Day Zero


Daniel, 09:55 a.m., July 6th. I'm sat here sweating my balls off. The heat. God damn, the heat. I hate it with extreme enthusiasm. The stickiness, the impossible to quench thirst. Imagine being on holiday in the Canary Islands and instead of the beach you have your local high road and instead of the social hub of bars and clubs you've got the run to the Primary school and an army of traffic wardens to avoid when attempting to sneak a parking space. If you get excited by the temperature rising, within the boundaries of England, you need to be smacked full on in the face with a factor 50. It's positively hellish. This weather belongs abroad.

Oh sure, it's all good and well if you're socially inept, armed with a smartphone stuck on the Central Line grabbing stealth upskirt and cleavage shots. Some of us are duty bound to the common decency of community spirit and refuse to partake in such demeaning activities, mostly thanks to legislation. If you know of such sites that provide such content please report them. To me. And then I'll report them. To the authorities. I can review and confirm the content is an invasion of privacy and thus unacceptable for prolonged midnight viewing sessions. I'm sure your browsing habits are more streamlined towards economics. The only porn you watch is when Pochettino celebrates on the touchline after another Spurs goal. You know I'm right.

My point is, I prefer the winter, no question. Wrapped up and ready to fight the pelting rain during a showery afternoon. You feel alive during the moody short lived days of flu and hot soup. Every layer of clothing a badge of honour as you tackle whatever mundane tasks you have to complete before the sun vanquishes from the bitter brooding sky. Football is also a greater pleasure during the winter. Stood there in the stands relying on the players out on the pitch to warm the cockles of ones heart.

Alas, Daniel, no more whimsical day-dreaming.

Instead I'm having to endure temperatures that are befitting a Mediterranean terrain whilst watching body conscious folk muddle through the day in flip-flops and overly revealing curtain coloured dresses. It's the sight of a summer that is without the social graces of the game we love and love to loathe. Tottenham Hotspur, remains sat in the shade for now, away from the burning rays.

I've disconnected from the hive. I'm not bothering with actively seeking what's out there. On TV, online, anywhere. It would leave my eyes misty with disdain. I refuse to look. The tedious repetition of nothingness plays like a monotone bass-line from a pretentious electronic track. I know this because it always does, especially in the off-season. There's nothing worth dancing to. Of course, I'm not completely safe from the singularity and its all consuming power to overload our senses with information and one dimensional opinions on said information. 'News' tends to find a way to break through my cerebral defences. Friends share nuggets of non-existence by way of Whatsapp. What allows me to retain sanity is to avoid the rabbit-hole and its teasing invitation to dive on in to grab more rhetoric.

So Daniel, the nuggets, I here you asking.

Apparently our new kit has polarised the fanbase once more. It is the pre-pre season after-all. The fluff before the actual fluff before the actual season. Grown men outraged. Most are content though, I'm sure. Welcome Nike. I have seen the shirts. I don't care about the cost as I won't be purchasing a replica shirt or any variants. I will probably spend pound notes on one of those blue Core Track Jackets (hypocrite klaxon) so I can look dapper when swaggering. Loads of Spurs in my neck of the woods and it's always nice to knowingly nod towards another man wearing our colours, perpetually anchored to fatherhood, that there is an escape and that escape is beautiful and brilliant no matter what. That nod is available for £60 at the Spurs Shop now.

Then there's the outsourced / third party company charging a hefty whack for the privilege of frequenting the national stadium to watch Juventus visit. All for the cost of the equivalent of three Champions League fixtures. It's like modern football never happened. I'm fairly certain the Stubhub relationship died recently too. Didn't even get the chance to pour liquor over that one. Still, one cluster of calamity usually follows another. It's all about the money money money.

Speaking to a gooner dad (don't fret, he's an adult and doesn't wrap himself inside an over sized red and white scarf during the cold months with fingers stuck in his ears) he proceeded to tell me how much of a nightmare it is to gain the ability to apply for tickets at their swamp. You pay X amount for membership and then another amount to apply and then there's still no guarantee and when you are successful you're paying over £100 for a father and son to go an sit amongst fair-weathers for the afternoon. Relegating yourself to being one too by virtue of the system that gave you the tickets. Obviously, take note here Daniel and make sure we have concessions in the new White Hart Lane. Make it accessible to the next generation, don't make it exclusive to daytrippers.

Talking of them lot down the road, I'm also hearing that our fanbase is melting because they signed Lacazette. I can close my eyes and see the disgruntlement puking out of the mouth of Mother Yidarmy. I'm not saying my foot isn't casually tapping the floor beneath me impatiently waiting for us to display ambition in the transfer market, to strengthen and consolidate. But guess I'm not about to sh*t the bed on account of the £100M complete forward already in our midst. Add to it the £80M shadow striker. The former cost 400k to develop. The latter £5M to sign. But alas, the crack addicts need a new clean needle to inject that same old high that never lasts long enough to avoid the unavoidable come down. Utd are about to sign a battering ram for £75M. I'll refer you back to the skeleton key now worth double the amount I quoted above. Don't get any ideas Dan. Joe Lewis doesn't need another yacht for his collection. 

Other than that, no players have been signed (hence the foot tapping) and the ones being linked sit begrudgingly (for the faithful) in the 'Oh God, another no-mark French youngster nobody has heard of that will never make it onto the bench' bin. I'm sure we're being linked to £30M moves here and there and I'm certain the Walker to City negotiation is on-going because that's what I've been hearing for months. Nothing is anything until something is official.

Almost forgot the controversy over the season ticket offerings. Some supporters are several tens of thousands adrift in the waiting list and yet find themselves with an invite to purchase one. Then don't. Much like the ones sat at the top of the waiting list. Can't wait for the season after Wembley when everyone is complaining that they haven't been offered a season ticket.

Look at all the info I'm seemingly aware of when doing my best to AVOID ALL CONDUITS OF INFO. Time to delete Whatsapp. You can never truly disconnect. Gone are the days of leaving the house to find a telephone box to call your mate to let him know you've got some weed and you'll be round in an hour. These-days your mate can watch you smoke it whilst you stream on Periscope and he's sat in an Uber ordering pizza.

Anyways, I thought I'd check in and say hello, wish you well. With White Hart Lane dusted and our rented accommodation in wait, I'm holding off from diving straight back into the deep end until the last possible moment. So much of everything is devoured once the season restarts. It's all we think about, it's all we do. Any given day becomes one massive deflection, an obstruction until the next one that poses the same obstacle until match-day finally rolls into view. Then there's no getting away from it. You're sucked in and spat out and ready to go again. Bliss.

Here's to the future then. I'll keep tabs via proxy and hope that at some point soon there is something worthy of depthy discussion. Speak soon.