Fulham v Spurs. Shuffle the Pack

/ Alan / 4 Comments

My last post has been so well received, I’ve finally found the level of my audience – urine and toilets. So that’s the future for TOMM…

Back to football and our vital cup quarter final away to Fulham. Something new to preview this week, an injury crisis. One day you’re knee deep in midfielders (oh dear, straying too close to yesterday’s toilet gags), next you can’t find one for looking. This weekend we may be able to judge the degree of success achieved by the policy of farming out youngsters to the lower leagues, rather than  nurturing them in the reserves, now non-existent. Jake Livermore has some experience and is muscular, eager and athletic enough to warrant serious consideration for the centre midfield berth left vacant as Hud rests and JJ recovers from his groin operation.

But it is a risk, away from home against a redoubtable Fulham team who have overcome a recent blip and won their last four matches, including a fine two leg victory over the Europa Cup holders, no mean achievement. Yet the alternatives carry some risk too. Modric and Kranjcar have both played in the middle. Modric looks most comfortable there; he likes to be involved and the team plays better when he’s on form and on the ball. However, his presence could leave us weak defensively. He showed last Sunday that he’s not afraid of hard work and can put his foot in when it matters but he could be over-run by Fulham’s industrious and canny midfield.

Everything revolves around this selection. Livermore could mean the Croatian duo can maintain their balance on the right and left and give Modric a fraction more room on the left. Disruption is minimal. Modric will mean experience and greater creativity. And that’s what I would go for. Luka can handle himself and WP must hang back to shield the back four. Just don’t move, Wilson.

Next problem: up front. Defoe is ‘doubtful’. By the strict meaning of the word, he’s unlikely to play but I suspect that in football speak it translates as – he has a bit of a knock but Harry thinks he’s fit enough. Or maybe it means nobody knows until tomorrow teatime. I think he’ll start, a feeling with no basis in evidence whatsoever. If he’s not fit, it’s tempting to consider Gudjohnsen. His game is to drop deeper and link the midfield and the frontmen, handy if we need some help further back. But he’s not on his game. At all. The ‘game’ passed him by completely on Sunday.

Meanwhile, just when I turned my back for a split second, Crouch has become a nailed on world cup certainty and in the top twenty all-time England scorers. I had to work late on Wednesday and now look what has happened. Never again. There must be a better big striker in England. What’s that? Oh, well, apparently there isn’t. So that’s that then. Pav obviously, and if no Defoe it’s Crouch for me. Pav’s renaissance began when he played off PC at Bolton. On condition that we don’t wang the ball forward. Deal?

Finally, that leaves left midfield. Bale is also doubtful, whatever it means, but if fit he could fill on the left with BAE behind him. This is what our big squad is for and we should be able to cope, but if Wilson gets booked, the resulting suspension could cost us dear next week. Worry about that after Saturday, because this match demands our full and complete attention. Fulham will be hard to beat but here is a golden chance to progress towards a cup final. We must be positive and take the game to our opponents. Whatever the personnel it’s what we do best. Spurs after a replay.

The Great White Hart Lane Hot Water Scandal – We’re The Posh Side, We’re The Posh Side Tott-en-ham

/ Alan / 8 Comments

It all started one fateful evening.  Deep in the shadows a man lifted his collar to shield against the biting wind and pulled his hat low over his eyes. Bloodshot red from exhaustion, his steely glint was the tell-tale betrayal of his determination. Soon his long vigil would pay dividends. Suddenly the woman came towards him, a blonde smouldering in the light of the flickering streetlamp…

He Used To Have a Season Ticket, You Know

Actually it was my mate Debs. Forsaking her usual spot in the Park Lane, she joined us on the Shelf for the Fulham game and a pleasant evening was had by all. We are used to her teasing about ‘us posh lot’ in the east stand, although this is frankly hard to imagine on the approach to the venerable old stand, weaving our way through the piles of horse dung and in through the rickety turnstiles. The upper concourse is a decent place to relax pre-match. It used to be carpeted but that is long gone, replaced by regulation Tottenham blue over concrete. It’s clean, tidy and spacious but nothing special. Debs was mesmerised by the exotic delights of a bagel, a culinary delight from the East that has not yet travelled as far south as the Park Lane, but the real revelation came a few minutes later when she returned from the ladies.

‘Hot water. You’ve got hot water. Bloody posh here!’

It’s 2010 and hot water should not be too much of a luxury in this day and age, but there’s none in the South Stand. There’s certainly none in the gents either. In case this was a freak occurrence, last Sunday I forced my daughter into the ladies – us ace reporters always check our sources. She didn’t want to go but I suggested that it’s usually a good idea, just in case. She gave me a withering look: ‘That worked when I was 6, dad, but now I’m 22.’

Being a fan from way back, I was brought up on such rudimentary toilet facilities, I’m grateful for anything where I don’t have to queue for ten minutes or roll my trouser legs up before entering. The old Wembley was the worst. The gents were often an inch deep in urine and the ladies were lucky to have, well, ladies. So Spurs are pretty good, there’s quite a few and the towels don’t run out until 15 minutes before kick off. However, Spurs are a multi-million pound business, the 15th richest in the world according to figures released this week, paying millions to their pampered celebrity staff plus a decent whack to shareholders, and charging us the fans through the nose. Yet they can’t provide hot water.

Another friend of mine has contacted the club about this, or, as he sits in the West Stand, probably got his valet to do so after he tore off the ticket stub for him at the gate, brushed down the seat and delivered a cup of delicious powdered coffee and milk on a silver salver. Sadly I’m not able to quote the inspired rant in full as the correspondence with the club continues. Suffice to say that as a life long fan he is accustomed to the problems of traffic, nowhere to park, changing kick-off times, even the ludicrous salaries to players. He admits that like me, he’s hooked, so he pays one of the highest ticket prices in the country, if not quite willingly. But the straw that broke the camel’s back is: there is no hot running water. Although it is basic hygiene to be able to wash with warm water and soap (Swine flu anyone? Vomiting virus? Come right this way.), the real point is that this is symptomatic of the way the club treats its loyal supporters. It’s fair to assume that the boardroom has hot water, as do the executive boxes. We pay, they know we will pay, so why give us anything back? They can’t be arsed.

One Like This!

To emphasise his point, he received an automated E-mail promising a reply after 5 days but of course heard nothing, so he’s reminded them and to be fair they are corresponding regularly now. The club points to the undoubted improvements at the Lane over the years and will ensure that the problem will be repaired as a matter of urgency. So it has presumably come as a surprise to them to know that in their own stadium, the stadium they run and maintain, actually there are no hot water taps.

The missing hot water is by design, not accident. In the week that Portsmouth fans face the loss of their club and the League rules that Leeds fans must accept that their owners have passed the ‘fit and proper’ test without being able to be told who those owners are, the Great White Hart Lane Hot Water Scandal is small beer. But in its own way, it’s the perfect example of the relationship between the fans and the club. Us and them. Not only do they not provide hot water, they don’t even know that there is no hot water and have designed a stadium that does not provide it. It’s a massive gulf, one that creates increasing bitterness amongst supporters. They take us for granted, and we deserve better. Our loyalty deserves better.

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Spurs Cult Heroes – Out Now!

/ Alan / Leave a comment

Tottenham On My Mind’s fellow blogger All Action No Plot has a new book out this weekend with the enticing title ‘Spurs Cult Heroes’.

If the book is as good as the blog, it promises to be a cracking read. Here’s a completely non-exclusive excerpt from the back dust cover. Oh yes.

The Front Cover. Obviously

Tottenham Hotspur Football Club has been blessed with more than its fair share of wonderful and entertaining players in its long and illustrious history. From goalscorers such as 1901 FA Cup-winning hotshot Sandy Brown through sixties goal-getter supreme Jimmy Greaves to 1990s saviour Jürgen Klinsmann, glamour has always been part of being idolised at Spurs. But so too has being something of a controversial maverick. Fake-boob wearing Gazza was as daft as a brush. The sublimely-skilled Glenn Hoddle was ignored by England, while Argentinean imports Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa both became embroiled in controversy surrounding the Falklands War.

In Spurs’ Cult Heroes, Michael Lacquiere tells the remarkable tale of the club’s 20 greatest fans’ icons and discovers the true stories about exactly what double-winning Dave Mackay said to Billy Bremner whilst grabbing him round the throat, which legend dented the FA Cup in post-match celebrations, why Gazza once turned up to training plastered in GBP50 notes and whether David Ginola’s acting career was worth it. Not to mention the debate about why hairstyles play such an important part in being adored at Spurs.

Want more? Of course you do. Available from all good book stores (for some reason that’s a phrase that I’ve always wanted to write) and we have a copy for you to win, thanks to the generosity of AANP. Check out TOMM next week for our easy to enter competition. If I can think of something.

And can I say that All Action No Plot is a great name for a Spurs blog – thanks. There’s a link to your right and if you are drooling for more and can’t wait until tomorrow, read excerpts from the foreword now. My spell check says that this is how you spell ‘Argentinian’ but what do I know?

All the very best with it Michael – I know it has been a labour of love.

Always On My Mind: Stories of Football Obsession. Waiting For Adriana.

/ Alan / 4 Comments

“One stop darling, one stop away”.

Adriana is still chatting in the office. I console myself that a lesser person would be affronted, especially the time she was an hour and a half late because she had been listening to the end of Woman’s Hour, but she always arrives in the end. I’ll wait.

The busy tube station is filling up. It’s near the enemy’s ground on European night. I take refuge from the hustle in my reflections on the day, my sanctuary since childhood. People at odds with each other end it a little closer. On the way out of the meeting, the young man brushes past me and turns unexpectedly. There’s a disarming softening of eyes hardened by suspicion of adults, much of it sadly justified: ‘You know what I mean. You’re all right’. I start to reiterate something I said earlier, about how I see the good in in him, if only he could, but he’s half-way down the street by now.

My mood changes as the flow of supporters becomes a flood disgorged by the escalators, spilling out into the dark and intruding upon my reverie. Groups of people laughing and families clustering close in their excitement, but I start to feel uneasy. I stare into faces and see only blank faithless souls, lost and wandering. This is not right, not right at all.

How could you? This of all teams. How could you? What catastrophic lapse of judgement led you here? Others who are not part of this evening’s ritual wait with their free papers and frequent expectant glances. They welcome new arrivals with a kiss and pair off into the street lights. Yet I am distinctly uncomfortable, even though I stand anonymous in my grey suit, and involuntarily shrink further into the shadows.

A sour-faced former manager of mine once marched up to me after a conference and said, ‘The trouble with you is that you see the good in everyone’, before turning on her heel. In her rudeness I was damned with faint praise but she was right, for once. Yet now these colours distort my perceptions and banish any generosity of spirit. All I see is smug arrogance. You’re not the same as me.

Adriana emerges from the throng, upright and poised. She grips my elbow. “Do I look Japanese? Do I?” With her I am used to being wrongfooted but this has me flummoxed.

“Is it my hat?”

I mumble something about not knowing what a Japanese hat looks like. She explains that a man jumped out of a taxi and asked her if she was Japanese, or on holiday, and would she like to see the photos in the gallery opposite, or like a drink? Although I can move through London without any acknowledgement or intimacy from my fellow travellers, Adriana long ago lost this ability.

“What is it about me?” She gazes intently at me in search of an answer. My throat tightens. I catch my breath and gulp in some air. “Come on” and we move rapidly towards a waiting bus, dodging the crowds as we go. “The train was really crowded” she says, “Is there something happening?” I begin a reply but think better of it. I have to get away. “‘We can eat later” is my response to her puzzled expression but she acquiesces. The bus pulls away sharply and we tumble together into a seat. I sigh. I’ll calm down in a few minutes. Some feelings are hard to explain.