Bringin' It All Back Home: Tottenham Report

Grimsby Town 1 Tottenham Hotspurs 0
20 Sep 2005, Carling Cup

The air fizzed and crackled, oh no, that was the tannoy^TM chirruping out the latest homage to Macca: Chairman Fenty presenting a wooden box to The Exalted One. The ashes of all the wingers he's pocketed? There was a special souvenir pullout obituary in the middle of the programme, Lord his high commissioner of arts Sir John of McDermott (1987-2005), with a foreword by Alan Buckley. You remember him, don't you?

Is that Sideshow Mel in the Pontoon?

Town lined up in the Fleur-De-Lis, whatever you desire, 4:4:1:1 formation, as shown. Ah, no babyface Crane, reduced to grey-shirted small talk with the juniors to accommodate the return of Parkinson, who squeezed into the left wing position, Cohen being offered the chance to bask in Macca's glow on the right. Other than that it was same again, Sam. Torquay, Tottenham, what's the difference?

Spurs warmed up in most unremarkable fashion with Jol watching, alone, from the dug-out. Perhaps he was taking in the occasion when his career reached its pinnacle, its acme, its zenith: finally, after all these years, he gets to stand on Blundell Park. It's his Wembley moment. Of course it is: bored by bland stadia with straight stands and level pitches, this is football, matey.

Dish of the Day: Jermaine Palmer's Spaghetti Carbonnara. Heh, nice to see we pulled out a big gun for the big game. See, we are a proper team too, we've got a Jermaine and ours is bigger than yours, so there. It's all in the sauce apparently; isn't it always.

The moon still rising, I see trouble on the way for Martin Jol's lovely-in-blue army.

1st half

Spurs kicked off towards the Pontoon. Yeah, you see, that's why the Premiership is boring: they just don't know how to start a game, all this prissy passing and tucked in shirts. Football is all about wellying it into touch as quickly as possible. That's the way to get the fans back.

Finally Spurs chippled the ball upfield, Jones the Stick leant in front of some kind of international striker or other and balderdashed it out for a throw in. Yes, get in there! Still holding them to 0-0.

Passing, movement, caressing the ball aside, hips wiggling, shimmies shaking; the guests got on the dance floor and loosened a couple of buttons to reveal a hairy chest. Ah, but is it fake fur? You could tell by the way they used their walk that they're a woman's man. Sorry, no time to talk. Pit-pat, splat: Whittle swiped Keane to the ground around 25 yards out in the centre. After he'd finished crying Keane got up and Spurs' "galaxy of stars" (sic, or is that sick?) had a huddle, perhaps comparing their text messaging techniques. After some basic trigonometry on the back of his golden calf Defoe curled the ball over the wall and a couple of feet wide of ooooh, everything. Torquay did that on Saturday with equal élan.

Shall we just let them have the ball and see what happens? Why not. Keane offside - is that his full name? How long gone? Seven English minutes and we've got in their half, aren't we plucky little people doing well; one of our players even controlled the ball! Whoops, bish-bosh bang, Keane and Defoe like a circle in a spiral like a wheel within a wheel. Keane twenty or so yards out on their right drabbled a scruffler to Mildenhall's left. That's down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone then. Mildo tipped the ball aside though it was already going wide. Something to do I suppose.