The Joy of Six

First off, I should probably apologise for my lack of blogging activity in 2020. Although, I think it’s fair to say that in amongst all of the bush fires, deadly global pandemics, American race wars and the worst Arsenal team in history somehow winning a trophy, I doubt that anyone even realised I was missing. But just like our very own Gareth Bale…..I am back, baby! Whether or not that is a good thing for Spurs fans, only time will tell. On both counts, I suppose. Truth be told, much like our prodigal Welsh wing wizard, my head hasn’t really been in the game, of late. As we can all testify, being a Spurs fan is never easy, even at the best of times….hence the rather tired old adage; “I’m Tottenham, till they kill me”. But more recently, it feels as if football in general has been trying to finish me off. Over the last 12-18 months, we have had to endure the haphazard introduction of VAR (of course Spurs were the most negatively impacted team in the league), a COVID enforced hiatus, a subsequently insane fixture pile up, no fans being allowed to attend games and a new handball rule that was seemingly invented by monkeys and enforced by…..well, also monkeys. Couple all of this with the fact that our pre-Covid form was the footballing equivalent of an empty room, painted entirely in eggshell and it is easy to see why I have been gradually falling out of love with the beautiful game and turning my attention towards other, more rewarding hobbies such as sitting still, staring into the middle distance or crying uncontrollably for no apparent reason.

He’s coming home, he’s coming home, he’s coming…..

Call me crazy, but the way that the FA and the Premier League have bungled VAR or COVID or the unnecessary re-writing of a perfectly good handball law has genuinely got me questioning whether a boardroom full of rich, old white guys in suits really DO know what is best for the English game after all? Anyway, despite all of this doom and gloom and incompetent nepotism, it’s beginning to feel like there might be some light at the end of the tunnel as, against my better judgement, I am starting to get excited about Spurs and by extension, football again. And that is not because we have managed to string a couple of impressive wins together or that we recently made Maccabi Haifa look more like Hapoel Haifa (thank you Google) but because, due to a combination of pragmatic transfer dealings and a coherent(ish) club vision, I finally feel like we are starting to see some green shoots of progress. As even the foolhardiest of Spurs fans will confirm, we have been crying out for a defensive midfielder, a couple of full backs and a back-up striker for several years now. But this summer, lo and behold, we only went and got them all in one go. Say what you like about Jose Mourinho, but he certainly knows what he hates. And say what you like about Daniel Levy, but he certainly seems happy to embrace that hatred and give him the players he likes. If Carslberg did transfer windows, eh?

Now, I am no big city structural engineer…….but That is one good looking window, right there.

Obviously, it wouldn’t be a Spurs blog without a couple of hiccups along the way, such as the farcical “handballgate” draw against Newcastle or the opening day defeat to a Dominic Calvert-Lewindowski inspired Everton but otherwise, our performances have been dominant and more importantly, attack minded. Jose’s Much ridiculed bus has been miraculously transformed into some sort of super-charged Panzer tank. We beat Southampton 5-2, Maccabi Haifa 7-2 and came from behind to beat Chelsea on penalties in the Carabao Cup…..a game that would almost certainly have been a guaranteed defeat in recent years. Not only did we manage to get one over those lovable old racists from down the road but Eric Dier was seemingly so untroubled by their new £150m strike force that he had all the time in the world to leave the pitch and take a shit, before returning several minutes later, to put in a Man of the Match performance and score from the penalty spot. It was a textbook Mourinho performance, gritty and disruptive, where the ends ultimately justified the means and to be honest, when it comes to Chelsea and their gaggle of goosestepping followers, I don’t care how we win….so long as we do. Fat Frank’s tears taste so delicious right now…..probably all the saturated fats, I reckon.

If the Chelsea game was a typical Jose performance, then what followed was the polar opposite, as last weekend we stole the headlines (for a couple of hours at least, thanks to Aston Villa) with a 6-1 thrashing of Manchester United at Old Trafford, which will henceforth be known as the Theatre of Broken Dreams. Predictably, we got off to the worst start possible, going a goal down inside of 30 seconds, after United were awarded their customary Bruno Fernandes penalty for the weekend. But thankfully, with both Sir Alex Ferguson and Mark Clattenburg retired, that is where their luck ended. Our forwards wreaked absolute havoc on a United backline that appeared to be taking social distancing to a whole new level, with Harry Maguire in particular taking such a beating that he must have thought he was back on the streets of Mykonos. Our very own Xavi Kane then laid on yet another defence splitting assist for his partner in crime, Heung-min Son to finish from a tight angle before getting on the scoresheet himself after Eric Bailly’s latest attempt to impersonate a Premier League footballer failed miserably on the edge of his own box. In between all of this, Erik Lamela somehow found time to take his already epic shithousery to a whole new level……apparently interpreting Jose Mourinho’s All or Nothing comments about being “a clever c*nt” far too literally, by inviting Anthony Martial to judo chop him in the throat. There has to be a Martial Arts gag in there somewhere, surely? Obviously, Lamela went down quicker than John Terry’s mum on a work night and the United forward was sent off, with most of the game still to play.

Xavi Kane: He assists when he wants, assists when he wants……

By half time, Son had scored yet again and we were 4-1 up and cruising. Having already played 4 games in 7 days, the second half very much became a training exercise but there was still time for Serge Aurier and Harry Kane to add insult to injury, as we inflicted United’s joint heaviest home defeat in their 142 year history. Our performance was an absolute joy to behold. Even more enjoyable was my lazy, post-match saunter through social media, just to witness the myriad of tantrums amongst the United fanbase. It can’t have been good for the environment though, having all that plastic melting down at the same time.

Well, that one didn’t age particularly well now, did it?

In isolation, this was a great result but no one is going to be releasing a DVD about it….not until the end of the season, anyway. But what is more encouraging is the fact that none of our Top 4 rivals are looking anywhere near as strong or as organised as we do right now. We made Manchester United’s centre backs look like a couple of Make-A-Wish Foundation kids who had bitten off more than they could chew, yet how do they respond to this shambolic performance? They bring in a 33-year-old striker, a left-back and drop £50m on two teenage wingers. Further proof, if ever it was needed, that Ed Woodward is basically the human equivalent of a sheep dressed in sheep’s clothing. Chelsea have done something similar, failing to really address the fact that they conceded as many goals as Norwich City last year whilst also retaining the services of the hapless Kepa Arrizabalaga, the world’s most expensive goalkeeper and also the proud owner of the worst save percentage (54.5%) in Premier League history. Former champions Man City have now spent over £500m on their defence under Pep Guardiola, which is roughly what most Third World Nations spend on their own defence, yet somehow still managed to concede five goals at home to Leicester City a few weeks back. Current champions Liverpool, seemingly inspired by Manchester United’s earlier levels of gross incompetence, proceeded to ship seven goals against an Aston Villa team that only avoided relegation on the final day of last season. Seriously….you couldn’t make this stuff up.

And then there’s Arsenal, a club that made over 50 back room staff redundant due to COVID-19 before splashing out £45m on a Deadline Day Partey. Riddle time….Question: What do Arsenal and school in August have in common? Answer: Absolutely no class. Thanks, I’m here all week. This situation was further exacerbated by the tragic case of Gunnersaurus, club stalwart and last of his kind, who was cruelly released after 28 years of loyal service. Maybe we should snap him up on a free transfer and get a little bit of mascot related revenge for Sol Campbell? So as you can see, the league is wide open this year and due to the truly surreal effects of COVID-19, it is most likely to remain that way. The fixtures are coming thick and fast and home advantage doesn’t appear to be worth the paper it is written on, certainly not until fans are allowed to return to stadiums. Which means that in a weird kind of way, this may well be our best chance in decades to take a run at the title. Or, you know, we could also go the way of Liverpool and get hit for seven by Aston Villa. Literally anything could happen. Which means that the only thing we can really know for certain right now is that it will be a very long time before anyone in Manchester utters the words “lads, it’s Tottenham” without suffering some sort of post traumatic stress syndrome…..and I for one, am overjoyed by that fact. COYS.

Gunnersaurus: Poor lad, he managed to survive the total annihilation of his Entire species only to be taken out by Mesut Ozil’s astronomical wage demands.