As featured in The Guardian\
A new job drove William Abbs into the arms of another club. Is it really possible for a fan to reconcile a love for one team with their feelings for another, or does it all just get a bit too complicated?
Read more on Playing Away Or ‘Cheating’ On Manchester United by William Abbs…
I am an atheist. This is to my grandmother’s eternal disapproval seeing as she has grown increasingly more religious during the final chapters of her life. Seeking solace in the comforting warmth and promises that religion offers is understandable for an eighty-two year old woman. As for her grandson, he could tell you about the time he held a chimpanzee in his arms and could see in that moment the clear, fleeting connection humans shared with primates before our evolutionary paths forked. Or he could spend the best part of a thousand words debunking the myths of religion. But I am no Richard Dawkins. I am neither zealot nor crusader. Believe what you want to believe.
For Ray Dimond
When it comes to the team I hate most in football, it’s not Arsenal who have subjected most of my years supporting Spurs to one humiliating capitulation after another whilst watching on enviously as the trophies and plaudits washed across the hearths of both Highbury and The Emirates. It’s not even Chelsea, who spent years playing the playground bully holding the school squirt’s attempts to land a blow on his chin at arm’s length. West Ham? They’ve always been a minor irritation but have never come close to raising my hackles to such an extent that I lose the ability for rational thought.
That particular ‘honour’ will always belong to Coventry City. It’s not their association with Richard Keys that sets my teeth on edge, although that doesn’t help. No, the genesis for my myopic brand of loathing can be pinpointed to one particular sunny day. 16th May, 1987. On that day, I awoke to find a seven inch vinyl copy of Chas ‘n’ Dave’s FA Cup final song, Hot Shot Tottenham, gleaming with promise and hope at the edge of my bed placed there lovingly by my mum; it was better than Christmas. And from about eight in the morning to when the television build-up began around noon, I played it continuously on a loop. The outcome of that day we all know, but what truly stung was the realisation that cup win number eight was not as the Cockernee Duo promised, “coming up” and neither were Spurs, “the team, the cream… the best you’ve ever seen”.
The ignominy of seeing one of Britain’s biggest and most successful clubs this week finally accepting the grim reality of administration was one thing. Glasgow Rangers’ humiliation however, paled in comparison when the disparity that exists within Scottish football became glaringly apparent when the club had ten points deducted for its failure to balance the books. The upshot of this was in many respects the biggest indictment of football north of the border. Rangers were left trailing archrivals Celtic by fourteen points but nevertheless maintaining a nine point cushion of comfort from third placed Motherwell. The remainder of the season will inevitably be just a dull procession.
Here I am, emphatically and unequivocally cementing a u-turn. Like most Spurs fans, my plea is clear: don’t go Harry! Alas, it seems that last Wednesday’s tumultuous events have paved the way for the wrongly accused Mr Redknapp to be the next in line to take up that ominous ‘poisoned chalice’ that is the England manager’s job. After all, if all and sundry are telling us it’s an inevitability, then it must be so. And there’s the little matter of Harry’s stating that he is fully “focused on Tottenham”. I’ve heard that kind of talk too many times before. One Sulzah Campbell springs to mind.
Read more on Don’t Go Harry: Why Redknapp Should Stay At Spurs…
“We watching the England match tonight?” I asked Mrs T on Friday. “Do we have to?” was her reply. I shrugged. She barely managed to stay awake and I spent the majority of the match in a state of disinterest, messing about on Twitter. And in this brief vignette, a prevalent apathy towards international football and more specifically, qualifying matches was captured.
It had to happen eventually. On Friday it did. A moment’s quiet reflection with my year 8 form in remembrance for the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks resulted in one of my tutees putting her hand up and with the innocence so valued in children asked, “What’s 9/11?” The natural response to that might have been to look at her with a confounded expression of disbelief at her naivety. But then, why should she know? She was two years old when it happened and I wouldn’t imagine it’s something that comes up in the daily conversations with her family. And actually, how often do we subject our children to the procession of murder, famine and abject human misery we seem to allow to wash over us routinely in daily news bulletins?
You came to us on a Tuesday.
As the world turned its head towards a bad man’s comeuppance and the clashing of Iberian footballing titans,
We watched you take your first breaths
Should you ever find yourself in the fabled crescent city of New Orleans, be sure to swing on by to 726 St Peter in the French Quarter. You’ll see a seemingly innocuous structure. It needs a lick of paint and to the outsider, might appear on the point of dereliction. Don’t be fooled though. Appearances are mischievously deceptive. Because once the corrugated gates open on any number of balmy Louisiana evenings and the heat of the crowd sends beads of sweat dripping down your forehead, you’ll find that there’s magic to be found.
SPOILER ALERT: If you have not seen The Wire in its entirety do not read this piece.
The story of my great uncle Nikos is a much-told story in my family. Fighting for the British in the Second World War, he was captured by the Germans and taken to a prisoner of war camp. Through sheer bloody-mindedness and ingenuity, he managed to escape his captors and found sanctuary in Greece thinking that being amongst fellow Hellenes would keep him safe. He hadn’t accounted for collaborators and he was soon re-captured and suffered at the hands of the Nazis. His survival instincts however, were unquenchable and he broke out for a second time, spending the rest of the war hiding in Switzerland.
In Defence Of Luis Suarez by Rachael Singh
What’s The Point Of Scottish Football?
Captain Caveman: The De-evolution of John Terry
Alan Davies Is Here All Week
Liverpool Football Club, 1892 – 2012 – An Obituary
Make sure you don't miss any Dispatches by staying connected.
