Tottenham Turfies v Daniel Levy

Consciousness slowly crept across him, but moving quicker were the aches and pains from the night before. The gentleman had slept well considering he was now removing bits of bits of ticker-tape from his face, but he still couldn’t get a handle on where he was or what had happened. Gathering all his energy he slowly lifted his body up and was surprised to see an expanse of blue seats around him. He had been at an 1882 game, he was still at White Hart Lane.

Peering down across the ground panic rose in his chest. The cleaners pushing at bits of rubbish with their brooms were closing in, security would surely be somewhere near by. Cursing himself for getting too carried away with finger wiggling, downing beer and insulting a substitute’s bad haircut, he started his escape.

White Hart Lane though, without a pompous steward or ten thousand other people walking the same way can be confusing. The 1882er soon found himself stumbling down carpeted corridors decorated with images of glories past. Pausing in front of an image of David Ginola for inspiration, he heard voices approaching. Without considering his options he tried the first door to his right and bundled into a room.

Once inside he took stock, but not before thanking the heavens for the jug of water he found on what was obviously a meeting table. After downing his second glass he pondered his options but the voices returned, this time even closer.

“So Gregorz have you installed the motion sensors around the pitch?”

“Yes Mr Levy.”

“Good, and the stun guns have been tested?”

“Yes Sir, but they proved ineffective against Sandro.”

“That’s fine, the person I want is far smaller. So tell me the latest on…”

At that point the door swung open and the 1882er after looking deep into Levy’s eyes, allowed instinct to take over and he charged past the dumbstruck duo.

“Rasiak grab him!!!” Shouted Levy

It was too late though, caretaker Rasiak was as comically slow as ever. As the man streaked down the corridor he could hear Levy swearing pitch perfect in Polish. The futility of his flight soon settled on the 1882er, there was no where to go, he was trapped. From down the corridor he could hear Levy alerting security and imploring the caretaker to hurry up, resigned to his fate the 1882er slumped to the floor when he heard a sound.

“Psssssst get in here!”

With hope rekindling inside him he moved towards the half open cupboard and after some slight persuasion stepped in. Pressed tight against the stranger the floor suddenly opened beneath them and they slid down into a brightly lit room.

“Welcome, we saw you fast asleep in block 14 and we took it as a sign. You have been chosen as our messenger. We need you to announce our plight.”

“But you are Lee Young-Pyo, and he is Noè Pamarot and that guy there is Milenko Aćimović? What is this?”

“We are the real Tottenham Turfies. We are a guerrilla group Against Modern Football, determined to overthrow the regime that is currently in charge of Spurs.”

The 1882er listened in disbelief as Lee Young-Pyo explained that TT were founded by ex-Tottenham players who had had their careers ruined by Spurs. Levy in order to gain more control at Spurs had been systematically drugging players to make them underperform in order to have the fans support his regime not the managers.

“So Lamela, Paulinho and Soldado, their drop off in form has nothing to do with settling issues?”

“No. It’s a power thing. It is Levy trying to remain in control by diverting attention away himself and instead towards the players and manager.”

“This makes no sense.”

“Exactly. That is Levy at his best. Seemingly making no sense, but making perfect sense.”

Looking at the stressed and on edge Young-Pyo the 1882er started to believe him. He remembered the full backs first appearance for Spurs, when he flew down the wing terrorising the Liverpool defence, he had hoped for great things, but from that point on his career ebbed away.

“We are under serious pressure, things are getting worse for us every day. We need your help” said the South Korean.

The Turfies after successfully cleansing Gareth Bale became an obsession with Levy. In the summer of 2013, after Levy was forced to spend money on more sophisticated drugging techniques, his hunt for the Turfies stepped up. Spurs launched a high tech tracking device within an online game called ironically Tottenham Turfies.

The game when activated by multiple users within one kilometre of White Hart Lane creates a Wi-Fi grid which Levy’s analysts can hack into and search for strange communication patterns, hopefully revealing the original Trufies’ headquarters.

The Turfies were founded by Rasiak, a player angry at the fact that before he wore the Lilywhite he was a goal scoring machine, international prospect and Polish hero.

“But I saw Rasiak upstairs, he was with Levy…”

“Comrade Gregorz was caught trying to cleanse Jenas a few years ago. He was taken to a special room and turned, apparently it was the slowest turning of all time.”

“So what do you need me to do?”

Young-Pyo explained that he wants to re-write the history of many ex-Spurs players and give them the recognition they deserve.

“Bunjevčević, Vega, Toda, Gilberto, these were internationals until Levy got hold of them. Their story needs to be told. We must fight Levy, Modern Football and we need you.

“Take this SD card to The Fighting Cock and get them to spread the word. The careers of Lamela, Paulinho, Soldado and the rest magnificent seven are in your hands. You are our only hope.”

“What’s that syringe for… ”

“Don’t worry, it’s a security measure, we cant have you knowing where our base is. Milenko grab his arms.”

The prodding at his ribs was relentless and growing steadily in force. With and acute pain in his neck and a rancid taste in his mouth, he slowly opened his eyes. Leaning over him was his girlfriend with a face like thunder.

“I’ve had the strangest dream, I was…”

“Quiet. Have you seen the state of this place? There are footprints everywhere and bits of the Metro all over the floor. I just cleaned yesterday.”

“It was 1882..”

“I don’t care who it was. Get up and sort it. Also you’ve got a SD card cellotaped to your forehead. You’re a disgrace.”