Weekend Blues

When in doubt insult Arsenal

Welp, Spurs went down in a rudderless, gutless performance away to Everton. Third loss on the trot. First time since Harry Redknapp took over for Juande that that’s happened. I’m not sure what to say except that I am mystified as to why Harry prefers Luka on the left and Bale on the right when shorn of Lennon’s pace. Rather than putting Rafa or Niko out there on the right to at least keep part of our shape we instead end up having three of our best player’s either out of position or out with injury. It make’s no sense and the past three matches have proven that Tottenham don’t play well in formations that don’t make sense.

In terms of what has made sense this weekend, I just finished Tyler Cowen’s The Great Stagnation. Basically we need more science, people. SCIENCE. Adjusting tax rates either upwards or downwards will do little to fix our economy either way and may just make things worse (I still think we ought to raise taxes back to pre-Bush levels but whatever). The point is, Cowen argues that there is no silver bullet that new policies or politics will create to get our economy humming again. Well, shit. That said, I guess we ought to all feel fortunate that we have low-paying jobs to be overworked doing.

So it goes. I’m off to help me mum purchase a new fridge.

I also reread the last chapter of For Whom The Bell Tolls last night cuz I couldn’t fall asleep. That Hemingway makes dying in combat sound oh so honorable. Since Spurs are dying a slow death as we speak, I decided to write about it in my most Hemingwayesque voice:

We knew the regiment was outmanned and outgunned. As the mortar fire crashed down from Everton guns, we clutched out rifles and uttered curses or prayers. The pitch was soft and Bale’s uniform was green and black with it. Parker looked unworried as he usually did and he fired his rifle impressively in an orderly and rhythmic fashion. Ledley was yelling directions I could not here. His arm pointed out at nearby a ridge. Walker and Benny were at either edge of our line, spraying fire down at the enemy. Defoe had taken a few down with potshots, but was pinned behind a tree while Rafa drew their fire with a few errant shots and a grenade. We were out of it. We knew it. Defeat was in each man’s eyes. Scott Parker’s grim determination was scant consolation as the enemy closed in around us.

So that’s that.