Dear Mr Levy,
Just a quickly scribbled correspondence to complain about the start of the 2016/17 season and our first friendly game in Australia. I use the word 'friendly' with a fair dollop of irony as I am positively seething at what I just witnessed. Spurs were left embarrassed by an Old Lady. It was akin to a youth offender attempting to mug only to be royally mugged off. Already this new campaign is stinking of the stench of criminality.
Your lack of sustained ambition for anything other than ENIC's bank account and appeasing your yacht loving daddy in the Bahamas means we're left facing a season of discontent.
Some things never change.
I guess you are more than comfortable, the perpetual puppet master orchestrating another lacklustre tenure for yet another 'yes man'. In this case, Mauricio Pochettino, making the most of having so little available to him without complaint, whilst he sits on your hand as you pile on the pressure.
What did we learn from this promotional encounter against Juventus? Yes, it's practically and exhibition match and we shouldn't read that much into it but I'm going to slice it up regardless like a drunk Jack the Ripper using blunt instruments on a gutter rat.
You might have trouble understanding my insight here but don't fret, I don't understand it either. I don't care if you don't understand it. I just need to anger up the blood a little. Make sure you and everyone else is fully aware I have an opinion even when one is not necessarily worth sharing. It allows me to chuck the occasional condescending insult your way and towards anyone that dares to disagree. Another blogger once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some Baked Beans and a can of Stella.
This 2-1 loss had about the same demoralising impact as Gerald Ratner during one of his motivational speeches. Our second string of benchers and academy products looked as tasty as microwaved instant mash potato.
It was truly all the evidence you need to witness to conclude we are utterly and completely doomed if we lose Hugo Lloris, Jan Vertonghen, Kyle Walker, Danny Rose, Harry Kane, Dele Alli, Eric Dier, Toby Alderweireld, Mousa Dembele and Ben Davies. Maybe not Ben Davies.
Players, that if all injured or suspended at the same time for a prolonged period, would leave us looking up a steep hill whilst sat in a wheelchair that makes a rusty noise when attempting to shift forwards. Utterly and completely doomed to reach the top.
The ones that deputised in this rehearsal for the post-Doomsday Tottenham starting eleven, included deadwood (like the £20M wage-stealing Son who has run out of time to impress) and kids so fragile looking you'd expect to see them at an 1882 event at White Hart Lane, doing gang signs and singing St Pauli chants.
Edwards looks like the new Lennon, because of...because of...Oh I don't know...because of his skin tone. Ball made some mistakes. I don't watch Scottish football, no interest in the non-league. Winks was a bit of a Willy Wonka wobbling around like a wally attempting to capture a Wobbuffet on PokemonGo. As for Miller, please sir may I have some more? No, no you can't. Twist your head around and *** off!
Seeing these fetus-like bundles of bum-bluff play for us is like asking someone begging on the streets to walk down a Paris catwalk. Hobo chic isn't for me. Most of our idiot fanbase love to think they know everything but only do so to appear hipster, with their knowledge and information and other such buzzwords. Not for me. Can't stand this new age love for Clearasil kids. Go squeeze some zits and let the grown ups get on with the grown up stuff, like persistent patronising and replying to yourself under the guise of an avatar.
We need men, proper men with stubble and life scars worth up to £25M in pound notes, ready to do battle. Men like Erik Lamela. You know, the one that everyone berated and scythed when he first arrived but the coach persisted with a baptism of fire and watched him progress from drowning victim to dolphin like swimmer with the bite of a shark. But that's fine because he cost around £25M. Unlike that other grown man, Nacer Chadli, who looks constantly bewildered, like he's searching for a lost mobile phone at peak time in an Essex nightclub, salt covered mouth with tequila in hand with a slice of lime lodged above his ear.
We need fully-fledged REAL men, damn it, not kids at the start of their journey into top flight football. Not kids that pretend to be fearless by accepting any given challenge, the silly foolish frauds! Men. Proper men. Preferably white. Like Ryan Mason. Who was invisible. But I won't reference that. Wanyama was awful by the way, looked a couple of leagues off the pace. Like Edwards. It's like watching Aaron Lennon again.
Why even allow this down trodden showcase to play out for the world to scrutinise us and demoralise them by embarrassing these broken little children? Behind closed doors. The three greatest words one can hope to hear. Kids don't belong out on the pitch in the big bad world. Best they're kept playing development games in seclusion at Hotspur Way or loaned out to lower league sides. Out of sight, out of mind.
It's not just the kids that let us down. The older lot made available for this shambles proves my point - minus ten or so key players - we are in deep trouble. It leaves me unconvinced we can recover and build something with sustainability for the games we have ahead of us. Even with the new additions debuting.
Janssen is still in that tentative man-child stage and looks like he's climbed into the kitchen pantry and smashed his way through a dozen boxes of Farleys Rusks. He's over weight with the touch of a whale stranded on a beach.
But then again, it was only a friendly and I probably should have just penned my shopping list for meals for one instead of this faux despondency that a game between two severely depleted squads doesn't really warrant the two or three quid I might make from pop-up ads by publishing this letter on a blog.