Dear Mr Levy,
As I sit here alone with only my deepest darkest thoughts for company, I find myself playfully toying with this voodoo effigy created from crisp packets and dead skin and shavings I gathered from your bathroom floor and ponder whether these pins actually work. I've stuck around 200 into it and still nothing. Just silence. Not a single word, scream or shout echoing out of your office in N17.
I read your letter to the fans, cleverly published on the official website before the Sunderland game so that you could avoid any awkward explaining post-match after once more finishing a single point behind Arsenal. One single point. Some might think the only working effigy is one of a battered and bruised cockerel, with pins stuck deep into its broken skin as it lays on your lap, faintly alive.
Why does fate continue to forsake us?
It doesn't. Fate has nothing to do with it. I stand here, naked with a tattoo of your face across my chest, staring into the mirror and wondering how that skinny demented wretch Buffalo Bill ever managed to slip it between his legs, wishing to know the answer to the most prominent of questions; Why do you persist to stick pins into our beloved cockerel?
Kudos to your solid chairmanship and accountancy however we appear to forever retain a non-aggressive nature where our transfer policy is concerned. At times, when it matters most, we are as limp and flaky as Chirpy is in Faces loaded on cocaine. For all the bravado and chat up lines, he waits until fifteen minutes before the club shuts to grab hold of any old bint only to be regretful when the lights come on.
Sure, we are still financially competitive considering our lack of match-day revenue compared to others. Yes, we do sign players in every window, some of which are even arguably world-class. And yet we are always left just a little short. That one or two game-changing arrivals never materialise. Teased, taunted then left tainted and ultimately defined by that single solitary point.
But this isn't even my immediate concern. My concern is Gareth Bale and the incessant noise emanating from the Santiago Bernabéu.
If it isn't Zidane it's Perez or Sky Sports attempting to broker a deal, we are constantly reminded of Real Madrid's obsessive bending of rules as they tap tap tap at the door. Even Bale's agent is singing to their tune, be it one that has been taken out of context, re-edited and churned out to the delight of all the lazy hacks. Why even talk to Marca in the first place? Their agenda is so pro-Madrid they make the Warren Commission look impartial. Is this all part and parcel of renegotiating a contract?
Luka Modric and his agent attempted to engineer a move away, which is what inspired your rousing Churchillian speech; fight them on the beaches. Yet it would appear thus far there is no fighting on the beaches. Just you sitting there very slowly building a sandcastle without any digging and carving tools and no plastic buckets with wet sand. In fact it's just flat space you've cornered off with the intention of building something there, at some point, maybe, whilst Madrid trample all over it, kicking sand in your face.
What a special special relationship we have with them. They can seek to belittle and unsettle whilst we appear to do nothing. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Perez and his peacocking is only for show to cement his presidential power and attempt to deflect away from another unsuccessful season with no silverware and Jose Mourinho's imminent departure. And perhaps you, Mr Chairman, are allowing it to play out knowing that this is nothing more than colourful rhetoric that will not influence yourself or the player. Because you know Bale is staying and you know that for all the sand being kicked in your face, none of it gets into your eyes. You'll shut down the hype when you're ready to shut it down. Hype is just that; incessant noise emanating from all around. Better this than having Theo Walcott in your squad who can't even engineer a move to Liverpool.
Unlike Luka, there is no stamping of feet from Gareth. No alleged transfer request or unambiguous quotes from the player himself. That's a good sign, right? Or is it simply the calm before the impending (white) storm?
Some of the conspiracy theorists amongst us will point to the marionette controlled by Joe Lewis and a shared epiphany you both have that the player is more than likely off regardless at the end of next season. And his ankle is prone to the odd nasty tackle so why delay the inevitable especially when his asking price will never attain the heights its reached as of this very moment?
That isn't a battered and bruised effigy of a cockerel in your lap, is it Daniel? No, it's not. It's an effigy of a Tottenham supporter.
Maybe you can do us all a favour and remove some of those pins from its backside. We've all had quite enough of the arse pain to last us a life-time. How about you let us, just this once, sit comfortably through the summer months ahead. No need for an open letter, just a club statement confirming Bale's new contract extension. That should do the trick. Along with complementing his much coveted talent with newly acquired quality to finally over turn that formidable gap of a single point. You might then have some time on your hands to devote to that sandcastle, currently residing somewhere in the sky.