N17 Has Never Looked So Sweet

October 6, 2010 / Alan / 9 Comments

For any club, moving to a new stadium is fraught with peril. It takes time, energy, a steely determination to win over all the interested parties, money, then more time. Some clubs ruin themselves in the process. Spurs, under the cautious stewardship of Daniel Levy, have spent years laying the groundwork, then the ultimate irony. On the day planning permission is granted by the council and the new ground is closer than ever before, comes the news that we may be off to east London.

Levy is known for his love of last-minute business, so here’s a window and he just couldn’t help himself. Last Thursday was deadline day for ‘expressions of interest’ in moving to the new Olympic Stadium and our name’s on the list.

Spot The Difference

Later that same evening, Haringey Council approved the revised planning application for the new ground right next to the Lane. This has been in the pipeline for several years now. The club have gradually bought up all the land in the vicinity and have overcome objections from a number of groups, including English Heritage. Now without any intended disrespect to the hardy residents of N17 0AP, there’s not a lot that could be done to make it worse, now could there? But we’re there now, admittedly with a reduced number of dwellings to be built on club land, the proceeds of which will go some way to cover the £400m cost of the project. Boris has to give his seal of approval, then we’re away.

It took a few days and some predictably inflamed comments from the Porn Twins (Sullivan: “If it happens, there will be real problems that could easily lead to civil unrest. I think there could be riots”) before the full implications sunk in. Although the papers cranked up the story, most of us accepted that Spurs were just covering themselves in case of a last minute slip-up. ‘Expression of interest’ isn’t saying very much. Then, the management of our ‘partners’, American company AEG, were bullishly quoted in the press. The Guardian was unequivocal, in the headline at least: ‘Olympic Stadium Now First Choice for Tottenham.’

I find a move to the Olympic Stadium hard to accept, in terms both of the evidence before us and the effect it will have on Spurs fans throughout the world. Spurs have poured years into the project, the development costs of which have been variously estimated at between £30m to £50m already. It finally has the backing of the Council. Finance is being put in place. The costs are not out of the question given turnover and demand. 56k+ is a lot of cash at Spurs’ CL prices. It will be hard to turn back now.

However, for the fans, this is about the heart not the head. The plans are a remarkable achievement, provided that we really have the money, but let’s leave that one for now. I desperately envied the Arsenal, not for their sterile ultra-modern stadium but for the fact that they built it so close to where they belong (OK OK insert your own gag here, you know what I mean). These things are important to fans and we have that in common with them. With space in London being at such a premium, it was a feat that surely could not be repeated by any other top club in the capital but I underestimated Levy, not for the first time.

Moreover, it’s a proper football ground. The club have apparently responded to fans’ feedback with stands close to the pitch and steeply tiered so there are good viewing angles all round and no one is too far away. The roof will hold in the atmosphere plus there is an ‘end’ to focus the support. Recently I’ve heard several pundits compliment White Hart Lane on the atmosphere. The numbers may be low but, enclosed and intimate, we can make some noise and it will echo and inspire, just like the old days. This won’t change.

Contrast this with the wide open spaces of the Olympic Stadium. We can wave to the players over the running track. I love athletics but not even Chirpy kills a football atmosphere more than those 8 lanes.

The problem is, this counts for little when it comes to planning. We the fans probably have a greater attachment to this most deprived of areas than many of the residents, but we don’t vote. That’s what counts for councillors already thinking of the next elections. Granted we bring much needed income to the place on matchdays but much of that ends up outside the borough. The cleaning and catering staff, the stallholder, the foodsellers all take their cash away.

Talking of cash, east London could save up to £200m, a not inconsiderable figure, especially on the day Liverpool are trying to implode.

Is It Better Like This? Or Like This?

Also, getting away from the Lane is bad enough as it is, but with another 18,000 I’m thinking that a helicopter is the only way to go. Anyone who has tried to escape from the Emirates will know what I mean, and they have 3 tube stations within 5 minutes walk. Tempted by the purpose-built stations, the wide plazas and relaxed setting of the Olympic park?

Me neither. The answer is ‘no’ and Levy needs to hear that loud and clear. If one good thing has emerged from this, it’s that I’ve realised how attached I am already to the new ground. It’s out of the question. Totally. Good news WHammers, it’s all yours. Get up a petition in support of your application and bring it to the Lane next home match. With all the signatures you’ll run out of paper. We’ll welcome you with open arms, cuddle and lace daisies in each other’s hair.

I suspect Levy thinks the same. He’s covered his bets, as a responsible chairman should, and at the same time nudged both Haringey and Boris in the right direction. I can’t vouch for the exact sequence, but I’m sure Haringey Council knew about our Olympic interest when the time came to take the decision. There’s some hard negotiating still to be done, especially regarding the redevelopment of Tottenham Hale station, but Levy’s not bad at the negotiating lark, as we’ve seen before.

Not least, West Ham’s bid is probably better. They have the local connections, although large sections of their support are not keen, and theirs is a joint bid with Newham Council. This will play very well with decision-takers tied into some concept of leaving something behind for the community once those two weeks in 2012 are over.

I drive past the Olympic Park on my way to and from the Lane. It’s odd to think that the eyes of the world will marvel at the design – it will look fabulous – yet all I see are the crabby dilapidated buildings adjoining the A102. Even odder, however, to conjure up a vision of this as the New Lane.

It won’t happen. AEG for reasons of their own image have gone overboard and this afternoon the club have issued a downbeat statement on the official site. http://www.tottenhamhotspur.com/news/articles/stadium-plans-update-061010.html Levy comes over as a cautious, taciturn figure but the new ground, our new ground, is his legacy. He’ll do the math but he’ll feel it in his heart too. He won’t turn away from that.

There’s a good business take on this by Martin Cloake, author of several Spurs books: http://www.dailyfinance.co.uk/2010/10/01/spurs-400m-stadium-plans-boosted/

Almost Like Being There

October 2, 2010 / Alan / 4 Comments

No alternative, really. I had to go to the meeting. As the cosmic orrery whirrs inexorably into infinity, it’s hardly the equivalent of a supernova but it had to be done.

If it were just about me, no problem. In a heartbeat. Being there is all that matters and I would have put aside most everything else, just as I have for the last 40 or more years. This was about other people, however. I take my role as a trustee of a child care charity seriously, trying in my largely insignificant way to do the right thing for others.

Can you see me?

As a reasonable, aware and generous character, I’ve accomplished a few decent things over the years but amongst the people who knew me best, my legacy will be one of broken promises, mind-numbing stubbornness and scarred relationships, all due to Tottenham Hotspur and being there. Weddings, of course weddings. Not actually been invited to that many, come to think of it. Friends living in sin, perhaps, or so dysfunctional that they can’t hold on to a relationship for long enough. Three invitations turned down, when I was younger. Maybe they just don’t bother asking any longer. As a teenager I dreamed of getting into the school team, or in the coach’s case a nightmare as I was rubbish. But my chance came, early season against the old boys. Could have cemented my place for the rest of the season, but Spurs at home, not selected ever again. Dumped a group of kids in the hands of two colleagues and walked 6 miles along a dual carriageway in the rain to get to the station, when we were in the old second division. Missed the start of a course that was vital to my professional standing at the time because Spurs were at home to Ajax. Rang in from a phone box to say I was ill, pretend cough and sore throat, I was 29 for goodness sake. And best not to think about a couple of women who swiftly lost patience. The natural blonde….oh well, best leave it.

Now many people have other stories about football fanaticism far more crazy than this. Feel free to confess in the comments section. But for me, it’s been about arranging my life to the best of my ability to be there. The course as above – I chose that one partly because it was interesting, mainly because it took place on a Tuesday and Thursday. In those days, children, an immutable law of the universe stated that Spurs played evening games on a Wednesday, the A’s on a Tuesday. T’was ever thus and evermore shall be so. And the thought of football on a Thursday, well, please. Rotas, duty systems, favours stored up for cover. But this was an appointment too far. It’s like I’ve let myself down. In a complex, ever-changing world of compromise and shallowness, a man has to live by some principles, and what is he if he lets slip the fundamentals? I despise myself.

Very pleasant it was too. Excellent company in a swanky restaurant. I know it was good because you could barely see the portions. My sea bass was more like a stickleback. I made out I had not started out of polite deference, waiting for the other orders to arrive, but in fact I paused in expectation of vegetables that never came. What they termed a sauce, I thought was a smear on a dirty plate.

My son texted the half-time score. Regular updates would have been too much, the strain of waiting, anticipating a message that could arrive at any moment. Better for the nerves to wait until 8.35. Couldn’t even pick that up as I was sat next to the chair who chose that moment to begin the speeches.

So we say goodbyes and stroll back to the station. My companions step left to the bus stop and I cross over to the tube. Then…I have to turn back. There’s still about 5 minutes left. 6 screens in the Wetherspoons on the corner, all showing Man U. Oh well. There’s another pub in the next street, 100 yards, may not be open in the City at night, quiet place, I’ve been in there before, pleasant but the lights are just a fraction bright. Just this one, give it a go.

Can’t see through the windows. May not even have a TV. Open the door, it’s reasonably busy, I register the reassuring familiar burble of a commentator’s voice plus a crowd roar. It’s us and we’re 3-1 up. There, in the corner of the screen, 3-1. I smile then in the few steps it takes to get to the bar I’m grinning manically. The barmaid was positively terrified that I was so delighted to see her.

White Hart Lane. Nearly

I dimly clocked a Spurs shirt to my right but my focus was on the TV. I looked up, it’s Bale in the box, it’s in and the whole place goes mental. I’m slapping the backs of total strangers having been in the place for all of 50 seconds. It’s full of Spurs fans. Everywhere. The surge of raw emotion, pent up and suppressed in the days leading up to this most vital of matches to the extent that I suspected the passion just wasn’t there any more, utterly engulfs me. I swoon and sway in the ecstasy of victory, flooding over me, purging the heart and cleansing the soul. The roar is deafening and we’re dancing to ‘Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur’ over the PA as the players troop off.

A couple of blokes by the door bring me up to speed. I watched every second of the drama when I got home but somehow I felt part of it all. So to the regulars of the One Tun in Farringdon, my sincere thanks for evermore. As good as I could get to being there. And in my case that’s the biggest compliment I can pay you.

Spurs v Young Boys. A Morning Like Any Other But A Night To Remember

August 25, 2010August 25, 2010 / Alan / 9 Comments

A morning like any other, in fact a pleasant one. Warming sunshine, brewed the coffee just right, little traffic on the M25. A gentle welcome to a momentous day, for come nightfall, in a splash of searing incandescence in north London, thunder from the throats of thousands will roll out into the dark and tumble around this famous old ground, inspiring the righteous and striking fear into the hearts of the weak.

This is the most important match Tottenham Hotspur have played for many a long season. And haven’t some of those seasons seemed so long, individual moments of brightness snuffed out by the pervading hopelessness of mid-table mediocrity. But this one is different. This is the real thing, the game that can launch us into another world, of glory and untold riches.

Cluches abound but tonight is the genuine article. Fortunate enough to remember the real glory-glory nights of European football at the Lane, I treasure the experience. The passion and tension concentrated by the lights, the world and universe is for 90 minutes that florescent green. Nothing exists in the murk beyond the glare, there’s only Spurs and us. Anderlecht, Barcelona, Milan, Feyenoord, and I’m too young to have seen the Double and their great feats in the early and mid 60s.

With all due respect, Young Boys are hardly the opponents I would have had in mind for the return of the glory days, but this is the modern era of the Champions League, and the Champions League equals money, and money equals success. Not the way I like it, but there’s no avoiding this stark truth. The CL is a passport to other objects of desire. It safeguards the finances, enables us to pay higher salaries and transfer fees and attract better players. Better players keep us up there, and so it goes. Whatever the ITK on individual players, decisions will be made on Thursday morning that could shape the club’s future for years to come. Get it right and the success is self-perpetuating, get it wrong and the trap door to mediocrity clatters open.

Assuming Ledley is fit, the team picks itself for all but two positions. Lennon and Bale will offer the width and pace, and in Bale’s case the power, that will be crucial factors as YB settle back into their efficient, well-organised formation. Defoe should start but there’s a question over who partners him up front (and we will begin with

4-4-2). Crouch will get the nod despite Pav’s superb goal in the first leg.

The other question is centre midfield. As I envisage the game unfolding, looming out of the darkness is the vast bulk of Tom Huddlestone. I see him directing our play and controlling the tempo. Who would have thought it, not so long ago, but this team now plays with and around him. They feel comfortable with his presence, he enables them to play. Alongside him in Luka’s absence, Wilson would normally be the one to step in without a second thought. However, he’s not started the season well and I wonder if JJ’s good second half against Stoke, plus his extra mobility and willingness to get into the box, given that we can’t sit back, could see him given the chance to rescue his Spurs career.

Europe in knock-out games brings tension like no other match. However, two legs do offer a second chance. We so nearly blew it in 30 minutes in Switzerland but there’s another 105 to make up for it. We must dominate from the beginning and dictate the tempo, without taking risks at the back. Led will give us more pace there and we have enough attacking options to afford the luxury of not stretching ourselves too far. I’m nervous, but confident that we will win.

The significance of this match cannot be over-exaggerated. I’ve described it myself as a passport into riches. However, this sort of approach is an aggravating element of modern football. Notice how the importance of most matches is described in terms of something else, of what it might bring rather than what it is. Finishing in the top four is a triumph in itself, yet all the talk is of qualification into the CL. The CL qualifiers provide admission to the prestige and income associated with the group stages, but then the significance of the group stages is relegated to it merely becoming a path into the knock-outs. The play-offs are another example. It’s the way to get the Premier League cash, not an achievement in itself.

Modern football is as thrilling and exciting a spectacle as can be. Enjoy it for what it is. Win this game because we can, and take glory from that. Sure, the money is important, I can’t ignore that, but in all this talk of what might be, of what’s around the corner, there’s a danger that we might lose sight of what we have right in front of our eyes. We have a fine team playing a vital match. The triumphs and the glory are here and now, in winning that. Stop and savour the moment. Enjoy it – these moments don’t come around that often.

Always On My Mind. Spurs Stories: In Hospital

August 5, 2010 / Alan / 3 Comments

There’s always a stir when the ward has a new arrival. Disparate individuals thrown together forge temporary bonds in adversity as a lifetime of carefully tended privacy is at a stroke upended by the indignity of pain and bed-pans, honed by a nurse’s scolding when powers fail.

A fragile culture is shaken whenever a newcomer appears, the tension is palpable if it’s a man. The last man was oblivious to his surroundings, baring the West Ham tattoos on both thighs and when he wasn’t snoring bellowed his suffering down his phone louder than a Tunbridge Wells stockbroker on his mobile in a rush hour train.

We, the regulars, practised in the fine art of hospital visiting, we who long ago said everything that there is to say but still talk, feign indifference but are alert to the swish of the plastic curtains being pulled back.

‘Leave me alone, woman. Leave me alone.’ He’s a shouter.

She sits, she stands, she sits again. ‘Have a wine gum, go on, they’re nice’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t want a wine gum.’

‘Go on, have one. They’re nice’

‘I don’t want a wine gum!’ The whole ward knows he doesn’t want a wine gum.

‘Go on, do you good, you need the energy. How are your pillows? You’re not comfy.’ She’s up again. ‘Let me do them for you.’ She glances around without making eye contact with anyone.

‘Leave me alone woman!’

In hospital nothing happens. The slightest provocation is acted upon, if not created, in minute detail, then discussed with a similar nuanced attention. All undertaken in the name of the patient but in reality it fills the time and provides the visitor with a reason for being there.

She looks around again with a nervous grin. ‘All right if I have one?’

The young man, quiet until now, has had enough. ‘Spurs are playing tonight, granddad. Go and get a coffee, mum. Cup game!’

‘Up the Spurs!’ Animated now, alert and bright. ‘They’re doing all right this year, eh? Told you Harry would sort them out. Told you.’

‘Win this one and they’re at Wembley, granddad.’

‘Ahh, Wembley. Did I ever tell you about when I was there in ’61?’ The boy settles back with the air of someone who has heard this one before, several times, but he’s happy to listen once more. ‘Never be bettered, son, not the same these days.’

‘I couldn’t get coffee. Bloody cafeteria’s closed. Coke from the machine all right? He’s not going on about bloody Spurs again, is he, the old sod?’

‘Mum,’ says the boy, ‘Just shut up.’ He settles down again for the rest of the well-worn saga. His mother stands. Moves the pillows a fraction. Smith scores. Sits. Tucks in the blankets. Blanchflower lifts the cup and he’s lost his hat, tossed high in the air. Stands. Sits.

A few days later, when we are all familiar with tales of Tottenham heroes, of Smith, Greaves, Blanchflower and especially White, glorious, silky, best ever White, I pass the bed on my way out. ‘Good to meet another Spurs fan.’

He stirs and sits bolt upright. ‘Two sugars please!’

He dozes again, as suddenly as he woke. I walk on, past the laminated pledge on the wall that guarantees same sex wards from 2007.

Next day I stop again. ‘Bought you a programme’. I’m not a good visitor, despite the practice over the last two years. I’ve deserted my duties. Even now, under these circumstances, the game and being there is on my mind.

The boy thanks me, ‘Look granddad, a programme. 3-1 today’. The woman, more agitated than normal, thanks me repeatedly, and no, for the tenth time, I really don’t want the money. The boy shows him the pictures, as you would a toddler.

He barely stirs, a flicker maybe of an eyelid buried deep now in hollow sockets surrounded by grey drawn skin. His lips move, ‘What’s that granddad?’, says the boy, ‘3-1 today, Defoe again!’ Faint and barely audible, he summons the strength from somewhere to respond. I swear I heard, ‘Up the Spurs’ but I couldn’t be sure.

Sunday afternoon and I pass the woman in the corridor, on the phone telling someone that she has the money but will be late because she’s at the hospital. The boy brushes past, carrying a small bag with the programme in his hand. ‘Thanks for this,’ he looks at his shoes and doesn’t stop. Turn the corner and the curtains are pulled, the bed empty. It will be occupied by the evening.