Tottenham Prepare For Their Finest Hour

The observant amongst you will have noticed that I have not paid this blog much attention of late. The old excuses flow easily off the tongue; work's hectic, people to see, places to go, but the truth is, my silence comes from the dreadful, all consuming fear that has plagued me for weeks. The fear that comes with every hard fought point, the fear of the giggling, euphoric maniac jumping up and down inside me with every passing game, the fear of daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is it. Last night, as the strains of "Que sera sera" echoed around the Lane, I gave up. The beast within cannot be contained by good sense, experience or civility any longer. I will admit it, I believe!

The Tottenham I watched tonight were superb. Not because of the result nor all the cute passes; the incisive cross field balls and delicate flicks. Instead it was the Tottenham team that started the second half that gave me an incredible and irrepressible feeling of hope. We began the game looking lacklustre and clueless. The passing was slapdash, there was no passion, no desire, no drive to win. The midfield was wide open allowing Fulham onto us and they fully deserved their lead at the break. Modric was guilty of missing tackless and being caught out of position leaving Palacios looking shaky and the defence exposed. The natives were growing restless, howling with rage at every bottled header and shirked second ball. As the whistle blew for the end of the first half, the chorus of whistles and boos drowned out the applause of the visitors.

Old Tottenham would have left the field heads bowed. They would have whinged they were being unfairly treated by the fans and would have played the next 45 as though they had been hard done by. Indeed, the charicature of 'Arry so many of you are so keen to drive out of the Lane with your pitchforks would have sat tight, stubborn in the knowledge Crouchie would 'do a job'. Well douse your torches and put down your scythes my heathen peasant comrades. 'Arry risked the wrath of Niko and BAE by throwing on Thudd and Bentley after half time. When Charlie hobbled off to join our injury ward (now being managed by the natural disaster branch of the Red Cross) 'Arry threw on Pav. This was just the kind of gamble that exposes managers to extreme criticism when they backfire. Decisions like that take guts and for all our wonderful ability, it is guts and graft that wins trophies.

I won't bore you with individual player reviews as I'm sure you were all with me in the stands or screaming "Yido Yido" at your TV screens. However I will throw out two quick synopses. Firstly, the 'Zamora for England' lobby can sit down at the back along with the Bent fan club. Fair play, the guy slotted in a great instinctive finish but Bassong had him in his pocket for the rest of the game. Throughout the second half Zamora was out jumped and out muscled by our Cameroonian youngster. Such was the effectiveness of Bassong's defending that the usually placid Zamora ended up lashing out in sheer frustration and getting himself (and inexplicably our man) booked. Then there was Eidur, the 'striker who doesn't score goals'. Two in less than two games says differently. Yet even more impressive was his linking of the midfield and, in the second half, his distribution in the hole behind the two front men. He looks in exceptional shape, brushing off tackles and holding up play without breaking a sweat. Before the ball even reaches him he seems to know where the next pass is going, kind of like an Icelandic version of X-men's Dr Charles Xavier. On top of this, the guy is a veteran of the domestic and European competitions, something that shows in the intelligence of every run and pass. Come the end of the season, the Iceman's cool head may have a huge influence both on and off the field.

Every week seems to be another blow for our boys in Lillywhite. Woody, King, Lennon, Modric, Huddlestone, Defoe; the spine of our team, have all spent long periods on the sidelines. Yet when a man drops, another steps proudly into his place in a style matched only by communis...sorry 'The People's Republic of' China. I can't be the only one wondering whether this Lennon bloke was actually any good in the first place. Down to the 'bare bones', playing in dreadful conditions on rubbish pitches with players in unfamilar positions and still the steam train rumbles on.

The big three as well as the clash with City will be huge for this club, but I finally feel ready to scrap with the big boys. Rather than going a goal down, curling up into foetal position and letting the kicks rain in, this Tottenham are straight back up, spitting blood in their opponents face and screaming "F*cking come on then!!". As ever, the support last night was literally unbelievable and when Eidur scored even the Paxton was rocking. I left with my hands trembling, my voice hoarse and a bigger headache than John Terry's publicist. I'm not saying we'll get top 4 this year, I'm not even over-confident about the FA cup. However after all the years of hurt, I finally feel we are laying the foundations of a club we can all be proud of.

InArryWeTrust

Tottenham's Unbeatable 12th Man Wins Us Another 3 Points

Gents apologies for my recent absence. I have been involved in lengthily discussions with the tabloids over a fee for the pictures sent to my sister and mother by what I have to describe as 'an anonymous Chelsea left back'. Based on the evidence presented to me...lets just say he's no Ledley King.

A rain soaked quagmire in Wigan is hardly the characteristic setting for a fairytale, Pavlyuchenko is hardly the name of a Prince but Sunday afternoon saw an ending that would have had Walt Disney bawling his eyes out. Ok, so the result was no 9-1, in fact it wasn't even a particularly impressive performance, but there are a couple of things that I felt compelled to record to posterity.

First of all it was nice to see us having a bit of luck. Defoe was so far offside for the goal I thought he was having a chat with Kirkland. Indeed, the way he reluctantly picked the ball out the net ready for a freekick said it all. Perhaps the linesman couldn't see through the downpour, perhaps the occasion of a packed DW stadium got to him, perhaps closet Spurs fan Gordon Brown had had one of those 'chats' with him at number 10. Anyway who cares. As 'Arry said afterwards 'sometimes ya get em, sometimes ya dunt'. We usually don't, this time we did, Huzzah!

Secondly something must be said about Wigan's impressive recreation of the Somme. Paul Merson, shortly before wrapping a red and white scarf round his neck and eating a prawn sandwich, claimed the conditions were most likely to hinder the home side's 'flowing passing game'. In fairness, both teams deserve a medal, and possibly counselling, after completing 90 minutes in conditions resembling the toilets at Glastonbury. When I saw little Luka strip off his tracksuit I felt genuine dread. My mind flashed forward to a vision of him, thrashing wildly, shoulder deep in mud and squealing out for Krancjar and Charlie. As it was, he proved an inspired substitution, unlocking the Wigan defence with some determined running and incisive passes.

Then there was Pav. I am not going to start waxing lyrical about our grinning, blonde mulletted Russian. At times he looks lazy and disinterested, like a considerably less technical Berbatov, albeit one who knows what a smile is. Indeed 'Arry has hinted time and time again that he doesn't put in full shift in training and has made it abundantly clear he is infuriated by his lack of English. Still, we are easily won over and after Leeds and now Wigan he must be given his chance. 'Arry need only remember the plight of Bentley and Bale before writing off Pav. Indeed, rumour has it the board were considering a bid from London Zoo for Bale before his run in the team; they have since focused their attention on acquiring Emile Heskey for the donkey enclosure. The way the players mobbed him says much for the kind of character he must be. We will need every striker firing on full cylinders in the push for fourth, Pav could still become a spurs legend.

However, for me, the most memorable aspect of both the Bolton and the Wigan game was the fans. This wasn't Fulham, this was the mythical 'North' where cannibalism and Viking raids are still commonplace. Yet, there they were in their thousands, a sea of white and blue. As both home teams struggled to fill even half their stadiums, we were there, packing a whole stand and drowning out the wind and rain. I can claim no credit having watched both matches desperately hungover on the sofa but it was enough to bring a tear to the eye. Even as we disappeared without a trace in the first half at Bolton, the fans could still be heard loud and proud driving the team on. Lets not kid ourselves, for all Arry's protestations to the contrary, for all his claims of 'im trainin really well this week', it was the fans who had Pav put on. As the game wore on the chants became too persistent to ignore, and what a fine bunch of tacticians we all are. There are clearly backroom forces at work at Spurs but you could see from Pav's celebration just how much the fan's support meant to him. Many things are beyond our power as humble supporters, but the adulation of the fans is the ultimate goal of every player, and chants of 'Super Pav' might just dissipate our Russian's homesickness come summer. If only Crouch was as good as our support...

InArryWeTrust

Peter Crouch: Ready for the Chop?

Forget Bale, there are times when I think our whole club is cursed!

Who can possibly forget Lasagne-gate, where our aspirations of Champion's League glory slipped from Martin Jol's chubby sausage fingers on the final day of the season. My enduring memory is watching Carrick play a long ball forward, a look of horror and disbelief suddenly sketched across his pained face. One hand grasped the back of his sagging shorts, the other gesticulating wildly at the bench as he waddled towards the dugout sobbing 'Martin...its happened again'. Then of course there was the phantom goal that Mendes scored against United. Clattenburg petrified by the prospect of actually making a decision appeared to put his faith in democracy. "Ok all of you who think it wasn't a goal, jump up and down and wave your red scarfs in the air...hmmm ok I think that's fairly conclusive". Even the linesman, suddenly struck down by Wenger-itis, claimed he could not see, instead standing as stiff as John Terry looking at the 08/09 Chelsea WAG calendar. Factor in all the last minute deflections, slices, penalty decisions and general mishaps, and we have every reason to feel somewhat aggrieved. Something tells me that somewhere in North London, a withered old mage known as "Uncle Arsene" is mixing up his next anti-Tottenham hex; complete with eye of newt, wing of bat and still warm y-front of a French academy player.

The Villa game appeared to be just another display of how unlucky we can be. With the number of shots we had, the possession we maintained and the pressure we applied, O'Neill should have been scuttling back to the Walkers stadium, pleading to be put in charge of a decent team. Yet somehow we came out having dropped another two points at home after a comfortable performance. Contrary to what many media outlets (especially the clueless, hideous American agencies drawling about team's "powerful offence" and "awesome set plays") have stated, we were excellent on Saturday. Daws and Ledley were imperious, keeping Heskey, then the enormous man-mountain Carew in their back pocket. Bale continued to demonstrate his phenomenal talent whilst Corluka, despite appearing to spend the game fossilizing was solid as ever. In the middle, Huddlestone and Palacios roamed freely, breaking up play and spreading the ball for counter attacks. Even Bentley had a decent game, his habit of pirouetting every four paces actually becoming rather endearing.

Another two points dropped, another case of the Tottenham curse...right? Actually I'm not so sure. Admittedly important decisions appeared to go against us as Foy stumbled awkwardly round, his tight shorts stuffed with Arsenal's unspent "transfer budget", but such excuses cannot continue. For all the talk of needing a back up keeper, a midfield enforcer and a central defender, I think our real problem lies in our self proclaimed 'strongest area'. Whilst Defoe can be painfully inconsistent, he is a natural goal scorer and has added several pounds of physical presence to his game. Sure, he's no Drogba in the air but the drivel about dropping/selling him I have seen on some forums are as mindless as Zokora's running. He is one of the few strikers in the league who can be anonymous for much of the game before springing up and slotting a couple from no-where. Instead the real issue appears to be the role of second striker.

The jury is still out on Peter Crouch but the metaphorical collection of silver haired pensioners and acne riddled students are beginning to tutt and shift awkwardly in their seats. 'Arry proudly stated "the lad won nearly every header" against Villa and he wasn't far wrong. The only problem was that every header rolled lamely out for a throw-in or was blasted forwards with wild optimism. For much of the game we would have been far better hammering a large wooden stake into the ground and trying to ricochet long balls off it. An old football coach of mine, that's right I'm going all ITK on yo asses (next week...how to win over the woman you love) used to train Crouchy during his time at Southampton and said for a boy of his size he was incredibly weak in the air. Instead, he suggested the other players lay the ball to his feet where he was considerably more adept. Yet, time and time again, slick counter attacking football is exchanged for hoofs up the field. Crouchy is a tidy footballer and is still enormously useful in the air but he is quite simply not fitting into our current style of play.

We are left with one of two options. Either we persist with Crouchy but make a deliberate policy of playing as though he is 5 foot nothing or we change the strike partnership. I hate to sound sensationalist but at such a crucial time of the season, these big decisions need to be made. It is clear that we need a high profile goalscorer in the summer but who is the man to partner Defoe up front and lead our forlorn hope of Champions League football?

Gentlemen, I lend you my ears...

In'ArryWeTrust