- Apr 15, 2004
- 1,657
- 528
- Admin
- #1
Finally, after a year spent locked away alone in a small cupboard with a laptop, a television that only picked up Sky Sports News and a large supply of fig rolls, I have finished it.
I have sat glued as Spurs managed to confound the red-shirted sceptics and mount a campaign worth remembering. A jet-heeled Oompa Loompa star was born, a dastardly Dane was seduced by a shower of roubles and cries of sabotage rang out across the city on a stomach-wrenching final day.
As the events unfolded at White Hart Lane and across the country I noted down every kick, shock and rumour in my journal. Occasionally I would look up blinking into the light as relatives threw in birthday or Christmas presents. Often they were helpful gifts, such as clean underpants or Kit Kat Chunkys, others were useless like Sol Campbell's 100 Greatest Stadium Escapes.
I wrote about a season where a man called Martin stamped his mark on Tottenham Hotspur. I scoured the globe for transfer gossip so far fetched or terrifying that Stephen King ran screaming from them. I detailed the days of a World Cup where a bespectacled Swede ignored his potential Spurs saviours and stifled a nation's chances.
Eventually, I emerged from my exile shielding my eyes from the brightness of a new world. A world where the gap between red and white had all but vanished. A world where the future looks Oranje and the past is no longer the be all and end all. I had finished my Ode to Jol and I held it aloft in my hands.
It was then that a jug-eared little suited man who looked surprisingly like Hoggle from the movie Labyrinth stole it from my grasp and ran off into the night, yelling: "Clive, the sight is in end!"
It was only today that I discovered the swine had got it published and it was available from all good bookstores, i.e. Amazon, Whsmith, Ottakars, Tesco, Play and Blackwells. Git.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1899807438/202-5272033-1183854?v=glance&n=266239
I have sat glued as Spurs managed to confound the red-shirted sceptics and mount a campaign worth remembering. A jet-heeled Oompa Loompa star was born, a dastardly Dane was seduced by a shower of roubles and cries of sabotage rang out across the city on a stomach-wrenching final day.
As the events unfolded at White Hart Lane and across the country I noted down every kick, shock and rumour in my journal. Occasionally I would look up blinking into the light as relatives threw in birthday or Christmas presents. Often they were helpful gifts, such as clean underpants or Kit Kat Chunkys, others were useless like Sol Campbell's 100 Greatest Stadium Escapes.
I wrote about a season where a man called Martin stamped his mark on Tottenham Hotspur. I scoured the globe for transfer gossip so far fetched or terrifying that Stephen King ran screaming from them. I detailed the days of a World Cup where a bespectacled Swede ignored his potential Spurs saviours and stifled a nation's chances.
Eventually, I emerged from my exile shielding my eyes from the brightness of a new world. A world where the gap between red and white had all but vanished. A world where the future looks Oranje and the past is no longer the be all and end all. I had finished my Ode to Jol and I held it aloft in my hands.
It was then that a jug-eared little suited man who looked surprisingly like Hoggle from the movie Labyrinth stole it from my grasp and ran off into the night, yelling: "Clive, the sight is in end!"
It was only today that I discovered the swine had got it published and it was available from all good bookstores, i.e. Amazon, Whsmith, Ottakars, Tesco, Play and Blackwells. Git.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1899807438/202-5272033-1183854?v=glance&n=266239
