We begin this week with our sabre-thrusting victory over Villa of Aston. I was watching the match-up from the comfort of my wicker bath-chair, blanket across my lap, steaming hot mug of laudanum at my lips, when I required micturation. To clarify, I needed to point Percy at the Porcelain, I wished to reverse whisky, to create some Tottenham wine. At about the half hour mark, I called for nurse who dutifully wheeled me off down the east wing corridor, past the portraits of Arsenal Gentlemen past and to the nearest lavatories. I staggered to my feet, did the deed, and was wheeled back to my position in front of the lantern, to discover that Woolwich were three goals to the good.
Highly pleasing that Melvin Orwell bagged his first away goal – and with a gentleman’s favour from Welé, no less. A criticism of our new striker is that he lacks composure. Well, get your peepers around that pass, naysayers. He can run like a stallion when he needs to, and thrash a ball in the back of the net, but it seems that he can give the impression that he is smoking a pipe at the point of delivery of the final ball too. Delightful.
Are we to believe that Melvin Orwell asked nicely to play in the Number 10 role this Saturday last? If so, this is quite extraordinary and utterly splendid. How polite. Can you image that goatish crook-pated mumble-news Rooney asking nicely if he could play in that position? No, you cannot. He would advise his representatives to secure him a further raise for his mediocre services and then go on strike. I am proud to support a club where the chaps can ask the manager to play in a certain position. How very civilised.
We should note that Welé is off the mark, nudging the cat* at close range – his first goal in the league since March. All the chap needed was early release from the Glazer Miserydome for his true potential to be unleashed. In another example of wonderful politeness the gentleman’s favour was provided by Mr. Orwell. Whilst no Mesmertron, his defence splitting special, this was a lesser-spotted bumfuzzler. And not to mention the wonder strike from Aly Cissokho, who must have slipped into London Colney very close to the transfer deadline. That capped Aston Villa’s first league defeat in a game in which we dominated like a Sergeant major on cocaine. I am pleased to say that I got very drunk that evening with a couple of the boys from The Garrick. By eight I was as tight as a boiled owl.
Onward then and downward to the defeat of Arsenal ‘B’ in the Capital One Cup agin St. Mary’s Young Men’s Association. Early signs were promising with a lovely stationary Whizzbang over Smokers’ Corner**. As Shakespeare would say, “The temperature in this vicinity hath risen, promptly remove thy garments.”
Saunders is every bit as good as the brochure with four goals already this term – but then it went downhill faster than a fat lad in a tube. Whither Robinson? The scampering tormentor of defences past? Could we all be seeing what Mr. Windsor is (not ) seeing in young Cambelle? Did Ponsonby, the shinless wonder, still have one foot in the cocktail bar. Windsor, ever the sophist after the match said we were a bit light “because of the injuries”. Well yes, and also because of the not buying some defenders, wouldn’t you say?
A brief look ahead to Saturday’s teatime clash with the Middlesex Dons. A club, as we have recently learned, no longer being taken over by some Colonials, on account of them being a horrible gang of cut-purses with a horrible stadium in a slum-ridden area of London and a team full of hobbling no-marks. Let us not underestimate them, for the mighty Spurs, according to their website, were proud winners of the Costa Del Sol Tournament in both 1965 AND 1966 and the prestigious Sun International Challenge Trophy (Swaziland) 1983. Their potentate Signore Pochettino must be confident of pulling a result out of the hat tomorrow with that kind of history. Personally I hope every last one of the blighters gets a firm kick in the tallywags, especially that emaciated Gigglemug Soldado.
Anyway, I’m off to bitch the pot***. And when I say ‘pot’ I mean ‘bottle of gin’. Cheers!
*A side-footed goal
**The Wall
*** Pour the tea
