Dear Ticket Office

Article by Simon Lipson @mottle12

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Dear Ticket Office,

I write further to my visit to your office on 25 March, a particularly chilly Wednesday morning, as I recall, when I was your only customer. I reported the unfortunate loss of my stadium card to which you replied that shit happens (or similar) and that for the modest sum of £10 you would replace it. I duly paid but was advised by the young man that I would have to come to the ground on a match day and queue at a North Stand kiosk to get it. ‘Why can’t you just give it to me now, or have it ready for me to pick up some other quiet morning?’ I asked politely, to which he shook his head and said, ‘This is how all clubs do it.’ ‘What?’ I said, somewhat stunned. ‘Ok, well can’t you just post it to me?’ I added. ‘Oh, no,’ the young man replied sternly, ‘under no circumstances can we post it.’

Here’s what I wish I’d said to the young man:

‘I first started coming here in 1970 when Gillie was deftly heading the ball on for the majestic Chivers to smash in, and Jimmy Pearce was like a moustachioed Lamela (yes, that useless); I was at Wembley when Big Chiv destroyed Villa in ’71 and a couple of years later when Ralph Coates’s combover came unstuck and trailed like a streamer behind him after he scored the winner against Norwich; I’ve seen Jennings catch countless balls one-handed, Clemence stretch like human elastic, Parks save a UEFA Cup winning pen, Gomes drop everything, Lloris save us time and again; I was watching dross through my fingers like Pratt, Moores and Lacy before you were born, son, and agonized over the more contemporary hopelessness of Zokora, Paulinho and Fazio; I remember when Bale had big ears and when we never won with him and when we could only win with him; I was there when we played like drains for an entire season (there have been a few, to be fair) and when we went down without a fight and remember going for a walk, hardly able to breathe, rather than listen to commentary of us at Southampton when we somehow drew to storm back up again; I watched a genius with a mullet grace our famous pitch like no-one before or since – Hoddle was his name and I lived and breathed him; I was there when Ricky dribbled past the City defence, then did it again for fun before slotting the winner in ’81; I gloried in the inspired lunacy of Gazza, the preternatural goal scoring instinct of Lineker, the insane magic of Ginola; I remember the shock when Ossie and Ricky came, equalled only by the arrival of one Jurgen Klinsmann; I was at the Dorchester Hotel for a Spurs testimonial dinner when the comedian died on his arse in front of all his heroes – a poignant memory, that one, for that comedian was me; I’ve worshipped hundreds of players in Lilywhite shirts none of whom cared less; I’ve arranged my life around the fixture list, travelled thousands of miles, obsessed about form and prospects, who we should buy, who we should sell; and I’ve got a million more thoughts and memories about my magnificent obsession…

…so when you casually dismiss me, young man, and tell me to get to the next match early and queue, come rain or shine, I want you to know that I’ve shelled out enough money to buy Graham Roberts and given this club everything for 45 years and I really think I deserve better treatment.

But I didn’t say any of that because he – and the club – couldn’t care less. You know people like me will keep shelling out and turning up every week, because we are Tottenham and Tottenham is us.

Yours faithfully

Simon Lipson

PS I couldn’t make the Villa game due to illness so came early to the City game and queued. At the kiosk, a young man advised me that my replacement card wasn’t ready a mere 5 weeks after I ordered it and that I’d have to come and queue again before the Hull match. Luckily, the supervisor stepped in and said not to worry, they’d post it to me.

I know.

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