Matthew Curtis
Bio
Queen Margaret University graduate (Theatre and Film studies).
Currently trying to write a book.
Lilywhite, Pokemon master, time-lord, vampire with a soul, Virgo.
Likes space and dinosaurs. And Binturongs. I'm very cool.
Stories (18/0)
Its The History...
Poch did it in 2019 as part of that infamous and dramatic Champions League tie in the Quarter Finals in 2019. Then Jose did it twice 2-0. Even Nuno managed it on his debut. And now Conte's done it. There's nothing quite like a shut-out at home to, what used to be, the best team in England. Its tradition. Its like Spurs going to Stamford Bridge for our annual humbling. But nobody does it to City quite like Tottenham.
By Matthew Curtis3 days ago in Cleats
Smile Time
This was the most important of our matches post-NLD. As is the case for whomever we will play in the next round, and so on and so on, at least we hope. In truth, I never contemplated defeat. Not because we're so much better than Preston, but because it could not be allowed. Top 4 is no prize if we are willing to show commitment to Conte and his demands for patience. The Champions League is not a winnable competition. All our eggs were in tonight's basket. Defeat would have been apocalypse now. Thankfully, the eggs and this particular cockerel march on.
By Matthew Curtis11 days ago in Cleats
Win Win Bang Bang
At half-time Tottenham were 2-0 up. In the second half the team from Manchester scored a hat-ful. The commentators for my coverage took a moment to discuss what Pep Guardiola could possibly have said during the break to inspire such a comeback, but as a Spurs fan, I think I know. A certain legend of the red side of their city found the magic words eons ago. Words that, until tonight, might have struck a familiar sense of foreboding for this Manchester City team.
By Matthew Curtis20 days ago in Cleats
The Virtue of Patience
I said on Friday that if Tottenham Halfspur lost this match that we'd be a very glum group going into the new week. Defeat to Arsenal sees us lose crucial ground for top 4. Fulham away and City twice on the horizon? The picture might look very different in a month's time and not in a good way. The FA Cup is a winnable prize, so long as our betters are too engrossed in their fight at the top of the table. And February provides us with a chance to pad our wallets in Milan. Arsenal have avenged their heartbreak in May; they've resigned us to near-apathy. Let's skip the wallowing (and try not to kick Aaron Ramsdale in the head too many times) and get straight into it.
By Matthew Curtis24 days ago in Cleats
Tottenham vs Arsenal: Calm Before the Storm
What can I say about Tottenham? Arsenal have a word for us, but I won't repeat it here. Are they right? On occasion. Gennaro Gattuso, a man Tottenham fans took to social media to reject as a potential manager, ironically might have had us sussed out the best; sometimes maybe good, sometimes maybe... what Arsenal said.
By Matthew Curtis27 days ago in Cleats
The Empty Box of Everything
The Hallway Tariq stopped dead in his tracks and placed his suitcase on the carpet. His flat stood before him and the communal lobby was well kept, but cold. The keys in his hand pointed at the door like a gun in a heist, but the pull of the trigger had been halted by the discovery of a small, cardboard box in the middle of the floor. Tariq eyed it with apprehension. His parcels were usually planted firmly against the wall. This one sat in the middle of the foyer. Exactly in the middle, as though it had seized upon the optimum point of espial. It could see all walls, doors and corners and none of the furniture had dared to stray near it. The box was deserted by all other matter and abandoned by rationale. Where it sat, a square zone of emptiness surrounded it. A realm to which it did not belong, but a realm to which it was now King. And Tariq had invaded.
By Matthew Curtis3 months ago in Fiction
The Worsley Family Locket: Chapter 3 - Arthur and Clarence
It is not possible to explain what occurred next, without speaking about your more senior siblings. How your eldest brother Clarence carried himself, was the epitome of the household’s ever-lasting cruelty and neglect. Aged just 13 when I first encountered him, he lambasted my beggared condition and inferior status with eloquence beyond his years. Irresolutely an intelligent boy, but one who utilised his perceptiveness and quick-thinking with callous intent. A disdainful slug of a whelp, on the very brink of blossoming into a vile moth that was drawn toward opportunities to torture and belittle like flickering candlelight. I was victimised relentlessly by the child, who seemed to claim a wilful disliking to me from the very moment he encountered me. He taunted me for my work, stole my possessions which only rarely returned to me destroyed and even physically struck me when his loathing was made its most bold. The women of the manor he treated with similar disregard. His younger sisters Ida and Helen were positively terrified of him. Yet Lady Ethel, before she came to know the locket with such lamentable affinity, remained smitten. He was, after all, the first child she’d birthed. Regrettably however, those affections had never been mutual. Clarence only behaved with any civility around his father, though even this was demonstrably lacking in sentiment. He had eyes only for his father’s capacity for prosperity and influence, and declared a divine right to a share in his prestige, though to my eyes it was utterly unearned whenever he received it. A dreadful young swine through and through, but one with a certain ruthlessness that had already sniffed the alluring scent of ascendancy; traits that often collude to put a rotten fruit at the forefront of the grocer’s stalls.
By Matthew Curtis3 months ago in Fiction
The Worsley Family Locket: Chapter 2 - Benjamin and Ethel
For the next two months, I coveted the locket as Lady Ethel stroked it, polished it and kissed it. At night, she kept it safe in her quarters, though I could only speculate exactly where. During these days, my thoughts lingered on the unwelcome inclination to determine where it was sheltered on those rare occasions she allowed her eyes to rest. What I would do with that information should I discover it; I did not know. My desires were not compelled by logic or sanity, for my mind at times operated on an unexplainable and loathsome infatuation. Having already infiltrated the household, the locket had now taken residence within my very psyche and the majority of my years among the Worsleys, and in proximity to the foul pendant, I spent as an idle spectator to the tussle between my wits and delirium that bludgeoned away within me. Many times, when the twilight hour came and the moon waned gibbous, had I risen from my chambers and crept through the deserted halls of South-Peak Manor, intending to ransack Lady Ethel’s possessions or even bushwhack the locket’s frail, miser. It is of great relief to me that sense prevailed against the whims of the nameless and that rationale compelled me to return to my lodging.
By Matthew Curtis8 months ago in Fiction
The Worsley Family Locket: Chapter 1 - Albert and Claude
Dear Edith, At the time of writing this letter, you are only 4 weeks anew, born in the aftermath of the demise of your great family. If you have adhered to the instructions adorned upon the envelope, then you are reading this letter on the very eve of your 15th birthday. I pray it is one filled only with joy. It has long since been owed to a Worsley. I would like to begin by offering you my most heart-felt condolences. The passing of both your mother Lady Ethel Worsley and your sister Helen Worsley no doubt brings you the utmost desolation. They were buried together only days after you were brought into this world and although much time has passed for you now, I imagine the consequences you suffer are still as potent. Likely, it is a tragedy as raw and genuine as it is for me as I write.
By Matthew Curtis8 months ago in Horror
The Crocodile
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. And that is how, I have morbidly been taught, the boy lost his life. The ignition of a humble flame that flickered in solidarity with renewed hope. The promise of warmth, the faint notion of salvation. Naught but a rancid deceit and the very forgery that would almost claim the life of mine very own.
By Matthew Curtisabout a year ago in Fiction
