Tweeting

Hola. You’ll have to excuse my lack of fluidity and style for the next week or so. This here blog is about to enter an experimental landscape of snapshot articles. I’m without my beastly laptop where the magic is usually crafted (the 4k screen needs to be replaced due to a defect). First world problems. I’ll probably spend my time on Twitter dropping knowledge bombs like a thoughtful drone. Killing softly.

To Saturday past. 

The heart of darkness has finally been vanquished with light. ‘We made heart work of it’ is Wembley’s tagline for the season thus far. I’m sat here contemplating how the table would look had we beaten Burnley and Swansea. Tottenham’s groove is still missing a beat. Unlike fortress WHL last term, we’ve struggled to demolish the sturdy resilience of the opposition teams that sit with ample deepness. 

Is it still questionably an issue of psychology? On our home turf in amongst N17 territory we had it all worked out. At the rented accommodation? It’s not quite oozing slickness. Still, we’re creating enough chances to win comfortably. We’re just missing the required potency. Score early and you’ll likely score more to eradicate the presence of pressure. Away from home the tempo suits us far better. The counter on our travels is an aggressive weapon of beauty.

To repeat the obvious, we’ll have more to offer when the missing return. Mousa, Vic, Danny and Erik. 

Looking ahead to the fixtures in the next few weeks, we’re about to enter that first ‘sh*t about to get real’ stage of the season. Real Madrid away on Tuesday is a tasty test. They’ve not been on fire form but it’s Ronaldo and company so it’s naive to dismiss their power. Then we entertain Liverpool at home, traditionally a side we struggle against (mostly in reference to last season). West Ham follow in the cup nobody cares about meaning we have an opportunity to own (home) momentum in our favour. Manchester United at Old Trafford ends the month. Peak times.

By the time November strolls into view we’ll either be standing tall or clutching our badly bruised b*llocks.

COYS