Things to get you through a weekend without Tottenham

Does the International break bore you?

England are playing this weekend. Am I the only person who finds it all a bit of a bore when there are no Tottenham games to go to or watch on TV? Don't get me wrong, I'm as patriotic as the next fan...but only for qualifying games and tournaments (when we actually manage to get there).

Friendlies never get my juices flowing. If I can't shout, scream and generally have my emotions soar, dip and ripped apart then it's not really football. Something needs to be at risk. And I don't find pride is when its just a warm-up match. Even if it's in preparation for an important game (next Wednesday) against the Ukraine. Saturday's (against Slovakia) still a friendly. A glorified training session.

Yes I know, Aaron Lennon might play, and if he does well he might (just might) make an appearance next week. Although if you take a quick look at the Beckham feature article on the BBC site you'll note that he has every chance (Becks that is) of playing as Walcott and SWP are not in the squad.

Cough? Forgotten someone perhaps?

And with the debate about whether King should have or should not have been called up by Fabio dragging on and on (you honestly think 'arry isn't going to talk about it some more?), I can't help but look ahead to our next Prem game against Blackburn. Proper bread and butter football.

I don't have Setanta at home and the local pub that shows live games is usually full of West Ham fans who will no doubt be out in numbers carrying around replicas of the Jules Rimet and banging on about '66 and celebrating in the streets that they invented modern day football.

I'd rather avoid it all tbh. But will definitely make the effort for the Ukraine game. For sure.

So to get me through Saturday, I've devised a list of potential activities to help me avoid the overwhelming boredom that would otherwise consume me. Feel free to suggest your own.


1) Work out the points accumulated in the opening eight games under Ramos and then calculate the points accumulated by Harry Redknapp from the time of his appointment till the present day and based on Harry's points to games ratio, work out where we would be had he been manager at the start of the season. Then device a What If Premier League table that will have us within touching distance of a Champions League place and then work out whether we can claim 4th spot based on our remaining fixtures and who we would need to buy in the summer to help consolidate the challenge domestically and in Europe. Then post all my findings and analysis on a Tottenham message board and watch it grow to 100 pages in a day with around 3000 replies. Just for kicks.

2) Throw eggs at the home of the person who wears the current Chirpy mascot outfit at home games. WE DON'T LIKE YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I want the original Chirpy back. The one that doesn't look he's possessed by a demon with a smug Adam Sandler complex.

3) Watch my Sky+ recording of the Arsenal v Spurs 4-4, replaying the final 10 minutes several times to catch the various reactions of the Spurs players and the fans - specifically at the point before and after Lennon equalizes. Then using my TV capture card, create a montage video of the glorious evening with Tina Turners 'Simply the Best' as the soundtrack. Then upload to Facebook and Youtube and then update Twitter every 5 minutes, linking to the video, and posting inane hilarity about how busy the London Underground was this morning and what I had for lunch.

4) Begin legal proceedings to sue West Ham United. The other day I had what I can only assume was a very dodgy lasagna which blatantly gave me the runs and a chronic gut. This resulted in a Vietnamesque flashback in a packed shopping centre - ala Sgt. Elias - falling to my knees, hands aloft, screaming in agony at the returning realisation of how close we came to a dream qualification into the elite of European football. A dream destroyed by a Benayoun top corner finish.

As nobody was ever charged or held accountable for poisoning the Spurs team, and as West Ham were the opposition that day and inflicted the defeat on a side ravaged by ill health, they remain the only ones responsible for my emotional upheaval that resurfaced in such an undignified and public way.

I'm after a reasonable pay-out. Equivalent to what Spurs lost in Champions League revenue. That should cover the trauma and rehabilitation.

5) Walk up to random strangers and state '2 points, 8 games'. The message must be spread to the non-believers.

6) Go round my parents for lunch and refuse to sit down on the sofa. If my dad manages to talk me into sitting down because I'm making everyone feel uncomfortable, I will do so. Then wait until he walks away, then stand up and burst into song: 'Stand up if you love mums cooking, stand up......'.

7) Travel up to Manchester, sneak into Dimitar Berbatov's back garden and then use my state-of-the-art tranquilizer gun to shoot all the squirrels in the vicinity. Who you gonna feed now, Berba? Hey? Who you gonna feed now?

8) Watch my Sky+ recording of the Spurs v Chelsea 1-0. Then using my TV capture card, create a montage video of Modric and his performance, to the music of 'Diamond Lights'. In addition, morph highlights of Moddle into highlights of Hoddle, subtly suggesting that Modric is the new King of the Lane. Then upload to Facebook and Youtube and then update Twitter every 5 minutes to make sure people are fully aware that I'm 'online', either sat in front of a pc or texting updates via my mobile phone.

9) Search through all Bit Torrent sites and Newsgroups for a soft copy version of the Tottenham Hotspur Opus. Come on! Surely someone must have scanned this and uploaded it to the internet? You can find practically anything on-line. Whether it's DC or Marvel comics, books, novels, screenplays, about a million PDF's and random user-guides, every piece of software, music, pornography and movie you can possibly imagine......but no bleeding Opus? Further proof that nobody has actually bought a copy, because if let's say 10 people purchased one, at least one of them would have shared this with the www. It's 2009 ffs. People don't even bother buying Playboy anymore, they just wait for some else to scan and upload it. So I'm told.

10) Stand near the living room window, and pretend I've got Setanta by booing every few minutes. People walking past will assume Ashley Cole is playing shit. And this will bring much joy to the world.

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.