Friday, 12 October 2012

Spurs' season so far: the definitive guide

We've beaten some cannon fodder. Failed to beat some other cannon fodder. And played really rather flippin well at Old Trafford for 45 minutes.
Actually that doesn't look right. 'Cannon fodder', I mean. Too redolent of The Other Lot. But then if you transpose our crest for theirs in that phrase, it becomes cock fodder. And that doesn't look right either. That doesn't look right at all.
The first three games, especially the two home games, were extremely frustrating. But they were the first three games. For the manager, for some of the players, for a new system, etc. So, whilst it wouldn't have been outlandish to expect seven points, it wasn't a disaster to get two. (Try telling that to the cat, though. My cat. Not Peter Bonetti; I didn't kick Peter Bonetti twice. Although I'm not saying I wouldn't if given the opportunity)
Since then, to quote John Le Mesurier, it's all been rather wonderful. 
(Peter Bonetti, John Le Mesurier, this really is one for the teenagers)
And now here come Chelsea. The Blue Meanies (another bang up to date cultural reference point, thanks very much) of modern football. They'll most likely field a front four that cost around £140m and are probably paid, between them, about £40m a year. God how I admire their pluck and commitment.
Paragraph here about what a loathsome cove John Terry is, obviously. Although, actually, what's best, is the way Chelsea fans (and officials) continue to laud him and happily hail him as some sort of club totem. Which is fair enough, actually, because he so is.
Anyway, I can't be bothered doing the 'research', but I'm figuring it's unlikely we'll put out an entire team that cost half that amount this season.
If we beat them we will definitely win the league. I say that with absolute certainty and a blood/alcohol reading of 0.45.
Actually I kind of hope Chelsea and Man City occupy the top two places in the league at the end of the season. And stay there. Forever. Occasionally swapping places. Eventually fielding teams of billionaires against each other. Spending more and more and more and more...
And then in a few years time they'll look behind them and see that we've all packed up and gone away. And it'll be like the bit where Wile E Coyote looks at the camera, realises he has actually hurtled off a cliff, and plummets to the floor. Because there is nothing solid underneath his stupid whirring feet.
Oh, and Moussa Dembele is my new favourite player, since you ask. He's dreamy. I like him so much I looked up how to spell his name. I even considered trying to work out how to put acute accents on the 'e's. Actually I BET HE'S GOT A CUTE ACCENT. Hahahahaha.
That is all.