‘Tis that time of year again. Blossom falls from the trees. Grass rises. Aston Villa fans check the run-in nervously. And of course Tottenham fans all pretend that It is not going to happen again.
This year will be the 20th time in a row that It has happened. It will happen for another 20, and beyond. Every year, like a sozzled and bragadocious challenger at a fairground boxing booth who does not know when to remain upon the canvas, Tottenham Hotspur will get up once more, check their broken jaw and their bloody nose, their bruised kidneys and their cracked ribs, their cauliflower ears and their cut eyebrows, and they will walk right into a left right left right uppercut uppercut right hook left hook body punch body punch left cross right cross combination from Woolwich Arsenal whereupon they will be sat on their grubby little arse once more.
Mr Pochettino, who should have stayed where he was, will waft a towel in the vain hope that a revival will happen next season. He and that badmarsh Mr. Levy will no doubt spend way more than Arsenal again in the summer and yet their team will still resemble some kind of human bricolage. In the manner of Mr. Derek ‘Boy’ Trotter, they will believe that next year It will not happen. And yet, It will. They will continue to run onto our fist for evermore.
We now need but ten points from our remaining games. Three wins and a draw before that saintly figure in his fine red and white garb makes his glorious annual appearance. The date for this moveable feast draws ever near, and it cannot come soon enough for one Arsenal fan. Perhaps more dedicated than the long-haired chap who sews the home and away kits together. Perhaps not as dedicated as Gooner Claude, but he is certainly up there. This little fellow has been an Arsenal fan since he was in short trousers.
His name is Timothy Sherwood and this weekend last in most noble fashion he ensured that this year’s visit of St. Tott would be an early one. One understands that after the final whistle at White Hart Recycling Centre he rushed to the away dressing room whereupon he removed his upper garments so he could kiss the splendid cannon which has adorned his upper arm since his 18th birthday. Rumour also has it that a matching one upon his left bicep shall be of St. Totteringham himself, with the numerals ‘20’ on a ribbon below. As my Indian friends would say, dustoori, Tottenham, dustoori. Nothing can be done about it.
One chap who may – or may well not – feature in next year’s annual crushing of the fragile dreams of Spurs is one Arthur Wellesley Silver, the 10th Duke of Wellington, who learnt this week that his global quest for paperwork has finally ended in I suppose a kind of triumph, in that he has been awarded a Spanish passport. It is not an English passport, I grant you, but in a pinch it will do. This now means that what the FA thinks of his quality – which is not very much, hence his rejection for a work permit originally – he can now be as shit as he likes and the FA cannot stop him playing for us. He may well have the opportunity to sit on the bench for four or five games next season before disappointing everyone in the Carling Cup and ending up on loan at West Ham, and in this venture we wish him well.
Mr. Fenton appears to be edging nearer to resigning a contract. To my mind he has seemed a touch overly reluctant. Much like when one is courting at a nighttime establishment, and the time reaches two in the morn. You approach perhaps number two or three on your list and yet irritatingly the lady still will not take your hand for the foxtrot. He plays with speed and brio, to be sure, yet has not reached the giddy heights that we all thought he might. So please, Fenton, you errant hound, sign the thing.
Anyhoo. Pleasant enough visit to Turf Moor this last weekend for the Feast of the Octopus*. Not an easy place to visit by any means and yet Woolwich displayed a different way of winning to that which demolished Liverpool (Five Times) the weekend prior. Discipline was evident here. And as full-blooded Englishman I do LOVE DISCIPLINE. Because of this I am considering giving Mr. Cockleton the nickname The Headmaster.
Admittedly, Burnley are both shit and spirited – shitited, if you like – so we had to stop them from scoring a naughty plum** and simply wait for an opportunity. As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait too long before Mr. Ramsara of Senegal whacked the three of clubs*** in the bag. Burnley did not lay down though and Mr. Ramsden, Woolwich’s glove butler had a couple of saves to make. All in all, a fine victory to prepare for tomorrow’s visit to Wembley, where yellow ribbons shall be worn. 16 wins in 18 games in all competitions means that we shall be sorry to see the season end.
Before I head off for some tiffin, I shall leave you with this adjust league table. Adjusted, in that I have removed the financially doped clubs from the equation, giving a fairer idea of league position:
* Eight wins in a row.
** A goal against the run of play.
*** A goal scored at the third attempt in quick succession.
