Dear Mr Levy,
Many have suggested over the past season or two that I have sold out. They say I am no longer a solider of fortune; no longer a personified rebellion against the Bourgeoisie mentality of the upper tier uber-rich West Standers. They whisper in the Park Lane toilets, in-between hurried puffs of Benson and Hedges, that I have been assimilated in amongst the other Spurs faithful. A passive shadow of my former self. Re-conditioned. Just another replica shirt in a stand of thousands.
It's been years since I last chained myself naked to a turnstile and 20 months since I turned up at the Spurs Shop dressed as Peter Griffin, attacking Chirpy with violent bloodthirsty impunity.
I no longer wait by the gates for directors to drive in and out of the club armed with water balloons (yeah, right, water...ha! If the club wishes to give us yellow streaks against our will, then let them have some back). I have practically seen out all my community service impeccably and I have not breached the conditions of the most recent court order that politely requests I stay 100 feet away from your good self and Mrs Levy. And your pet hamster.
Demonstrations, boycotts, drug-induced squirrels, surprise gift wrapped parcels consisting of dead animal parts. All of them things of the past. Stories forever chronicled in my letters to your office. I can't even remember the last time I stood outside your home and burnt a copy of The Opus. Which for the record is a very expensive bonfire, and at the time would have appreciated a heads-up that you were in Florida on vacation.
It would seem I have become a monument to myself. Just a membership number. Just a chant, a scream, a shout. A fan. Loyal. But no different to the next. Not unique in any special kinda way, no longer standing out in the crowd. No megaphone. No soapbox.
I hardly ever write to you. There is so much blood I can spare. I find there is little need to do so anyway. You hardly ever churn out any propaganda these days either. Although don't think I didn't hear you state the word considering when talking about the proposed plans to build a new stadium post-match at Eastlands. Slip of the tongue I presume.
But the last few letters I have written have been, dare I say, pro-you and prophetic also?
Back in May of 2009 I stated how we needed a change in culture of the team and players, the need to instil a winning mentality.
Look at us now.
Then at the end of August of 2009 I reiterated again in a letter to you how removing the Director of Football structure was the catalyst for progression.
Look at us now.
I forgave you unequivocally and practically ended my vendetta because of it.
And then on March 17th 2010, I continued my goodwill gesture and called for a THFC battle cry in our push for fourth spot. I officially and definitively called a truce. My heart and lungs belonging unconditionally to Tottenham Hotspur right up to the final day of the season. No agenda in sight.
So have I turned my back on all the things that defined me in the first place?
Of course not. I'm simply asleep. Dreaming a wonderful dream.
I said I'd give you a chance. I was initially weary of your back to basics appointment of Harry Redknapp but still supportive, and this decision - whether through desperation or acute insight - has turned out to be a master-stroke of good fortune and commitment. Resulting with end product. Actual 'I can taste it and it tastes good' end product.
Stability and belief. Much like Head and Shoulders, two things you've hardly ever got to grips with. And yet now we swim in a sea of renewed tangible progression, floating on top of it if we so wish to do so. Okay, so you still don't have hair on your head, but one miracle at a time please.
How could I possibly complain? Those impossible highs, those far-fetched dreams to envisage a team, a unit, fighting and playing for each other and refusing to choke, refusing to bottle it…to see this play out in front of my eyes. Our eyes. Complain? There is no need for such a negative sentiment. You listened to the people. You listened to me.
Complain, alas, I simply can't. I refuse to. So I'm only going to say this the once, and I'm hoping your secretary reads this out to you with some conviction and heart to further illustrate my positive sentiment. Here we go:
Congratulations on a job well done.
Yes. I said congratulations.
Granted, I've played my part. Retaining a gagged Jermaine Jenas in my basement dungeon for the best part of the season was imperative to sustaining our challenge for 4th spot - be it not very cheap and quite time consuming. And don't even get me started on the mess down there.
But the big decisions made within the walls of the club are ones that have sat firmly in your full control and your control alone. My mere mortal words can not quite infiltrate your brain when it most matters. Short of me attempting to hypnotise you, I can hardly influence your day-to-day agenda and work ethic at the club. And we all know what happened when I last attempted to hypnotise you. The less said about our night in Amsterdam the better. Never red? That might work over in N17, but in the 'dam, blue is always the colour best avoided.
So, for now until a time when required, no more surprise packages consisting of maggot infested bagels. No more attacking Chirpy (although I can't guarantee I wont have 'words' if he cuts me up with a trolley in Tesco's again. Once I can accept it being a mistake, twice, is more than a coincidence and three times is a blatant pattern. I'll hit the git so hard he'll require another round of plastic surgery). And finally no more burning of season tickets on the final day of the season.
I'm repeating my pledge once more. For you have delivered on yours.
Even if it was a bit like you driving around a roundabout in reverse, failing to turn the car into the correct direction and take the first exit north. You could have removed the unnecessary back-seat driver, ejecting him through the window far far sooner than you did. But you did it in the end. Dizziness can sometimes end with a moments clarity. And that's all that was required to make the right choice. Clarity. And a new driver altogether. One that requires no high-end sat-nav just some experience with a more traditional A-Z.
So here I am soft, like a Care-Bear's belly-button. I suggest you keep me like this, all cute and dainty. And if you really need to ask how, then allow me to refer you to next season. Consolidate the squad. If you want to dictate our destiny I suggest you grab the bull by it's horns and ride the f*cker into the sunset. Do not accept that this seasons end is our arrival, but rather our beginning. We still have a fair distance before we genuinely make an entrance.
Go fourth and prosper.
I suggest you avoid the caviar and Cristal and concentrate on the Champions League. In the mean time, on the recommendation of my psychologist, I'll be concentrating on Harry Redknapp. It's time to shift perspective from off the pitch to back on it. I'll still be hanging onto your effigy just in case it's required. You never know when a dream can turn into a nightmare and wake you up. I don't plan to be caught short.
In the mean time let's keep the donations to the Tottenham Foundation at an absolute minimum this summer and get past that CL qualifier.