Friday, 26 October 2007

From an e-mail sent to me by a Spurs supporting mate.

I don't think he wrote it-and it was written after last Monday's match against Newcastle and prior to the sacking of Jol. It made I laugh

"Pointless Dawson. Abyssmal first touch. Abominable awareness. Sloppy, sloppy marking. Where's his attention?

Pointless Chimbonda. Ooh, it's on his left foot! Better manoeuvre it onto his right foot, because he can't kick with his left! Ever. Tappy, tappy, manouevre, manouevre. That's it. Complete player, he. Well, half of him.

Pointless Malbranque. Huff and puff, dart and dash. Storm in a teacup. Ineffectual. Touch, tap, accelerate.... then lose it. Track back. Get shunted aside. No presence. No point.

Pointless Tainio. Kick and clatter, punt and pass. But pass to whom, to where and to what end? Run forward, run back. Look busy, do little. Pointless.

Pointless Jenas. Has everything going for him: young, tall, athletic. Should be great by now. Bottles it. Rises to the occasion about as frequently as the ice-caps melt. That should be soon, allegedly. Don't count on it. Greenland will turn tropical first.

Pointless Zokora. Stretch and strain, leap and lunge. Drive headlong into a cul-de-sac. If he rode a bike like he plays football, every time he braked he'd plunge over the front wheel. Used to be a good player, so they say. Must've been a while back now. Lost in the mists of time.

Pointless Lennon. Quick, quick, run, run. No control. Kick like a girl. Has been sussed. Stuck in time, frozen in development. Speed not enough now. What for those chunky little legs if they can't thump the damn ball into the net once in a while? What for that pace without craft? Just a sprinter with a ball.

Pointless Bent. Pointless, despite pointless service from pointless Jenas and pointless Zokora et al. Conjure something from nothing, lad! Deliver us a £16.5 million wondergoal! Hell, no! Just run aimlessly around and get coralled into corners.

Pointless Keane. Flick, blame, shout. Over-complicate. But don't do the simple thing. Ooh noo! Not. The. Simple. Thing.

Pointless Berbatov. A Rolls-Royce engine stuck in a Ford Fiesta. By which I mean Spurs are the Fiesta. The engine can really move but the chassis can't. Class of his own. No wonder he's pissed off. Realises he's in a pub team. He's painting Rembrandts and the rest are drawing matchstick men. Even the coach. That's what makes him really sad. Really really. And us. He knows it's hopeless. So do we. And pointless.

Pointless Spurs. How deep does the sickness go? How can a club have parts that are greater than the whole? Most of these pointless players are - in reality or potentially - good, or at least not all bad. But, as a team, they suck. They don't just suck, they blow. Then they suck some more.

Is there a Midas touch in reverse operating at White Hart Lane? Does everything that's gold turn to base metal? If not, why doesn't Jenas grow, Lennon ripen, Dawson mature, Zokora develop? Why must Kaboul's exuberance be his undoing - and that of Spurs? What corrosion is eating away at the fabric of players' confidences and abilities? And why are their reactions so slow, their movements so languid? Why is their thinking so sluggish? So often the simple ball forward into space is withheld. The moment passes and, inevitably, momentum is lost: the ball goes sideways or backwards. So often we lose out in 50-50 challenges, or even challenges that are 60-40 in favour. So often our players get caught in possession. Does Time move in slow-motion for a Spurs player? While he's got his foot over the ball - either pretending he's Colossus or else totally perplexed over what to do with it - some whippet from the other side nabs it.

Pointless: another game which illustrates the redundancy and sheer incompetence of the current coaching team. We aren't even treading water: we're sinking.

Oh, and pointless putting Cerny in goal until he's equipped with a proper defence. It wasn't his fault he let in three. No wonder Robinson looks a nervous wreck."