You know Gareth Bale. Great player from Wales. Doesn't want to play for us anymore.
We've all been coming to terms with his desire to leave us. I've been doing it with Hagen Das, a fifth of vodka, and the local red light district. But none of these things can fill the big-eared, muscular thighed hole in my heart. We loved him at Milan, we loved him against City and now he's broken our lilywhite hearts.
This weekend we face a cruel opponent from the land of our heartbreak, as they arrive at the lane to rub his departure in our faces. Normally I'd say we have a chance, but really, we don't.
We'll hear the dulcet tones of their native Wales, lilting across the field and all our players will be able to do is think of the Welshman who spurned us for the sunny fields of Iberia. Our heart will not be in it and Swansea will pass their way through us. While our midfield is busy crying into their phones, seeking reassurance from their mothers that they'll be alright once Bale's left, Michu will get revenge on Hugo Lloris and clothesline him on his way to his hat trick.
We may have had a chance once upon a time, but Wales have left us a barren shell of a club. On Sunday they will finish the job.
Rest in Peace Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. It was nice Welshing you.