Please, Sir, Can I Have Some More: Reviewing Tottenham vs. West Ham

We have a theory, here at this particular sports outlet, concerning the selection rituals of the Tottenham Hotspur academy. It seems to us that Spurs' academy graduates are picked not only on talent, but also on name, with the latter afforded particular importance. While we have literally zero evidence to support this claim, it appears to us that Tottenham's youth players are drawn from two distinct groups: those who sound like Dickensian street urchins, and those who sound like tragic youngsters who never returned home from the Boer War. So, for instance, Harry Kane, Thomas Glover and Cameron Carter-Vickers all sound like dashing young officers lost to the brutal guerrilla warfare of colonial South Africa, while Tom Carroll, Joe Pritchard and Harry Winks sound like members of Fagin's gang of pickpockets, or sickly child chimney sweeps killed by a combination of extreme poverty and coal dust on the lungs.

Thankfully, in reality, none of those promising youngsters have any coal-related bronchial impairments. We can say for certain that Harry Winks' lungs are working good and proper, because he had an influential Premier League debut against West Ham United on Saturday evening, playing the full 90 minutes and scoring a crucial second-half goal. With his soot-begrimed face, fingerless gloves, crinkled top hat and raggedy trousers*, Winks scampered up the pitch in the 51st minute and poked home from close range, setting Spurs on their way to a famous comeback win in the London derby. "Can I have some more, sir?" the home faithful cried. The answer came resoundingly in the affirmative, as Harry Kane popped up with two late goals to seal the deal and keep Spurs within touching distance of the top four.

If there was a distinctive Dickensian flavour to Tottenham's teamsheet, the same could be said of West Ham's season. Unlike the endearing, Oliver-esque antics of Winks and Kane, however, the Hammers are beset by a fate more comparable to Tiny Tim. The East Londoners seem to be suffering from the footballing equivalent of typhoid, or cholera, or another one of those grim-sounding Victorian illnesses which used to wipe out whole neighbourhoods in brisk and relatively cheerful fashion. The fates are treating them with a Scrooge-like stinginess and, should things go on this way, much like little Timothy Cratchit, they are facing the very real possibility of a cold, impoverished and Christmassy death.

With Slaven Bilic's job under increasing scrutiny at this point – much like Bob Cratchit, to maintain the metaphor of A Christmas Carol – he must dare to dream that the Premier League loosens its purse strings, and yields up some points from the three tough games against Manchester United, Arsenal and Liverpool to come. Meanwhile, West Ham fans must hope that the Ghost of Christmas Past visits one of Jose Mourinho, Arsene Wenger and Jurgen Klopp, and convinces them to share at least one point with the Hammers. If not, it's another prolonged dose of footballing destitution for the festive season, which considering the parlous state of the last few months would probably just about finish West Ham off.

*These features are wholly imagined.