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WFRF.

 Sorry Apologies for the lack of excitement around this neck of the woods in recent days. I’ve had my fingers in pies elsewhere, you see, and the searing innards have blistered the digits of my good typing hand. I can’t even throw up a legible full-stop without wincing in pain. 

But enough about my problems. We’ve more pressing matters at hand.

Namely, those bastards up at Eastlands. After staring at the League table in wonderment over the Christmas period, gawping at Spurs’ nose-bleed-inducing encampment in the top four, something actually gave last night and we trickled without a peep back among the also-rans. With Anfield declared a no-fly-zone at the weekend (20^th January is the revised date for you diaries), Man City made good use of their game in hand and took maximum points from Blackburn. Tevez, it seems, had a veritable jamboree up there, scoring thrice and threatening more. If Mancini can stop his defenders performing with the nervous energy of Mr. Bean smuggling crack through customs, then I dare say they’ll be our biggest challengers for that elusive spot come May. Mind you, Villa could be a safe bet. Liverpool, even. And Everton are looking pretty useful again, too.  

Oh I don’t know…

It’s bloody tough at the top.  

And now for something completely different. Sol Campbell, of ‘your club  ain’t big/rich enough for me’ fame, has signed a preliminary contract with Arsenal. The rotund ex-Spurs man has set his sights on a mid-week (tonight, I guess) reserve friendly against West Ham. A chance for legs and wage demands to be stretched to their limits. Then, fitness pending, he’ll sign for the remainder of the season. I’ll tell you one thing…

…Meh.

With little to do but wait for Mother Nature to stop hosing her frosty business through the gates of WFRF headquarters- burying the car; the cat too, probably- I thought I’d have a thumb through some of the oily rags which have been piling up in the kitchen in recent days and see what luminous tales they’ve been cooking up between them. Perhaps, like panning for gold in the bayou, there might be the odd crumb of value in there somewhere; amongst all the algae, sand and crocodile excrement.

We live in hope.  

 First up it’s the Daily Mail, who, obviously under pressure to hit deadlines, have rehashed an ongoing bit of gossip from the summer (and the summer before that, if I’m not mistaken). If you read the thing online, you can practically see the dotted boarder of a hasty cut and paste job. For my mind, they should’ve abandoned all such delicacy and simply photocopied the old issue and biro’d in the appropriate date. Would’ve saved an awful lot of time. Miguel Veloso’s the man. You’ve probably heard about this one. After netting in Sporting’s Cup Final win at the weekend, and being the proud owner of a brand spanking new agent, we’ve suddenly rekindled our interest in the twenty-three year old. As you do.

Now I’m not overly familiar with Veloso; only the odd game for Portugal and a smattering of Youtube reels, which, less face it, could make Titus Bramble look like Franz Beckenbauer. But, with Barcelona sniffing in the general vicinity it would appear that the man has plenty of talent. I can’t see it, personally (The transfer, I mean, not the idea of him possessing talent). Like Downing, Capel and Huntelaar, there’s nucleus of players who continue to be linked with moves this way; inventions, certainly, of Fleet Street scribes who make it their business to put wind in the sails of rumour. Usually by drawing names from an old sock then assigning them to any team with comparable needs, cash flow or pedigree. If we don’t sign him this window, you can guarantee we’ll be linked with him next. More than dubious, I’d say.

A new one for me is The Mirror’s suggestion that we’re fighting a three-way tussle for Sampdoria striker, Giampaolo Pazzini. The other members of the triumvirate, allegedly having a peek at £20 million+ Italian, are high rollers Chelsea and Man City. If this somehow is on the mark-any of it- then surely the mention of the other two renders the whole courting process pretty futile. Even if we were to offload our rotten cattle for the required number of magic beans, never will we have enough to outbid Roman or Sheik Mansour. If they’re interested, particularly Chelsea who offer not only financial clout but Champions League football, then we’ve next to no chance. Again, difficult to see it materialising. A non-starter.  

So, then, we rest all our hopes and prayers on the shoulders of literary giants. The Daily Star. Surely they’ve come up with something worthy of their stellar title. Without reading too much further than the headline, it would seem they’re hedging their bets on a Keane/Carew swap deal. With five million thrown in to sweeten negotiations. Curiously, any transfer speculation that involves Villa and ourselves comprises either of a loan deal or some kind of convoluted swap-shop affair. The Jenas+Hutton+Huddlestone= Young kind of equation you can never quite see coming to fruition. Will this one be of the same ilk? Judging by the source, I would say there’s more chance of Milton Keynes freezing over.

Anyone hoping for a giant-killing this FA Cup weekend needn’t have bothered looking round these parts. Instead, the proverbial ‘giants’ in Lilywhite were required only to yawn, stretch their legs and casually brush the threat from their lap like a stray crumb of toast. Yesterday, Peterborough United, for all their gumption and bravery, became the latest in a catalogue of lower League teams to fall victim of a free-scoring, trigger-happy Tottenham side. A comfortable four to nothing score line- with Krankjar and Modric in glittery form- which sends us happily into this afternoon’s fourth round draw. Back of the net.

As it happens, the one team Spurs shan’t be facing in the next round, if I dare believe it, is ManYoo, who slipped-sans grace- out of the competition earlier today, at the hands of a not-so-dirty Leeds outfit. A good omen, perhaps? Well, those bastards are always soiling over our cup runs at the most inconvenient of times so their absence can only be good news for us. Bring on the draw, I reckon…  

Oh, and it's f*cking Chelsea.

Typical.

I never liked the term ‘The Noughties.’ It’s the Sid James of decade naming. This crack-copy of Microsoft Word obviously has issues with it, too, judging by the angry red line that appears below it when the word arrives on-screen. I think if one attempted to save it in the old girl’s dictionary, she’d spit it back out like an irksome piece of lung butter. Eeeeeeeeeerlack!  

Get out of here.  

Bring on the Tennies, I say.

Encouragingly for Tottenham, we’ve exited this calendar year with rather more of a gallop than we’ve been used to in recent history. We’ve cantered, proudly, instead of the customary apologetic limp. Sitting, for now, at the head table, ‘Arry can look back on his brief tenure- at the job he’s done hauling us from the abyss and into the top four- and give himself a precautionary slap on the back. Good job. Good job, indeed.  

Sadly, the end of the year doesn’t spell the end of the season. The next few months are when the ‘precautionary slap’ could morph into a celebratory one. Or, indeed, a slap about the head should results and table positioning slip. This is, as they say, is the business end. And ‘Arry needs to start busting some corporate balls. Starting- after a hoo-hah with Peterborough- at Anfield.

So, let’s see where this season’s off to. The first half has been a hoot, albeit with a smattering of disappointment; Modric’s injury, rolling over against the Sky 3, not rolling over Stoke and Wolves. All of them bothersome but none terminal. Generally, we’ve done just bloody fine.

New Year’s resolution?  

More of the same, please.

Oh and waking up tomorrow without feeling like my liver’s burst into flames.  

Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, have a good’en.

Ceeermonyouspurs.

I don’t know why West Ham bother anymore. The six points we purloin from them each season is becoming as customary as a hang-over on Boxing Day*. We got the job done quicker than ever this year. It only feels like yesterday that we got our tetanus shots and ventured into their den; chuckling at Carlton’s comedy assist and, with equal vigour, cowering at the sight of a Hammers fan having a cerebral meltdown on the terraces. You may remember her. She went all the way down to Acapulco and didn’t return until she was certifiably 'loco'.

If she isn’t already in a padded cell by now- rocking back and forth, refusing to blink- this game may’ve riled even more than the Upton Park affair. From start to finish Tottenham dominated; even with the soon-to-be absent Scott Parker, Spam just couldn’t get to grips with our beefy and talented midfield. Palacios bossed, Huddlestone strutted, Lennonn fizzed like a mig-welder. The best winger in the Premiership for my money; what little of it I have left. Ultimately, West Ham had few answers for anything we offered. The removal of Parker extinguished any last hopes of West Ham regaining some kind of control. If they ever had any in the first place.  

Elsewhere, the loudest applause was reserved for the come-back-Croatian, who marked his homecoming with a well-taken, if unceremonious, eleventh minute bundle. Mightily glad to have you back, Luka. My god how we’ve missed you. I often wonder what the score might have been if we’d let loose a fully fit Modric against Wigan. With a bounty of space and pratfall defending, the wee fella would’ve filled his boots to the point of bursting. But hey-ho. West Ham beaten. By us. As per.  

COYS!

*And a 0-0 stalemate against Fulham on Boxing Day. That’s becoming an annual event   

The Christmas period is upon us. And, like the toxic yellow egg-nog I poured on my cornflakes this morning, the games are coming thick and fast.

With barely enough time to watch Saint Edmonds throw on a makeshift halo and fix the world by buying it an X-box, Spurs are whisked off to the Cottage for an afternoon with their westerly neighbours. Fulham have been in ripping good form of late. Hodgson’s got Bobby Zamora performing minor miracles down there in that he’s finally coaxed his man into doing his day job. Work-rate and persistence are all well and good but this is a goals business. And Bobby’s got eight thus far. Just don’t make him angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry… 

Happily for Spurs, we should possess enough brawn and wits to keep old Bob marginalized, no matter how enraged we may find him. Fears of a DIY back-four showing up on Boxing Day, with Dawson using every stretched limb to keep the thing from collapsing, have been appeased by the baffling omission of Seb Bassong from the Cameroon ANC squad. If there are four better Cameroonian centre-backs out there, and lord knows there might be, then we’ve made a grave error. (Bikey? On your Bikey.) Somehow I doubt it but I’m more than willing to trust Le Guen’s judgement and have our man back for the hectic schedule. He’s been generally terrific this season.

Right, I’m off to make a fort out of empty Merlot bottles and write my name in the snow.

2-1 Tottenham

Merry Christmas, Yids!

With Man City brushed aside, left to nurse the paper cuts from their own gargantuan chequebooks, Spurs toddle up to Lancashire this weekend-traversing through gritting lorries and blizzards- to take on Blackburn Rovers. Painful memories for this one, as last year, in the same fixture, Rovers somehow took all three points. Despite spells of dominance from us, Sam’s men took advantage of missed opportunities and the removal of Palacios by pilfering two late goals. The static lump Samba was plonked up front like nelson’s column for Pedersen and co. to hopefully bounce one off of. The trick worked a treat and we were left almightily sore. Bloody annoying, as I remember.

The way the season has panned out, any number of Spurs teams could turn up tomorrow. I’d like to think Wednesday’s performance was the sign of a corner turned, but knowing this lot, the corner in question may well be jack-knifed around-ablaze and out of control- rather than safely negotiated like a Finnish driving instructor.  

Tottenham were fantastic against City. Full of confidence and buoyed by numerous stand-out performances. Krankjar was dynamite; bubbling with effervescence and positive running. He could’ve had a hat-trick, really, but any goal which involves skinning Adebayor like a tangerine (festive), is worth two notches in anyone’s book. BAE gets the freedom of the City for nutmegging him. Positively poetic. Like Keats or summink.

Hopefully, then, this bunch will show their faces ‘tup north tomorrow. We can outplay Blackburn, of that there can be no doubt. Turning possession and, as Andy Gray rather belittlingly put it, pretty patterns into goals is often where we fall short against these breed of teams. An early goal followed by two more should put pay to that. Anything else and it could be the usual jittery affair come four-thirty tomorrow.

Too early to be talking about six pointers?

Try telling that to the legions of Spurs fans who, quite understandably, see this meeting with Man City as a potential turning point of the season. We’re on the peripherals of the crunch, folks, and it’s high time we made our intentions clear. Either slip on and old sea-boot and trample the necks of the competition or, as many fear, shrink back into the corner like a dazed heavy-weight who blew his chance at the big time; stumbling around the canvas, flailing punches at thin air. The crowd barely able to watch for the fear of witnessing something truly unpleasant. He could’ve been a contender, that one… 

The eve of battle. Man City come the Lane. And it is …on. 

Clickety Split.

Good news for those thirty-six thousand odd in attendance is the suspension of Craig Bellamy. The task of keeping down one’s tea will be made a lot easier without having to look at that shit-eating phizog. Doubly so for Tottenham as the Welshman’s probably been City’s best player this year. Loath or despise him; you can’t argue what the man brings to the table. And it’s more than just a questionable golf-swing and bad breath. SWP could well be missing, too.  

Adebayor’ll be trouble but we know plenty about him. Whether our revolving door centre-backs are savvy enough to stop him is a different matter entirely. Physically Bassong can compete and Dawson’s no slouch, both just have to ensure their cranium dimmer switches are up to eleven and he's not allowed time and/or space in which to operate. Otherwise he’ll boss the whole damn affair.

And that just wont do.  

2-1 Spurs, then.

The season starts here.  

COYS!

I despair. I really do.

Hopefully this fiasco and resultant stumble out of the top four will serve well as a reminder that there’s still plenty of work to do yet. Like Spurs, I’ve been guilty in the last couple of weeks of being a soft touch; throwing away two goal leads on Merseyside, allowing Villa to escape with a point, both sugar-coated by yours truly as lessons learnt and some kind of progress made. ‘We’re still fourth aren’t we?' I cried, while the walls of Rome burned around me. But this is just about the limit. All the sweet sugarcane in Colombia couldn’t glaze that mess.  

Spurs lose to Wolves. At home. Cock-a-doodle shit.

I was tempted to invest some time in a match report but doing so would be like unearthing a deceased family pet and crashing it on the table during Sunday lunch. (Snuffles?) You saw what happened. We were catastrophically uninspiring.  

All eyes on Wednesday, then, and a must-win collision with Champions League hopefuls, Man City.

Pull it together, Tottenham.  

Honestly.