Welcome to the jungle.

All eyes on Sharon Bent this weekend. After cutting the bouncy shinned striker loose in the Summer- not in altogether harmonious circumstances- Benty will no doubt be looking to prove a point. Whether it be cannoning one of his knee, face, balloon or all of the above, the Spurs defence will need to keep close tabs on a man positively seething with indignant wrath. ‘Look at me now, Harry. Look. At. Me. Now.’  

As he takes one in the mug.

In all seriousness, there’s no denying the man is a threat. For all his doubters at Tottenham, it can’t be said he didn’t know his way around the penalty area; in amongst all the booing, Twitter updates, and name-calling, Bent was our top scorer last season and easily Sunderland’s this. The fact that we warmed to him like a hobo squatting in our basement, probably, from the outside, appeared a touch heartless. ‘I mean, if that’s how they treat their top scorers…’ The problem was, I guess, that he never quite won us over. For every brace against Bolton, there was a glaring miss against Portsmouth; spoons and fumbles that only helped build a reputation that we, as fans, weren’t keen on embracing. That Bent was a bit of clown. Prolific in a team that’s singular purpose is to create chances for him, too inconsistent in one that has better things to do with its afternoon.  

Of course, Darren Bent probably will score tomorrow and he’ll get his chance to fist pump the air in front of Harry. Maybe even go as far as removing his shirt in wild abandon, squat thrusting on the touchline until the stewards ask him to leave. But he’ll tell them they can’t stop him because he’s a ‘goal machine’ and this is what goal machines are programmed to do. Then come the tranquiliser darts… In a strange way, I hope he gets his chance against us, if only for the simple reason that he seems like a nice enough chap who deserves a bit of closure on what was obviously a difficult crossroad in his career.

Hopefully by the time he does score, Jermain Defoe’s hat-trick will have already buried the game out recognition and the aforementioned celebrations will seem a bit silly.

Fitting, I suppose.  

Forecasts then; a thumping good 3-1 win against a decent Sunderland side as absentee plagued as ourselves. Bent and Defoe to be amongst the goals, with the former’s taking a neat deflection off a low flying pigeon.

Ceermonyoooouspppuuuurs.

I know, I know. We're not even in December yet. Although, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise with the amount of tinsel, fairy lights and ‘great gift ideas’ polluting my telly box in the last few days; already I’m getting that urge to take my best scissors to the mains and put shot to the whole damn thing. ‘Go away Christmas. Please, just go away.’ It won’t be long, I’m sure, before Coca-Cola get their chomps on the festivities with a saccharine sweet ad campaign that’ll officially tell us the news. The. Holidays. Are. Coming. And it’s going to cost you.

 Providing we make that far, the January sales could be an interesting one. Compared to last year- when the objective was to papier-mâché over the ships’ peppered underbelly and stop it jettisoning into the sun- this could be a wholly more somber affair. As of yet, no panic, no wholesale changes required, no walls to be dismantled or re-built. Perhaps just a touch of Polyfilla in the cracks and a good sanding down. 

Wilson needs cover, or, indeed, a partner. This has been mentioned and seemingly addressed by Redknapp with his public courting of Brazilian U21 midfielder, Sandro. 

He said this last month, gawd bless him:

"We've only got three central midfield players," Redknapp said.

"Jamie O'Hara went, Kevin-Prince Boateng went, Didier Zokora went. Suddenly we're very, very short in there. Jermaine Jenas is on four bookings, Palacios on three.''

"So I'm looking for someone else who can play in midfield here. We've been looking at Sandro. He's just breaking into the Brazilian team from the Under-21s. He can play - he's a modern day midfield player.’’

So what say you? Where else does Harry need to strengthen? If anywhere?

A lot of understandably miffed punters doing the rounds this weekend; message boards, phone-ins and blogospheres crammed to the skylights with Spurs fans giving their two cents on what was ultimately a dismal fist at beating our insufferable neighbours. Some, while still dousing their grazes in TCP, willing enough to put the result into context and move forward; others more likely to dance the fandango of doom, goat’s blood smeared across their forehead, wailing  until Harry Redknapp’s hide is sent packing back to Sandbanks.

 ‘Geeeerdimmoudahereee!’ 

Crumbs on a thumb.

Having a moan is fine. I’m all for it. It helps us make sense of the chaos when all we want to do is throw the dog through the French windows. If you can’t shout at your own team, who can you shout at? The wife? That never goes down well in a court of law and you can’t take it out on the neighbours for the fear of a run-in with council. In the veritable pantomime of a North London Derby, as many heroes that will emerge, there will always be plenty of villains. Hell, there was a whole cast of them fannying about Saturday lunchtime; the usual suspects of part-time talent showing us their infuriatingly average modes.  

Despite being in good form recently, Huddlestone and Jenas failed to impose themselves on the game as we’d hope, lumbering most of the workload on poor old Wilson Palacios. I said in the pre-match hustle that the Honduran would require broad shoulders going into this one; what I didn’t envisage was those around him filling up their backpacks with rocks and asking him to carry the entire load for ninety minutes: ‘You okay with that Wilson? I’m just going to hit the beach.’  

Elsewhere, Ledley King was left worryingly exposed. Sometimes his mobility was so restricted it resembled that of a ferry backing out of the Dover docks; honking his horn like a maniac, smashing into barges, getting tangled in the numerous fishing nets littering the pitch. Or his own shoelaces. Not a good shift at the yard.

Evidently, plenty to grumble about, nothing more so than the catalogue of errors which gifted Arsenal their goals. All of them preventable, all them not without varying degrees of calamity attached to them. The second mêlée inspired the image of a Sims character vomiting against porcelain which found its way on here Saturday lunchtime. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.  

Having said that, it probably isn’t wise to let the seeds of gloom sew themselves just yet. The brigade of doomsayers admiring the reflection in their hatchets certainly wont help matters, either. Sure, go nuts at the players for their lack of commitment, disparage Harry for his non-existent tactics when things went tits up, but let's not permit this one result to ruin our season by saddling the darkness into the weekend. Negativity breeds like wildfire as a club who’s had its fair share of problems should know. Granted, the game’s raised issues about our standings in the scheme of things and, perhaps, the apparent gulf between us and The Woolwich branch. But, I think most of us were aware of that anyway. As much as Brian Clough hinted to the contrary, Rome will not be built in a day. And neither will a team hoping to challenge at the very summit of English football.

And, at the same time, one defeat wont prevent us getting there either.  

So enough ‘Harry Out!’ claptrap and more focus on getting this wagon back on track.

There’s gold in them there hills.

...............................................................................................................................................................!

What is it with this Carling Cup lark and its ability to bring out the worst out in people? First, in round three, the two biggest pikey brigades go ‘full retard’ at Upton Park like it’s the last days of Rome, then, last night, the Oakwell pie man is trapped aboard his wagon while the Northern rabble outside throw their soiled underwear at each other, before finally hopping aboard and plundering the lot. Cash, forks, spoons, salt shakers…the lot. With that many Lancastrians and Yorkshiremen in such vehement mood, I can only assume they were trying to re-create the War of the Roses in Technicolor.

They all want rounding up and drowning.  

Elsewhere, Spurs continue their annual hurrah into the latter stages of the competition. I didn’t watch or listen to the game as I was out shoplifting. Highlights, gossip and match reports all seem to surmise that David Bentley had a good game which I’m thrilled about. ‘Outstanding,’ Harry went as far to say. With principal cast member, Lennon, injured for Saturday’s NLD, Bentley’s promotion from understudy to lead role seems a no-brainer; if there was one game where the man could inspire public opinion, as he did this time last year, (for all of a week) then boy howdy, this is it.

In the meantime, good result for Spurs against a well drilled, plucky Everton side. Cracking goal from the Huddymonster, too. (Thanks to the ginger_pele for that)  

As you were.

Watching a Spurs fan piss in the sink of the South Stand toilets at White Hart Lane yesterday, I couldn’t help but make the frank analogy between his act of porcelain defiling and our failure to claim maximum points. Against a team of a vagabonds and thugs, the game trickled down the plug hole and out of sight. Never to be seen again. And let’s not mince words, Stoke were awful. Their stubbornness to clatter their way through the ninety minutes rather than string a pass or two together was a testament to Tony Pulis and his regime. It’s a brand of football I’d like to see chartered up the Trent and submerged until the bubbles have stopped. Horrible stuff.

 So what happened then?

Well, for all our incisive attacking football in the first half, the game didn’t start well. Woodgate’s untimely exit would, in the end, be the undoing of us. With all three subs used after an hour, Lennon limping off down the tunnel led to the understandable groan from the stands. ‘I don’t fancy this much,’ was the mood. Psychologically, down to ten men and countless opportunities missed, you had the sense that we were already beaten. It was one of those infuriating days. I’m not even sure why Woodgate started when Dawson, who was excellent, appeared to be the fitter of the two. Maybe his seemingly limber routines last Saturday night were a touch misleading.

Wilson looked knackered. He sat deep for the second half and failed to impose his bullish charms as he did in the first. As the game wore on, his influence wavered to the point of being obsolete. Stoke had him boxed in so far, you could see the packaging tape attached to his sock. I’m not sure if he’s fit. Are you fit, Wilson?

I bloomin’ hope so.

We’re clearly missing key elements to our offensive unit; Modric, Defoe and, to a lesser extent, Keane when he came off. It seems patent to say, but that triumvirate (plus Lennon, of course) is the cornerstone to our attacking threat; without them we look discernibly two-dimensional, resorting to soaring cross field balls and fairly predictable jaunts up the flanks. Which are inevitably architected from the head of three-metre-Peter. We can be more inventive than that, can’t we?

That’s a bit unfair, actually. Some of our football in the first half was great. It was only when the game looked to be escaping us that we resorted to the ‘find the big man’ approach.

Right, I might wrap it up there. This is sounding a little bit too much like a match report and I’m not really into all that. A disappointing result from a game we really ought to have won. Probably best we don’t overreact too much, though; we’ve been in worse states and played a skip load poorer. Sometimes luck just has a dastardly way of kicking you in the plums.

The mistress that she is.

Arsenal next.

Bring it on, I say.  

COYS!!

Evening, campers.

Perhaps noteworthy, tomorrow will see the loudest two sets of fans come head to head for the first time this season. According to those poindexters with the clipboards and ear horns, Stoke and Tottenham emit the highest level of decibels from their respective strongholds; with Stoke ahead by a whisper. So, what can we hope to expect tomorrow?  

Well, at the very least, a bloody good racket.

Pulis’ men, by the form book, have a penchant for travel sickness. While last year saw them render a veritable fortress at the Britannia, losing only four times there all season and finishing comfortably outside the Geordie-occupied plughole, it was the their away form which made for worrying reading. Happily for us, the trend doesn’t seem to be waning. Played 4, won 0, drawn 3, lost 1.  

This aside, Stoke possess enough threat to cause a nuisance. Everyone knows about Delap’s long throw (it’s almost become a tactical cliché) and, equally, our often tentative/kamikaze approach to defending set pieces. The return of Woodgate and Dawson should prove useful. Fuller scares me slightly; I’m not sure if it’s entirely his attributes as footballer, either. He looks to have the build of Muay-Thai kick boxer in that he could literally kick my face off.

And I can’t have him messing with the money maker.  

So, my wishes are humble enough. A decent performance from our relatively depleted line-up, without, if possible, a nail biting finale. We’re due a five goaler soon enough, so that would do just nicely. Pavlyuchenko and Crouch to start with Keane in the hole, Gomes back in the sticks with a last minute 30 from David Bentley.

Forecast.  

*sniffs the air*

I smell a 5-2. With Keane and Crouch to get two each.

The robot. Few can deny it’s a classic move. Night clubs all around the world have bear witness to the sight of drunk middle-aged businessmen crooning their way across the dance floor like C3PO’s handicapped brother; mechanically drinking cups of tea, waving, pulling rope or, if they’re feeling particularly maverick, the robo-handshake.

Vintage stuff.  

Sadly, if these photos are to be believed, I fear our very own Peter Crouch might be overworking the routine slightly. Call me Captain Buzzkill, but there’s playing to your strengths and there’s milking the cow dry. Take Exhibit B, for example. Peter, so keen to show the public he’s still a contender, has literally clambered out of the car’s sun roof to have one last voyage through the robo-sphere. ‘Look! It’s me Peter Crouch…..and oop.’

‘Hey-oh!...’  

Don’t confuse this with me having a pop at our lot for celebrating the weekend’s triumph. After all, as one of you keen eyed folk mentioned yesterday, there’s little to suggest that they’ve even succumbed to the motion potion. Ominous stains in the crotch region might suggest otherwise, but, for all we know, it was spritzers all round. Okay, so J-Wood should probably be at home putting his feet up with a cup of Ovaltine, but the rest of them: I wouldn’t deny them an evening of considered relaxation. As long as the points keep gushing in like an open tap. If you’ll excuse the phrasing.

No. My gripes are fair more trivial. Crouch, for the love of god, get some new moves.  

It’s getting weird.

Here’s a few I prepared earlier.  

Clicky.

Shamone.

To be a Portsmouth fan. Doesn’t look terribly fun at the moment, does it? Despite Aruna Dindane’s best attempts to shoo them away with his skyward finishing, the dark clouds are most certainly roaming down at Fratton Park; the whiff of saline sea air has been replaced by one of fear and loathing. Paul Hart carries the look of a man preparing to slip on his Wellingtons and ally-oop into the shallows before the ship takes its inevitable plunge.

Cripes.

Like all trips to the seaside in October-especially when the locals are a touch on the glum side- it’s important to be efficient with your time. No-one wants to be there, so it's probably best to just roll up your sleeves, build a pissing sandcastle and get the hell home before the depression sets in again. Three points and then move out. And let’s not lose anyone on the way back to the car, shall we?

While we didn’t manage the last objective-courtesy of Jermain Defoe’s petulant flick of a plimsoll- we did generally make a day of it. Holding firm through Pompey’s second half offensive; thwarted in no uncertain terms by the brilliant Gomes. My, how relieved I was to see him back tending his allotment again. As I know many of you’ve noticed, the man is the cat’s pyjamas. The dog’s blinkin' whiskers. When it comes to agility and finger-clicking- reflexes, there’re few better than the Brazilian. Good to have him back. We’d be a few points short if he wasn’t.

Elsewhere, part time Spurs favourite, Adel Taraabt, is making us look a bit foolish with another dazzling turn down at Loftus Road. While you watch the man in action, making Preston look like they’re playing in space-suits,  perhaps re-write your Christmas list and put ‘a safe January return for Adel’ at the top of it. Oh god, did I say Christmas?

*shudder*

Spurs are flying at the moment.

More of the same, please.

Good old Peter Crouch. His scoring record for England now reads: played 35, started 17, scored 18; comfortably inside the hallowed ‘goal every other game’ ratio international strikers look to operate in. More prolific than Michael Owen’s 40 in 89 haul and offering a greater return, even, than Shrek Rooney (25 in 55); Capello’s favourite man-child. If Peter plays, invariably, Peter scores. It’s the kind of value you can collect nectar points with.

Then buy a barbeque set or a nice pair of hedge trimmers.  

Talking of good value; I’m having genuine concerns about the sound judgment and, indeed, eye-sight of Andy Townsend; ITV’s voice from the ringside. Not for me to lambast an ex-professional and all his wisdom, but sometimes I do wonder whether we, as licence payers, are getting our money’s worth. Poor old Andy, I can’t knock his enthusiasm but when he hollers: ‘Terrific header!’ seconds after the aforementioned Crouch has nodded a good twelve yards wide of Zhevnov’s post or when he reasons that the same keeper had ‘absolutely no chance’ for SWP’s goal when, clearly, the man had every chance of stopping it, I start to worry. I’m not asking for a say-what-you-see mode of punditry, but something close to the truth might be a start.

A bit harsh maybe?  

Perhaps. But I'm afraid these international breaks tend to bring out the worst in me.

Aside from Crouch’s terrific spell last night, good news arrived in the form of a close-to-returning Jonathan Woodgate. Footage of our imperious centre-back jogging, albeit gingerly, around The Lodge was as welcome a sight as you’re likely to see this week. With Dawson getting fitter by the minute, our defence looks as if it’s slowly coming back to some kind normality. Much like buses; you wait all day for one…and the seats smell of urine.  

Ceeermonyouspuuurs.

And all that.