Scouting Report: Tottenham Hotspur

David Baddiel Will Not Like That

In consequence of being the only plain one in the family, Mary worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, and was always impatient for display. Yet she had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. A lot like Spurs really.

- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, 1813

Due to a poisonous cocktail of happenstance, bad luck and poor life choices I happen to know an extraordinary number of Spurs fans. The archetype of course is the cab driver, making a nuisance of himself on Talksport while he runs the gauntlet of traffic lights and speed cameras on the northbound A10 at 2am on a Sunday morning, returning to the Spurs hinterlands of Cheshunt and Waltham Cross, but my researches are not restricted thus. I know Tottenham fans in all walks of life. Captains of industry, bricklayers, rent boys, those unfortunate bros who hand you paper towels in club toilets, I know them all, and they are all Spurs. And to a man, each of them is an utter, unremitting helmet.

By what design have the Lords of Football made it thus, that every Spurs fan should be afflicted by the same instability of mind, defective temper and ludicrous over-estimation of their own self worth? The answer, I fear, must lie with Arsenal. The meagre, twisted mind of the Spurs fan is forged by decades of oppression and subjugation to a near neighbour who is without question grander, superior and more successful in every possible facet. It must be mortifying. When your brother, given the same opportunities in life achieves greatness, your own miserable reflection unadorned by celebrity and acclaim will naturally become a cause of anguish and unseemly bitterness. Every small and hard-earned triumph becomes ash in the mouth of a cuckolded man. This is how it feels to be born Brian Messi, or Frank Ronaldo, or Spurs.

The situation of course is grossly antagonised by the actions of Arsene Wenger, who takes great delight in trolling the Spurs fans each summer. "What is this? Oh non! I have forgot to buy a defensive midfielder again! We will never make top 4 this season! Probably some other North London club will take our Champions League spot..."

That the Spurs fans unfailingly fall for this every year is as much credit to their enthusiasm as it is deleterious to their understanding. They are, in many respects, more to be pitied than censured. Every right-thinking football club should adopt a Spurs fan this Christmas, to show them that there is a better way to live your life, and that there is still joy to be found even in the bleak purgatory that persists below 5th.

The Manager

General Levy: He's Incredible

By some manouevre of cunning or fortune General Levy has managed to engender a reputation as a fearsome and implacable negotiator. The kind of man who shakes your hand and leaves you counting your fingers. Assuming the case is as stated we can only speculate what the fuck the original asking price was on Roberto Soldado, that this master manipulator could walk away thinking he had the better end of a £27m transfer. I doubt that the money wasted here is even compromised by 30 years of saved barber bills.

On a slightly related issue, there is a school of thought that the glistening top-dome is an irresistable aphrodisiac to ladies, the globular gateway to superior fanny. Indeed, it is only an opinion you hear expressed by pre-existing slap-merchants, but you hear it said nonetheless. I have thought about this a great deal, as my own father is in possession of a worryingly genetic-looking boiled egg, but as he himself expressed, "You will only ever attract a certain kind of woman, by looking like a dildo."

Note: There is also some other head-coach at Spurs this week. I shouldn't bother to learn his name though, if I were you. He won't last, and in any case I promise you, he hasn't bothered to learn yours.

The Cockerel

Cockerels make a lot of noise but ultimately, they don't produce any eggs*.

The other interesting thing I know about cockerels, and I'm not saying that this is necessarily common with Spurs fans, is that they exclusively partake in anal sex. I'm not even joking, this is a genuine fact! God laid a floater when he invented cockerels and designed them all gay. Not that I am opposed to gay cockerels per se, or gay anythings for that matter, but God ought to have thought it through. "Not all of them G," I should have said to God had he consulted me on this matter, "someone needs to make the babies. Maybe just make 20% of cockerels woofters, leave some cockerel cock for the chicks". But he didn't ask me. Dumbass. Luckily for God however, Charles Darwin came up with quite an elegant solution. What Charles Darwin did, right, was fix it so that girl-chickens keep their vagina in their bumhole.

Girl-chickens keeping their vagina in their bumhole is another highly interesting biological fact that I have not made up. It may be news to you however because the knowledge that all chicken porn is, biologically speaking, "D.P." is not something they teach at schools, even though it could save a lot of anguish and embarrassment in the future lives of avian gynaecologists, or whatever. They also never tell you that scrambled egg on toast is actually a hen's period served on a slab of leavened plant jizz, which it most certainly is. No wonder this country is in such a mess!

* Metaphor - ˈmɛtəfə,-fɔː/ - noun - The assertion that a subject is, on some point of comparison, the same as an otherwise unrelated object. E.g. Rooney's hair.

Player Bro-files

Emmanuel Adebayor

Sometimes, Adebayor looks like a really good player. Pace, strength, skills, he's got the lot! Other times it's like he's trolling Ron Atkinson. Inconstancy however, scores highly on the Bro-Scale, so he is our Spurs Bro Leader!

Verdict: Bro

Hugo Lloris

A slightly tough one this. I can't decide if he's more the quiet intellectual, or a kind of French pikey. His looks pull equally in each direction, I could imagine him reading Voltaire in a quiet cafe bar off the Seine, or just as easily in a trackie on a weekday hauling about an angry looking dog on a bit of string. Either way, he's not bro.

Verdict: Not Bro.

Top Wag

This sort is called Hazel O'Sullivan. She is getting rooted by Andros Townsend amongst, according to my researches (and it would be a sad thing if word were to get back to him, so say nothing about it), various others.

Townsend you should imagine is quite an unsatisfactory lover for an experienced wag like Hazel, his normal modus operandi being to dribble for a bit and then shoot widely off target. It's not much really, but at least he does it consistently. He could do it for England.

Scouting Report: Arsenal

The Manager

Arsene Wenger came to English football with a vision: To develop young players through an academy system and into the Arsenal first team. 17 years later and this policy has been a resounding success. The Arsenal first-team is rammed with academy products like Theo Walcott, Alex Oxlaide-Chamberlain and Carl Jenkinson. These young, English players are template for the "Arsene Way" and the Gooner Academies in Southampton and Charlton are now the envy of Europe.

This success looks set to continue. Upcoming players like Luke Shaw and James Ward-Prowse are impressing in the Premier League and for the England U21s, and both players are expected to make the break through into the Arsenal first team before long.

One to Watch

You have to feel sorry for Nicholas Bendtner, he's always getting trolled. Paddy Power sponsoring his underpants, the journalists asking him if he's good enough to play for Real Madrid, Arsene Wenger playing him centre forward.

Worst of all is his hairdresser. "Nicholas! Have I got the haircut for you! What we'll do is give you a double side parting and tie a bunch up on top, like a Roman cock helmet."

"Won't I look like 8 year old girl?"

"Nooo Nicholas! You can pull it off! We'll add beard! You'll look like Samurai warrior!"

Top Wag

Thomas Vermaelen is routing this sort, her name is Polly Parsons which proves at least that she was always destined for Nuts magazine. I like her in this photo, lying in her bathroom on the urinal pissmat, quietly contemplating the vacuum of an empty cup, and how it reminds her of a tornado's eye moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo. She finds the saucer quite interesting too. Contrary to building regulations someone has placed an electric lamp on the bathroom floor. One hopes that Polly hasn't left the bath running, a simple overflow could result in fried implants and electrically cauterized vaginal hair. There's no getting that out of a wool carpet.

Poetry Corner

Ozil's Eyes by Brian Earsy

When a baby cries and falls and dies

His mum looks down with

Ozil eyes

When a crack addict begs

And pleads and lies

For one more hit

Please help me guys!

He smokes the rock

And as he dies

Stares at the sky with

Ozil eyes

When a slapper wakes

On bathroom tiles

And in a pool of vomit

Her knickers lie

She can't remember

She knows not why

And looks in the mirror with

Ozil eyes

True Story

I used to date a girl who was a big Gunners fan. She was a very devout Catholic and flatly refused to use contraception of any kind. Consequently I could never talk her into penetrative sex. When her 13th birthday was coming up I tried to cut a deal with her, "Look Megan," I said. "I want to pleasure you for your birthday treat. I'll pay through the nose, money is no object.I just don't want anything to show for it in 9 months."

"That's easy," she said brightly. "Take me up the Arse."

Scouting Report: Fulham FC

Fulham play at Cowardly Sex-Toilet

The Manager

When Martin Jol turned 16 he was visited by his Fairy Godmother. "Martin," she said, "you have been a good boy, I will grant you one wish."

"That's great news! What sort of thing can I get?"

"Anything you like. Whatever your heart desires."

"Can I be a world class football manager?"

"Be reasonable!"

Martin sighed. "Oh well," he said blushingly. "There is one thing... I do wish I could get more head."

The Fairy Godmother was shocked. "How much more?"

"Loads more. I want to get more head than anyone in the whole world."

His wish was granted. I remember in my first Scouting Report describing Steve Clarke's head as mashed potato. Martin Jol is more jacket. A real King Edward. It's a very substantial cranium, a titanic ice-berg, a planetary mass. If I could only see one thing before my death, I would watch Martin Jol trying to put on a jumper. I bet it's hilarious!

Fun Fact:

In his playing career Martin Jol played 400 club games, but only three times for Holland. He would of got more but the cost of providing Jol with caps was making the Dutch FA insolvent.

The Chairman

Shahid Khan took over at Fulham after former chairman Mohamed Al Fayed got killed at the end of Taken.* I know nothing of him beyond his moustache, but frankly that is enough. It's magnificent!

* Movie starring Liam Neeson.

The Squad

St. John's Ambulance watch on nervously as Scott Parker attempts a "Run"

Martin Jol is all about preparation, or in the case of the majority of his first team squad, preparation H. Like clockwork every match-day zimmer frames are greased and polished, false teeth are rinsed in Steradent and players are bussed in from Eastbourne. The new Fulham kit comes with built in corn plasters and long johns. They have names on their shirts in case someone forgets who they are. At half time everyone has Rich Tea biscuits and talks about the war. Often they forget to come out for the second half. They'd sooner have a little nap.

Famous fans

Ten years before his statue, we see the first Michael Jackson erection at Craven Cottage.

17th October 1999, Michael Jackson was invited by his good friend Mohamed Al Fayed to his new Cottagers Club in London. Michael jumped at the opportunity! Especially when Al Fayed advised him that they would certainly score.

The trip proved a bit of a wash. Imagine MJ's disappointment! Dolled out in his best Fedora, with a significant flower in his lapel, he found on arrival not the underage sex dungeon of his imagination, but a mere soccer ball contest attended by toothless pensioners.

Nevertheless the true philosopher will find pleasure where he can, and Michael soon identified kindred spirits among the ball boys and U14s soccer side. He gathered all the lads together in the Craven Cottage shower rooms and offered to sing for them. Unfortunately, the song he chose was hit single "Bad", and the first line of that happens to be, "Your butt is mine." Soon as he uttered this refrain, all the boys scarpered. It was the quickest evacuation since Jason Puncheon vs Everton.*

* Southampton in-joke yo.

Top Wag

Part #57 in our ongoing series of blondie big-boobs willing to do almost anything, or rather anyone, to secure a Wag lifestyle is ginger apologist, Krystell Sidwell.

I kid you not, her genuine name is "Krystell". There are only two occupations available for girls with a name like Krystell; Stripper or ex-Stripper. Krystell Sidwell falls into the latter category. She's now co-owner of Wag's Boutique, and spends her days walking glumly through her stores wistfully thinking of the one fashion accessory she can never upgrade, her buck-toothed, ginger-freak husband.

Next week, Abigail Clancy.

Scouting Report: Swansea City

Not gonna make any sheep jokes, they're baaa'd

There are three things I hoped never to see in my lifetime: A positive STD check, Michael Owen doing match commentary and a Welsh club in the Premier League. It seems particularly cruel that in the space of 12 months all three disasters have come to pass.

The Welsh football renaissance is the most galling. The Premier League is positively riddled with taffy, you can hardly watch Match Of The Day without thinking of sheep. Cardiff, Swansea... we even had Reading last season. I would be totally willing to keep the burning sensation in my pee-pee if it meant sending the boyo's back to the Rymans league, or wherever the fuck they ought to be playing.

I really hate Wales, I suppose everyone does. Anyone who had to read Moby Dick at school will certainly have a similar attitude. Also, in the 1980s it came out that Welsh people were having sex with miners. The government tried to shut it down, but all the Welsh people went on strike. What Tony Blair did then, was make them all work for the DVLA so it wouldn't matter if they went on strike. He's clever like that, Tony Blair.

The Manager

Sigh. If I had to turn rainbow laces for any Premier League manager, it would be Brian Laudrup. He's so dreamy. I usually like to write a few paragraphs criticising a rival manager's personality, looks and sexual proclivities but I can't bring myself to do it. The worst thing I can find to say about Brian Laudrup is that he manages Swansea City, and to the world's scrutiny of that he is obviously unconcerned, or he wouldn't have joined the fucking club.

One to watch

Nathan Dyer's tiny feet

Swansea winger Nathan Dyer wields the Premier League's smallest penis. It looks like a black caterpillar. Like the temperature dial on a toy oven. Like a severed pinky. It's such a little winkle that the FA had to verify his chromosomes before he could play in the boy's league.

Dyer's penis, while insufficient to fully satisfy a woman has proven useful in other respects. The Kick It Out campaign, for example, use it to demonstrate the fallacies of racial stereotyping. He also never has difficulty talking girls into anal.

Famous Fans

I had sex with a Welsh girl when I was 15. True story. It was part of faustian pact with my mate who was trying to get his end away with her better looking friend. As soon as I spurt I looked at my mate and he looked at me; "RUN!" I shouted, and we pegged it. I never saw her again, but I sometimes wonder if there is a little Brian Earsy running around the valleys, bothering sheep.

The better looking mate was like a young Catherine Zeta-Jones. No jokes. I was thinking of her when I was pounding away on my victim. What I took from this is that even the best looking Welsh birds are fair game to depraved and unsuitable individuals. Michael Douglas knows this. When he looked down on his grey and wrinkled wiener, he thought to himself, "Where will I ever find someone to suck you again, my little friend. You look like a tortoise head."

In Wales, Michael, said his wiener. Take me to Wales.

Fun Facts

Even excluding farmstock, Swansea has the highest incidence of STD per capita in Europe.

Swans don't have a vagina, they have sex exclusively in the bum. Ditto Swans fans.

The Rickie Lambert Story

August 2011, Kirby Beetroot Factory, Liverpool

The factory was a run down reminder of Victorian times. Electricity had not yet arrived in this district and the building was lit only by beetroot stained skylights and the dim burn of wax candles. A purple man slaved in the tank, his ample frame twisted from the arduous task of retrieving beetroot parts from the glutinous waters. He was naked, and the beetroot juices stained his skin and nails in a way which was to prove permanent. It was one of the most dangerous and demeaning jobs in Liverpool, worse even than benefits inspector. Dozens of men had died from prolonged exposure to beetroot carcinogens.

This man was Rickie Lambert. In just two years time he would be playing, and scoring, for England. This is how that miracle came to pass.

The early years

A young Rickie Lambert enjoys his first taste of beetroot

Rickie was born in the slums of Kirby,  in the coal cellar of an abandoned horse factory. There were no pediatric nurses on hand, Rickie was pulled from his mother's snatch by the filthy mittens of a toothless tramp named Sanchez, who at that time shared their family living space.

Rickie's mother scratched out a meagre living selling used vegetables to local students. Material comforts were want, but she always ensured that her son had the best clothes and nourishment that the Morrisons skips could provide. She always claimed that Rickie's father was a professional footballer, but it seemed more likely that he was fathered by a drunken one-night stand, or that she had fallen foul of Liverpool's lively rape culture. In either case, Rickie was resigned to never knowing his true parentage. He did not complain, it was nice to fit in with the other kids at school.

One memorable day, young Rickie turned out for the St. Kenny's Primary School football team. He took to the field barefoot and with his trouser legs rolled up, as he was far too poor to afford proper kit. He scored 6 penalties that day, each of them more unerringly accurate than the last until the referee caught up with him and pointed out that he didn't go to this school, and could he please fuck off as they were trying to have a match. Rickie tramped from the field dejected, and vowed never again to participate in organised sports.

The Wilderness Years

Nothing is known of Rickie from the ages of 12 to 29.

Nigel Adkins

Nigel Adkins was a former professional footballer who had been recently appointed manager of newly formed Premier League club Southampton FC. Native of Liverpool, he liked to return to that City on his free days to walk the slum districts writing inspirational poetry, and to see if he could pick up anyone tasty at the docks.

Chance, or fate, drew him to Kirby Beetroot Factory that day. He wandered into the main warehouse and stood in the doorway with a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose. There was a large vat in the centre of the warehouse. As Adkins watched, a creature burst from the waters like a salmon and volleyed a beetroot 30 yards across the factory and directly into a collection sack. The creature splashed back into the waters and disappeared. Before Adkins could write a single line of inspirational poetry, it happened again. And then again. Each volley was struck with the shooting accuracy of Lee Harvey Oswald. Adkins was amazed, "What is that?" he asked of a passing man in a stained overcoat. "Oh, that's Rickie Lambert. We call him The Fish."

Adkins stumbled back. Images were tumbling through his head of a girl he once knew in Kirby. Her name was Lambert and she always sad that were she to have a son, she would name him Rickie. Could it be? Was it possible? "Is this my son?" said Adkins, his voice hoarse from the toxic fumes of beetroot.

The Premier League

No son of Nigel Adkins would spend his life beetroot fishing in Victorian factories. Out of obligation and charity, Adkins gave Lambert a minor contract at Southampton Football Club. Rickie was never expected to play, but due to a mixture of circumstance and injury, Lambert found himself on the Southampton bench for the first game of the season.

Mid-way through the second half, with the scores tied, star Southampton forward Guly Do Prado was scythed down in the Manchester City penalty box. Do Prado was injured, unable to continue, but he was the only one Adkins trusted to take penalties. Adkins looked at his bench thoughtfully. "Rickie, you're on. Take the penalty."

Rickie was aghast. "But dad... I haven't... I don't know how!"

"Just relax. Imagine you're back in the factory. The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack."

Rickie scored with ease. He went on to score a further 14 penalties that year as Southampton won the Premier League.

England Call Up

For all his exploits in the Premier League, Rickie would never be called up for England. There was always someone younger, quicker or pony-tailed in his way.

Finally, with the World Cup Final of Scotland vs England looming, Nigel Adkins took matters into his own hands. He twisted Andy Carroll's ankle. He knobbled Daniel Sturridge's knees. He severed Wayne Rooney's head with a gash more voluminous than the rancid vagina of Katie Price. Finally it was enough. Rickie was in the England Squad!

World Cup Final

August 14th 2013, World Cup Final, England vs. Scotland, Wembley Stadium.

England were in trouble. The scores were tied 2-2, time was running out and all that England had on the bench was an uncapped former beetroot factory worker. Finally, England manager Gary Neville, acting more from desperation than hope, threw Rickie Lambert into action. 

Almost immediately Scotland manager Gordan Strachan hand-balled in the area and England were awarded a penalty! With the world watching, Rickie Lambert sensed his chance. He chinned Frank Lampard with a vicious upper-cut and took hold of the match ball. He placed it carefully on the penalty spot.

"The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack. The ball is a beetroot, the goal is the sack," repeated Rickie to himself.

The goal was scored! The World Cup was won! Rickie Lambert cried purple tears as all of England rejoiced and beetroot was declared the new national vegetable.