Comrades,
I've mentioned some of this before in a conversation that took place on the Darren Anderton thread about player cuntery. But now I have a fine update; an extraordinary denouement no less.
When I was seven years old my mother wrote to Terry Venables. We lived on the outskirts of Edinburgh in a small fishing village called Port Seton. She explained in her letter to El Tel that I was the son of a die hard Tottenham supporter from London and that, while we could not afford the fee for me to be mascot, she wondered if Spurs had anyone lined up for the pre-season friendly against Hearts in Edinburgh. I remained oblivious to the letter, since she fully expected it to go unnoticed by the Spurs administration.
To her surprise, Venables replied saying that they had no mascot planned and included instructions for my mascot duties on the day. This was a big deal. My Auntie Linda even wrote an article in the East Lothian Times about the local boy and the big city club, just to add the cringe factor.
Mabbutt was captain. Nayim and Gazza were in the midfield. Linekar was up front. I even persuaded my old man to get me a pair of Quasar boots so I looked the part alongside the star striker.
With a schneid wee autograph book in my hand I lined up with the team. You can imagine how friendly Gazza et al were. I was buzzing. Then I approached the big Norwegian for his autograph. Erik was clearly a serious man and a professional. He was staring straight ahead. He was in the zone. It was a friendly game but he wasn't fucking about. So when I asked for an autograph he just half turned his head and replied: 'no'. I was crushed. What a miserable cunt, I thought. I kicked the ball about with Nayim and Mabbutt in the centre circle and then returned to the stand after kick off. But I never forgot the anomalous Thorstvedt.
More than twenty years later I was working on a quay side in a remote part of Norway when I was introduced to the company's logistics guy. One Stig Thorstvedt. He did share some resemblance with our erstwhile goalie. But the Norwegian gene pool is strong, so I waited a bit before asking. It turns out he is Erik's cousin. Obviously I immediately told him all about being full-on shanned off at the age of seven in the Tynecastle tunnel. As is the Norwegian way, Stig seemed to share his cousin's indifference.
A few weeks ago, and about four years after first meeting Stig, I was mobilising a boat in Norway. Stig rocked up as the logistics guy for the mob. He had heard I would be in attendance. Under his arm he had a cardboard tube, its contents: a signed Erik Thorstvedt calendar page from his Tottenham time and an A2 poster of the 1991 FA cup winning team.
I waited over 25 years, but in the end I got big Erik's signature. I rescind all my earlier statements about the great Erik Thorstvedt. The Thorstvedt family are clearly salt of the earth, honest Viking gadgies. COYS
I've mentioned some of this before in a conversation that took place on the Darren Anderton thread about player cuntery. But now I have a fine update; an extraordinary denouement no less.
When I was seven years old my mother wrote to Terry Venables. We lived on the outskirts of Edinburgh in a small fishing village called Port Seton. She explained in her letter to El Tel that I was the son of a die hard Tottenham supporter from London and that, while we could not afford the fee for me to be mascot, she wondered if Spurs had anyone lined up for the pre-season friendly against Hearts in Edinburgh. I remained oblivious to the letter, since she fully expected it to go unnoticed by the Spurs administration.
To her surprise, Venables replied saying that they had no mascot planned and included instructions for my mascot duties on the day. This was a big deal. My Auntie Linda even wrote an article in the East Lothian Times about the local boy and the big city club, just to add the cringe factor.
Mabbutt was captain. Nayim and Gazza were in the midfield. Linekar was up front. I even persuaded my old man to get me a pair of Quasar boots so I looked the part alongside the star striker.
With a schneid wee autograph book in my hand I lined up with the team. You can imagine how friendly Gazza et al were. I was buzzing. Then I approached the big Norwegian for his autograph. Erik was clearly a serious man and a professional. He was staring straight ahead. He was in the zone. It was a friendly game but he wasn't fucking about. So when I asked for an autograph he just half turned his head and replied: 'no'. I was crushed. What a miserable cunt, I thought. I kicked the ball about with Nayim and Mabbutt in the centre circle and then returned to the stand after kick off. But I never forgot the anomalous Thorstvedt.
More than twenty years later I was working on a quay side in a remote part of Norway when I was introduced to the company's logistics guy. One Stig Thorstvedt. He did share some resemblance with our erstwhile goalie. But the Norwegian gene pool is strong, so I waited a bit before asking. It turns out he is Erik's cousin. Obviously I immediately told him all about being full-on shanned off at the age of seven in the Tynecastle tunnel. As is the Norwegian way, Stig seemed to share his cousin's indifference.
A few weeks ago, and about four years after first meeting Stig, I was mobilising a boat in Norway. Stig rocked up as the logistics guy for the mob. He had heard I would be in attendance. Under his arm he had a cardboard tube, its contents: a signed Erik Thorstvedt calendar page from his Tottenham time and an A2 poster of the 1991 FA cup winning team.
I waited over 25 years, but in the end I got big Erik's signature. I rescind all my earlier statements about the great Erik Thorstvedt. The Thorstvedt family are clearly salt of the earth, honest Viking gadgies. COYS
