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Clutching At More Straws Than A Frantically Masturbating Scarecrow

By The Boy -

Spurs beaten home and away by a relatively pedestrian Belgian side whilst we degenerated into an official bothering mess of grumbles and face pulling.

Even the sainted Harry Winks was drawn into the complaining void.

How did we get there is the first question.

We got to Wembley by approaching Tottenham Hotspur Football Club as if it was a brand of lemonade that we wanted placed in a certain spot in the marketplace.

So instead of being sold in a pound shop –  we worked on our branding and had aspirations to be on the shelf at Waitrose.

The teeny weeny problem was, that the lemonade tasted like piss.

Wembley is a horrible venue, designed to simply be tolerated by two sets of fans in order to win a trophy. Nobody in their right mind would use it as a regular base.

THFC and the pompous w*nkers at the THST went all out to secure Wembley.

All we have been fed is this endless diet of ‘sell out’, ‘record attendances’. This guff is completely meaningless and wholly unsatisfying.

Spurs as product are superbly positioned. As a football club we are eating air and farting bubbles.

We need to build a team and learn how to win things. All this Tunnel Club and Cheese Room business is laughable. Who designed this rebuild, Donald J Trump?

Levy spent 3 weeks sniffing a lift shaft in order to ensure that the minutest detail was examined.

The football team which he’s been hacking away at for the last 16 years is a dysfunctional hotchpotch that unsurprisingly excels at earning money.

Wembley doesn’t work.

I told you it wouldn’t work, but you were too busy stampeding towards one the most stupid decisions the club has ever made.

Tickets at £5 only served to prove that we’d need to pay fans significantly more than this in future to watch us play at Wembley in future.

I’m bored of pointing out the obvious flaws with this particular toilet and if you want me to flesh out my contempt, please refer to my archive.

Could Wembley conceivably work? If you’re even asking yourself that question then you’re clutching at more straws than a frantically masturbating scarecrow.

Wembley next season will be nothing short of a cyanide pill with a Luger to the roof of the mouth chaser.

Time for Levy’s u-turn.

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