- Feb 1, 2005
- 19,120
- 6,003
- Staff
- #1
Getting exciting isn't it?
Thanks for the kind words about yesterday's opening act of The Small Knight Rises. To mark the end of the last week without a new striker (we can dream), here's the culmination.
And, of course, do donate.
The Small Knight Rises – Part Two
To recap. Spurs had no strikers. Half the team had been killed when the evil Terry had exploded St James Park on the first day of the season. But, we left the story with The Small Knight preparing to rise from his hole in America...
Back at St James Park, Steffen Freund stepped into the technical area and a ball fell at his feet. The crowd yelled “Shoooooot!” He did. The ball - predictably - flew high, flew wide and flew right out of the stadium. It landed so far out of the stadium it would have hit the Angel of the North on the left tit. But before it could, the ball was trapped by a caped figure. A man. A knight. A Small Knight. He wore a costume with two letters on the chest. D. L.
The press box gaped, for one second pausing between typing insulting sentences about Andre Villas-Boas. “That’s impossible,” said Martin Lipton or some other repugnant twat, who thought the hero was dead.
But sure enough, there he was. The Small Knight. Perched on the wings of the Angel of the North.
He swooped down onto the pitch to confront Terry.
The caravan-dwelling simpleton, his face obscured behind his pointy white mask that allowed him to have racist thoughts poured into his conscious 24-hours-a-day, looked at the Small Knight.
“So,” said Terry “You came back to die with your football club.”
“No,” replied Levy. “I came back to stop you.”
Terry snorted “You can watch me torture an entire football club. And when you have truly understood the depth of your failure, we will fulfil Rom An Ghul’s destiny. We will destroy Tottenham and then, when it is done and Tottenham is ashes, then you have my permission to die.”
“Now,” screeched Terry. “AVB. What do you know about him?”
The Small Knight answered: “That you should be as afraid of him as I am.”
To prove it, at that very moment, AVB had led his team out of the stadium and had Luka Modric stood in front of the rest of the squad, hanging over the Tyne Bridge. He had already thrown Vedran Corluka, Niko Kranjcar and Stephen Pienaar over the side to plunge to their ignominious deaths in the icy cold of the River Tyne.
“There should be a jury” wailed Luka.
“This is not a trial” laughed Villas-Boas. “This is merely a sentencing. How do you wish your sentence carried out? Death… or sign for Real Madrid?”
“You just asked Stephen Pienaar “Death or sign for Everton?” then when he said “sign for Everton” you threw him in the river to catch vicious diseases and die horribly.”
“Same difference.”
“If you think I’m going to be thrown in that river willingly, you got another thing coming,” said Modric.
“So, death then?”
“Looks that way.”
“Very well,” paused AVB for maximum effect. “Death… by signing for Madrid... in the River Tyne...”
Modric was tossed to the murky depths of this horrendous waterway, at the same moment that the cheque for 40m pounds cleared Spurs’ bank account.
Two weeks later, it was deadline day. Spurs still didn’t have any strikers. AVB went to visit The Small Knight in his office. “This conversation” said Daniel, “usually ends with the manager making an unusual request.”
“I’ve given up on a striker” replied AVB, clearly shaken after losing his first three games in charge.
“Well, let me show you some stuff anyway. Just for old times sakes.”
Levy hit a button and the wall triggered back to reveal Fernando Llorente, Leandro Damiao, Adebayor, Roberto Soldado and Edison Cavani all in Spurs strips ready to go.
Eight games into the season. Spurs had one point. Llorente’s brace on debut looked to have earned Spurs a win until a man in a white pointy mask in the crowd blew up the ground from underneath his feet. Spurs conceded three late goals when Terry picked off the Spurs defence with a rifle.
A similar pattern followed as one-by-one, Spurs powerful, expensive strike-force were assassinated by the evil Terry. By November, Spurs had managed just one draw. They were bottom of the league. The team were a wreck. The remaining players had watched half the team killed by being blown up in the St James Park pitch explosion and the other half killed by Terry.
Harry Kane in particular was a shivering mess. Tears rolled down his cheek in the dressing room. Tim Sherwood bent down, patting the young man on the knee and looking him kindly in the eyes, before placing a warm lilywhite shirt around his shoulders.
~ 6 MONTHS FURTHER ON ~
It was the FA Cup Final. Spurs opponents Chelsea were led by Terry. The master-criminal had already cost his club a record 50-point deduction after the FA decided while racism, thuggery and bringing the game into disrepute was fine but actual murder was worthy of a 10-pointloss. As a result, Chelsea were relegated from the Premier League but the FA Cup was their last chance to salvage some dignity, and they were prepared to do anything to deny Spurs the trophy the fans craved so much in AVB’s first season in charge.
Rafael Van Der Vaart dribbled towards Terry. “He’s behind you” said the Dutchman.
“Who?”
“Me.”
It was Harry Kane, springing the offside trap perfectly before firing home. The first of his three goals to win the match.
After the match, Terry lay dejected on the Wembley pitch, his career over.
The Small Knight walked over to the broken man. “How the mighty have fallen, Terry. But you know the score. You either die a hero. Or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”
“You think you’re the hero?” sniffled Terry.
“No” said the Small Knight. “Harry Kane is that hero. He scored more than thirty goals this season and he did it without wearing stupid yellow boots.”
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was buzzing. Spurs were not only back in the Champions League, finishing third ahead of Arsenal after winning their final 30 matches on the bounce, but had their favourite cup back on the mantelpiece.
Geoff Shreeves bundled into the dressing room and made a beeline for the hat-trick hero. “Harry! Harry! Amazing season. Amazing match. Amazing goals. Especially the bicycle kick where you followed through and smashed your boot into Terry’s ball-sack. You’re a true hero.”
The youngster shrugged, looked up and made eye contact with Tim Sherwood across the room. “Anyone can be a hero. Even a man who did something so simple and reassuring as putting a lilywhite shirt around a young boy's shoulders, to let him know the world hadn't ended.”
FIN
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