The visit of Tottenham Hotspurs this Sunday last was anticipated with a good deal of trepidation. Usually, Spurs seem fatigued from their long and arduous journey into London from Middlesex and can be relied upon to acquiesce under the slightest of pressure, but of late, under the guidance Pochettino, whose mother, Queenie ‘Pop-it-in-o’ Pochettino has pleasured somewhere in the realms of 40,000 Middlesex men for tuppenny a time, have become resilient and attractive in their play.
This is excellent news, because it is instilling in the Tottenham fan that wondrous sense of hope that next year will be their year. This affliction is known among the good doctors of Medicins sans Frontiere who practice doctoring in the godforsaken zone of Middlesex as proximo annoitis, or colloquially as ‘Del Boy’s Disease’. The poor wretches, at some point in the season, are gripped with the delusion that glory will soon come to Tottenham town and cheer the dwellers of that burnt out slum.
And certainly this confidence was apparent when the ugly customers arrived in town from their long journey upon the slum express. They were very jolly indeed, drunk on stolen liquor, and immediately set about destroying their sworn enemy, indoor plumbing.
Tottenham Hotspurs ultras, ‘The Poo in a Bucket Gang’, claimed responsibility for the attack on running water. They claimed it was in revenge for an admittedly childish wheeze at the White Hart Lane Hovel earlier this season, whereupon some of the faithful, perhaps three sheets to the wind, attacked their sworn enemy, things that say ‘Tottenham Hotspur’ on them.
And there, dear reader, is one of the differences between the two clubs. Tottenham attack modern sanitaryware, because they don’t understand it, don’t like it, and it represents civilisation. Arsenal attack things that say Tottenham Hotspur because things that say Tottenham Hotspur represent barbarity, disease and social decay. Perhaps we should call a truce betwixt the fans. How about Arsenal bring a sacrificial lavatory with them to White Hart Hovel next time, to be smashed in the centre circle by some Spurs competition winners, and then when Spurs come into London for their next match at the Emirates, they could bring something equally worthless to be burnt in the centre circle – their trophy cabinet, perhaps. We could call it the bonfire of the vanities.
Ah, me. Tottenham’s trophy cabinet. Let us remind ourselves once more of the glittering array of silverware to be tossed upon the bonfire. Their last ‘major’ trophy was the Carling Cup, eight years ago. Throw it on, lads! Further back, we see such stunners as back-to-back Dewar Shield wins, in 1933/34 and 1934/35. The Football League (South) ‘C’ Division, 1939/40. The London Challenge Cup, 1928/29. The Norwich Hospital Charity Cup 1946/47 and1949/50 (although the second of these triumphs was a joint win, so historians would have to be enlisted to find the other illustrious victors to seek their permission for the burning) and of course, the showpiece of world club football, the Costa Del Sol Tournament – 1965 AND 1966, no less. Throw them into the flames, lads! See the fire burn higher!
We should note that a trophy drought is something that could never be applied to Tottenham Hotspur. Their very history is one of trophy drought. They will never be vilified in the press for lack of silverware as Woolwich were following our 3,283 days and 512 games without one. To talk of a Tottenham trophy drought is much like talking about a lack of LGBT meetups in ISIS controlled Iraq.
Of the game itself, an out-of-sorts Woolwich were simply not up to snuff. Thankfully our long lost left back Kouranne Gibbois earned us a point in an entertaining match up. You-know-who provided the Gentleman’s Favour. Where would we be without Messrs. Orwell and Harry the Helmet?
Walking medical experiment Harry Kane, on a rich run of form with five in three, put Middlesex ahead in the first half and for spells Tottenham looked like the better side. That is how abject Arsenal were. Brigadier Goring-Hildred completed a classic Buffoon’s Hat Trick, noggin-bobbling one just wide of the spanking another bobbler against the bar and then volleying one over. Guess who provided all those chances? Yet again, it was that regular brick, Mr. Orwell. Honours were even, and Middlesex sloped off back to their slums, their outdoor lavatories, and their Costa Del Sol trophies. We are now interlulled, returning to action agin the West Bromwich Albion of Tony Pulis, a truly inspirational man.
Inspirational, that is, to the stars of Mr. Jeremy Kyle’s menagerie upon the magic lantern. We hope they are duly dispatched so that Woolwich can continue this most intriguing of seasons.
