There is a terrible rumour going round the well established sites, the forums, and even a blog or two that Ledley King has played his last game. Yes, you read right. Through whispers more Chinese and more terrible than Chairman Mao, word has traveled around our Tottenham campfire that his retirement is to announced in a few weeks time. As asked in the wonderful Amazon Women on the Moon, ‘Bullshit or not?’ (more…)
‘Do you ever tell them that they’ve already got perfect breasts?’ I ask as I dip a stubby green vegetable into the pinkest of taramasalata.
‘Well no,’ answers my old school friend, now a junior surgeon in plastics, ‘but sometimes we say a prayer for their passing…In loving memory of a perfect nork that will sadly no longer be, Amen.’
Oh sweet, sweet like a cup of delicious chocolate hotspur with an 89th minute winner as a marshmallow to dunk. Suddenly I’m looking at the league again with an altogether more positive outlook. When a game a two ago it was just how close we are to the drop, now I’ve eyes on the gap between ourselves and those from the South coast, who shop at Matalan. We’re only a couple of wins away from Pompey and Reading and those coveted UEFA spots. As for Bolton and that Allardyce thug, well, we can start on that one come Sunday but more on that another day.
Sure I said there were transfer twitterings to discuss but how can I start any post in any way planned when quotes like these turn up from our beloved new striker after the weekend’s drubbing at Craven Cottage:
“The fans are awesome. During the whole game I felt like we were in our own ground, not on Fulham’s. You could hear our fans miles away.”
Ahh it takes me back, all that way to three days ago. You could hear us miles away. You could hear us all the way down the Fulham Palace Road. That’s the beauty of Fulham fans. They wouldn’t even kick you in if you sang in their faces, spat on their scarves and burnt Chris Coleman in front of them. In fact they’d probably take you back to theirs for cakes and tea and a delightful discussion of just how fantastic Keano’s goals were. Love those Fulham fans but not as much as I love Berbatov and it makes me beam (I’m beaming) to know he loves us too.
“Number 1 Chelsea, will play number 8, Tottenham Hotspur.”
Could there have been sweeter words spoken on Monday afternoon at FA HQ? Yes, you say? No, no I tell you. The bigger the scalp the greater the honour. We don’t won to win this cup with gift after gift as we sneak our way through the knockout backdoor via Plymouth, Watford and West Brom. Bring it the fuck on.
Disaster has struck. Owing to reasons most foul and most probably the work of either Sam Allardyce or the Paedo or both The Bagel and my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) are unable to make tomorrow night’s clash of revenge against the blue half of Liverpool. So, I have two tickets available for the game up for grabs. Shout quick if you want them and we’ll try to sort out getting them from A to B.
Yours briefly,
The Bagel
(in voice only, typed by the sister of the Bagel, The Croissant)
That, ladies and gentleman, was an away day; four goals, a clean sheet and a damn good sing song. It must gave been lucky pants all round. I can’t work out which bit was my favourite; Keano’s first, his second, Berbatov’s cheeky finish for number four or just they way they stood there in front of us with their arms out after we got the second, that wonderful moment when all eleven of them and 4,000 of us knew we were on our way to Wembley? We sang it then, on the way out, on the streets of Fulham, all the way down the Piccadilly Line home and you could even here us doing it on the background of Robbie Keane’s interview on Sky Sports,
‘Wem-ber-ley! Wem-ber-ley! We’re the famous Tottenham Hotspur and we’re going to Wem-ber-ley!’
It’s Sunday morning and it’s been far too long since The Bagel’s shaken his crumbs over the news of the week, day, hour, time it takes for another story to appear about Levy cashing in his Tottenham chips. Will he, wont he, wont he will, who really cares? The fact of the matter is that there’s sod all we can do about it and to stamp our feet before it’s happened would make us as stupid as those United fans, who still haven’t made it back to Old Trafford, stuck in their houses still with all that humble pie between themselves and the door.
Well, it’s only taken the FA about 10 weeks but yesterday they decided to fine both ‘Boro and ourselves over that accidental spat at WHL back at the beginning of December. Remember the one? You know, Little Aaron shoved Boateng and then walked away as a brawl kicked off? Having decided that they simply couldn’t let this stand (well, for God’s sake just think of the children!), the governing body, quite sensibly chose to tax both clubs and actually, even more sensibly, ourselves slightly more to the tune of an actual £4,000 with the same amount suspended for a year. ‘Boro were fined half as much but then in true playground style ‘it was us who started it, sir.’
Well, that result has gone down about as well as the comment made by our stag of the weekend to the owner of both of Brighton’s “Gentlemen’s Clubs”. When the south coast porn impresario refused to give us a discount for the following evening, he was simply told, ‘Well, perhaps we’ll fuck your mother instead.’
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