By Ryan the Perplexed
These are the generations of Daniel. A prince of North London.
Under the leadership of Daniel, the Gooner begat Hoddle, Hoddle begat Pleat. Pleat begat Santini and so Santini begat Jol. Jol begat Ramos, Ramos begat Ari. Ari begat Boaz and Boaz begat Sin Deadwood, at least for the time being.
As the mists cleared over the Lane, the Tottenhamites gasped at the wreckage of the dream. Dawson was still trying to catch Aguero offside, Soldado was dropping deep in his own penalty box, Lamela was rooted to the bench and Paulinho’s shot had finally landed on Mars. Ade was lurking amongst the debris along with BAE, chuckling quietly. Pages from a 70 page dossier scattered in the wind. A man coughed, a dog barked. A small child wailed and a woman sobbed.
The writing was finally on the Jumbotron. Spurs 0 Liverpool 5. And yea, a great hand appeared from the heavens and wrote on the Jumbotron ‘The End is Nigh’. And then: ‘Get your DVD 4 Xmas – 101 Great Andros Townsend long range pot-shots'.
The Tottenhamites were in disarray once more. ‘You have brought us out here, O Daniel, to this place of Doom! That biting beast and his drones have annihilated us. We thought we had sold Elvis and signed the Beatles. Yet we have sold Elvis and signed the various hangers-on to UB40! Some may be good, others not, but we have no clue, and neither does Boaz! His tactics make our eyes bleed. There is no movement, pace or creativity. The goals have gone. Bale took the joy with him, as did Luka and VdV. You have sold our birthright for pottage and the thick pottage makes our bellies ache!’
Levy called out to Boaz: ‘My Boaz, has there ever been a manager of mine that I have supported so much? Seven men I have brought before thee. All men of worth. Bale has gone but so have Parker and Hudd. You my cry out to me, but Ari never got this backing. Two January windows went by, when we really had a chance, and all Ari got was Saha, Nelsen, some buttons and string. Sixteen games have you had and it just gets worse. '
'A plague is upon our house.' Daniel continued 'The Tottenhamites rage and howl. The Goonites mock. Even the Scouseites think they are ascending to heaven whilst we sink down to Hell. The Day of Reckoning is upon us. I replaced Modric and VdV with Dembele and Dempsey, Bale with Lamela and Huddlestone with a rusty cement mixer. I have lavished you with jewels and you vomit in my midst. Be gone with you. Pick up your P45 in that drawer. Verily, I have a stack of them. They never get dusty.’
And so Boaz assembled his men, his files and his immense human dimensions. He bade farewell to the Tottenhamites. Did he do well last season just because of Bale? Would the football have improved one day? Why was Jan never rested? Who had actually signed the players? Was it true that Freund had been demoted and was currently serving hot dogs in the East Stand Lower?
Daniel wailed and wept and asked of the Lord: ‘Cursed am I! I try to build you a Temple. I fail. I spend shekels. I fail. I don’t spend shekels. I fail. I anoint motivators like Ari and Jol. I fail. I replace a Goonite like Graham with a Tottenhamite like Hoddle. I fail. I appoint technicians like Ramos and AVB. I fail. I entertain. I fail. I bore. I fail. I appoint a Director of Football. I fail. I don’t appoint a Director of Football. I fail. I can see no common thread, here! Yea, now I shall appoint a man with absolutely no top flight management experience at all’.
And so Daniel called the training ground: ‘Tell Sin Deadwood to cancel his half term soccer school and send him to me.’
And Sin Deadwood appeared before Daniel and prostrated himself before him.
‘Oh Daniel. What is your will? Am I finally now allowed to run the team? I will bring back the glory days of yore. Remember the days of old – Iversen, Leonhardsen, Perry and Thatcher. A listless club playing rubbish football.’
‘Tis true!’ cried Daniel ‘I have tried every manager in the book – except the right one. Everyone I have tried has seemed perfect. Now I will try the opposite. You have no qualifications. The only coaching you have done is a bus trip around Europe! You can manage our squad and the Tottenhamites will be sated, while I bide time until my next failed appointment. Whatever you do, grow a beard and spout pseudo-managerial gibberish so that Joseph wont realise I had to pay compensation to Boaz, at least until the summer when I sell Lloris and Vertonghen and replace them with Fulham players.’
‘And Sin’ proclaimed Daniel ‘never forget that if you do well, I will sell your best players, replace them with inferior ones and then blame you. If you do badly, I will sack you and blame you. If you do something in between, you must be Martin Jol. And if you do nothing at all, you can work on the stadium project. Whatever happens, it’s never my fault’
And lo and behold Ari and his spawn were twitching in the lower reaches. With their media kin, they had pelted poor Boaz with fire and brimstone. They rejoiced in the demise of Boaz, his banishment and his shame. ‘Hark!’ they cried, ‘the doubters said Ari could not speak English. Who can understand what Boaz says? Who cares, from his mouth spouts the dung of the bull. It baffles brains – especially ours. Cursed was Boaz, forever will he walk the earth, marked by sin taking away the job from venerable Ari and telling Frank Lampard that he was bloated like a toad.’
And yet Daniel refused to tell the Tottenhamites how much time Sin Deadwood would get to run the club.
The Spamites ran amok in the rain. It was all very much like the late 1990s. Dark days.