreamers like me and the true experts sitting on hills in Tibet mediating for hours on end.

There have been many instances of lucid dreaming in the mainstream, usually just borrowing one or two aspects and then exaggerating it all for the sake of box office. Vanilla Sky and Inception two prime examples. The latter borrowing a fair bit from it but not quite retaining its purity. There are countless books, guides and journals and even an institute. You can even buy an eye mask that sets off a red alarm when you hit REM sleep to aid with achieving lucidity.

I'm not about to detail how to go induce a lucid state and then retain said state. It's a long and labourious exercise. I've been doing this for a long time and struggled for years before I could even remain 'awake' within my dream for longer than ten seconds. Lucid Viagra isn't available as a pill sadly. If you want to last long enough to have an adventure you need plenty of practice.

I had the time to work on it all thanks to the insomnia that preceded it. When I finally got my much needed sleep, I found myself having vivid dreams. This eventually led to awakenings (you know how you wake up, get out of bed, make yourself a cup of tea, get dressed - then you wake up for real) which then led to lucid dreams.

The Internet is your friend if you're curious for a more complete guide. For the sake of the story I have to share, I'll explain some important fundamental basics.

You might think, what's the big deal? It's a dream. Big whoop. Well, imagine going from a small black and white tv with poor audio to a high definition television with 3D capabilities. I cannot emphasis the difference in clarity between a normal dream and a lucid one. It's monstrous in size. And when it happens, when the transition occurs, you get a rush from it. It's very dramatic.

When you become lucid it's thanks to the accompanying realisation of a trigger in your subconscious mind that tells you 'you're asleep, it's a dream'. Basically, a dream sign acts like a trigger which will wake you up only if you recognise it. Some people use binaural beats others use the mask that sets off flashing red lights that can appear in the dream (as red traffic lights or red sky or whatever) to give you a hint (a reminder) it's not real. Or you can simply train yourself to work out it out naturally.

I tend to work on these more traditional dream signs:

  • Turning a light switch on or off. No idea why the dream state struggles with this, but it's incapable of replicating it meaning you can't turn any lights on or off.
  • You can't feel pain. Numb feeling if something like a pack of wolves attacks you and attempts to break your skin open. The brain simply doesn't attempt to replicate the sensation here, probably as a means of protecting you from having a heart attack in your sleep. Much like the brain shut-downs the muscles so that you don't act out physically when dreaming.
  • Reading. Attempt to read a watch-face or a page from a book, turn away and turn back and continue reading. It will have changed each time you look at it because the subconscious mind does not bother with retaining consistency with such details.

The most common dream sign is the one most miss. If you're flying, you're obviously dreaming - but as obvious as this is, it's also quite difficult to question it during a normal dream. So in real life, back in the day, I'd always ask myself the question 'am I dreaming' if say I looked at the time. I'd then look away, look back and if the time was practically the same (spare a few seconds) meaning it's real life and I'm awake. Simplistic logic this, because if you test yourself often enough you'll end up doing it in a dream - which means you'll end up questioning what you see and working out you're actually asleep.

Slightly better method than say jumping off a tall building and then admitting it's not a dream because you're not able to float away into the clouds.

The dream scape is also in some ways much like those old style point and click pc adventure games in terms of design. Not everything works. The inconsequential stuff is partly ignored by the dreaming mind, tagged as filler and background details and retains no consistency - as cited already. Also when talking to people within the dream. Some will react to you, talk to you, others will stare blankly back because they are simply empty of any thought. Others will be reactive (depending on what you do to incite).

I am not at the standard of some who can wipe their dream canvas blank and create something brand new (Inception liked this). I can however think of something and have that something usually appear at some point in the dream. I can manipulate at a very low level but that's probably because I've never bothered too much with using lucid dreams to solve problems or create dream characters and places from scratch.

I prefer to interact with the dream I awake in.

Walking around and telling people you meet that they don't actually exist and they're a figment of my subconscious whilst attempting to explain 'I'm God' is not a constructive way to spend my time there. But it's joyful megalomania. You can quickly turn the dream against you (Inception sort of used this one too). I've been chased by dream characters as if they knew I shouldn't be so self-aware and tampering with the dream environment. Possibly the dream mechanics here relate to insecurities and in some deeper lying way I'm controlling the other dream characters without knowing it. But let's not delve too deep in it.

Fact remains, it's utterly mesmerising to go on a jolly wondering around the dream you've awoken in.

Now in an normal dream (the type you wake up from and remember for a few moments before it begins to disappear from memory) you feel part of it's arc but more so like you're watching yourself on television or following a script. In these dreams, I cannot ever partake in football. Everything slows down to snails pace. I can't run. I can't kick the ball properly. Other players around me blink in and out of focus. It's a mess.

Now in a lucid dream it's all akin to that World Cup Nike advert (or any big budget football boot ad for that matter). Loud, vibrant, ridiculously impossible physics with gorgeous sounds. Others around you are people who might exist in real life but they look different in the dream but you still know who they are. A thousand million colours compared to the monochrome of a normal dream.

Its important to understand that lucid dreams - they feel as real if not better than life. There's a buzz to it. You know it's not real but because of what you can do, it feels completely without restraint and yet somehow still dangerous. You'll still question yourself about it, but you know it's safe.

A lucid dreamer can describe how it feels to fly through the sky, above the earth's atmosphere and across the solar system. The sensation within the dream, the emotion and the feeling, it comes from the brain executing what it believes the experience would actually feel like if it was actually happening. Every emotion, every movement. So it's pretty f*****g special.

So what in the hell has any of this got to do with my beloved Tottenham Hotspur?

Allow me to tell you about the time that Goran Bunjevčević killed me in a dream.

With a lightsaber.

...will be continued in 'Adventures in lucid dreaming, part II'



This was part 4 of the International Break Diary II

#3 Back in the day, isn't half as good as it is now

#2 The Spurs Madrid El Clásico

#1 Hands up if you want to stand up at football matches




Back in the day? It isn't half as good as it is now

Many years back, I sat with a mate chatting about random stuff and another mutual friend joined us looking rather suspicious and paranoid as he sat down.

"You won't believe this", he whispered.

He then proceed to tell us a story that had been reported in the newspapers. However the version he described was somewhat different to the one that was covered by the tabloids. The finer details supplied contained greater clarity and ironically a far more sensationalist pull than how the red tops presented it. In hindsight, you can understand that if you wished to read between the lines, the story in the papers hinted very subtly at the underlying truth behind the headline. Our paranoid friend was not quite constrained by legalities. In the know. Face to face. No hiding behind an avatar or badge. Old skool style.

How I miss those old days, before the Internet. When all your football discussion was done in the stands and pubs pre and post match and then in college/uni/work on the Monday morning. Rumours and stories concerning footballers would eventually find their way to someone you knew who would then share with you by virtue of a far slower cruder network, a grapevine of Chinese whispers, which some what distorted the original version by the time you got to place your ears up close to listen.

Football transfer stories would play out on the back pages. In fact (I could be distorting the past myself here) I'm fairly sure at the time the tabloids were never far off the mark with their stories. I remember following the Paul Gascoigne transfer via The Sun and the Daily Mirror. It played out with every twist and turn pretty much as reported on. Even with the papers claiming (as Paul himself promised) that he was going to join Utd. And then he joined Spurs.

Everything was far less complicated. Sure, agents existed at the time but footballers were only beginning to transcend to the path of vanity and pampered ego. They were still infants. Football had yet to explode (implode). The money yet to hit astronomical levels.

In modern times everything is pushed and harassed under the microscope, probed and then dissected. We can discuss, debate, argue and rant long after we return home from the game - in message boards, on blogs and with social networking. In fact we can do all of it at the game if we so wished via our smart phones. During the game. In fact, we can even commentate on the game thanks to Twitter. We are completely immersed and every thought and opinion can now be snapshot and shared and forwarded onto others and left behind for all to read weeks, months and years later.

It's not just what we see, it's what everybody can see. There are cameras, microphones, twenty-four hour news feeds on tv and the radio. There is so much coverage that it's an impossibility for you to not know what is going on. Everybody is a reporter. Everybody is a critic.

But that isn't a bad thing.

We have the ability to communicate and share opinion with fans from our own club and other clubs - from within the UK and from anywhere on the planet. The football fan isn't just that mouthy bloke in the stand shouting abuse at the ref. We've got writers, illustrators, animators. We have tactical analysts and fanatical statisticians. We no longer have to wait for that bloke in the pub or a mate of a mate to pass on something he heard from his uncle that has a cousin who has a girlfriend that has a brother that works with someone who knows someone who works in the club you support and they heard *snip*. Now we get told the juicy info, off the cuff, from a tree, with only a simple caveat stating 'don't shoot the messenger'. To the point. No messing. No need to wait a month to find it out the details.

Sure, the tabloids no longer control the transfer tittle-tattle. Agents, club insiders, paid off journalists, players - they're all in on it. Along with club managers. Everyone with their own agenda, everyone trying to influence and tap up. Mostly driven by the greed for more money and success. You'll find many staking a claim in a story they copied from someone who copied it from someone else who heard it from someone who probably made it up. But nobody stands tall to be accountable for the mess, because it's part and parcel of how things now work. And if questioned, they claim they're protecting their 'insider'. A license to lie. Much like the existence of God you can't prove it, you can't disprove it. Unless it's written in cryptic English (if it is - then it's a lie).

And sure, players are hardly likeable these days compared to the good old days. Arrogant, smug, horrible self-centred people. Not all of them. Most of them. Especially the really really successful ones. England captains and the like. You obviously get arrogant, smug, horrible self-centred people following the game too, be it in the stands or via blogs.

Especially via the blogs. Crowning themselves the peoples champion when the reality is that they hardly have much to say and there are far more articulate and funny football fans who don't go anywhere near a computer, but you'll find them at the match where perhaps you have to be standing next to them to enjoy and smile at a quick-witted joke or astute observation. Unless they've been escorted out for not sitting down.

And then you have the clubs that treat fans like consumers not football fans, patronising them what with revenue taking precedence over the emotive stuff, because emotion wont help bluster the transfer budget.

Hold on a second. Screw this. I think I need to go back and re-think the title to this article.



This was part 3 of the International Break Diary II

#2 The Spurs Madrid El Clásico

#1 Hands up if you want to stand up at football matches



The Spurs Madrid El Clásico

For the fanboys.

Even in a computer game Tottenham Hotspur appear to retain that heart wrenching heart pulling heart beat skipping drama that the version in real life seem to own the copyright for. What am I mumbling about now? Sorry, should have introduced myself.

Hello, I'm Spooky. I'm a Football Manager addict.

And this is my personal all-time favourite heart in mouth epic from my current FM2011 save game. It's against Real Madrid. It's in the Champions League. First round knock-out. And the first leg is away.

Click on the images to expand and view the stats more clearly if FM porn turns you on.


1st leg - Bernabeu


Inept display in the Bernabeu with just two shots on target and plenty of tippy-tappy possession that led to ineffectual movement in and around the box. Madrid, punishing and in control from start to finish, easily winning with a three goal margin thanks to decisive finishing. When they had a clear chance, they took it. Practically out of the competition at the final whistle, I'm sure most would agree.




2nd leg - White Hart Lane, N17


If this was released on dvd, it wouldn't be. It wouldn't even be blu-ray. It could only be 3D. The most pulsating of games thanks mainly to my pre-match worries that concerned the question: What the heck can I do to win this game? Under the floodlights, at the Lane, fate made a very late appearance to turn the tie on it's head in a ridiculously impossible 'only Spurs' kinda way.

Allow me to explain chronologically:

Ronaldo gets sent off for petulance, early on in the 15th minute. Very nice of him to oblige. This inspired the team.
We proceed to absolutely batter them with possession play and shots on goal.
Aguero makes the break-through in the 33rd minute.
It's still 1-0 after 87 minutes. Even with over thirty efforts on goal, we simply cannot find a way through a resolute and battling Madrid side.
Magic by Neymar on the wing, crosses for Bale, who scores to make it 2-0 in the 88th minute. Too little too late?
Then masses of drama in injury time. Zapata is sent off for a second bookable offence about 15 yards outside the penalty area.
The resulting free-kick is floated into the box, where a Spurs player is pushed. Ref points to the spot. PENALTY!
The very definition of pressure. The Lane holds its breath.
Gourcuff steps up (having missed his three previous pens).
He scores, emphatically. 3-3, second minute of injury time. Believe!
Extra time.
Eleven men V nine men.
Time for a royal procession. van der Vaart corner from the left. Ledley header (109th minute) to make it 4-0.
van der Vaart corner from the right. Ledley header again (118th minute).
5-0. You hear that Franco? Your boys took one hell of a beating. 5-3 on agg.
I'm positively beaming at all the colourful on screen animated pixels and their almost better than life simulation of a football match (I did earlier cite the word 'addict').





Emotional glory. Madrid, ended. Thanks for watching.


Footnote: Went on to beat Leverkusen in the final, 4-1.



#2 International Break Diary II


Oh God, it's that time of the month

International Break is upon us. Last time out it was a rather productive time with this blog as I side-stepped the England circus with a six-parter (that acted as filler for the lack of newsworthy Spurs news) which included musings and anecdotes about the 1991 season protests outside the High Court smashing up Amstrad computers, how and why I (and you) started supporting Spurs, a mention of Stratford, defending Robbie Keane and one or two other more random subject matters to polish it all off before the Prem returned. Click here for the final part and links to the first five - if you fancy reminiscing. Full links below.

Not sure yet how to best handle the time that will see Wales and Ghana share the headlines with Fabio and his army of stuttering, spitting and soulless Lions before we return to all things THFC.

Although I might find myself forced to follow and report on England thanks to the following:

Dawson, Lennon, Defoe, Crouch. All in the squad. Congratulations to Walker for also making it. Back to the aforementioned four. I promise you all, if we lose any of these players to injury I will systematically remove body parts from World Cup Willie and send them to the FA until they do the right thing and return the Tottenham representatives, boxed up in cotton wool and feathered pillows to Bill Nicholson Way. Yeah, World Cup Willie, you heard that right. He's old, his bones are brittle, but he still feels pain.

If that wasn't bad enough (the Spurs players selected in the squad, not the fact that I have the World Cup '66 mascot imprisoned in my basement), it's Wales which means it's Bale which means they're hardly not going to play him. So that's almost half a  team we've got out there risking it all for national duty. There's also van der Vaart with the Netherlands, who isn't even fully fit. I could go on, I won't. I need to stop thinking about all this to aid with subsiding the heart convulsions. I need to relax, and possibly attempt to detach ever so slightly from it all. Again.


International Break Diary II...on it's way.



International Break Diary

Tuesday, October 5 - Tuesday, October 12

International heart-break

Tottenham till I die

A spoon full of sugar makes the Venables go down

FAO Sullivan, Gold and Brady

In defence of Robbie Keane

Boycott England




Boycott England


International break will be over after this evening and tomorrow we can all start to look forward to the weekend and Fulham away. Bread and butter will never taste so good. Don't know about you, but I've already got my gram and hooker at the ready. However, the clock still needs to tick tock into Wednesday before I ruin my nasal septum whilst having a twenty-one year old wrap her legs around my neck.

I've been positively brain dead with boredom. Placing aside daily routines consisting of travel and work and household stuff (did someone say baby?), I've had to find ways to amuse myself, keep myself entertained. It's not like there are no Tottenham stories doing the rounds out there. There are plenty. But you'll have read them. Countless times. I'm not inspired enough to write up commentary on said stories either. Again, mainly because there's not really that much to comment on, and there are plenty of media outlets and sites echoing the same bits and pieces of rumours and quotes.

I've said all I've wanted to say about Gollivan and Brady. But that hasn't stopped me from crashing my lolcopter whilst reading how West Ham have had a huge boost in their bid to claim the stadium from the grasp of Spurs. Three words. Northumberland Redevelopment Project. The Olympic stadium is a 'back up' a 'ploy'. How many times now? Move the f**k on.

Then, I think at the start of the break, there was Comolli trying to take credit for the players he signed during his tenure that are doing so well at Spurs currently. Cheers for that Damien. Do you also want to take responsibility retrospectively of the fact the club signed mis-matched individuals with different levels of application and varying styles of ability and technique that as a collective didn't quite gel and blend together until after you (director of football, right?) was sacked? What? No comment?

Oh look, I'm commentating. Stop it. Down boy.


Once the England game is done and dusted we can start talking tactics and formations with complete freedom and begin the padding up process of our knees to help deter the potential for jerks post-final whistle over at Craven Cottage this Saturday. Ah yes, back to reality.

So, how exactly have I amused myself other than writing up these journals, burning the midnight candle? I haven't, if I'm perfectly honest. Seems the England disease has infected my tolerance level and I have become susceptible to various ills and tragedy. I'm practically draining the soul out of my body. I've done nothing with my 'free time'. To elaborate:

Sleep paralysis
Peppa Pig
Eye-balling a fox that was rummaging through the rubbish bins
The only way is Essex

I've hit rock-bottom.

This is England, this is torture. I've even starved myself of James Richardson's puns, bless his brilliant bald head.


So, as I've not been paying any attention to football news or found the patience to, I'll comment on the above list rather than whatever the heck is going on in the England camp at the moment. Regular readers, I apologise for the off topic meltdown. Day trippers, it's how I roll.

X-Factor - The newspaper coverage is almost akin to some of the BS you get about our beloved football club when the reporting bends reality to suit the headline and the hype. It's all self-serving and keeps it in topic. Do people honestly believe the judges (other than Cowell) have the full responsibility of selecting their 'final three' for the live shows? Cheryl Cole is there because of her undisputable beauty. That's it. You'll probably asking (again) why I even bother. Well as previously stated, it feeds my cynicism. I need a fix, and I'm happy to tap my veins on a Saturday night to get it. The first of the live shows was particularly uncomfortable car-crash viewing, yet behold, according to the 'experts' it was magical/brilliant/amazing.

Close your eyes and you could have been listening to Jamie Redknapp and Richard Keys telling you that the bore-draw being played out on Sky Sports is an epic 'chess game'.

Are people fooled by all this or do they know, but just like to pretend they don't? Watching this show, angering the blood, at one point I was certain I could see red, but alas, I had just subconsciously stabbed my eyes out with a pen.

Sleep paralysis - You're awake in bed, but you're not. Unable to move a muscle, buried under overwhelming fear of the unknown. You can’t get up and you can't wake up. Stuck in the limbo that exists between sleep and awakening. It's just like being in the singing section at the Emirates.

Peppa Pig - Countless potatoes references. Pigs and various animals driving cars stuck in a traffic jam. Banging theme music. Childrens television is made for magic mushroom consumption.

Eye-balling a fox that was rummaging through the rubbish bins -
Next time, and there will be a next time, I will dismantle the sonofabitch piece of filth, bone by skinny bone.

The only way is Essex -
Buckhurst Hill is where they frequent. Oh the shame of these plastic superficial twats, twatting around with daddies money. There are plenty of characters in and around Essex, so what do we get? Clichéd stereotypes attempting to act out their lives in forced exaggerated stage set-pieces in a production that makes The Hills look like Citizen Kane. Head butting the tv has never felt so great.

That's it. Someone tweet me when Liverpool go into administration because I'm immensely looking forward to the follow-up to that hugely embarrassing video Mike Jerfferies made with fans and 'celebs'  where they all cry into the camera about how the Yanks have been raping the Anfield club and yadda yadda yadda. I might have sank low these past two weeks what with my ITV brain haemorrhaging session, but compared to the scousers, at least I've retained a degree (be it a little) of self-respect.

Peace. Out.

And for the love of God, COYMFS.


You've been reading the sixth and final part of Spooky's International Break diary journals.

Part one - International Heart break

Part two - Tottenham till I die

Part three - A spoon full of sugar makes the Venables go down

Part four - FAO Sullivan, Gold and Brady

Part five - In defence of Robbie Keane



In defence of Robbie Keane



In defence of Robbie Keane:

...ladies and gentlemen of Glory Glory dot co dot uk, I have one final thing I want you to consider in defence of Robbie Keane and his form since the return from his nightmare spell at Anfield. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Chewbacca. Chewbacca is a Wookiee from the planet Kashyyyk. But Chewbacca lives on the planet Endor. Now think about it; that does not make sense!

Glory Glory forum:

Damn it!... He's using the Chewbacca defence!

In defence of Robbie Keane:

Why would a Wookiee, an eight-foot tall Wookiee, want to live on Endor, with a bunch of two-foot tall Ewoks? That does not make sense! But more important, you have to ask yourself: What does this have to do with Keane's long forgotten form and the abuse he's getting in forums and message boards across the Internet? Nothing. Ladies and gentlemen, it has nothing to do with the discussion! It does not make sense! Look at me. I'm a blogger defending a once upon a time proven goal-getting Premier League forward who left us and returned an abject spent force, a parody of his former self, and I'm talking about Chewbacca! Does that make sense? Ladies and gentlemen, I am not making any sense! None of this makes sense! And so you have to remember, when you're reading through an anti-Keano thread flaming and berating and abusing and skipping carefully close to post moderation, boiling the blood with the various arguments for and against, does it make sense? No! members, moderators and admins of Glory Glory and other Spurs related message boards, forums and blogs, it does not make sense! If Chewbacca lives on Endor, you must acquit Keane from the derogative belittlement he's receiving!

The defence rests.

Blatantly plagiarised from episode 27 Season 2 of South Park, "Chef Aid", October 7th, 1998.


You've been reading the fifth part of Spooky's International Break diary journals.

Part one can be read here.

Part two here.

Part three here.

And part four here.