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

March 5, 2010March 5, 2010 / 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.

Spurs v Everton. A Game to Savour, At the Final Whistle That Is…

March 1, 2010March 1, 2010 / Alan / 9 Comments

If only home life and work did not get in the way of blogging, the world would be a better place….

So having entertained a group of fellow professionals from the Czech Republic today, which in the process developed my skill of looking really quite absorbed as someone gabbles away at you for five minutes in a foreign language, (‘look, I’ll make a cup of coffee and pop back when it’s the interpreter’s turn. OK?’) it’s only now that there is time for a few thoughts on the match yesterday, less match report and more postscript.

It’s over now and I just want to say – what a fabulous game. On the way home, the 5Live reporter at the Sunderland – Fulham match was less than enthralled with the spectacle in front of him and commented disparagingly about the Premier League being the so-called best in the world. All I can say is that he would have taken a different view if he had been at the Lane. Spurs divine first half performance was in danger of being wasted as Everton came back into things, usually courtesy of a Spurs error, but at times it was frenetic end to end play with that classic British mixture of endeavour and skill. Heart in the mouth stuff at both ends, with great goals, unbelievably crass misses, fizzing shots, passes that were beautifully crafted and vulgar fouls. The end product for the fan was complete involvement, total and utter. After all these years. there is simply nothing like that feeling of playing every ball, shouting gibberish instructions to players 70 yards away who cannot possibly hear you and all parts of the ground leaping up to dispute refereeing decisions in their area of the pitch.

The greatest feeling of all is emerging into Worcester Avenue, with its penetrating drizzle and carpet of horse-dung, and going home a winner. And it’s only then when reflections on the game itself are possible because Spurs, being Spurs, had both won and then almost lost the same match. At times we were hanging on by our fingernails, or more accurately on at least one occasion, by Gomes’ fingernails. No enjoyment there, when the next mistake was possibly seconds away, when Palacios passes unaccountably straight to Pienaar or the admirable Dawson allows his anxiety at his lack of pace to cloud his judgement and trick him into a doomed attempt at an interception. The neutral may have thoroughly enjoyed the second half but we fans most certainly did not. Good football? Enjoy? No, no idea what you mean.

If we had lost or even drawn, it would have been a bitter blow not so much because of the points dropped in the struggle for fourth but because it would have tarnished the memory of that sumptuous first half display. Rich in inventiveness and sublime in execution, our movement and passing was breathtaking. Huddlestone’s 50 yard pass perfectly into Defoe’s stride, taken down with the precision of a diamond cutter and then the beautiful effortless ball rolled across the box. It was done with both swiftness and great care. Pav’s movement was a threat while he was on the pitch but Tom’s pass deserves repeated viewing.

And then we topped it. Modric, lovely Luca, on the ball and pass, move and pick it again, pass it on, there for more, into space and the ball at feet again, one side to the other, dictating the shape and pace of the game and everyone around him, defenders in thrall to the simplicity of it all, pass and move, pass and move. Then the thrust, the time right, clean, quick and deadly. A genuinely stunning moment.

A brilliant goal from an outstanding footballer. Not a perfect game yesterday but a dazzling performance, full of purposeful movement, astute passing and total involvement. His effort could not be faulted and he made his fair share of tackles. Harry allowed him to come inside in search of the ball. He can overload their midfield and with Bale rampaging down the wing there’s no need to worry about a lack of width. Soon after the start Everton shifted Osman over to mark him but that was frankly a waste of time. You can’t mark a man of his quality out of the match.

It was as good a first half as I can recall. No need to state the obvious once again, that the team look so much more comfortable with the passing game that Pav’s presence encourages. Crouch is ungainly at the best of times but when he came on, in contrast he looked as gawky as a newborn foal. And that’s not even mentioning the Russian’s goals. Defoe held the ball up well, which is unusual for him, and Hudd had a good game. In addition to That Pass, he trundled around to good effect in front of the back four, sweeping up as he went. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone, and how we missed him as he went off injured, a huge man almost too big for the stretcher. Kaboul did surprisingly well in his defensive role – he’s certainly very mobile and his postioning was good, given the role is unfamiliar. However, he could not support the strikers, witness that ball that ran invitingly along the edge of the Everton box shortly after he came on, one for Hud’s shot but Kaboul looked on from 20 yards away. Nor could he find them with passes. A deputy for WP in the future, though.

Everton’s tactical change made by pushing Hietinga forward allowed them more attackers and gave Arteta room to start all their movements. They played to their strengths: Yakubu has lost his pace but not his strength. He’s a brute of a man to handle with his back to goal and ball played to feet. We could have screened the back four better by cutting off his supply from the ever able Arteta but Daws was strong and tall. For the most part we coped well with their efforts but the self-inflicted pain casued by the mistakes mentioned above could have hurt us even more by the end: Donovan’s obliging and glaring miss helped us out. Watching the highlights, no one seems to have mentioned that Gomes was fouled on the line by Anechebe (I think) as the ball came over for their goal. He moved Gomes out of the way without going for the ball at all. Dawson and Bassong won many headers and once again Daws’ enthusiastic blocks are almost as inspiring as a goal.

Bale was once more superb. Those runs are fast becoming impossible to stop and have done much on their own to lift us from the doldrums of the beginning of the year. He remains one of the best prospects in the league. I’m so impressed with the way he has learned as he has come back into the team. His concentration is much better now. Defensively he still has work to do, but he is just so exciting to watch right now.

Tottenham Stories: Always On My Mind. The Do.

February 12, 2010October 17, 2014 / Alan / 8 Comments

The attendant opens the door with a grand gesture and fusses over my coat and bag. More than my gilt-edged invitation, this absurd attention confirms my new-found prominence, and makes me distinctly uneasy.

It’s a break for me, an opportunity to put behind me those wasted years and chances spurned, but my tentative tread as I stroll along the oak-panelled corridor festooned with self-satisfied portraits betrays my sense of not belonging. I affect an air of disinterested nonchalance, trying to take in the grandeur and undeniable beauty without looking like I have wandered in from the streets, a refugee of the London Big Bus Company tour.

The crystal chandeliers lie heavy from the ceiling, their brilliance eclipsed only by the glittering egos of the great and good. And the not so good, as long as they have money to ease their guilty conscience. I glance around, wary of eye contact. With the right person, it’s fine but an itinerant gaze is a sign of desperation. A stirring in one corner: within this room any spontaneity stands out. Adriana throws back her thick wavy hair then bends forward slightly from the waist, the laughter flowing through her body and rippling out to the group of six or seven guests around her. The women look away, the men shuffle a fraction closer and laugh a little too long. She catches my eye and shrugs imperceptibly. ‘What can I do?’

I begin a smile in return but our line of sight is swiftly interrupted by a tuxedo, anxious to secure her undivided attention.

There is an art to these gatherings. My usual chosen option is to skulk around the edges, pretending that I am content in my solitude and that drinking a glass of fizzy water in 185 sips is really how I want to spend my time. However, today I’m at the top table and must drink my fill. An assertive stride towards my target, followed by a firm handshake. I’ve practised my lines. ‘We met briefly at last year’s conference” I lie but they won’t remember me, whether it is true or not. A few short moments to make an impression – in a good way, so my approach is unencumbered by champagne glass or canape. Well chosen words and a card pressed from a clammy palm.

They know after a minute or so. I’m desperately polite and flattering, adding a succinct and devastatingly accurate critique of the new Bill. But they strip all the baggage away – is this guy useful to me or not? After a minute comes the tell-tale glance over my shoulder, seeking someone more worthwhile to converse with. It’s over and I depart.

The hall is full now. As I gather myself for the next foray, an actress few people have heard of is welcomed on stage. I pause, then slip away. Adriana glares at me wide-eyed from across the room, angry and enticing. Now I shrug and continue on my way without a backward glance. The cloakroom attendant purses her lips in surprise as I disturb her flirting with the burly doorman. She hands me my coat and the carefully rehearsed plan is enacted with precision. Two minutes to the exit (unseemly to rush), seven minutes walk to Liverpool Street for the 19.22 and I’ll be in my seat at five to, just before Fulham kick off. It’s a shame that I’ve missed the pre-kick-off chat and atmosphere, but we all have to make sacrifices.

Always On My Mind

December 31, 2009February 9, 2010 / Alan / 5 Comments

I am having coffee with my friend Adriana.

“So,” she says, “I see”.

She sets the handle of the cup to the right, with the spoon at a decorous diagonal.

“You were in charge in there. Very perky.”

I leave in the air the unspoken implication that this is not always the case. “Something is doing you good”.

Adriana has been marvellously supportive of my writing even though she has never read a single word. Not only is she not interested in football, she is not interested in being interested. Such is the grasp of the Premier League on modern entertainment and the world of celebrity, it’s impossible to escape totally from its clutches so most people will be able to contribute to a football conversation when the topic comes up, as of course it always has for the past 40-odd years whenever anyone enquires innocently about my weekend or leisure interests. Adriana is pleased for me if I’m going to the game because she knows how much it means to me but that’s as far as it goes. After so long it feels wrong for me to bring up the subject, and that’s fine. It’s actually refreshing to talk about something else.

She fixes my gaze with her bright blue eyes. “So – must be all these new people you’ve been meeting.” As usual she’s keen to probe deeper and ponders a variety of entertaining reasons for my resurgence, her favourite being that this is a consequence of allowing my Jewish heritage to surface. The logic is frankly sketchy but with Adriana it’s the theorising that is delightfully engaging so I’m happy to go along with it. Or it could be my new tie. That she chose.

She’s right about me today. I led the meeting that we had both attended with focus and humour, overcoming some resistance to reach consensus and a set of decisions and tasks, and it feeds my vanity to be praised for it so I settle in my chair and enjoy the moment. The reasons for my performance are clear, at least to me. Our victory against Manchester City the previous evening means that today my mind is alert and sharp. Exactly the right words come to my lips without a second’s hesitation. I instinctively understand the moods and perspectives of those around me, as if a pea-souper has blown away to reveal a world bathed in sunlight. The group pick up my drive and enthusiasm and respond in kind. We did some good things today that could have a beneficial impact on others for many years to come.

There’s no conscious thought here. It’s instinct, as much a part of me as breathing. I am energised, bright and, I have to acknowledge, as such presenting a side of myself that has been invisible to many of my recent acquaintances. Spurs have won, won well, and I am a better person. There – I’ve said it.

There are two sides to this passion, so losing hurts but I’ve learned over the years to deal with it. Permanently in the grip of this football thing yet powerless to control my fate. I keep these thoughts to myself, because she won’t understand this arcane mystery that cannot be explained to the uninitiated. To people who live in the real world.

And if I am honest, it’s scary to think that what happens on a football field, something totally out of my hands, has so strong an influence on my personality. All the more reason to push these ideas to one side, at least for the time it takes to drink a cappuccino.

Adriana turns towards the café owner and smiles warmly. He’s made her toast, she’s made his day. She wistfully talks of her new coat, a sale bargain put aside and ready on Friday, the delayed gratification merely heightening her excitement. I share her pleasure. It’s something real, tangible, something she’s worked for and will give her pleasure for years to come. And she will look gorgeous in it. It’s another world, refreshing to be away temporarily from systems and transfers, resilience and defensive midfielders. But not for too long, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Always on my mind.

Happy New Year to you all. Sincere thanks to everyone who has read my labour of love since it began in the summer, especially those who have taken the time and trouble to comment. It’s really appreciated.

And in the words of one correspondent, Daveyboy, “Great blog, especially late at night when you’re stoned.” I think that says it better than I ever could.