Dear Mr Levy,
We've not spoken for a while. I've been busy on a variety of projects. I now run an up-skirt video and pics website and as you can imagine this is a laborious and time consuming activity, having to collate content for it. Regardless, I remain obsessed with Tottenham. Just a little less obsessed with another of my past-times, breaking and entering. Hence why we've not meet in your kitchen in the late hours of the night (a consequence of my sleep-walking which the judge took into consideration during sentencing).
I've spent many nights during and after incarceration, sometimes alone in the dark, thinking and reciting passages from yesteryear trying to figure out why I've been in this state. This stasis. Surely as a supporter I would have an opinion to share with you, the chairman of my club. An opinion to clash with one of your own, and yet here I am, on any given day, working the Central Line with a spy-cam and taking snapshots with a smart-phone.
What have I become? Where has my footballing passion gone? Where has the revolutionary in me disappeared to? Why do I not send you weekly hate mail or decapitated chicken heads via Parcel Force? When did I turn into a zombie feeding off the propaganda of progress that you churn out of N17 daily? Damn it, I can't even remember the last time I boycotted the Spurs Shop. Those where the days, handcuffed naked to turnstiles or dressed up in disguise with a megaphone preaching about Jesus on match-day whilst secretly passing on leaflets detailing the wrongs of your reign.
Did my rebellion turn into a monument of self-indulgence? Is that why I got lazy, distracted by panties and cleavage? When did I accept that everything was 'just okay' and give up without a fight, without questioning the questionable?
Something happened, something sinister and I think I know what it was. A gun was loaded, a trigger was pulled. The bullet?
Him and all the subliminal messages cleverly crafted into the latest news sections on the THFC home page, slowly and surely brainwashing me and others against Harry Redknapp.
I know that many have been infected by this electronic cancer. Not all of us. Some have seen through the transparency, through the façade. I turned against Harry. I thought it was the way he lost focus with us, the England job, the relegation form in the last chapter of last season. I thought perhaps he had taken us as far as he could but alas no. I, like any random victim of a Derren Brown illusion, was placed into a trance. One that allowed me to see a false truth, the arrival of a failed coach as some apparent messianic solution to our plight. Plight that did not exist. Plight you created so you could replace substance with a puppet thus retaining your mastering of the strings.
The greatest trick a chairman ever pulled was to convince the world that Harry Redknapp wasn't very good.
We took a rejected man, a broken and humiliated man from a rival club and made him our head coach whilst the one that led us to Champions League was pushed out of the club, pushed away from it's future, unceremoniously and without respect and now manages a team destined for probable relegation.
Gone is the swashbuckle, the carefree expression, the pulsating constant relentless attacking swagger. That ye olde Spurs shirt tucked out socks rolled down type of swagger. In came the ponderous regimental slow passing movement, players restrained to positions, lacking spark and silk. We struggle to score, we struggle to dominate. We concede late goals. We have no obvious style or vision. Just players not really running around. The one player that does run will soon be running off to Real Madrid. There's no pomp just plop. It's industrial not renaissance. There is no colour on the canvas, just black and white tones.
Take a look at the players as part of our poorly painted picture...
Sandro - will be sold for profit at some point so why build a team around a player that will compensate us for all the money we won't have when the new stadium is being built
Dembele - injury prone, the new van der Vaart. But lacks a punch
Lloris - hides the fact he has a pathological fear of the ball by seeking to punch it away at every given moment. When he runs out to meet the ball he's actually attempting to run away, and ends up cluttering some poor soul instead. Probably screams self-loathing obscenities in French at himself which gets mistaken for 'commanding his area'
Vertonghen - must think he signed for Arsenal. He'll work it out once he clocks a black cab on the High Road and gets a lift up the Seven Sisters.
Defoe - blows hot and cold
Adebayor - blows
Lennon - breakthrough season until you realise he's almost 30
Parker - coincidence that his best season was under Redknapp? Where has he been this term? Where? Exactly.
Huddlestone - by the time he scores a goal his head will resemble a montage of 1970s centrefolds from Hustler magazine
BAE - Oh look, he doesn't care about football, how very rock'n'roll.
Dempsey - signed because we failed to sign the player we wanted to sign even though we signed Sigurdsson which was a player that was signed because of no apparent reason other than to just sign someone
And so on.
It's a team that, when isolated player for player, isn't as good as it thinks it is. Why else would the media constantly belittle Villas-Boas? They know. They know the truth. They see beyond all this alleged good form. I've broken free from this trance and I'm no longer dazzled by cheap parlour tricks. Long term strategies, organisation...blah blah blah...it's nothing more than business talk. Buzz words. But I've got news for you Andre, I've slipped in a picture of a bird in a bikini into your PowerPoint slide. It's all about to go t*ts up.
He's a media disaster. All cloak and dagger. I'm at a lost to know who we might be signing. Who the hell does he think he is? The manager of Tottenham Hotspur? He has all the personality of a football coach. Bore off.
3rd you say? That's just by sheer luck. A mathematical quirk based on a series of results that see other clubs sit below us based on results we can't influence therefore how can we possibly take credit for our current lofty position? The reality is had we lost more games we'd be lower in the league. In fact had we lost more than half the games we've played we'd be fighting off relegation. That's how thin the line is.
Then we have White Hart Lane, a morgue. Our fan-base expect to be entertained. You don't pay the money you pay to see a sh*t movie at the cinema do you? You expect a thrill ride and a satisfying ending. If not, you criticise it and rightly so. Redknapp took us from the brink of relegation to the heights of heaven. Villas-Boas has taken us from those same heights and done what? Nothing. We're still sitting in the same type of position Redknapp had us in. I see no progression, I see no new ideology. What do you see Mr Chairman from the comfort of your directors box, drinking the blood of baby seal whilst you applaud the fiscal and ignore the foot-work? What do you see?
I see a movie about to bomb at the box-office.
I see that some of our players need to be shipped out before we lose any potential transfer value, a saving grace. Even you would agree to that logic. I can share with you my excel sheet that perfectly illustrates which players performed at an unacceptable 6/10 rating or below on any given game. I can name you every single mistake Kyle Walker has made this season. All of them. I've got them all written down. I keep tabs on stuff like that. Every negative, every misplaced ball, it's in my excel. I have animated gifs of his mistakes along with complete references of all Twitter traffic citing said mistakes. It's damning evidence. It can't be ignored. Surely, from where I sit (in front of a monitor, a television and the internet) I have a far better view than the coach has from his technical area.
And I don't have a clue what ilk of encouragement AVB shouts from his dug-out because I'm telling Walker exactly what I think of him after two minutes of the game and he still can't find form.
AVB had the first five games of his tenure to truly 'wow' us and he failed. He's been on borrowed time ever since. How can I trust a man to clean the slate when he's incapable of clearing his own throat? He's not English which means he can't possibly understand our game, with that haircut, because continental ideas never work in the Premier League. He's old enough to be my better looking more successful slightly younger brother. What a show-off.
He only won the league and the cups he won at Porto because of the players he had in his side. If he didn't have any of those players he'd have won nothing. Portugal isn't even a proper league. Not since Jose left. In fact he only had success there because of Jose's legacy. It's a bit like me taking over the local Kebab house. Keep the grill hot, and the meat will still get cooked.
When he was given his golden chance in England, he failed.
If someone said to me 'This is what I want you to do. I want you to take all this money, there's millions there, just take it. I want you to throw the biggest, best party you can possibly throw. Music, women, drugs...you organise it. You sort out the catering and security. Here's the VIP list, anyone not on it, don't let them in. Get rid of them if you have to. In fact this one and this one, I want them banned from attending. Just make sure I'm smiling and the party is fantastic'.
You know what I'd do...I'd do all of that. All of it. The party would blow your mind and I'd be on centre stage, my eyes dilating, out of my skull cutting shapes. And the rich Russian benefactor of the party, he'd be up there with me.
What did Villas-Boas do in the same scenario? He squatted in front of everyone in attendance. Squatted. In the middle of the dance-floor. The DJ train-wrecked, the food gave everyone food poisoning, the VIP's failed to turn up. All the gatecrashers smugly looked on, apart from one who had his faced buried in the sausage rolls and the other who searched for anyone non-white to racially abuse. And AVB just squatted. When he was escorted out he was replaced by the type of person you always find in the kitchen during a party trying desperately to be hipster. HE WON THE GOD DAMN CHAMPIONS LEAGUE. That little funny looking man with the eyebrows. He won it without tactics, without grace, no drilled training, no over complicated notepad illustrations.
Now, you want to hear the really painful truth?
Because of AVB's failure Chelsea won the CL, knocking us out of it before we even got there. And you reward him by appointing him our manager. Harry Redknapp defeated Chelsea with QPR. Villas-Boas lost to them in our own backyard.
What have you done to this club? Daniel, what have you done to this club?
It all looks good at the moment but it's just aesthetics. That trance that so many seem to be locked in, that will slowly fade away and the rest of us, the ones that can see the future and do not care for any potentialities in-between because we know we're right...we'll inherit the earth. And on that earth will sit a new stadium which will no doubt grace the lower leagues for years to come.
There used to be a football club quote about there being a football club over there and now it's replaced with my back as I walk away from this mess.
PS I have an up-skirt of Chirpy I took at a club in Soho. You might want to know he's a hermaphrodite. Explains everything, the jumped up little glorified cheerleader.