Written by guest blogger Tom Tainton who, it must be pointed out, is not a Spurs fan but talks a lot of sense. He also retains a passionate affinity for Peter Crouch. But you'll have realised that after a paragraph or two.
There was a problem in North London, and 'Arry needed a solution fast. But where can you find a striker, preferably English, proven at international level, who can score and create goals? Oh, and he's got to cost £10 million or less. A snip at this level.
Step forward, Peter Crouch.
Twelve months later and Tottenham have enjoyed their most successful Premier League season ever. Fourth spot, an extended cup run and a hatful of goals. Anyone spotted the correlation yet?
Surely I'm not suggesting that Crouch, widely doubted for his big game ability and scoring touch, single-handedly dragged Spurs into Champions League contention? I can't possibly be insinuating that Crouch is solely responsible for catapulting Spurs from perennial underachievement to the big time? Erm, yes I am actually.
The anti-Crouch brigade (I know you’re out there) will argue that the England's tallest ever player has only scored eight goals for Spurs. They'll dismiss his 21 goals in 40 appearances at international level because of the quality of opposition. They'll claim that Tottenham play a one-dimensional, long-ball system with Crouch in the side.
There's a reason that none of them are coaching football at the highest level - they're morons. Crouch’s performances throughout the season were consistent. Consistently brilliant. He provided link-up for Defoe, he dazzled in the air and on the floor and he chipped in with crucial goals at Manchester City and Blackburn, to name but a few. His enthusiasm and down-to-earth mentality amid a sea of egos was a breath of fresh air. The players love him. 'Arry loves him. Abbey Clancy likes him a bit. Even the fans are starting to realise that you don’t have to be a colossal dickhead to play up front for Spurs. Maybe nice guys don’t finish last, after all.
The real question is: who will partner 'Crouchanaldo' up front next season? Let's peruse the options available to Redknapp…
Robbie Keane
Keano is a bit like Big Brother. Entertaining in 2005 but now needs to be put out of its misery. Football’s a cruel business and there’s no place for sentiment. Just ask Maradona and Alan Shearer. Keane’s only real contribution last season was to lead a rebel band to Dublin with the sole intention to guzzle Guinness and indulge in illicit sex trysts (probably) (Editor - legal minefield). Giovani dos Santos didn’t go as he lacked the necessary linguistic skills to partake in the banter. Gareth Bale didn’t go because he’s an ugly bastard.
The problem with Robbie Keane is that his heart isn’t in it. He’d rather play for Liverpool. His boyhood club. Or Celtic. His boyhood club. If Barcelona came calling there’s no doubt Keano would reveal an affinity with the Catalans from an early age. Before you can utter 'money-grabbing bastard', he’ll have donned his Barca pyjamas and be waxing lyrical on Sky Sports about his trips to the Nou Camp with his Dad.
Roman Pavlyuchenko
Pav. Pav-Nav. I'll make my feelings clear early, I can't stand him. He's whiny. He looks like a girl. To say that he is worth £14m is like saying Paul Collingwood isn't a boring, ginger twat. Which he is. Pav sympathisers (who no doubt hold dual membership to the Anti-Crouch brigade) will argue that when given the chance, he will score. We all remember with fondness Pav's flurry of tap-ins in February/March. It was Groundhog Day. He scores from a yard. He kisses the badge. He attempts to engineer a move to Manchester United in the post-match interview. Tottenham fans believed Pav had finally found some form. Redknapp hailed his performances and predicted a first team place for years to come. The tide of euphoria and excitement was rising, we all held our breath and… oh, it was just a flash in the pan. He’s still a skinny, ineffective Russian mercenary. Thanks for your efforts Roman, but you can f*ck off back to Moscow now.
Jermain Defoe
You cannot argue with his record. Spur’s top scorer last season, JD was banging them in all over the park. He scored against Chelsea. He scored against Wigan. He scored in the back of a car with a 22-year old model. Classy. If he could score penalties, he’d be untouchable. But Defoe is still blighted by nagging injury problems. He was out for a while last season after tweaking his groin. A smug onlooker commented 'if there’s a groin that’s had too much tweaking, it’s Defoe's.'
Do Spurs actually need another striker? I don’t think so. Tottenham fans are used to the summer tradition of being linked with every striker who has ever revealed a penchant for alcohol and blondes. We all enjoy the unveiling of the new messiah at a pre-season game. You all know the familiar scene: as the mystery striker ascends from the tunnel, there's an excited fervour as thousands clamour to see his identity. "Is it Raul?" "Is it Van Nistelrooy?" "Oh… it’s Helder Postiga."
A message from a neutral to Spurs fans ahead of the new season: Have faith in Crouch. He’ll do the business. Finding a reliable striker who isn’t a twat, however, will be a tall order.


