Wishing in an Amstrad Wonderland

I didn’t even need to look to know who was making all the noise. The two full kit Arsenal fans I had spotted boarding the plane had obviously just got reception on their phone. My Easyjet flight from Porto to Gatwick had just landed, I had missed the last game of the season. Not wanting to bring the plane crashing down into France, I had refrained from turning my phone on and seeing if 3G worked a mile in the sky.

As we waited to disembark, their joy was the polar opposite to my despair. I may have missed all the tension, the phantom goals and limp Newcastle performance, but that only accentuated my anger.

How is it possible that they finished above us again? Why do we have to put up with the Matt Smith’s of this world again? We deserve that music and the four hours of build-up not a 8.05 kick off squeezed between some soap-operas.

I trudged towards immigration. My weekend of excessive port consumption, copious amounts of fresh fish and rice started to repeat on me in a very unpleasant way. I just wanted to get home, step into a dark room and open my eyes in August. I knew already that a summer of Gooner gloating was waiting for me.

Seeing a massive queue at Passport control, I opted for electronic immigration machine. After a few old biddies had figured out what bit went where, I shuffled forward to take my turn. I inserted my passport, which for the last 10 minutes had been used as a stress reliever, into the sensor. Initially it seemed to work, the first gate opened, a giant arrow pointed me forward, but the second set of doors remained closed.

Annoyed I kept staring at my own face on the screen before me, when suddenly the colours faded and up popped a computerized face of Alan Sugar.

“Hello Anthony, how was your holiday?”

“Good, but I just want to get home; I am rather annoyed about the game to be honest.”

“Don’t worry; soon I will turn that frown upside down.”

“Yeah? Good luck.”

“Trust me, reach forward and touch my eyes. I will take you somewhere better.”

Twenty minutes later I was in Amstrad Land.

“Sorry about that, it should have been instantaneous, but we are having teething problems with our new machines.”

“What am I doing here?”

“You are here because I am to grant you three wishes with regards to Spurs.”

“Really, why have I been chosen?”

“To be honest we aren’t quite sure. We set up some complex algorithms and programs, hoping to collar a Spurs big wig, but for some reason we ended up with you.”

“Okay, but let’s get one thing clear. I wish for three things in relation to Spurs and they come true? Nonsense.”

“It’s true, we have a precedent.”

“Really someone actually wished us to be where we are now? Who was it? A sadomasochist?”

“No just a regular guy. Back in 2006 we granted this chap three wishes. His first wish for an Italian star that could split defences with ease.”

“Wait a minute. In 2006? Nicola Berti was way before that….Oh Jesus, you gave the Spurs squad a bloody faulty lasagne. You split their gastro defence system?”

“We didn’t mean to, we had teething problems.”

“What were the other two wishes then? Ledley King to have solid knees and Dimitar Berbatov to remain loyal to Spurs?”

“Like I said, we had issues back then.”

“I am not sure I fancy this idea, I might just let fate guide us.”

“Anthony can you really allow an opportunity like this to pass you and Spurs by? Think of what you could achieve!”

With Sir Alan Sugar looking at me I pondered what Tottenham needed, but the 2006 fail was playing on my mind. Balancing against this was the opportunity to turn Tottenham around, even at a 50-50 surely this was too good an opportunity. So what if  Sir Alan had made mistakes in the past, hasn’t everyone?

If he was able to grant the wishes, things could be different for Tottenham next year. We could finally achieve what we have all been hoping for; a serious crack at the title, guaranteed CL qualification and the abolishing of that stupid St Somethingham day.

“I will need some time to think this through.”

Walking off past an Amstrad Em@lier taking a decrepit ZX Spectrum for a walk I made a list.

If this season has taught us anything, it’s that we need to keep Gareth Bale, that was an obvious wish. The second and the third one though left me troubled.

Wish for a new stadium and a player, or straight out two players? Or could I inadvertently get both by wishing Daniel Levy wasn’t so tight with the purse strings, leaving me open for a classy striker? That however, could have ramifications; Levy could over spend and run the club into the ground.

“Anthony, I don’t mean to rush you but you know, time, tick-tock.”

“Ok, first wish. Gareth Bale stays this summer and the…”

“Done.”

“We sign Falcao….”

“Falco, done.”

“Woah!!! Radamel Falcao, not Mark Falco. We signed him in the 80’s!!”

“One left. “

“But, I didn’t wish for Falco. I want another wish.”

“You can’t wish for more wishes.”

“Jesus, one mi..”

“Juan Jesus. Good choice.”

“But…”

“Well done Anthony. We will start work on these straight away and you will see the results soon. Close your eyes and we will transport you back to where you came.”

“Sir Alan, you really need to work on your sys…”

The colours started to fade, on the hill above me I caught Amstrad PPC waving at me and then suddenly I was back in the electronic passport machine. Exiting the gate I looked for my hand luggage, but it had gone. Panicking I looked for the nearest security guard, that’s when a sign on the wall caught my eye.

Welcome to London Heathrow.

“Jesus Christ Sugar, I was at Gatwick.”