the brutal column 

George Graham's Benefit Concert  -  Charity begins at home

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.

21.4.2001

Again I am indebted to my dustbin rifling friend (about whom we shall learn more in the future) for this snippet.

It appears to be the draught for an advert  -  no doubt bound for those tomes of tedium (a.k.a. the official matchday magazine and Spurs Monthly).  Reading the attachments it seems that ENIC worried about their falling share price and cash flow during the summer are taking steps to raise a bit of capital for any future settlement awarded to George Graham.

 

ENIC and Tottenham Hotspur FC are proud to announce

On 1 June at White Hart Lane stadium

For one night only

The  Tottenham Hotspur Stars In Their Eyes George Graham Benefit Concert

Highlights will include :  - 

Dave “lisping “Buchler as the snake from Disney's "Jungle Book" performing “Trust In Me” and he will be accompanied by Daniel “Silencer” Levy performing mime and wriggling about the floor a bit.

John Gorman will then give his interpretation  of The Village People in a medley of "In The Navy", "YMCA" and "Macho Man" which will include five costume changes.

Sol Campbell, Les Ferdinand and Darren Anderton will then raise the roof as The Clash with a stirring rendition of "Should I Stay Or Should I Go".

As a favour to Glenn Hoddle, we shall then be treated to a special guest appearance from Leeds' Michael Duberry, as he gives it his all as "It Ain't Half Hot Mum"'s Don Estelle crooning "Whispering Grass".

Next on stage will be the whole of the midfield and their convincing mimic of The Sex Pistols  "Pretty Vacant" in which Tim Sherwood will take centre stage.

Next to come on down is that ever popular lovable rogue and roué David Pleat, who with a quick smarm forward of his barnet will complete an astonishing transformation into The Beatles and sing for us "Can't Buy Me Love". 

Next up it’s the boss and its medley time again as he starts as those lovable urchins Dexy's Midnight Runners giving us "C'mon Eileen" building into a crescendo with Reef's "Lay your hands on me" at which point David Pleat will join in.

As ever leaving the best till last the highlight of the evening will be former chairman Sir Alan Sugar as Topol from "Fiddler On The Roof " and his heartrendingly emotional take on "If I Was A Rich Man".

For an encore the whole cast (staff of Tottenham Hotspur), and I'm sure you the audience, will join together in The Beatles anthem "Get Back" to a back drop of selected scenes of George Graham and Highbury on both Jumbotrons.

Tickets priced at £40 each (exclusive of VAT) will be sold on a strictly first come first served basis (please note season ticket holders should use coupon A in their season ticket books as they've paid for this event whether they like it or not). 

 

Disclaimer 

A)   ENIC take no responsibility for said acts accurately mimicking their targets.

B)    In the event Mr. Graham loses his case for compensation such funds that are raised will be salted away in a biscuit tin, hidden in a drawer and disposed of after everyone's forgotten about it at Messrs. Buchler and Levy's discretion.

Brutal

 

22.4.2001

Kanu's Shame

Anyone who browsed through The News Of The World earlier today would no doubt have enjoyed the rest of their morning after reading of the latest disgraceful events surrounding that one man freak show Kanu.

It wasn't so long ago that Kanu was in the papers spilling his heart out about the loneliness of his life in London and demands that his family be allowed to join him.  It seems Kanu is more resourceful than most of us would give him credit for.

Faced with the situation where his real family cannot join him he has seemingly financed the purchase of a temporary surrogate one.

Proving once and for all that footballers are paid more money than their brains can handle, he has also allegedly been funding orgies at his lair with old boilers that no amount of money would persuade me enter into congress with.


The next time you hear stories of lottery winners leading a miserable existence and start to sneer, think of Kanu - a young talented man, a millionaire and someone I wouldn't want to emulate for all the tea in China.

Brutal

 

24.4.2001

 

Once again the Gourmet of Garbage has struck gold for me at White Hart Lane.

It seems that Levy and Buchler have been having a clean out of stuff left behind in Sugar's offices and whilst wading about the empty Green Shield stamp books And JJB Sports discount catalogues in a small skip in Paxton Road, she happened upon a large box of video tapes, which were passed over to me last night.

The story is that back in the times when Venables still cavorted around the inner sanctum, two elastic bands and a pencil went missing and Sir Al, in a fit of the vapours, had high tech CCTV surveillance cameras installed about the place, seemingly the source of these tapes.

Apart from one or two which seem to have got put in the box by mistake (Footballers Wives Vol XII ,Kings Cross after Dark, Dion Does Dublin, all with some indecipherable initials written upon them) the first of real interest I came upon were ...

 THE GINOLA TAPES

I feel I must warn you now this is not a tale for the faint hearted or those of a nervous disposition as Murder, Sacrifice and the raising of forces from the Dark Side all feature here.

So lock all your doors and widows and turn on all your lights as you read on……

The scene starts with David Pleat standing next to Alan Sugar as he fiddles behind a bookcase against the back wall of his office.

With a loud creak the bookcase slides to one side revealing a secret room which Sugar and Pleat then enter.

We now change camera to the inner room.

On the floor is a large pentangle laid in gold and at each point an ornate brazier burns.

In front of the back wall is a large altar covered in a black cloth with red piping.  Two large candlesticks burn at either end and in the middle are stacked five enormous chicken heads, large enough to have come off of the body of a man …. 

Sugar pulls out a large chest of money and begins counting, whilst Pleat pulls out another full of season tickets which he begins to throw on the braziers, reading the names and addresses and chuckling.  We then become aware of someone on the other side of the room singing ... 
“Oh I dinnae know why I came here tonight , HOOF, I gotta feeling that something ain't right, HOOF”.

It's George Graham, who is sorting through his Mogadon collection stopping every now and then to kick large lumps out of a comatose figure lying on the floor.  A closer inspection reveals the limp figure of lank-maned Frenchman David Ginola.


Eventually after staring at Graham for a couple of minutes Sugar speaks.  “All right lads that’s enough frivolity, Jocko this has got to stop”

GG: “What do you mean boss ?"

AS:  “I mean you and that poncey Frenchman.  You’ve told me you don't want him in the team anymore, you only keep him around for your own sadistic kicks.  If anyone finds out the rotation system you’ve got planned for him is two turns on the spit over the fire there'll be hell to pay.  How on earth he hasn't cottoned on, waking up covered in bruises after training each day, God only knows !”

GG:  “Aw, it's quite easy really boss, I just soak a couple of mickeys in garlic overnight, slip them in his tea after training and when he wakes up tell him he had a clash of heads with Ferdinand.  I only kick him in the head and groin you know”

Pleat becomes seemingly agitated and mumbles something in Sugars ear. 

AS: ;” No Pleaty, he doesn't need you to kiss it better, control yourself”.

Pleat backs away crest fallen

 

AS; “You drugging him is no good.  I've just had a circular from the FA, they're stepping up testing next season.” 

GG: ;” But the super Gunners use all kinds of drugs ….creatine”

AS:  ” What did you call me ?” 

GG:  ” Nothing.  Creatine it’s a supplement.” 

DP:  ” What about rhuponul, that’s good or GBH ?”

AS:  “Shut up Pleaty !  George, I hardly think it's helpful comparing a dietary supplement to two ruddy great horse tablets.  Nope he's got to go.”

DP: ” Spainish fly , poppers?”

AS: Will you shut up Pleaty!” 

Pleat cowers away

 

GG:  “Well, I'll find it very hard to sell him. He's got nae tackle” 

Pleat winces. 

GG:  “I mean he can't get hold of the ball.” 

Pleat bounds across the room and attaches himself to Graham's leg like an overexcited Jack Russell, slavering . 

AS:  ”Heel Pleaty “ 

Pleat reluctantly lets go and backs away to Sir Alan's side, cocking his head to one side thinking and then blurts out ” We could always kill him !”

GG:  “Aw yes Mon.  I could bore him to death, I'm awfully good at that you know ?” 

AS:   ” And you Pleaty, I suppose you think that you could kill a man. “ 

DP: “ Oh I think I could …. eventually “

AS: ; “Well, that’s all very fine and dandy, but there's one problem - the insurance.  That bloody Anderton has used up all our cover and I'm not going to lose a packet on 'Head and Shoulders' down there.”

GG:  “But if we sell him boss, the supporters will be revolting.” 

AS:  ” I've been telling everyone that for years.  I'm not going to start worrying about what they want at this stage of the game.  Luckily enough, I have other means at my disposal.   I shall call up the Dark Lord and although blood must be spilt it won't be Froggy's.”

GG:  ”You mean the forces of darkness ?”

 

A flash of lightning lights up the room and a crack of thunder shakes the walls.  Pleaty runs and hides under the altar, whimpering. 

AS:  “Oh yes George, have you never thought why you had the uncontrollable urge to come here from Leeds or what happened to that Swiss berk who preceded you ?  Seen him about lately ? No and you won't  either.”

With that Sir Alan lets out a fiendish cackle.  Pleaty shrinks further under the altar and puts his hands over his eyes. 

AS:   “Right lads to work.  Jocko, by the door.   Pleaty out with the chopper …. AWW MY GAWD will you put that thing away, I want the ceremonial axe.  It's not as though it’s the first time we've done this. “

Pleaty zips up and retrieves an ornately decorated axe from under the altar and hands it to Sir Alan, who secretes it under his jacket and presses the button on the intercom. 

AS:  ”Miss Scholar, would you send in the applicant for the mascot's position please.  In full costume if you would. “

 

A few seconds later a bizarre sight struts through the door.  The person auditioning clearly has no grasp of what a club mascots duties are.  Instead, like a demented method actor desperately trying to impress, they are walking and jerking their head about in a very chicken like manner.  It first encounters Graham and gives a playful peck at his chest to which Graham responds with a full blown kick in the shins and some garbled curse.  The chicken man has enough composure to let out a loud squawk rather than a scream and darts out of George's way frantically flapping his wings.  Out of George's range, he reverts to his bird like prance, advancing on Pleaty's position by the altar.  As he brushes past Pleat, he gives another loud squawk and a small leap in the air clearly as the result of being goosed.  Pleaty stands adopting an air of innocence, his hands behind his back, looking in the air, whistling.  When the chicken man reaches the center of the pentagram Pleaty shouts “Oi !!”

The chicken turns to look at him and quick as a flash Sir Alan springs forward ...  ”Audere est FACERE,  you big bird. “

In one lightning movement Sir Al has lopped off his head with the axe!

Strangely enough, in time honoured fashion, although his head is rolling around on the floor, the chicken man's torso carries on his bird like walk around the room for several steps before collapsing in a heap.   

Sir Alan returns to the intercom ...
“Find another applicant would you Miss Scholar and please no more drama students.”

Sugar then retrieves the head, whilst Pleaty lights the candles on the altar.  Sir Alan begins to mumble an incantation and then places the head along with the others on the altar.  As soon as he does so more thunder and lightning rend the air and a big puff of smoke rises from the centre of the pentagram.   

As the smoke begins to clear a figure can be made out who looks for all the world like Leslie Philips wearing a baseball shirt with a large logo on the front spelling out  "Beelzebub" and "Go Flies" on the back.  He is attended by two imps, one of which is a small balding figure clutching a London underground ticket, he stares at Sir Alan spitefully.  It is him that Sugar first addresses 

“What's your problem Swiss boy ?  You liked the underground so much I arranged for you to stay there permanently !! Show some gratitude.  HAHA HA.”

Beelzebub:  ”Well hello Sir Alan; ever ready with the quips as usual ? “

Turning to the imp, “Show some respect Negligence.” 

All in the room begin to cackle, except for Gross, who is looking nervously at Pleaty , who is winking at him and flicking his tongue across his lips. 

Beelzebub:  ”It seems I shall be dining on cock au vin again tonight.  Oh dear, I should remember to be careful what I say with him about."  He gestures at Pleaty ,who has flipped two somersaults and is now lying on his back offering his stomach for a stroke, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.  Then he scampers over to Sir Alan and begins pulling at the leg of his trousers. 

AS:  ”What is it now Pleaty ?” 

Pleaty again reaches up and excitedly whispers in Sugars ear.  Sugar lets out a large sigh and gives Pleat a small nod. 

AS:  ” Before we get down to business Master, Pleaty here wonders if you could sort him out a bit of crumpet ?  I'll never get any peace if I don't ask.”

Beelzebub:  ” I suppose so, he's an amusing little fellow.  One condition though Pleaty, do that little trick I like.”

Pleaty quickly adopts the position of a dog sitting up to beg, his face begins to turn bright red and all the veins in his neck start to bulge, his eyes go wide and staring.  Beelzeebub flicks a finger at him and with that his head rotates three hundred and sixty degrees on its stump.  As soon as it stops, he opens his mouth and projectile vomits a flow of green bile across the room straight over Gross.

Beelzebub:  ”Oh bravo Pleaty.  That one always tickles my fancy.  You shall have your crumpet.  I've just the girl.  I'll send around that one that sorted out that Hugh Grant for me; the Divine Miss Brown, she's a succubus you know.”

Pleaty begins rolling about on the floor in between spasms of scratching behind his left ear with his leg and sniffing his own posterior.  The vomit drenched Gross looks relieved.

AS:  ” To business Master B.  I want you to find me a home for Frenchy down there.” 

Beelzebub:  ”That’s no problem Sir Alan.  Ellis and Gregory at the Villa owe me a few debts of gratitude.  He'll be there within the week.” 

Beelzeebub's attention is drawn to Graham who is staring at the floor and cursing under his breath.    ”Oh, don't worry, my Celtic coma contractor.  He'll suffer. Oh lord, he'll suffer.  Well if that’s all then, I'll be off Sir Alan. “ 

Gathering up the headless torso from the floor, Beelzebub makes to leave, then stops as if he's just remembered something.  "Oh, Sir Alan.  I nearly forgot.  There is one condition, another favour I owe someone.  You've got to take Ben Thatcher from Wimbledon.”   

The tape ends with a loud Shriek of  Nooooo ...." echoing around the room…….

 

Brutal

 

30.4.2001

Is Les a TV ?

My good friends, since I have been writing for you I have received many and varied requests ( I'll just take this opportunity to say "No Arsene, I will not consider any future meetings with you and I certainly do NOT visit Hampstead Heath after dark ,thanks all the same").  One that particularly caught my eye was from someone who signed himself G, Worried in North London, he writes


Dear Auntie Brutal,

I find myself in a difficult situation.  I have just returned home to London after living for a short while on the south coast.

My former landlord was very unhappy too see me leave and tried to tempt me into staying with the promise of a move to a larger more luxurious abode, but the pull of home was to great. 

However, now the euphoria of my return to my roots has worn off I'm in a bit of a dither.

As I look around the old place it seems that the fixtures and fittings are either old, broken and useless or not the finished article.

There's quite a bit of tat that the previous tenant left behind when he was evicted and although my new landlords have said they'll provide some cash to spruce things up a bit, I doubt it will be enough to get me on holiday in Europe next year.

I'm particularly worried about my TV - a model FERD1.

A few years ago a previous tenant bought this telly, at the time a big expensive top of the range job.  There are other tellys dotted around the premises but this is my main one.  It's never really lived up to the promise in the brochure.  Problem is it keeps breaking down and even when it works its not of the quality it used to be, in fact its getting steadily worse.

I have a limited budget, so should I really sink resources into maintaining a piece of equipment rapidly becoming obsolete or should I rather cut my losses and put that money towards buying a new top of the range TV.

The other thing to consider is that I have inherited an extremely classy Ukrainian DVD, but there appear to be compatibility problems.  My old telly not really capable of wide screen vision is hampering my enjoyment of this other classy piece of equipment.

I'm off on holiday next month and would clearly like this matter resolved before I leave.

Any advice you can give will be gratefully received.

 

Well, my first thought was why the hell are you writing to me about this, I'm a football correspondent of sorts you saddo.  However on a second look I saw and broke through the code, as no doubt did you dear reader.  So in the spirit of the thing I replied

Dear G Worried ,

You have answered your own question really.  It is useless throwing good money after bad on this ageing relic.  Give it away to some needy type and tell your landlord to stump up for a newer slicker model.  I personally recommend  The Jeffers  E.F.C. whilst it too has certain maintenance problems and it's speakers stick out a bit, it has the potential for years of enjoyable viewing.  Made in England, there should be few compatibility problems, it should settle into your home nicely and will complement your Ukrainian DVD a treat.

As for other matters just throw all the previous tenants old rubbish out of the door its not your responsibility.  Place the onus back on the Landlords. 

Brutal

Footnote : - So you can imagine how annoyed I was this weekend to see the headline 

 FERDINAND SIGNS FOR TWO MORE YEARS

Brutal

 

4.5.2001

CONTRACT TALKS

Amidst all the rumour,  counter rumour and gossip surrounding the contracts of Anderton , Campbell and until recently Ferdinand, little has leaked out from White Hart Lane.

As you know by now I have my sources and as you've proven to a be very discreet audience I feel it is perhaps time to share.

I first met Boris at a Big Issue sales conference around the back of Threshers off licence.

Whilst sampling the delights of a case of Tennants Super we discovered we both had a love of cinema and, despite his Eastern European origins, Spurs.

This came to light when I mentioned his resemblance to the Rattso Rizzo character in Midnight Cowboy and he said I was a dead spit for Sol Campbell , which was strange because I'm lily white in body as well as soul, but it was dark and Tennants does tend to play tricks with the optics.

As time passed Boris was lucky enough to find employment in the theatre of his dreams as a cleaner and it was from information that he picked up in the course of his duties that he was able to pass on the odd tit bit to myself and in the course of time to you.

However old habits die hard and after being caught in a compromising position with the kit bag, a bottle of Brasso and some personal property of David Pleat, Boris was asked to leave.

This was not to prove disastrous however, as Boris has just completed the final operation in his course of treatment and in his new gender and identity of Borrisa has returned to her old position with no one any the wiser.

When our paths last crossed, (she's not very hard to recognise as apart from a  tatty blonde wig, a very formidable 48 DD chest and a dress sense Lily Savage would call loud, she looks exactly the same, down to her permanent five o'clock  shadow and body hair that would shame an orangutan.  This is all set off by her wearing a trilby (a throwback to her masculine days and bald patch).  She dropped this little nugget my way.

It seems that whilst cleaning up the vice chairman's office the other day, she came upon the drinks cabinet and retired to the en suite lavatory to sample a bottle of his best brandy.

The next thing that she can remember is being awoken by the sound of voices and opening her eyes to find that she had gone blind.

After a moment of panic this was rectified by the straightening of her wig and she crept to the door, opened it very slightly and peeped through the crack just in time to see a figure slowly hobbling out through the main door

 

Mr Buchler sitting at his desk was saying  “Yesth, well, don't you forget Darren ten yearsth cover by HSthA, it sthwung it for Lesth ... you get back to me sthoon. “

The departing figure closed the door and Buchler spoke into his intercom  “Missth Sthcolar would you ask Sthol to sthep in pleasthe.”

A few seconds later the strapping form of  Sol Campbell strode into the room.

SC: ” Good morning Mr Buchler, how can I help you ? “

DB: ;” Ah Sthol “

SC: ” Do what ? “

DB: ” I'm sthorry itsth my listhp, pleasthe sthit  down. “

 Sol takes his seat and his eyes focus on the desk's surface that is covered by a sheen of spittle that is illuminated by the mid morning sunlight breaking through the window.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

DB:  ”I've asthked you here today to sthee if we can't come to an agreement over your contract and to hear what we can do to sthatisthtfy you. “  Then, seemingly under the desk, “Ohh left a bit pleasthe.”

Sol is blinking and dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

SC: ” Yes boss I see, I suppose realistically aside from spondolicks, I expect us to sign six or seven superlative seasoned senior servants, especially a striker, stop our seasonal struggles and sustain a substantial assault on trophies consistently .“

DB:  ” Well thatsth easthy for you to sthay,” and again apparently to under the desk “Ohh a little higher.”

Buchler hands over to Sol a sheet of paper that Sol studies for a couple of minutes.

SC: ” Well this list is alright Mr. Buchler, but their all a bit long in the tooth.  It's not exactly a long term strategy, I'd have preferred some younger players to be honest.”

DB:  ” Yesth,  well you sthee Sthol, itsth our intention to replacthe  Holstheein wth Philosthan next stheason, stho itsth a marketing thing really.  We're trying to follow the Chelsthea model.  You know pensionersth, that sthort of thing.  Thora Hird hasth already agreed to be Missth Sthpurs next year,” and yet again he bends slightly to the floor “Yesth, that’s the sthpot”.

Sol wiping frantically at his face has begun to inch his chair away from the desk.

SC:  ” Well I dunno “

DB :  ” I can tell you the sthupportesth are very happy with our plansth, come up here a minute would you Joth. “

From under the desk emerges a figure with a fanatical gleam in his eye he glances at Sol and then looks up in awe at Buchler.  He is wearing a tee shirt which has been written on the front with felt tip pen.  Across the chest at the top it says TAG but this has been crossed out, under this it says SOS but again a scrawl of magic marker has cancelled it out , finally double the size of the other two logo's it says ENIC .

DB:  ” You're very happy aren't you Joth ?  Tell Sthol. “

J :  ” Yes I am very happy.  I agree with anything you say boss.”

DB:  ” Sthuper, back to buisthness then Joth.”

The tee shirted figure disappears beneath the desk again and in a moment a look of bliss lights up Buchler's face.

DB:  ” That really sthcratcthes my ithch.”

Sol has by now pushed his chair halfway between the desk and the door.  He has discarded his sodden hanky and in a last resort has opened his wallet and is brushing his self off with bank notes, one of which has stuck to the top of his forehead and is flapping about in a draught.

SC:  ” Well I just don't know.  I'll have to think about it”.

Sol gets up from his chair and is about to beat a hasty retreat when another voice is heard from the back of the room.  “I love you”

SC:  ” What ? “

“ I love err.. Spurs and I love you, can I have your autograph ?”

Emerging from the shadows at back of the room is a piercing eyed figure with a touch of the Forest Gumps about him, its Daniel Levy.

He shuffles towards Sol both arms extended grasping in one hand a biro, in the other a folded piece of paper.

SC:  ” Yes, yes whatever “

Sol takes the pen signs the paper and is out the door in two seconds flat.

As soon as he has left Buchler and Levy start chuckling, dance a little jig together and do the high fives.

DB:  ” Sthorted.  Letsth go and tell Glen the good newsth.”

Buchler and Levy leave arm in arm followed behind by the Uriah Heep like figure.

The coast now clear, Borissa steps from the toilet into the office and approaches the desk, picking up the papers that Sol put his autograph to she unfolds them to see written at the top  ...

"FIVE YEAR CONTRACT"

 

Brutal

 

6.5.2001

SEASON TICKETS

In response to criticism of the delay between the announcement of season ticket prices and the terms and conditions of said tickets (i.e. a halving of the cup tie allocation thus giving a false impression of ticket price rises), a non spokesman for the club Mr I. M. Madeup, last night issued this statement ...

 

Dear fellow Spurs lovers we are very sorry for the confusion.  It's not our fault, it never was and indeed it never will be.  The fact that all these decisions were ours should be overlooked, whilst we pass the buck on to some other body who really don't give a toss as long as we keep putting business their way.

This shall in future be known as article one, and should be referred to whenever we get caught out pulling a fast one, as it will save everyone a lot of time with us not having to come up with a plausible excuse.

Further we are pleased to introduce a scam, I'm sorry, a scheme where by supporters can put themselves into hock to a credit firm whilst we enjoy their cash.  This was an idea given a test run at one of our subsidiaries -  Funny Farm Enterprises - whereby sheep marked for slaughter were able to donate limbs over a longer term period until they expired.

All extra monies raised by these price adjustments will of course be used on the club and we can promise only the finest wines and cuisine will in future be served in the Directors Suite.  The fact that this allows us to use our own money to having jaunts to Monte Carlo, Monaco and the like should be ignored.

Supporters should also note that monies are being put aside for two further purposes : -

1)      The Biscuit  Fund  A -  this is to provide the tea and biccies for the Supporters Trust meetings and we are sure everyone will be pleased to learn it is our intention to strive for a position in the distant future where we will be able to offer chocolate digestives to the plebs and fairy cakes for Joth and also as a cover for

2)      The Biscuit Fund B -  On week long scouting missions in exotic and attractive locations for hour long talks with representatives of obscure players we have no real intention of signing.  It has been the case in the past that club's representatives have had to put their hands into their own pockets for outlays where cash is the only feasible option (i.e. it would be unjustifiable and/or embarrassing to put them on the expense sheet).

In future and in keeping with the fine traditions of the club several biscuit tins stuffed with readies will be secreted in various locations to provide cash for use in said situations.

 

I'm  sure this will put all reasonable minded supporters  minds at ease and allow us to carry on doing exactly what we want.

Remember WE LOVE SPURS.  Why wouldn't we ?.

 Brutal

 

17.5.2001

The Thrill Of Espionage

If like me you grew up in the Sixties you've probably always had a thing about spies and secret agents, to be in on the beginning of the James Bond era and The Man From UNCLE on TV would I guess have made an impact on your young life as it did on mine.

Whether running around the playground in your Woolworths shoulder holster, complete with silenced gun, or fending off your schoolmate's cap hurled at you as a deadly facsimile of Oddjob's bowler.

Of course most of you grew out of this fascination, but for me fate had other plans.

It all re-emerged in the middle Seventies when one day I was followed home from the Larkswood open air swimming pool changing rooms by some bloke.  Although at first I thought he was a bit over familiar, we got to chatting and he asked me if I would like to share in an alternative secret life style.

I asked him did he mean spying and he said that was all part of it.  Of course, all the thoughts of rocket launching Aston Martins and Pussy Galore came flooding back into my mind and as I was at a bit of a loose end I said I'd give it a go.

So that is how I was introduced to F.A.G.S. (Fabulous Association of Gay Spies).

My new friend Elton (code name Steed) told me that rather than 007 I would be known as 0.0.U and the first step was to go and meet Mr. Big and so off we went.

As you can imagine in my mind's eye I saw myself being whisked off in a helicopter to some dormant volcano full of high tech gadgets, but whilst Elton muttered the odd thing about big choppers you can imagine my disappointment when I had to make do with a crossbar round to some semi derelict council house on Friday Hill estate.

Still I thought on under cover missions it pays to keep a low profile and Elton seemed to confirm this by hinting that I would be expected to creep about in the long grass fairly regularly.

So I turned my thoughts to Mr. Big or Mr. Blow as Elton was now calling him, at the mention of this my heart skipped a beat as visions of Ernst Bloefeld, the big cheese of S.M.E.R.S.H, stroking his pussy lit up my mind.  Again I was in for a bit of a let down, as rather than the sinister shaven headed figure of the Bond movies all monocle, facial scars and menace, sat a fat Bobby Charlton haired old man with a very croaky voice and he didn't seem in the least interested in pussies at all.

I got a little more hopeful when Mr. Blow asked me if I would like to stay and be de-briefed, but time was getting on and I had to get home for my Tea.  

I must say my life as a spy was a big disappointment over the next couple of days as the only spying I did was peering out from behind the net curtains to make sure the coast was clear as Mr. Blow and Elton were upstairs knocking one out, as they put it, and I never did find out what they were making.

The only missions we were sent on was to find Barbara Streisand and Shirley Bassey LPs at the local second hand shops and although I was invited to a gathering of the whole organisation after closing at the public lavs at Chingford Mount, to be frank by now the glamour had worn off and I resigned.  Nice enough blokes, but all the secrecy and furtiveness began to grate to be honest.

So the years rolled on, Elton had asked me to keep what I knew a secret and of course I understood that a spy, even a former very minor one, should keep shtum, so when I saw Elton about from time to time we barely exchanged nods.

And so onto the present day and the meat of this story.

I was in Walthamstow Magistrates Court the other day waiting to bail my wife out when I heard someone hissing at me.  I turned and there was Elton.  After a little small talk he asked me if I was still interested in football.  I said of course, but didn't think that he was.  He gave a little chuckle and said he often dribbled whilst playing the ball.  He then went on to say that he had made some very close friends at Arsenal football club, but something was going on there that scared him.

What was that I asked him and he launched into some speech about “Frenchie's” dissapointment at not being able to sign the De Boer Twins, being worried about replacing his ageing centre backs and experimenting with DNA and other bodily fluids to produce clones.

I asked him if he had any proof of this and he told me to check this address on the internet http://www.uglypeople.com/uglymen/html/up-men-00499.htm

As you can see it's horrific, the uncanny resemblance, the mixture of the two Gooners bringing forth issue of terrible hybrid twin clones.  If you pay close attention to the chap on the right you will see that already that trait peculiar to Gooners of spreading some unknown filth across their chests has already manifested itself.

I asked Elton how this “Frenchie“ could have committed such a crime against humanity his voice went low and in little more than a croak he told me the worst was yet to come.  “Frenchie” had done a dice and splice with himself and Parlour to produce this at http://www.uglypeople.com/uglygender/html/up-gender-00010.htm

I was not ready for the full horror of this and must admit I passed out for a while and when I came to Elton was gone.

I have revisited that site many times in the last few days brooding, a strong feeling building inside of me that I must once again take up the thrill of espionage and find an answer to the puzzle that leaves me sleepless every night.

Forget about the Gooners, what dirty rotten scoundrel posted my photo up on that site!

 

19.5.2001

SO YOU WANT TO BE A BIG IRON

Dear Mr Curbishley,

Thank you very much for your Application for the vacancy of manager

I feel I should be frank and tell you that you were not first choice for the job.  Not withstanding your own antecedents, the board felt that it was important to install someone that the supporters could identify with and who had a high profile and a touch of glamour.

As you probably realise a big point of identity with us is our theme tune “I`m forever blowing Bubbles”, and so, it was with this in mind, that we offered the job to Michael Jackson.

However he failed to see our logic and when we explained , rather ungraciously turned the job down saying that it was a mouthful that even he could not handle, he was especially sensitive to the “Fade and die “ line and further, claret and blue would clash with his pigmentation of choice next season

We then of course turned to the next best candidate…the chimp himself.

We thought the peanuts that we pay and the chance to co- habit with Nigel Winterburn would prove a very attractive package but Mr. Jackson, speaking for the chimp, explained that Bubbles is related in some way to Martin Keown at Arsenal and a sense of loyalty, not to mention pride, would not allow him to take up our offer.

To save a lot of time and ink we will skip the next thirty candidates save to say that the last one before you, a Mr .Ruud Gullit was about to put pen to paper before he tried to insert a last minute clause in his contract insisting on at least six mirrors in every room in the Stadium, fortunately there was just enough time to stop the carpenters beginning work on widening the doors to allow his head easy access.

We are sure that you will be relieved to know we will be continuing the clause in the last manager's contract that there will be no mirrors on the premises whatsoever or indeed anything that casts a reflection.

So let us look at your own qualities; you were an average player at some very average clubs… err and of course us; you can work on a shoe- string; sell your best players; recommend uncoordinated misfits to the England manager; have a serious lack of trophies on your CV; can backstab people that your in partnership with; believe that staying in the division is the greatest thing you'll ever achieve and last, but no means least, you're starting to develop a very saggy, baggy face.

In fact, I don't know why you were not at the top of our list as you seem perfect.

So please, pretty please Mr. Curbishley, will you become our next manager.

I should like to stress that it is a matter of urgency that the position is filled as we are just about to start our annual summer sales.

Our scouts are at this moment scouring the mental asylums, invalid homes and old peoples refuges, not forgetting a couple of Dutch caravan parks for their bargain basement replacements.

I again appeal to you down on my knees, one Iron to another, at least satisfy me orally that you’re the Iron I'm looking for to fill my void. 

Yours T Brown  

PS sorry no luncheon vouchers or bus pass 

 

25.5.2001

THE SAME OLD SONG

 

Hello everybody, this week I have been plagued with e-mails from someone who calls himself Gorgeous George who seems to delude himself that I have an inside line to West Ham.

He seemed most impressed with the letter I got hold of offering Curbishley the job at Upton Park (and as a side- line isn't someone known as Curbs just perfect for that job, down in the gutter with the filth of the world flowing by on its way down the drain).

He was it seems very interested that the West Ham people put so much store by their song and asked for my advice as to how he could best present himself to get the job.

Well Gorgeous I'd get myself kitted out in a Hammers mascot outfit, get down to the Boleyn and blag my way into the boardroom pretending to be a singing telegram. 

Once inside whip out the old ghetto blaster and give them this version of bubbles which I have specially prepared for you, no charge 

"I'm forever playing long balls, aimless long balls in the air, 

They fly so high, while we play offside, 

You'll fall asleep, down the table we'll slide. 

We'll get some good hidings, we won't have no flair. 

We'll just keep playing long balls, aimless long balls in the air." 


Then whip off your hammer head, beam at them and tell them you want two million quid a season.
  I know at the moment this may seem overly honest, but don't worry,  you can't lose because, lets face it, nobody else seems to want to touch the job with a barge pole. 

 

30.5.2001

WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE ?

with David Buchler and Sol Campbell

David Buchler :  ” Stho Sthol, it’sth the climax of the show and now it' sth your chancthe to get a million poundsth”.

Sol Campbell : ” Yeah right mug, a paltry million.  Pah”.

DB : ”Sthorry ?”

SC : ”Look do you think you could hurry up ?  Places to go people to see”.

DB : ”Er.. alright then.  Stho, the questhion isth ...  your presthent contract isth running out do you  ...

A -  Lie through your teeth for the prectheeding eighteen monthsth,  posthponing meetingsth on your future whilsth telling everyone that you want to sthay at the club,

B -  Make outrageousth financial demandsth that would bring the club to the brink of bankruptsthy, but still demand on a clausthe to walk away on a free if your stho inferior team matesth don't measthure up to your sthandardsth

C -  Tell the fansth you love the club , alwaysth have alwaysth will and want nothing more than to be part of a new sthuccessthful era whilsth sthecretly plotting to join Arsthenal

Or

D -  Sthign the biggesth money deal in the premiersth histhory for eighty grand a week and help the club you love become a major forcthe again ??"

SC in a girlish giggle : “ Hmm, well, let me think.  This is sooo difficult, not.”

DB : “Oh, tell you what Sthol, you've got all your lifelinesth why not usthe one if your having trouble.  What about fifty fifty ?”.

SC passionately  : ” I share everything with Sky, everything. Oh I see, go on then I'll humour you”.

DB  :  “OK.  Stho that leavesth you with a choicthe of thC or D, thC or D Sthol.   Whatsth it to be?"

SC shaking with mirth  :  ”Wow that’s a hard one and I do love one of those.”

DB  :  “Well look, why not phone a friend “

SC  :   “OOO goody yeah.  I want to phone Sky.”

DB  :   “But he'sth sthitting right nexth to you.”

SC  :  “ I don't care.  I want to phone Sky” stamping his feet.

DB  :  “ OK OK”

SC  :  “ Hello, have you heard this geezer, what is he on ?“

Sky Andrew  :   “Gawd knows, but she's sweating a bit isn'`t she.  Let's put her out of her misery and get out of this dump.”

SC  :  “Yeah right.  Kylie's up the Astoria tonight, bye.”

SA  :  “Ciao Baby.”

SC  : “Sorry Bucko, but my answer is C.”

DB  :  “Are you cthertain about that ?”

SA  :   “Look Geezer Sol's told you.  Don't get all butch with us or I'll scratch your eyes out.”

SC  :   “Yeah don't try to touch what you can't afford. Come on Sky I'll buy you something nice to wear for tonight.”

SA  :   “OOOH can't wait.  'Bye Muggins”

SC  :  "Honestly, she's worse than the last one all that spitting and fawning."

SA  :  "Mmm, I know the Sugar plum fairy was sooo much more butch.  Lovely whiskers too."

SC  : "Bitch."

DB  : “Before you go Sthol you did have one lifeline left - ask the audiencthe - wouldn't you like to know what they sthaid”.

SC  : “Oh doesn't she go on.  Let's get it out in the open then big boy.”


The audience say ... SPURS FANS TO SOL

Your betrayal is not so much a sol destroyer as you sol dout ...

GET LOST JUDAS.

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

Rat Joins a sinking ship  -  Sol does the dirty

Comparisons are odious  -  Bunjy the Balkan Beckanbauer

Wupert The Bear With A Sore Head  -  SCBC top man in a modern fairy tale

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