the brutal column 


        3.7.2001  -  Rat joins a sinking ship
        9.7.2001  -  Comparisons are odious
        19.8.2001  -  Wupert The Bear With A Sore Head
        2.9.2002  -  Science Has All The Answers


Rat joins a sinking ship

Bizarre reports are flooding in from the North London area of a phenomenon seemingly unique in the annals of nature, a rat joining a sinking ship.

Our vermin expert Dr. U. P. Sidaisy had this to say : - 

“It is indeed a very rare event to see a rat join a sinking ship although in this case there are some fairly unique circumstances as we all know rats are attracted to filthy, dark, dank, smelly places, sewers that sort of thing and the Highbury  stadium is probably one of the largest open air cesspits in the western world.

As can easily be observed the wild life that already roams these environs is misshapen and prone to rot in its own filth.

I place much of the blame on the owners but the local authorities should take a share of blame too, acts of parliament have been passed to restrict the import of dangerous and wild beasts and these the owners have clearly flaunted, taking in many strange creatures from overseas as well as the less desirable corners of our own country.

Why local government has turned a blind eye to these practices seems to me a question that needs answering sooner rather than later.

I am also informed that on certain Saturdays from the autumn to late spring the indigenous vermin are joined by a mass migration of lemming like creatures of hideous appearance and very low intellect. Despite their large numbers these creatures are largely silent, another attraction to the rat.” 

But what of the rat himself;  how would the good Doctor describe him ?

“Well its stupidity alone would seem to mark it down for early extinction, I'm sure that many citizens of North London will be very hostile to its existence on their doorsteps it will surely have to measure it footsteps in future and lead a very guarded nocturnal life.

Although reports of its greed may well have been exaggerated it is clearly a bottom feeder of voracious appetite.”

So in view of this creatures migration perhaps the reports of the sinking of the Highbury are exaggerated.

“No, I don't think so,” the Doctor continues ”other vermin have been baling out with great frequency in the last couple of summers and this year the largest rat of all has reportedly been trying to escape all summer.

Even the head stoker, a limp wristed French type has been mooted to quit by next summer at latest and when that happens I think the games up.

I should like to stress though that in the meantime responsible parents should do all within their powers to keep their children away from the area.”

Further news will be posted as it becomes available.



Comparisons are odious

I don't know if its just me but the alarm bells were ringing the moment I heard our new signing from Red Star Belgrade, Bunjy  (and I'm sorry he may like to be known as Boonya, but he'll always be Bunjy to me) described as the Yugoslav Beckenbauer.

After a lifetime of seeing the new George Bests and Jimmy Greaves disappear into well deserved obscurity , I was a bit alarmed that this description of Bunjy had got a few of my fellow travelers a bit excited.

Then came the rather surprising  news that rather than the widely reported £4-5 million the actual price was £1.2.

This and the fact that the transfer was delayed whilst  our new 29 year old squeezed in enough caps via the bench to qualify for a work permit sort of took the gloss off a bit.

I guess he's just a late developer and its only fair to judge him by what he achieves on the pitch but the suspicion must be he was originally spotted by Glen for his former club that towering edifice that is Southampton.

Comparisons are always odious but I suppose in the case of relatively unknown foreign players they do give a handy point of reference.  It's just that most good players are known for their own abilities. 

I suppose what I'm getting at could be summed up like this, when you are perusing the latest titles down the local Blockbuster and your eyes are drawn to some obscure action title starring the Balkan Arnold Schwarzenegger do you rent it or the misleadingly titled Raiders of the Lost Barge starring the Belgian Harrison Ford or swiftly move on to the Romance section where another title starring the Croatian Brad Pitt is given similar short shrift.

I think its fair to say that in the world of music not many of us would be rushing to catch the latest gig by the German Radiohead or even the Glaswegian Sinatra much less the Kosovan Eminem. 

Would you expect a chortle filled evening watching the antics of the Albanian Eddie Murphy , how worrying a prospect is the thought of chicken in a basket whilst sampling the delights of the Philipino Bernard Manning or Taliban Jim Davidson. 

Blind predjudice ? I don't think so, you just instinctively know their pants, as anybody who has been conned by a lurid cover in a video shop can testify, you disregard these instincts at your peril. 

So all in all I think its best to bury this “new Beckenbauer “ before it becomes the millstone on which Bunjy's fledgling Spurs career flounders.

Hopefully by Christmas we are singing his praises as the man who exorcised the ghost of That bloke that used to be our captain and other aspiring young sweepers are being touted as the new Bunjy. 

Or maybe not because as I said before comparisons are odious.   


Wupert The Bear With A Sore Head  
(A Modern Fairy Tale)

Wupert sat at his boardroom table, his feet dangling in a puddle of tears, nursing a very sore head indeed.

What had just a few months back, before the annual hibernation, promised to be a year of excitement, fun and achievement was quickly being swallowed into a deep dark pit, a bear pit of depression.

Wupert lifted a spoonful of porridge to his mouth and laconically chewed, it was cold, hard and lumpy , rather like the metaphorical bed that he had made for himself.  He sighed and ruminated over the events that had brought him to this unfortunate impasse.

Wupert had once lived happily ever after in the Dingly Dell, far removed from the big city shenanigans of the big people ,it was sometimes a struggle to make ends meet but by and large Wupert and his family got by.

However, Wupert had a yearning for the finer things in life, from his oddly shaped abode he looked out at the big people with envious eyes and dreamed that one day he would wake up and be just like them, with their trips to Europe, the big house at Wembley, and their shining silver pots to eat their porridge from.

He had dreamed his dreams and schemed his schemes for many a year when fate seemed to lend a hand when on a stroll through the Dingly Dell one day he had rescued Glenn the Magic Pixie, who had been abandoned along the wayside by Dirty Dave and his Cronies who hated Glenn's fairy godmother Eileen with the healing touch.

Wupert thought this so unfair as any good public school bear knows all fairies have magic in their fingers be they short or long.

Wupert was soon rewarded for his act of kindness and all the other inhabitants of the Dingly Dell, like Tiger Lily, Badger Bill and Deano the defender of the realm fell under Glenn the Magic Pixie's spell.

He showed them how to work in the ways of the big people and they learned well and were in their small way more successful than they had been since once upon a time, a long long ago.

Wupert flushed with his success decided now was the time for them to become big people and decided they should all up sticks leave their ramshackle hovel and move up the coast to Hairy St. Marys and build a big castle there from which they would travel the world putting all their foes to the sword.

Alas, a spanner was soon to enter the works.

Away in the big city in the land of Tottenham, the old emperor had fallen off his perch and a new hungrier band of merchants had bought the Slumbering Cockerel throne.  Soon after, they had given the old emperors first adviser Dino George the push and were searching the realm and beyond for his successor.

It did not take long before their beady eyes fixed on a magic pixie a long way from home, Glenn!

The surly cockney yobbos had kidnapped Glen and lured him away with talk of a return to his homeland, big signings and a future caste in gold.

Wupert had fought desperately hard to hold on to Glenn, he clung to him with all his might but was no match for the pull of the  Slumbering Cockerel throne and when Glen let go of his hand he reluctantly saw that he too must release his futile grip.

Bitter tears and harsh words were all that Wupert could muster in the days that followed but Wupert consoled himself that Glen had at least taught his people the ways of the big folk and when he got to his big castle he would give his tormentors and his former bestest friend in the whole wide world a severe whacking.

So, the summer days rolled past and the opening of the big castle was just a few days away when a loud knock came on Wuperts door and their stood Glen the magic Pixie. 

“Ooh Glenn, have you come back to me ?”

“No Wupert.  I have brought you some bags of gold for Dean the defender of your realm.”

“Can't have him you varlet.  My dad was just as big as your dad and when I grow up I'm going to be much, much bigger than you, you ungrateful beggar.  You think you can come around here with your big pockets and short fingers and kidnap all my folk well they don't want you or your shining Slumbering Cockerel throne.  Go on, tell him big Deano.”

“Sorry Wupert, but I want to run away with Glenn to the Land of Magic.”

As Glenn turned to leave, he cast a sad eye back at his old friend Wupert and said "Wupert, old friend, you're stuck at the seaside.  Didn't anyone ever tell you castles can't be built on sand ?”

Wupert's primeval howl filled the air and scared young children in their beds for many miles around.

He had a very , very sore head indeed.



In all the euphoria of the last few days, buying a top striker and being strongly linked with a few more, topping the league after our best start to a season, at least results wise, for God knows how long, it has probably led a lot of people to wonder why the life of a Spurs fan shouldn’t be this good all the time.

Well in fact it can, indeed although you aren’t aware of it it already is, how comes?

Science has all the answers

Fortunately, the people who patronise this site, and indeed Spurs fans in general, are by and large a superior breed more able to grasp a concept than the usual hoi-polloi that follow the likes of lesser teams, we follow a creed of glory glory, sometimes to the detriment of actual achievement but to our satisfaction, a satisfaction not always understood by the world at large, at least not in this reality but that need no longer be a problem.

Science is now coming around to accept that the theory of a multiverse, an infinite number of universes where anything can and is possible, is in fact true.

Latest scientific thinking is that an eleventh dimension really does exist, quantum physics works even if at the moment we’re not sure how.

This all has great ramifications for a football fan because out there, in there or maybe all around here somewhere Spurs are the most successful team in the world, with a mighty Leyton Orient snapping at their heels, whist Arsenal will have never left their squalid Woolwich roots, never bribed their way to promotion, are languishing in an alternate conference league.

It actually gets better, have you ever dreamed of smashing in an injury time hat trick in the Champions League final? Well somewhere you do, not to mention getting the wealth and adoration of a Beckham.

Not bad is it?

Of course there are downers, all your worst fears and nightmares are also a reality somewhere, but lets not dwell on that, lets stick with the good stuff.

By now you're probably thinking this is all very well but what real good is it going to do me? A fair enough point and all I can tell you is that someone who has spent a lifetime studying this stuff has a strategy whereby you can change the course of your destiny, it is however, let me warn you, extremely high risk.

Our egg headed friend postulates that if he were to stand in front of a firing squad the chances of all the guns jamming or missing their target are millions to one, therefore in millions of realities those following this course would die but in the few realities that the target did survive, and they would be the only ones the subject would be aware of, the course of their existence would be changed.

It has to be said he hasn’t had the faith to try it yet himself, and you’d have to be a pretty desperate individual to give it a go but once you’ve done it and it works surely all your worries are over, don’t like Saturdays result? No bother, get in front of a firing squad and skip to a reality where its declared void, anything but anything is possible.

As we’ve already said it’s probably only a path for the truly desperate at the moment but perhaps as he scurried around Europe last week in search of a striker a similar sort of desperation engulfed our beloved chairman Daniel Levy, perhaps we only ended up in the happy situation in which we find ourselves today because he took the ultimate risk or maybe he ended up here ……


So reads the gaudy neon sign swinging loosely outside the seedy little establishment off of an alternate Kings Road.

Another hand scrawled sign has recently been attached beneath, a scruffy piece of cardboard and felt tip that reads, “ closing down sale”.

Let us step through the door, behind the blinded frontage and see what dark delights lurk within ……..

In one corner stands a small boyish figure, only giving clues to his adulthood by the rapidly forming widows peak, the sinister precursor of male pattern baldness.

He stares almost audibly salivating at the array of exotic magazines, videos, and paraphernalia on display, his wide bush baby eyes only drawn away at intervals as he looks down to his hands and the few meagre coins he is able to dredge from his pockets.

As the only punter in the shop he soon comes under the scrutiny of the proprietor, a disheveled white bearded ruffian, crude of dress and manner, he squints at the punter with an air of open hostility, breaking wind at regular intervals at which times he takes deep breaths and smiles seemingly enjoying the fruits of his own base actions.

The punter however seems oblivious to this, caught up as he is in his own needs and desires.

Apparently sated of his own aromas the proprietor decides instead to break the silence


“I’m not playing with ... I’m counting my money actually”


“I hardly know him, I don’t get invited to his party’s … yet”

The uneasy silence once again falls between the two men, the punters gaze once more drawn back to the display, the proprietor again scanning his customer with the beady eye of a vulture waiting for a beast to expire, finally he scrapes some crumbs of unknown origin from his straggly beard before barking out 


The punter turns slowly to face his inquisitor, flashes a glance back towards the display, coughs, shuffles his change, then with a resigned sigh approaches the counter.

“OK, you see the thing is, on Saturdays I put on a little soirée, try to put on a little entertainment for a few people with similar tastes, and well the thing of it is their all starting to get a little restless, calling me a bit tight … I mean I can see their point, my two highlights, a bit of Les action and a ... a lingerie special, you know split bodice ... a Teddy if you will ,well not to put too fine a point on it their getting on a bit, we’ve seen it all countless times and frankly it doesn’t quite hit the spot any more, I did rather hope you could help me out…”

The punter looks up at the proprietor with the yearning eyes of a small child, tears welling in their dark brown depths, a sense of pleading that you can almost taste.

The proprietors visage breaks into a hideous grin, and he launches into a lascivious cackle, his countenance the embodiment of the spider as it watches its prey struggle in the web only to be more inexorably trapped than ever, his tongue draping spittle across his lips and drool falling into his beard, he replies

“I'M YOUR MAN, BUT FOR F*** SAKE GET ON WITH IT I'VE GOT THE POXY BALIFFS COMING AROUND ANY TIME NOW, READ MY ****** LIPS YOU ****** ********* ******** LITTLE ********** *** ***** ****** 


The sudden volley seems to stiffen the punters resolve and all at once business like he retorts 

“Two of your items have caught my eye, 'Double Dutch Pop Shots', and 'Under The Icelandic Eiderdown', two tasty little items that both my friends and I will enjoy for a very long time, very satisfying I’m sure, tell you what I’ll give you £ 7.50 the pair, not all of it now of course, I’ll let you have almost £2.50 today and I’ll bring you in 50p a week for the next ten weeks, how bad is that?"

From behind the counter a low rumbling is starting to emanate, rapidly rising to a crescendo of blasphemy that even Dante would have been hard pressed to imagine, bile, the vilest bile the scent of which even the lowest scavenger in the food chain would recoil from, amongst the Tourettes syndrome orgy the words


can be picked out, only to elicit the punters response

“£3 for one of them then? I can let you have that in a month”

The Proprietor is now swinging a battered old walking stick around his head, apoplectic, his mouth is literally frothing, a psychotic Santa Claus bent on doing damage he lunges at the punter and grabs him by the throat and all of a sudden an icy steel comes over him.



The Punter has broken free and is retreating hastily to the door but still manages to clear his throat and splutter the rejoinder

“I’ve already been there and nearly caught a nasty case of rickets, look be reasonable man £5.25 the pair, last offer.

The punter just manages to close the door behind him as the walking stick hurled by the irate proprietor clatters into it almost shattering the glass.

He meanders along the road muttering to himself at the unfairness of life and the confrontational attitude of people nowadays, slowly being swept over by a wave of despair he glances up at clock on top of a large mega store opposite, its 5.45 Friday evening and at 3pm Saturday he is due to play host to an eager and anticipating audience, and he with naught but the same tired fare to offer, his melancholy turning his boots to lead, then all at once the sun breaks through the grey skies overhead and a shaft of light draws his attention to the bold sign underneath the clock






With a bright skip and jump the punter crossed the road, a man reborn and crossed the threshold to what he felt sure would be rehabilitation and redemption….

More Brutal material ...

Davi B and the ENIC takeover  -  New boys in the 'ho(o)d'

An Evening Round At Ronnie's  -  an Evening with a Rosenthal

A Close Encounter of the Gallic Kind  -  the Wenger experience

George Graham's Benefit Concert  -  Charity begins at home

The Ginola Tapes  -  What really went on.

Kanu's Shame  -  Footballers and money don't mix

Is Les  A TV ??  -  TV-ing troubles for the new manager

Contract Talks  -  A secret insight

Season Tickets  -  The reasons behind the cup voucher affair

The Thrill Of Espionage  -  Secret agency works at Highbury.

So you want to be a big Iron  -  Management appointment at the Boleyn.

The Same Old Song  -  A Rule of Irons !!

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire  -  How to make a mince ... er, sorry  ... mint.

Back to homepage