The Book of Daniel – A Revelation (Almost)

 

By Ryan the Perplexed

 

These are the Chronicles of Daniel, a prince of North London.  A small man with an even smaller head. A man of big dreams and even bigger mistakes.

And the days of Sin Deadwood ended in ruin. Blood ranneth amongst the filth of the High Road, not quite washing away the mounds of dung that had spewed from Deadwood’s mouth. The Tottenhamites were afraid: ‘Yet again, O Daniel, you have failed us. Ari was banished, Boaz perished and you left us with the last rancid grape on the withered vine of your backroom staff. A manager so inept that even the barbaric Spamites have emerged from their dank caves to leer at us with their toothless, cawing mouths'. And the Tottenhamites trembled and wailed and mocked Jack Wilshere, whose body the good Lord refused to heal for very long.

So the Lord spoke to Daniel, saying ‘There is a man amongst the Saints who will take you to the promised Land. A land flowing with silk and money. Gird your loins, rise up and take him. He is a warrior. A man of few words - especially in English. His name is Maurice.’

And so Daniel did what he did best, which was to plunder the Saints for a few shekels. And lo, the day began when Maurice entered Hotspur Way. Daniel had promised him signings of quality but Maurice had been left with Vorm, Davies, Stambouli and a comedy act named Fazio. But Maurice was a brave man and tried to get his band of misfits to play football. The first season was frequently uninspiring to the Tottenhamites, though he did put the Goonites and Mourinho’s Chavites to the sword. On the last day, Maurice even finished above the Kopites, even though Brendan had managed to produce more dung out of his mouth than any other man on Earth.  

By the end of his first year, Maurice knew which of his men had a willingness to learn and work hard – and which were named Emmanuel Adebayor.  Hotspur Way was aflame as the debris which had accumulated over many years was despatched – Stambouli, Kaboul, Vlad, Lennon, Soldado were all exiled. Paulinho was sent on a slow boat to China with a one way ticket. Emmanuel refused to leave and Maurice banished him to the wilderness. A deserved scapegoat of the old Spurs – talented, overpaid, over-hyped but ultimately weak and disappointing. And Maurice in his love of the Lord, cast Emmanuel over the cliff into the wilderness.

And Daniel was pleased with Maurice because he had spent no money and cut the wage bill. He had brought forth Kane from the depths of the Academy, and even Masonite. And the Lord was pleased with Daniel for he had listened to him, stayed away from the football and devoted his energies to building a new, grand Temple for the Tottenhamites to pray in. A vast edifice alive with the sound of cymbals, the roar of goals being scored, tills racking up shirt and bagel sales and songs about Ledley’s knee.

The Lord in his kindness gave Tottenham Toby and Alli – two players of such power and for such little money, that the Tottenhamites could not believe their eyes. A genuine miracle. Manna from Heaven for just £16M. And the Lord blessed Kane, whose feet were dancing beams of light. A donkey had become a lion before the eyes of the Tottenhamites and they bowed down and worshipped Maurice for all the good deeds he had wrought. The Tottenhamites wanted to watch their team play football again and pride swelled in their hearts.

And as the season progressed, it emerged that a team of aged unloved savages near a service station on the M1 were winning with ease. The Foxites were led by a Roman of no great pedigree, and these wild men recalled days of old, beating their enemies with clubs and sticks and hauling them down. No mercy did they show as they kept winning 1-0. A season to befuddle the minds of the greatest sages - and Jamie Redknapp. And yet Maurice managed to keep his tiny band of brothers on the path of the Lord, gaining points through the dark winter and the thaw of spring. The Tottenhamites felt feelings they had not felt for generations. They began to believe in Maurice, in the players, in the badge. Never again would they be let down. And the Tottenhamites fell upon their faces and bowed before Maurice. 

In days of old, Tottenhamites would be close to defecating all the days of their lives - whether from the stress of trying to defend one goal leads in the last ten minutes, or from the shame their team had brought upon their heads. Yet now most of the defecating was done by opponents who wilted under the strain of the high pressing football.

Sleepness nights were had across London - a great city of 3 day’s distance across if the North Circular was taken. The Tottenhamites knew the fixture list better than the names of their own family. The Spamites could not sleep for they were terrified and confused for they had seen the wretched plans for the farewell to their stadium, a place so foul it made Sodom look like the Garden of Eden. The Goonites were kept awake by the caffeine in their lattes and the thought that their tribe was doomed to wandering the Earth forever in a circle. The Chavites were too busy being generally obscene to be able to sleep, as once the sun had set, they committed one abominable act after another. They all hated the Tottenhamites more than they loved their own team.  

The crux came, Yanited were destroyed and the vile tribe of Stoke were vanquished. But then doubt crept into hitherto bold minds and the shrivelled weasel Pulis and his bland Bromites stopped the charge. The Foxites had a clear run, having been first for much of the season and lo, the Tottenhamites were set for battle at Stamford. The Chavites, fuelled by frustration at their own inadequacy, were determined to stop the Tottenhamites. Maurice had whipped his own men into a wild frenzy. Lunges, kicks, headlocks and foul oaths were uttered – emanating from the normally calm Maurice. He had turned almost 11 players into Gazza in the 1991 FA Cup final. The Tottenhamites raced to a 2-0 lead, Dembele gouged but the Chavites came back to draw. And the Tottenhamites went berserk, raging, raging against the dying of the light. Dier scuttled around the pitch zealous in his desire for Chavite blood, seeking out the Belgian elf and Cesc Fabregas with murderous intent. 

It was not be, and the Chavites rejoiced, along with the Foxites, the Spamites and Goonites. Even the Kopites mocked and laughed. Yea, and each tribe's eyes were turned from their own lamentable seasons to sneer at the brave but doomed Tottenhamites.  'You didst bottled it!' they cried to the Tottenhamites, who replied 'Though we have fought like lions and been swifter than eagles, we were never top for a single day. In fact the Goonites led with just fifteen games to go. What happened to them? They have brought joy and mirth and glad song as they parade themselves on Arsenal Fan TV. Arrogant, deluded, entitled, naive, bipolar, unhinged - and those are their better qualities.'

And the season ended amongst the ruins of Stamford Bridge. The great prize was gone, Masonite replaced Dembele, which, as some wise elders commented, was like replacing a tank with a Vauxhall Corsa.  The last day was an abomination of great proportions. The Tottenhamites shook their heads sadly for they had seen it all so many times before, staring vacantly into a horizon that was no longer there. For a few days any approaching Goonite, Chavite or Spamite was told to go forth and multiply. But as the dust settled, Champions League football had been secured with no Young Boys in the way to cause needless attacks of the heart.

The Tottenhamites were proud but disappointed, regretful though hopeful. For the first time in many generations, the season was not so much about what Daniel had done wrong but what the team had done right, although everybody knew that it was a miracle in a par with the splitting of the Red Sea that Kane went the season uninjured. Every night, before he went to bed, Levy prayed to the Lord to protect Kane, Joe Lewis and to soften the hard hearted men of Archway Steel. 

And the Tottenhamites looked to the future with faith in their hearts.  

And the Lord said: 'Let there be Lillywhite'.

And the Tottenhamites saw that it was good.

As long as they had a better squad next season.

 

 

The Book of Daniel

 

I am became Deadwood, destroyer of worlds

The Book of Daniel - Blame on the Boaz

The Second Book of Daniel - Revelation

The Book of Daniel - The End - Chapter Six

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Five

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Four

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Three

The Book of Daniel - Chapter Two

The Book of Daniel