Audere est facere is in my blood

As a solider of the terraces and voice of the disillusioned fan I constantly place my life at risk for the sake of supporter freedom, highlighting then dismissing the propaganda we are constantly subjected too. The ordinary fan needs enlightenment. It's my job to make sure they are not left in the dark.

Audere est facere is in my blood.

I’ve handcuffed myself naked to the West Stand turnstiles. Been attacked by rouge squirrels when attempting to stall the Berbatov to Utd transfer. Fallen out of a tree overlooking The Lodge. Boycotted the Spurs Shop on countless occasions including the time I replaced items of clothing in the shop with effigies of Daniel Levy and Damien Comolli French kissing. I’ve also organised end of season ‘burning of season ticket’ bonfire events. I’ve been arrested, had restraining orders served, ASBO’s and have had to endure my fair share of community service. All because I dare to protest and demonstrate against Levy and his Napoleonistic quirks.

People question my ethics. Apparently I am a hypocrite because I pay for a season ticket every year. Which means I’m helping to fund Levy’s chairmanship – one that I publicly disagree with. But that’s a sacrifice that’s unavoidable. To be able to protest against a war and do so with unequivocal passion – one must sign up and do a tour of duty. I’m on my fifth tour in the South Stand lower tier. That makes me veteran.

Anyone who barks in my direction telling me how Levy is a great chairman because of the money he generates for the club and for transfers are forgetting that most astute business men would easily make a healthy profit from a club of our stature. It’s not that difficult a task. It’s the footballing side that continues to suffer due to his failings. It's not how you make the money, it's how you spend it. The persistence of the DoF system. The contridiction of the Redknapp appointment. The £15M outlays on superfluous players. The cheapening of the clubs name with the delusions of greatness that in reality is nothing more than a ghost of the once true greatness possessed in a by-gone era. The dumbing down of our Latin motto. The Jol/Ramos/Comolli mess. It’s an endless list.

Supporters unfamiliar with my campaigns might think me a little extreme. I guess a man dressed in black combat gear with a camouflaged face mask and a hands-free NVG Cybereye third generation multi-purpose night vision system with additional camera-adaptable extras, illuminator functionality and advanced recognition range would, I guess, qualify me as a little extreme. But I’d prefer committed.

It’s no coincidence that I find myself in Daniel Levy’s back garden. The sun has long since set. It’s been about a year since my last visit to the mansion. The rose bush is looking delightful. I’ve been hiding out in his shed for around seven hours. Just me and this bin liner which holds my Pièce de résistance. A present for the chairman. Not much room in here to move, with the lawn mower and unopened copies of the Opus stacked up. Daniels wife and his four kids are away for the night. It’s not a window of opportunity that arises often enough, and thus can not be ignored. Just need to wait for the lights to go off. That’s my cue. Breaking and entering won’t be an issue. Alarm code is 19611981. It’s practically an invitation. Not that I plan to steal or damage anything. I’m not a criminal. Literary terrorism is more my style. The pen is mightier than the sword. Although for this evening only, subtly will not be my calling card.

I’m here to send out a clear message to the chairman. His tenure is displaying stress fractures. Tottenham is nothing more than a broken metatarsal. From the sacking of Martin Jol to the present day, accountancy aside, it’s been a titanic tapestry of untruths and mistakes.

I’m inside now. Night vision still active.

Kitchen is a mess. Empty bottles of Dom Perignon. Beluga caviar. How can anyone eat this crap? Need to get the taste out of my mouth. Hello. Half drank bottle of wine. This will have to do. Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Jerobam. Can't pick this up at Asda. Prefer Blossom Hills fruitiness myself. Stack of boxes in the corner. Twenty, maybe twenty five copies of the Opus, all still wrapped up. There's another Opus on the floor. Signed by Didier Zokora. Looks like a door-stop.

Living room is as plush as ever. I like what he's done with the place. Cuban. Possibly West Indian mahogany. I can never tell the difference. And....oh.....my.....God, is that a La-Z-Boy?

50" plasma, wall mounted. Krell amplifier. Eggleston Works Ivy speakers. Wu-Tang Clan cd’s on the floor. Plenty of DVD’s too. Separated into different racks for each family member. How very OCD. Let's see what Daniel has in his collection. Ishtar. The Adventures of Pluto Nash, Battlefield Earth 2000, Arsenal 49: The Complete Unbeaten Record. Batman and Robin. Hudson Hawk. The Postman, Gigli. Showgirls....The.....hold on a damn minute! You sonofabitch. You son of a......wait till people find out about this. You’ll be finished, finished. Batman and Robin? Are you kidding me Daniel? It’s garbage. It plays out like a ridiculous parody of the tv show for crying out loud! I mean come on. Schwarzenegger ffs! He got paid $25M to stand around and make wisecracks. Scandalous. They should have given the role to Patrick Stewart. And as for that joke of a Batman suit with the nipples. I feel dizzy.......Breathe damn it, breathe. What's the point of having these fancy speakers and HD if you're gonna waste your time watching an absolute mess of a movie?

I can taste vomit in my mouth. Time to move on.

Only other room worth checking out is the study. Door is open. Forty maybe as many as fifty copies of the Opus stacked up against the wall. Framed picture of Joe Lewis. Stuffed squirrels on the desk. Quite a few post-it notes.

‘Freeze season tickets if we stay up. Increase them if we go down’

'Tell Appiah, thanks but not thanks'

'Possible re-work of club badge. Remove the cockerel?'

'Ideas for new stadium name. The Holsten Levy Dome, Levyville Nike Town, The Daniel Levy sponsored by Daniel Levy'

‘Book a new mascot for Sunday - Chirpy has gone missing’

There's also a laptop. Interesting. Wonder if he brings his work home with him. It’s locked. Windows Vista. Needs a password.

Jenasisgod61.

I’m in. Wallpaper is....looks like the FTSE100. World of Warcraft shortcut on desktop. One hard drive. Seems to have plenty of encrypted files. Requires another password to view them.

Opus61.

I'm in. Hmm. Just photo-shopped images of Tottenham players superimposed onto pictures of the Champions League and World Cup finals. Mock up newspaper headlines. 'Levy is the best ever'. 'King Daniel of the Lane'.'Sir Daniel Levy arise!'. Self-indulgent nonsense.

Maybe his emails will be of more interest.

Subject: Downing
“Hello Steve. It's that time of year again. £12M for Stewart. Let me know today if you accept. Willing to go up to £15M. You know me, desperate for a left-winger. You can reply to this addy or MSN me. Username is LL-Cool-D. I'm on Twitter if you need to track me down.”

Subject: Hello Mr Washington
“It's me. Mr Drove My Chevy. Need your help again. Things remain a struggle since you left. Damage limitation sucks, no? Haven’t got a clue who to purchase. Suggested to Harry we just buy back players we sold. Saves expenses and costs on scouting abroad. Also thinking I should just bid £15M for any names he mentions in tv interviews and see if we get lucky. Hope all is well with you”

Nothing news-worthy here. Time I get myself upstairs. End game is in sight.

And here we are. The master bedroom. And there he is. The chairman. So at peace, sleeping like a baby. It's a shame he will woke up to a nightmare.

I made you an offer Mr Levy. One that you can’t refuse. Stop humiliating the club with embarrassing DVD releases of score-draws and cheap merchandise and I’ll stop throwing frozen shit pellets at your car. But you ignored my letter. And refused my offer. You've left me with no choice. You have forced my hand.

I'm leaving you with my Pièce de résistance, tucked up beside you. Sweet dreams Daniel. Sweet dreams.

Mission complete. Night vision batteries running low. Exit strategy now in motion. Will be out of the mansion and off the property in 2 minutes and 59 seconds....58 seconds......57 seconds.....

Operation Severed Head over and out.

Happy Xmas (War is starting)

I'm signing off for Christmas. Won't be back in front of a pc, willing and able to write up blog rants and download porn until some point after the WBA game. It's what baby Jesus would have wanted.

Because it's a time for family gatherings and gifts and traditional dinner with turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings. For most that is. For me, its the conclusion of my community service thanks to the incident at the Spurs shop several months back.

I got into a scuffle with this one evil piece of shit SOB. Kept looking over, giving me looks. Evil looks. As if he could see right through me and into my heart of darkness. Made me shiver. It was almost like he could read my mind. That's how fucked up he made me feel, just by staring at me. It was unnerving, and considering the reasons behind my presence in the Spurs shop, it was a predicament I did not prepare for and could have done without.

This SOB. We have previous. You know, just a little bit of history. Like you do in life, you get characters who you'd cross the road to avoid because you don't trust what you might do if you stayed on course for them. But the way he kept looking, he was winding me up with his constant smug grin, like he's better than me. Like he's someone. Like I'm no-one. A nothing. A non-entity.

Yeah, keep looking over here at me, you with the face of an absolute bukkake.

I played it cool....to start off with. Obviously trouble is something I always make the utmost attempt to avoid. But this git was relentlessly staring. He may as well have held up a sign stating: "YOUR MOTHERS A WHORE". It was that fucking annoying.

So, my emotions got the better of me. I picked up a football from one of the shelves and kicked it hard in his direction. On the volley. With power. Smacked him straight in the face with it. Broke his nose. Knocked him flat out.

The police said there was no evidence of actual incitement or any other form or provocation from my perspective, as no one witnessed the Pacino/de Niro build-up to the incident. The judge (bless his goodwilled heart) decided it was nothing more than a misdemeanour, thanks to my plea of foolishness. I told the court I was trying to do kick-up tricks I saw on Soccer AM and sort of mis-hit the ball and I was apologetic that someone got hurt as part of my misadventure and lack of natural skill.

But due to the crying children and the protests from the jobsworth cashiers, assistants and manager in the Spurs Shop, the club wanted some form of retribution. Public disorder they called it. Can you believe that? What a world we live in where a person can be deemed a criminal for attempting to play football, in-doors. I mean seriously, get a grip. I got an ASBO for my troubles. And I'm now banned indefinitely from entering the shop. Whoop-de-do. Gutted about that I am. Because I really really really had intentions to spend my cash on Carling Cup memorabilia and DVD's of score-draws.

I guess I was a little tense at the time of the incident, but he got what he deserved. Let me be brutally honest. Even though I've already spent the best part of 50 hours dressed as an elf in an unnamed North London shopping centre, that doesn't mean this thing is over. It's not over. It's never over. No one stares me out like that. No one mugs me off the way he did. Nobody gets in the way of my game. And he did just that. I don't stand for no playa-hating when I'm the playa.

I had business in the Spurs Shop that day. I was going to make a stand. One that included nudity, handcuffs, an effigy of the chairman and a home-made Comolli mask (its actually a Halloween mask of George Bush, but I added Brillo to the hair and Specsavers glasses. Squint your eyes, and its passable as Damien).

It would have been a protest of near epic proportions, thanks mainly to the temporary tattoo(s) I had done on my chest and back, in stencil styled writing, that stated:

"LEVY
OUT!"

"TO DARE IS TO BURN
YOUR SEASON TICKET"

"BLAME LEVY"

"OPUS? ANUS!"

I had an additional tattoo that took 7 hours to complete. The pieces de resistance if you will. Daniels face, colourfully displayed on my arse (which I had to have shaved for the occasion). Guess what his mouth is? Well, nobody would have had to guess if I had the time to set my plan into motion, because I would have shown everyone present exactly what comes out of his lying propaganda-producing boatrace in full graphic detail. But no, that SOB had to give me the look from across the shop floor and psyche me out and ruin what would have been a perfect afternoon of re-educating the Spurs supporting public on all matters Levyiavellian.

I'll bide my time though. Complete my 50 hours. And move on. Because there is always a tomorrow. And where there is a tomorrow, there is a future. And our futures are there for us to strive for and make them into whatever we wish.

Tomorrow is coming. And I see my future. It's a nice wonderfully cooked roast with a side plate of vegetables. This isn't Christmas dinner. No sir. This is a dish best served cold. So it's not actually a normal Sunday roast either. It's a metaphor. I'm being metaphorical. Revenge, its revenge, I'm going to have my revenge.


















































You hear me Chirpy?

You interfering son of a bitch. I'll 'ave you son. Remember last time out you ended up needing a plastic surgeon. You still got his number? Best pray then that Santa brings you an extra set of eyes for the back of your head.

This is just getting started.

Tales of the Unexpected

So there I was, effigy in hand, in Daniel Levy’s basement.

How did I get there? Let’s just say it involved snorkels, eye-goggles and a faeces filled sewage pipeline. Was just about worth dating the rather mature lady from the Drainage and Irrigation department to get my hands on the underground layout. Only way in now that there's improved security on the ground level. The less said about swimming in shit the better. And don’t even ask about the night in the Holiday Inn with the irrigation lady. I couldn't sit down for three days after that little exploit.

The effigy remained undamaged, wrapped in air-tight plastic. Very proud of this creation. It’s the head of a Damien Comolli. It’s not the actual head of Comolli. That would be first degree murder. Its simply a very well done effigy of the Frenchman's boat race, eyes screaming ‘no’, neck ravaged, all very arty. The plan was simplicity. Enter the Levy Mansion via the basement and place the Comolli effigy on the bed of Daniel Levy. His wife will be in the gym, while Levy has an extra hour or two, probably enjoying a lucid dream where he is revered and worshipped by all. When he awakes, he sees Comolli’s detached head and understands the message after wetting the bed. The Director of Football hierarchy does not work.

Although I did not get the go-ahead from Martin Jol directly, I know in spirit, he approves of this evasive action. Unfortunately, there was no way out of the basement and into his home. My plan was fruitless. The steel door at the top of the basement stairs appeared to be triple-locked. The basement itself looked like it had hardly been used in sometime. Darkly lit, dusty and not what I expected from a millionaire chairman. I was thinking pool table, jukebox and possibly a tv. Not here.

There was a stack of old Mayfair magazines in one corner and a few hundred VHS tapes in the other. Old toys and bikes along with countless boxes made up the rest of this mundane underbelly of Levy’s crib.

Within all the tattered boxes was a crate. Very nondescript, but its wooden exterior made it stand out from all the cardboard, making me open it. It almost called out to me. Curiosity, I suppose. I was aghast with what I found. I momentarily blacked out, managing to avoid collapsing to the ground. I could taste puke in my mouth. The crate was positively rammed with Arsenal FC memorabilia. Old programmes, magazines, mugs, posters, scarfs and dozens of replica shirts ranging all the way back to the 1970’s. It was a sea of red and white. My throat ceased, I couldn’t scream out my pain. Suddenly, breathing in the fumes of shit in the sewer was a far more pleasant alternative than casting my eyes on this hell-in-a-box.

I closed the crate shut. Then kneeled down and stuck two-fingers down my throat. Several gag throw-ups later, I wiped away the tears and stood up feeling much better, all things considering.

I’ve seen some things in my life. I remember this one time, in a pub in Chingford, this bird (Emma Jenkins was her name) was there in the tightest white all-in-one body suit you’ve ever seen. Fit as anything you would wish to break your wrist over in the comfort of your own home. Maybe it was food poisoning or maybe too much drink, but she proceeded to shit herself a brown waterfall so sick that several other people started gagging with one poor soul slipping on the crap that had now covered her surrounding area. It was horrid. She stood there panic-stricken. Much like how I felt standing in Levy’s basement.

Our chairman has this darkest of secrets hidden, lost in time, in his basement.

I decided at this point it was time to leave, with effigy in hand. I could always Parcel Force it. I did however salvage the original Chirpy mascot outfit which sat in some black bins. Although I had no use for the ball-gag, handcuffs and anal-plug that Chirpy was wearing.

As I swam my escape route through the chocolate river of waste, only one thing bounced around my head. I truly am fighting the anti-cockerel. Daniel Levy is evil in its purist form.

And now I understand everything. Its crystal clear. Unlike the shit that leaked through my goggles on the way out.

The Corner-Pin Incident

It would seem that Spurs fans are not the only people who read my blog. There I was, hiding, but with a full view of the pub waiting for loyal soldiers to appear at the meeting place so I can assign individual tasks and missions in preparation for the Anti-Levy Demonstration and March. I was initially, pleasantly shocked to see three barrel chested men standing outside the Corner Pin just before 5am. That would equal the best ever turn out to one of these meets since its birth back in 2004.

It wasn’t until I approached them that I noticed the distinct flavour of claret and blue in the men’s clothing. It was that and the overly East End accents that made me suspect that these boys were definitely lacking Hertfordshire blood. The one with the Bobby Moore tattoo asked if I was here for the meeting with Spooky. Quick thinking on my part helped me avoid a fracas.

“Nah me old China, just ‘aving a butchers waiting on this merchant banker Spooky, innit. It’s gonna go Pete Tong when he turns up, the bleeding James Blunt. Anyone up for a Ruby, knees up mother brown?”

They didn't have a clue I was Spooky and instantly thought I was one of them. Turns out this welcoming party were gonna do 'Spooky' over because of some old anti-West Ham blog entries that didn't approve of.

Thankfully, my method acting improvised masterclass got me out of a potentially lethal scenario. We ‘bonded’, waited for another half an hour and decided that 'Spooky' wasn’t going to show up. So we then decided to make sure everyone knew that the West Ham boys had visited deep in Tottenham territory. Utterly smashed and wrecked a bin near the Spurs shop. I felt dirty being involved, I had no choice but to pretend I was born and breed in the Chicken Run. We left pretty sharpish and then spent the next eight hours in a pub on Green Street celebrating another victory over the Yids. All a bit of a naughty day. I managed to escape when two of them headed off to have tattoos done to mark the occasion.

Ok, so the Corner Pin meet-up was a complete blow out. No one appears to have the heart in being involved in this demo against Levy. So, it would appear that dreams of a million man march are dusted, with me, singular, being the one soul on Gods green earth with the warrior backbone to go up against the Lilywhite Playboy, Daniel Levy.

I’ll include a full report of the march once it happens.

I am In The Know

So, there I am. Downstairs in the living room. Considering pouring myself a glass of port (but not doing so) and looking around for any mislaid documentation or a blackberry (no such luck). Showers running upstairs, and I can hear singing. Now, I’m no Jason Bourne or James Bond. But I have certain skills and abilities that allow me to, let’s say, find a way in when I’m uninvited. And this blog entry (devoid of any actual circumstantial facts) would be inadmissible in a court of law. Just a deluded fantasy of an obsessed fan, your honour.

But even though I spent just 5 minutes before departing into the night, I took with me two rather glorious tips that would suggest that two new signings are in the offing. On Sky+, Derby v WBA is set to be recorded. And as for the singing in the shower? Do do do…..

That’s right. There’s no need to hang around the Lodge up a tree or rely on a tea-lady that might have heard something in the corridor while taking tea and biscuits to a board meeting. No sir. This is nailed on.

Giles Barnes and Nigel Reo-Coker are done deals. Literally, from the horses mouth and his programme planner.

And if you’re curious, he has a subscription to Television X.

Field Report (2nd May)

Watched the Milan v Utd match this evening. Wonderful performance from the Italians, guided by the brilliant Kaka. 3-0 was a fair result on display, though I didn't quite catch much of the second half as the tv screen was obstructed and I didn't want to use my mobile to tune into 606 to listen to the commentary. The risk factor was too high. Jack Bauer never abuses his cell phone for personal usage when on a mission.

Luckily my PSP-10 Cybereye second generation multi-purpose night vision system with head-mountable (cushioned for comfort) and additional camera-adaptable, c/w 2 stage IR illuminator functionality gave me the option of concentrating on Mrs Levy via the upstairs bathroom window for a good twenty minutes, which provided me with ample alternative orientation, making full use of the Cybereye's recognition range. The hands-free makes this one of the best NVG's on the market.

Battery life could be better. And some kind of anti-squirrel alert mechanism would help. Vicious little buggers. And boy do they cry like bitches when they get dicked with pepper-spray.

Nothing much to report this evening. Levy made one outgoing call. He looked very excited and animated. Initially thought it had something to do with the story in the press today about Auxerre French defender Younes Kaboul joining as for £7.5M. The arrival of a Domino's pizza delivery boy thirty minutes later suggested otherwise. Tandoori Hot if you're wondering.

Left around 10:15pm. Urinated on his favourite rose bush.