Season 2010-11

Spurs v Arsenal: One of the Great Derbies

/ Alan / 15 Comments

Gone two and there’s no sleep. A long day, 6 hours driving, in between people needed me, lent on me, drained me more than the queue on the Purley Way or the Blackwall Tunnel. The Tunnel. Please let loose from your grip, just let me through, always the Tunnel, it’s holiday time, people are away for chrissakes, for once let me through. Just want to get there, is all, just once.

The sedative of choice, stress, has no effect. 2am and the adrenalin rushes through my veins like a flash flood through sewers. I stare at the ceiling. When i was a kid and couldn’t sleep, I lay in my parents bed and stared at the ceiling, watching the headlight beams from the busy main road reflected through the prism of our window as they danced across the cracks in the ceiling. Comforting but tonight the memory has lost its soothing powers.

I close my eyes. I feel every splash of blood touch the side of my veins as it pumps onwards and round my body. Listen hard and there’s the sound of my heart, reverberating loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. My fingertips tingling, harness that charge and there’s all the alternative energy the Greens or anyone else requires.

I close my eyes and I’m right there, back in the bearpit, the noise, the glare, the sweat and the passion. This head-spinning swooning tumult, extravagant skill and unstinting commitment thrill that is the finest of derbies. This is football, this is the game, the stuff of hopes and dreams, of legend, of ‘I was there’. Of the game I adore. So why sleep when I have this.

These are the things I said in the car. The car. It’s Bill Nick’s brain, the tactics truck and the Anfield bootroom all rolled into one. A myth some say but it’s real. The car on the way to the ground. One, Harry, be brave, take the game to them so pick Sandro to defend and based upon that platform play Lennon instead of Rafa. They don’t like up’em, Mr Redknapp sir. Love Hud and Rafa, don’t get me wrong, but in the car, I’m master of the universe. Play Pav and Crouch together up front. Two, speculation about Arsenal’s frame of mind may have kept the football media in business this past few days but it’s out the window if they score early. So don’t let them do that. Us? We’ll be up for it, we’re past the stage of taking it easy, of waiting for things to happen rather than making them happen, of sitting back early on.

Three, and I despise myself for saying this, but of all the great strikers in the league, there is one I fear: Van Persie. He’s seldom been fit against us of late, but he’s dangerous. Four, risk Kaboul at right-back? He’ll attack, I like Kaboul. Too much of a gamble? I would have.

We’re off and I confess, my mind or part of it is elsewhere, still processing the day, not quite up for the derby. Most unusual. In the old days, the fans would be packed in early, had to get in, queue and stand, not the maroon bar stuttering across the screen. So we would sing to salute the combatants and pass the time. The atmosphere established way before kick off. None of that now. The whistle is the switch, it’s still there, just have to hang on, it’s a proper derby after all. The analysts bray about league position and next season but we know this is about about white versus red, as it should be, as was ever. Nothing else matters. First tackle, muscle and pain, noise and anger. It’s the whistle that starts it, it’s this first tackle. A proper derby.

We’re off and we can do it. Take the game to them and we can do it. Don’t concede possession and we can do it. We’re self-confident, bright, rested after a week off. Take the game to them. Tonight the streets are ours.

Now hang on, just get hold of it. keep the ball, don’t them get hold of it. You know what they do when they have it, knock it around like they own the place, so keep it. I said keep it, keep it Tom, Tom keep it. Where did he come from, where’s the defence, so much room. Only Walcott, showpony, can’t finish….

All over us. There’s only red, passing around us. This can’t be happening. never mind keep the ball, can’t get it in the first place. There, from nothing, great ball, Charlie was it? Bang, what a shot, Rafa top class player, first time on the run, made for him by an inch perfect pass but so much to do from there. So much for the car.

A relief, we’re back now. But this isn’t right, can’t get it never mind keep it. Ref, oi ref, stop the match, count them, they’ve one extra man. Tom, TOM don’t give it away, pass to a white shirt not the crowd, for goodness sake, Tom, we need you tonight. Close him down, he’s brilliant tonight, christ he has more pressure in a training 5-a-side. Where is everyone? Where’s the midfield, the defence had the best view in the house and for free. This can’t be happening. Come ON.

Harry, Arsene’s mugged you tonight, old son. You’re sitting there, arms folded, maybe Arsene can lend you a water bottle ‘cos the pressure must be building up. Let off a bit of steam for once, he’s done you good and proper there. Nasri and Walcott wide, then they come in so we’re outnumbered. Rafa, get back, Bale, back. Rafa, this is the derby, not a night for strolling, we’ve two up front so you have to come back even if you don’t want to. Fabregas unmarked and untroubled, running things. Luka and the Zeppelin against four or five. Out-thought and outnumbered.

Walcott again. I’m right behind the line of the shot, it’s in until a late curve, like a misread putt at Augusta. Benny – somewhere. Daws looks around in bewilderment and despair. Me too. Bale offers hope, always with Bale, some hope and a chance or two, but Sagna has him more often than not. A cock-up, no danger then it’s three and no hope. never mind the tactics, where the hell was everyone? Van Persie and the car…

It’s getting nasty, the crowd are fractious and appointing blame, Hud especially, Gomes comes out and does little wrong but there is a gasp of anxiety accompanying every sortie from his line. Then some hope with a clean crisp strike from Hud, he’s not had a good one but there’s some redemption, first time and unstoppable.

How did that happen? A Gallas cock-up. Haven’t written that before. I think, wasn’t watching fully to be honest, glanced elsewhere, in my head Gallas, so danger cleared. There, on the scoreboard at half -time, the damning evidence. Like the rest, trooped off, only one down but lucky to be only one. This professional, like the rest of them, knew we had been given a hell of a going-over. Like the fans, they knew. Battered like a Scottish Mars Bar.

The story of the second half is about Spurs in the ascendancy, of Lennon flying as if his feet never touched the ground, of Modric driving on in the centre, of Huddlestone finding his range, of Crouch occupying their back four. But I close my eyes, and amidst the bedlam I see William Gallas. I see a face I loathed. I see a man who in the twilight of his career could have taken a pot of cash and an easy life somewhere in Europe, sun on his back,  in leagues where players strolled rather than clashed and clattered. I see a man who played the match of his life against Arsenal at the Emirates, yet now makes a potentially catastrophic error, who surely is on the way down.

I see a man, a real footballer, who absolutely refuses to accept defeat. Not only that, who refuses to give of anything less than his best. Where others collapse and feel sorry for themselves, a man spurred on to atone for his error. A man who played most of the half in pain but carried on. Who limped away late in the game after treatment, a man who could have been forgiven for taking it easy at the end of an exhausting match, but who when late danger appeared dashed across at full tilt to cover and tackle. As he had throughout the half, alone almost, stretched at the back as we pressed onwards, he dug out a header facing his goal, two, three, four times a toe in the box and away. One on one, he won them all. Who would not give up. I see a real footballer.

On the left, Cesc probes, searching for a weakness. Luka, alert, comes across, parries and takes the ball. Cesc is having none of that, won’t allow Luka to escape. And so they slug it out, the two masters of midfield head to head, oblivious as others look on, first Luka then Cesc, then Luka. Eventually Spurs scramble it away, but in that moment, Luka stole his powers. From then on, Luka reigned, gimlet-eyed focus against weary hope. From then, energy flowed from red into white. Sure there were times when the balance momentarily tipped the other way, how can there not be with a player like that, but Fabragas and his lieutenant Nasri were drained.

Fabregas versus Modric in the middle. two of the best midiflers in Europe, a deul under the lights. First half, Luka labours while Cesc glides. Second, Luka has it. Luka, born to have the ball at his feet, the picture of Luka incomplete unless the ball is at his feet, spindly frame hunched over the ball, he moves it it on back to me, first touch moves it on, now see I’m here, now back again. watch me now, lost it but get it back all in the mind run but run here, here to where the ball will be, here, where I am, and I’m away again. Watch me, do as I do, watch me play like me play to me and we will be victorious. The boots fly in on the shins, up and over, pick yourself up and take it, take it to them. Bring them on, take it to them.

Rafa’s on the ball now, looking for it higher up the field, not dropping back where he is wasted. This is where he’s dangerous. Defence? Go for it now, this is what you do, this is your game. The reds are pressed back now, minds occupied with other matters. The fouls come in. Cards don’t matter, they’re rattled. Get at them, rattle a few cages. Crowd baying, seeing foul play everywhere, baying for free-kicks. baying for blood. Fans scent weakness better than a tiger on the prowl.

Tom’s found his game, first touch and on, lovely touches. Lennon’s brightened it all up and we don’t miss Bale, injured in a legitimate clash, heavy but the keeper played the ball first. I think. Head’s in a whirl, it;s so fast, frenetic but there’s method here. Pass and move and it’s us now, not them, playing at the tempo that suits us.

Modric releases Rafa, what a chance. perfect ball, so close. Long ball Benny, Lennon has them beat, from nothing, into the box, keeper comes he’s late going to be late too late, lovely late too late. Lennon arms and legs, Rafa outwits the keeper, puts right not left as per usual.

A blur, it’s all a breathless blur. Kaboul on the right, cross and the keeper has it. Someone swept it goalwards, Luka I think, I don’t know it’s all a breathtaking thrilling stomach churning wouldn’t have it any other way blur. Crouch’s header saved, go for the corner Crouchie, the corner not straight ahead. Sandro on, picks up the tempo right away, bursts forward,keeper sits on it, he had little idea. Shot from someone else produces a flying save. Dizzy with exhilaration, can’t remember the precise order, just know these things happened.

Know that now I’m and screaming, deep deep down lungs full of great gusts of air, a roar to carry our team onwards, a roar to exorcise the ghosts of a bad week and bad times, Lungs cleansed, emptied of decades of the detritus of city living. Missed and I twist backwards, contorted in the despair that only being so close that close can bring. Acclaiming every last challenge, howling in rage at every foul. This is the game, this is football, this is my Spurs.

Know that Arsenal pumped it forward, know that Dawson would win everything, and he did, for the whole of the second half. Benny, much maligned Benny. 5live saying we had a problem with our full backs. Dixon has said this before. Benny’s problem is that sometimes he is isolated from his centre halves. Part of this is because of the way we play, not his fault. We attack and he’s left isolated, no midfield cover, so he has to come out. Last night he let Walcott get inside him, hence the goal and the chance. Then, he altered his positioning, tucking in so Walcott had to go wide. Second half, Benny was left one on one, and he came out on top every time. He was everywhere down that left, passing superb, long and short, twice late on he ran back and did enough to stop the shot. Brilliant Benny, just brilliant.

Arshavin and Bentdner on, on the ropes but the enemy won’t lie down. Wenger’s shrewd – going for the win. I’m worried but I know this is in keeping with this bedlam harem scarem hold it give it run have it back game. Arshavin  in front of me, tousled hair and reddened cheeks, like a 5 year old rushing out to play after a bad day at the barber,. but there’s danger here. Kaboul galloping down our left, there are gaps. Wenger knows, he knows. First tackle Kaboul pinches it. It’s on its way, it’s first time or no time now and Younis is on his game. First touch and it’s away but my gaze holds the Russian’s for a fleeting second. I look him in the eye: it’s Ok, he doesn’t fancy it, not this frantic spellbinding game. Could be the best game he’s ever played in but he’s not up for it. We’re OK.

So many chances, we could have, should have. We needed the points, after all. This morning, let’s leave the analysis, the tables, the Champions League, just for a few hours. For this was one of the great derbies in the forty plus years I’m been watching them. Thrilling, riveting, unpredictable dirty brilliance. This is why I love the game so.

6am, can’t sleep, have to write. But where to begin?

We Came To Celebrate and Are Not Downhearted

/ Alan / 15 Comments

We came to celebrate, and despite the result we were not downhearted.

We battled through the hold-ups on the M25 and the Blackwall Tunnel, blanched at the accident on the North Circular and arrived in our seats panting from effort as well as excitement. Same old jokes, we make them, we’re told them and still we laugh as if we’ve never heard them before. ‘5-0 by halftime? Or a bit longer? No probs.’ The teams are just coming out and the sudden arrival heightens the shock. From a dowdy north London street, plunged into the glare of white light and blaring fanfare I am transformed, grinning manically. On TV this is precisely the clichéd manufactured atmosphere I abhor. Being there, I can’t quite believe this is the Champions League at White Hart Lane, a worldwide audience welcomed to our little home.  Should be used to it but I’m not, and in a way hope I never am, because this thrill should never be taken for granted. A corny soundtrack and twenty kids flapping a giant fireman’s blanket festooned with logos: somebody catch me, I’m falling.

We came to acclaim our heroes, despite the forlorn hope of victory, and my goodness how we roared them on. Those watching on TV knew what an atmosphere sounds like, real support from proper supporters, hardened over years of disappointment to the point where we know when the team needs us. The noise rolled around the old ground, tightly packed stands close to the pitch, a raucous cacophony from all sides in a proper football ground.

We got behind them and they knew. You could see it in every sprint and stride, every tackle, the grimace of challenges or the deftest of passes. It was meant for them and they knew. As with the performance against Stoke, they channelled their disappointment at the first leg result into sustained endeavour, maybe to win, there was always a chance, but mainly just to prove they could play against one of the finest European club sides, to match themselves against the best.

The first half hour flew by, almost as quickly as Bale flew past Ramos. With Modric prompting and Pav active up front, Bale took on a steady supply of long cross field passes and rose to his task. He fearlessly took them on and delivered several searching crosses under the most intense pressure that on another day with perhaps some shrewder positioning by colleagues in the box could have been converted. His touch to bring down a shoulder high pass destined for the stands and then instantly charge at them once more was nothing short of miraculous. Taking deep regenerating breaths on his way back to the halfway line, he was tired. His back ached, so he adjusted his strapping and head down, charged again.

We needed goals and came close on a few occasions, Pav missing the best chance as Lennon laid bare the defence then laid the ball back. It bounced at the crucial instant of contact, way over. Lennon attempted to make up for whatever happened in Madrid, coming into the match more as the half progressed, always  dangerous. He could have crossed it  more often rather than touch it back but he did so well. The other great opportunity was when a long Bale throw fell at Huddlestone’s feet, much to his and everyone else’s surprise. Back to goal a few yards out, there was no movement for him in the box and the chance of a simple lay-off was gone.

The imperative to attack left us stretched at the back, very much so at times but there was no alternative. We scraped by on more than a couple of occasions. Our captain had his own solution: Michael Dawson decided to take them on alone. He wanted to be first to every ball. Seemingly right across the back line, he appeared whenever danger threatened. Left, right, upfield or in the box, time and again he won the ball. Not everything worked – he overreached himself once or twice, a reminder of the player of two or three years ago – but now he has the experience to cover his lack of pace. One moment of classic defending, when Ronaldo’s shimmy left BAE face down  in the grass, Daws came smoothly across, stood tall, waited, then made the tackle. It wasn’t a night for defenders, supposedly, but his performance shone with pride and total commitment.

You may tire of reading in the blog of the wonders of Luka Modric but I’ll never tire of writing about him. Another top class performance of midfield artistry, stubby strides over the turf in search of scarps at the back and deadly passes going forward. Given some freedom by Hud’s presence and then Rafa dropping deep, he went further forward as the half progressed and almost scored or made an assist. Almost. When he came off towards the end, he looked shattered by the pain of defeat, as if it were then and only then that the possibility had crossed his mind that somehow his talent was not about to create a miracle. Arm round his manager, he went to slump on the bench.

A fine first half but no goals. Pav did well on his own up front, effort, movement and even a bit of muscle, but he lacked support. I would have liked a bold decision from Harry for this one,  have the balls to leave Rafa out and go two up front but Defoe is woefully out of sorts. I’m sure I would been grumbling if he had played. Now if Crouch were eligible and hadn’t…enough of that one already, I think. As it was, Rafa should have stayed further forward, sliding across the edge of the box and in contact with Pav and the midfield. That’s where he does his best work, as in the second half when he looked fit to me.

We didn’t quite do enough to get the ball into the crucial area in front of their back four but behind the midfield. Madrid press well upfield which makes it hard for us to play out of defence. However, this leaves space behind them. It’s difficult to put the ball there, especially as the superb Alonso was patrolling, but nevertheless there were opportunities missed. To have beaten Madrid we all had to be on top of our games, and Hud had a reasonable rather than good time, wayward with some of his passing. No real criticism but he could have been key, his passing the reason why he was preferred to Sandro.

Ronaldo is a card, eh? Before kick-off he had a pleasant chat with Bale on the halfway line, all smiles. 90 seconds later he’s clutching his backside and rolling around after an innocuous challenge. A precious moment with the strutting peacock in the second half, he goes over to the bench for, apparently, the sole purpose of having a minion fall at his feet and tie his laces. Fabulous player, mind.

And so the second half is ushered in with the same gags.  ‘Don’t be late back from the bogs, you’ll miss the first of the 5″, still the same gallows humour in response. No laughs as the ball spins from Gomes’ grasp. Not only this, it taunts him by seeming to remain within reach before agonisingly creeping over the line. The balloon’s been pricked and the hissing of escaping hopes and dreams is heard from miles away.  Another one makes little difference, logically, but the whole place sags. Just something, a goal, pride, a win on the night, by now that would have been sufficient but it was gone. There were 35 minutes left but effectively that was that. Individuals tried to make up for it on their own with series of increasingly desperate runs from JD and Sandro, Modric too, but you have to pass it to get round this lot.

Harry and Jose loiter on the touchline, two blokes with long coats, hands thrust deep into pockets and idly kicking up traces of dirt with the tips of their shoes. ‘What me,  nah, just hanging around waiting for a mate.”. They cared, profoundly, and there’s no point in hiding it.

There’s a celebration of the presence of another Tottenham great, Paul Gascoigne, who doesn’t often do the rounds of the lounges and boxes (although sadly lounge bars, maybe) but you trust his mental well-being is boosted by the warmth from people who love him. The singing is still going but quieter. Then, for no obvious reason, the doldrums are lifted by a chant for Luka Modric. Then another, and another, and the Park Lane goes through as many men as they can, a touching recognition that despite defeat we are with them, for they have done us proud.

The end was sad. This is gone now. Pride in the fact that we the fans were able to participate in the Champions League quarter final, pride in the players who got us there. Chelsea are advertising on the radio for their upcoming home games, presumably because their gloryhunting fans are sick to death of a decade of unbroken success. At Spurs, we stayed behind to give them a standing ovation, long and hard. An ovation for a team that had lost 5-0. That’s what Europe meant to us, that’s how much we believe in our team. We know what has been achieved. True fans, lifelong supporters.

 

 

To ease the pain, there’s a good interview with Ricky Villa here, from Duncan Tucker: http://duncantucker.wordpress.com/2011/04/09/candela-live-interview-with-ricky-villa/

Plus more about the paperback edition of one of the best Spurs’ books ‘The Boys from White Hart Lane‘ by Adam Powley and Martin Cloake http://martincloake.wordpress.com/

Spurs Take A Bow For Bouncing Back

/ Alan / 8 Comments

Still feeling the pain of Tuesday night’s self-inflicted wounds, Stoke were frankly the last team I wanted to meet this weekend. High energy and elbows, they saw  us as victims, injured, bleeding and sorry for ourselves. At kick-off I swear from the Shelf I saw the glint in Pulis’ eyes.

Time to do more with those anxiety exercises, I think. I could not have been more wrong. Spurs came out confident and bold from the first whistle, as fresh as the spring sunshine. Our passing and movement was a delight, successive attacks bringing the whole team into play, shifting from side to side, someone always available for the extra pass. Luka and Rafa buzzed around the box, prompting and probing, making a series of chances. Crouch and Pav were willing foils and played their full part, even a hint of a partnership in the making.

The team deserve great credit for this. In the past they’ve not apparently been able to raise themselves for challenges like this one. The disappointment of Madrid must have knocked the stuffing out of them despite the bullish statements about it only being half time. So praise without reservation for this professional focus. They demonstrated admirable purpose and poise, every last one of them.

The return of Huddlestone and Kaboul provided extra impetus. Both looked fresh and willing. Hud passed the ball well throughout, giving that added dimension of more possibilities, increasing the number of angles and picking out the men ahead of him quickly, accurately and early. His first time cross for Crouch’s second was effortless and pinpoint, a sumptuous arc that invited the header.

I’ve remarked before on Kaboul’s determination all season to claim a place in the starting line-up. In the first couple of minutes, he won two challenges in quick succession, imposing himself on the game right from the beginning. he sent a message to Stoke that they could not floor us physically. Not only that, his bouncy confidence spread through the team from the back. Despite a couple of wild moments, most notably his run upfield in the last 5 minutes when Stoke had brought on the big guys, it was an impressive return, bearing in mind the length of time he’s been injured.

if we’re liberally sharing out the praise, here’s a double scoop for Peter Crouch. What the hell, stick a flake on top. Defying both his limitations as a footballer and the burden of responsibility for his role in Madrid, it was his best performance for ages, maybe ever. Two classic far post headers, one firmly deposited into the back of the net from close range, the other back across the keeper. No mean feat considering the giants hulking around in the Stoke back four. It also shows the value of decent crosses.

After Madrid, some fans went in search of an apology. This absurd trend in the modern game is no more than a pathetic PR stunt, designed to pacify, well, no one except the papers perhaps. There’s only one way to prove your worth after a shocker, the same one that has applied since the game first began: go out and play a blinder, and keep it going. He duly obliged. I hope he appreciates the generosity of the Spurs crowd, who warmly cheered him when he pranced about in the warm-up, then gave him some special noise when they announced the teams. I confess I clapped but remained mute. He’s a lucky man, especially as it was not so long ago that he treated the Park Lane to some ironic applause when they had the nerve to seethe over another wayward display. He was visibly delighted and responded accordingly.

I did the Observer Fans’ network report on Sunday. They call after the match and run through a few questions, then ask for ratings out of 10, which annoy me anyway but at that point I was negotiating a particularly dodgy manoeuvre to get onto the North Circular. That’s my excuse for giving Pav a 6, i.e. average. I hereby apologise. A 7 is more like it…as if he cares. He could and should have been sharper in front of goal but he had one, possibly two assists. Generally he worked around Crouch, with Peter drifting to the far post while Pav had a freer role in and around the box. Could this be the start of something good? It’s the best partnership we have up front as JD is nowhere right now.

Self-inflicted wounds. The title for the book of the season. Completely on top, we gave the ball away and let Stoke back into things not once but twice. How many times is this going to happen this season? The mark of a good team is that they come back after a bad game, but we’re not there yet if we fail on the other criteria and lose possession so easily. Etheringtons’ goal was particularly good, however.

Stoke’s formation surprised me. We tend not to do well if the opposition crowd us, and Stoke are well practised at this, yet they kept an expansive shape with Pennant and Etherington out wide. Delap and Whelan were often outnumbered as Rafa came off his wing into the centre. Also, Pennant gave his full back little protection against Bale, who looked full of vim and vigour again. First challenge, Pennant kicked Bale at the top of the shinpad and laughed as he trotted back. Part of a plan, I think, but he discovered that Bale was almost back to full strength and fitness.

Modric was back in the centre and both he and the whole team looked better for it. One surge led to a superb goal, striking into the heart of the defence and plunging the knife home with a decisive finish. One sublime little pass, 15 or 20 yards only but bisecting two defenders precisely into Bale’s stride. Brilliant. Again.

Stoke came back into it in the second half, which was not as entertaining as the first. They came closer to scoring, hitting the post via Gomes’ body, and pressured us with a series of high balls that did nothing for my blood pressure. We held out, even though I lost it completely when Corluka just kicked the ball aimlessly downfield in injury time instead of passing to a white shirt. Walking back to the car, pulse almost back to normal, I reminded myself that actually in those frantic last minutes, we won every single ball into the box. not all were cleared at the first time of asking but we got there first. Credit again.

I was delighted with their spirit. We should have won at a canter but we won, a victory much needed as the top four were receding into the distance. We need to secure 5th too, just to remember. It’s put me in good spirits for Wednesday. First 30 minutes, let’s give it a real good go. Win or lose in the end, give it everything and I’ll be happy. Lennon and Bale flying on either wing, stretch them as they stretched us. If Bale takes out three men to stop him, then slip it inside where others will be waiting. Let them know they’ve been in a game. I’m actually looking forward to it now.

That Song: Enough Already

/ Alan / 11 Comments

As if the result in Madrid wasn’t bad enough, Spurs remain in the news because the goalscorer has spoken about the abuse he received. Quite how Emmanuel Abebayor heard the song infamously named after him is surprising in itself. From what I hear from people who were there, the din at the Bernabeu was like nothing they had experienced elsewhere. A backhanded compliment perhaps, to the many thousands of loyal Tottenham supporters who tried their best to raise the team’s flagging spirits. However, there’s no joy or glory to be had in this loathsome example of terrace creativity.

Let’s get into this. It’s racist. It’s not nearly as overtly racist as the abuse that was hurled at black players in the 70s, when anything could be shouted with complete impunity. Clyde Best, the West Ham striker who was one of the first black players to make an impact in the old first division, was regularly racially abused by his own fans, for goodness sake.

This does not make it better nor excuse either the obnoxious lyrics or the obvious gusto with which it is sung. I don’t care about the degrees of discrimination: it’s an empty debate because it’s foul. It’s about a black man washing elephants. His father may have indeed washed elephants in the past but this is irrelevant because it’s used here in a derogatory way. The song doesn’t go, “Your father undertook a series of menial jobs despite the probable stigma and damage to his self-esteem in order to care for his family and give his son the best possible opportunity to further his footballing career”. It’s a wounding insult directly related to a skewed perception of his upbringing, distorted by negativity and cultural superiority.

Yes, as others have pointed out, his mother may well be a prostitute but I’m not sure that the evidence is conclusive. Ridiculous if I phrase it that way, nevertheless this is has been part of the debate on some messageboards. The word is used because it rhymes with Abebayor and is suitably degrading.

The Campbell song – equally sour and obnoxious. It’s homophobic and makes fun of an illness. It may be a mental illness but no on cares about mental health, do they. If he had cancer they wouldn’t chant, even though he’s hated. It also uses imagery drawn directly from the experience of black people in the south of the USA throughout the last hundred and fifty years. Sorry if I’m bringing up the history of persecuted groups here but in both the songs, those are the images that have been chosen. Sol wasn’t in a gas oven or under a train, obnoxious though those examples would be.

Abuse is part of football culture whether we like it or not. It won’t go away and I don’t want it to. In a recent comments section on this blog, when a piece was filtered out by Newsnow because I included a swear word, my dear old friend Ian noted that he had hardly ever heard me swear. Very sweet but inaccurate. Football brings out the sweary in me and I enjoy it. Let it all out. Not too much when kids are around, it’s under control, but that’s what kids will hear at a game and if parents don’t want them to, then deal with it afterwards. Children understand when to use those words and when not to.

So I’m by no means a prude. In fact, the modern footballer deserves some stick if they are not giving value to the fans because it is the only way sometimes to shake them out of their comfort zones, insulted by their fat agents and fatter bank accounts, turning up for the money and neglecting the supporters. Campbell is the classic example. He let us down so badly, he shouldn’t have an easy time when he comes to the Lane. Talking of the noise in Madrid, when he appeared in the first derby after his transfer, there was bedlam. Talk of a Spanish style turning our backs gave way to good old fashioned abuse and I joined in.

However, this is not an excuse to not only sing but almost to revel in chants that contain language you could not and should not use in any other setting. Neither is it an excuse to say other teams do the same to us. As a jew, the hissing noises through clenched teeth and masked by gleeful grins are wretched and deeply sinister, especially as no police or steward will do anything about it. The anti-Semitism from other fans is rife. That’s no excuse for the song.

I admit that I’m not sure where the line between legitimate abuse at football matches and songs like the Campbell and Adebayor chants runs precisely, but wherever it is is, the songs cross it. Way, way past. Moreover, debate about the finer points serves only to obscure the bigger picture. It’s often used by detractor of the so-called ‘PC brigade’, political correctness itself being a term of denigration that dismisses the efforts, sometimes misplaced admittedly, of people who wish to communicate in a manner that does not discriminate against their fellow human beings.

These songs are vile, nasty and despicable. They have given Spurs fans the label of being discriminatory because of the adverse publicity they have garnered. This deflects attention from the consistent anti-Semitism that surrounds us. Also, Spurs fans have a proud history of not being discriminatory. In the bad old days, Spurs fans didn’t have racist chants, they welcomed our black players, no bananas on the pitch. I genuinely can’t remember when I last heard an individual fan shout a racist remark at the Lane. Now this glorious part of our heritage has been tarnished. Please stop.