There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Let's hope it isn't the front of the oncoming train.

Irish Yids have an irritating, extra day to wait. But then they probably need an additional twenty four hours to let their blood pressure settle within normal range.

The whole Keane thing has been of interest. He clearly had a very good game. Keen observers will note this was largely down to him be played as a conventional striker. I was an advocate of him being played behind the strikers myself. I saw it as a natural solution to his decrease in pace and his seeming loss of in front of goal bite. 

But I was wrong. As has Arry been when playing PSB out wide, in deep or basically anywhere other than where he will prove to be a useful threat. I've maintained for a long while he has a comparatively weak shot on him so why it would make sense for me to then suggest moving him further away from the goal, is upon reflection, beyond me.

So the team for Sunday then.

Well I can't say I'm surprised. If anything I'm actually pleased that the myth of Honourable Henry is now well and truly debunked.

Blinded by a bad case of False Idol Syndrome, goons globally continued to speak Thierry's name in revered tones. Despite his exit from their collective embrace being one of the shoddier pieces of whoring ever witnessed in this, the modern game.

Once we all get past the name calling and outraged choruses of disapproval, we'll get to enjoy the main feature. Henry writhing in a the self inflicted void where once there was media love. You see people don't like cheats. It's not a big moral debate. It just takes the sport and the enjoyment out of things if you're playing a cheat. 

Branded products like to be associated in their marketing with successful people. Clean cut, bright eyed and wholesome winners. Keegan and Cooper cheerily splashing it all over.Gary Lineker's ears revolving gently as he chomps on crisps. David Beckham, looking earnestly into the distance, his wedding vegetables cupped beautifully in knickers costing over a score.

There are exceptions of course. Paris Hilton products are probably aimed at girls who's ambition is to be filmed sucking off some bloke with an elongated spindle for a cock. Who better to advise on lipstick that will survive two grams of snifter and eighty six bottles of WKD than Kate Moss?

But whilst a blind eye or rather an opportunistic one can be turned, you don't see Maradona advocating the benefits of BMW or Mastercard much. Reason being he's been exposed as a cheating nurk and consequently more likely in the public's mind to be the sort of bloke to nick your motor and kite your card. I can't think of anyone chucked out of the Olympic games for cheating going on to have any class of media career.

Enjoy the moment Thierry, but there's a lot of us out here looking forward to seeing your grinning Gallic boat removed from those sweet earners for razor blades and tellys.

So have a good bitch about Henry's handball, but celebrate the demise of the legend. 

Funny how the current so called news is dominated with transfer allegations, denials and journalistic cul de sac's various. I say funny when what I mean is mind blowingly fecking idiotic. Maybe I should say what I mean more...

Alan Nixon often has some clue as to what's really going on but his reporting that we're in for a tall left back from Plymouth Argyle hardly gets the ol' Hotspur juices flowing. Especially when conversely other clubs seem linked with £40 million Argie Ace's etcetera etcetera.

Jermaine 'Media Friendly' Jenas has added to his 'Knocking on the door of the top four repertoire' and has expanded into new and more cunning territory; commenting the England friendly against Brazil.Where he said he learned a lot and was chuffed with Huddlestones' cameo. I bet he did. He would have discovered just how much fun seven hours on a flying luxury hotel could be and the cameo he was referring to was probably a broach that belonged to his grandmother.

El Mondo Deportivo which is probably not really any more clued up than the Mirror tells of an impending Fire Sale at Real Madrid. This features a carousel of glittering objet d'art including RVN, Roy Drenthe, Chrissy Metzelder, Jerzy Dudek and at least two or three other er.. footballers who might want to end their careers at Tottenham. Or have their careers end Tottenham, dependent upon your view of them.

There's fresh cobblers galore on Bentley of course. To Manchester City this time in exchange for £8 million, a De Longhi blender and a large Big Mac Meal. But he'll undoubtedly get pipped at the post for the honor of being branded our 'Want Away' player as Crazy Paving has now surely made the mantle his own by telling the world's football media, 'I want away'. Don't we all, love.

Elsewhere all the stories above were refuted by the same journalists that wrote the originals about twenty minutes later. It ain't easy.

BIOYC!

 

While we wait for the next piping hot installment of the Tottenham Hotspur Saga, I happened upon this little gem. Oh, alright, I begged up a copy from the author, Martin.

The Pocket Book Of Spurs is a cracking, packed, retro feel, hard backed beauty.

Frequently, books that get described as 'packed' are often pretty fierce when it actually comes to reading - unless you're a statistician. Which I bloody well am not. This has a cherished scrapbook feel and consequently is a really friendly read. 

What's cool is that it doesn't dwell on lists and league tables, but touches instead on a vast array of memorable moments from Spurs' history. There's an analysis of the Burkenshaw team, Dyson's goal in '63, Histories of The Badge and The Kit, Ardilles's  Famous five and pages dedicated to individual heroes, Archibald, Greaves, MacKay, Gazz...

It's only £9.99 so put it on the list for Christmas. Buy one HERE

There will be a Hotspur Wish List in December to which this book will be added. If you want to suggest a good Christmas gift for inclusion - it can be a book, but doesn't have to be - then email me harryhotspur@oleole.com.

Now to win a copy give us a caption.

Have a tremendous day. 

So that was the weekend that was.

The most significant event to me was need to pull a proper coat out of the wardrobe for the first time. Toyed with the idea with a scarf but decided not to declare winter quite yet. And toying was the business at hand back in Football Land.

Trapper Tony lost to a national side with sixty Champions League players eligible to wear their shirt against his paltry offering of John O'Shea. And so he decided to pack his midfield as a strategy - which he simultaneously contradicted by refusing to field Andy Reid who's renaissance in the Premiership has been of note.

England played Brazil somewhere Alan Green knew to be a seven hour flight away. The result of that game was twofold. England were beaten and should have been thumped. Given that this was supposedly a showcase for those wishing to stake their claims for seats to South Africa, it was a complete washout and quite revealing.

I would say 'a good number' but in fact all the players showed their true colours. Foster, Milner, Upson, Lescott. Three men who could be household names. If your 'house' happened to be in a shanty town. Look, when are 'we' or 'they' or who the hell ever going to wake up and realise that their's no one there. Not outside of almost eleven players. Aside from not being very good at football, these guys are fundamentally thick.

Milner, with his target man being Defoe rained in ball after ball that Crouch with the aid of a step ladder couldn't have reached. Upson's party piece appears to be putting the damn thing out for a throw. Lescott is half gormless, but I am assured he is working on becoming complete. There will of of course be the apologists who will say it was hot and that it was a friendly.

To this there are two answers. One, shut up and two, get real. If England weren't playing at altitude nor in fog or snow. it was a bit humid ah diddums. And friendlies of this nature ought to be worth watching, for experimentation and for players to fight. We got neither.

The last five or six minutes were  almost interesting and that largely was down to our lot. Well, Crouch, Defoe and Huddlestone. Jenas. What do you want me to say? Let's be kind. He was, yet again, hugely absent. 

So here's a newsflash. Many hear the call, but only a few are up to the task.

There was even some mentalist on 606 making a case for some bloke at Boro who I'd never heard of. But we're as guilty. Bostock, Parret, Mason, Rose. All looking good against third rate opposition but miles away from any good Premiership side's first squad. How far I can't say for sure but my guess is it's further than a seven hour flight.

This just in from about thirty seven separate sources on our illustrious Capitano De Club.

Spied in Nolita's, the same gaff that earned Bentley a punch up the bracket if you recall correctly...

 'The only thing that would make me consider giving up playing is if my Spurs team mates tell me that I'm no longer one of the two best centre backs at the club'

'If I get a run of 4 games without picking up a niggle then he'll then be back to my best.'

'Keane looking a bit old'

My love of p*ssed up, self deluding morons is boundless. I look forward to him lifting the World Cup is South Africa. 

Not, as the title may suggest-  an offer of morbidly obese porn stars.

Rather a question raised in the House Of Fun that is Arry Redschnapps' mind.

Arry is a bit of a media darling these days. Unsurprising. He is a personable guy, always clean shaven and has an inherent inability to keep a secret.

We recently heard his of his sorrow over the demise of core East End values. Being able to leave one's front door open, dodge the rent man and extort protection dues from local small businessmen.

His latest offering is championing the admission of Glasgow Rangers (or the dirty Huns as you may more commonly know them) and Glasgow Celtic to the English Premier League.

This is by no means a new suggestion. Stupid people have been mooting this as a 'good' idea for some time now. Fortunately this is one of Mother Nature's little tell tale signs, you see. When an idea is proposed by a stupid person, it normally gives one a pretty fair indicator of the idiocy that will almost certainly be incorporated within their scheme.

The motivating factors are a heady cocktail of boredom and cold hard currency.

The last time a team outside of Glasgow's finest pairing won the title, or indeed anything more exotic than an under fourteen's darts trophy - they had some rope wrapped round them and mysteriously dissappeared in the night.

It's like a cartel. And if it were not for the incessant fervour and indeed the unabaited brutal nature with which the two mobs demonstrate it, one might almost think the whole thing was rigged, what with it being such a 'done deal' on the silverware, so as to speak.

And there my fragile friends is where we touch upon the burning issue that lurks none too innocently beneath the surface of this otherwise noble piece of commercial and dare I say it, sporting enterprise.

Brutality.

Sectarianism is alive and well. I'll spare us all the possible arguable course of events that led to this nasty activity, but it goes like this. A bunch of extremely aggressive and tedious nurks wandered over from Ireland essentially looking for a wider audience to duff up. No better spot in the Northern hemisphere for an irrational tear up than Glasgow, so that's where they settled.

Suffice to say that there are an equal quantity of morons on each side of the crowd barriers. But to really put things in perspective I had the misfortune to be in a bar south of Hadrian's and hear a Chelsea Chav be fielded numerous football teams' names whereupon the goodly man determined as to if the club named was Catholic or Protestant.

This was done in what can only be described as a chilling manner. Some of you will know that Chelsea Football club is barely half a dozen mouse clicks away from photos of men drapped in flags wearing balaclavas. Some brandishing bang bangs. The zeal and pride as the Proddy clubs were heralded and the venom that accompanied the denouncement of their Catholic counterparts was ...unsettling at best.

Stoke could be Hari Krishna's for all I care. And it would come as no suprise to discover Everton were Mormons. But I digress. Who gives a care? Well the answer is that this lot do and if they were let loose down here all I will guarantee is an upsurge in the number of English cities twinned with Beruit.

May your gawd go with you.

 Communication Shakedown

This is a public service announcement for those of you suffering from a mental power failure this morning.

There is more chance of Ray Houghton not being a pompous cad for a day than there is of this happening. If Drogba was genuinely on his way out of Second Hand Fridge (you  know, opposed his traditional end of season 'I miss Jose' speech) then the Mirror would have linked him with a move there.

What is mildly cute is that whilst Torres' injury will leave him sidelined for some time, there is no way he'll ever be binned by The Waiter, so they've run the piece as a loan deal.

Elsewhere, Danny Rose is being recalled. I tell you this much, I'm running out of unconditional enthusiasm for these kids.

For one, the burden of expectation can't be right  at that age and for two, we've a corporate cornucopia in the pipeline. Some are already loosely referring to it as a football stadium. And not many people are going to shell out to watch us get duffed up every other Saturday by supposedly 'lesser' teams.

We need to ship in some finished articles. As well as someone who can pick our kit without the use of a guide dog.

And lastly. Keane has a 'You can't Drop Me' clause in his contract I understand. Did this gem come from the same source that stated it is absolutely impossible to catch any class of 'social disease' off a girl if she's really, really, really, pretty? 

Enjoy your lunch.

BIOYC!

No shock in the news that Crazy Paving fancies the doing the off. And who would blame him?

They are some lonely souls out there who probably rated Bent over him, but then some men aren't looking for anything logical, like a proper striker. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn. Or the ball be shinned or beach balled in.

"I want to leave the club. It is impossible to remain there under the circumstances I find myself in. I have been sitting on the subs' bench for half a year and as a result lost a place in the starting 11 of the national team. And now hopefully we will get to the World Cup - who will rely on a forward who does not play? I want to play and not just warm the bench. Immediately after the games with Slovenia, my agent and I are flying to London for purposeful negotiations and I want to take part in them personally." The disgruntled player told someone or other.

I found the whole Roman debacle a very frustrating business. There seemed little argument to me that the guy was a class act and as many a forward before him at this club he was met with poor service and a fan base which must have just about the shortest attention/forgiveness span in the entire galaxy.

I was on a Spurs board the other day which I shan't name as I cannot remember which one it was... And some cad had the audacity to ask why there was a quite vocal brigade of Tottenham fans who sang for Roman so earnestly when he came on/went off.

The feeling it gave me reading that was similar to the look on Roman's face after being serviced twenty seven times in a row with a hoofed, head height and at best an only ever 50/50 ball - melancholy.

We knew he was a dog. Being avid football fans we got to witness him first hand.

His parents may have failed to bring him up to know the difference between right and  wrong, but here's more proof that's just because their moral own compass was buggered.

Six months ago you'll recall the doyen of English football, Mr Chelsea, came home from his £160,000 a week job to discover his dear old mum had been nicked, charged and formally cautioned with arf inching over eight hundred quid's worth of loot in a shop lifting spree at Tesco and Marks And Spencer.

Well, there's more.

The footballing world was grasped by the throat and shaken as if in the vice like grip of an epileptic Shake N' Vac lady.

John Terry's dad, Ted Terry has been revealed as two bob mover and shaker in the sinister world of the A class drug, cocaine. The story in full is HERE.

Three things made me audibly laugh. One, was Ted's obsession with money. Apples, not falling far from trees etc. Second was his all too predictable, 'This ain't rubbish, this is top gear, I'm a geezer' type sales pitch that this particular breed of deluded arse usually come out with. 

The third and best of all was Ted Terry's dream to see 'his boy' step out of the Tunnel in a West Ham Shirt. 

Me too, Ted. Preferably Blackwall's into oncoming, but Upton Park's would do at a push.

Enjoy the clip. Little known fact:

This recording was shot in the East Wing of ODM's ancestorial home. After a multiple collision on the elephant polo pitch earlier in the day and The Temptations winning the Yard Of Port competition held by none other than Benny Hill, this performance was a live jam courtesy of ODM's dinner guests featuring Whispering Bob Harris on kazzo; Alvin Stardust on crack; Stevie Nicks on mandolin; Jeff Banks on spoons; Larry Grayson on drums; Cliff Mitchelmoore on bass; Dustin Gee on twelve string guitar and George's Harrison and Foreman on twin harmony lead vocals.

John Terry. We salute you.