When we first bought you in January 1999, you came with a dazzling CV - 40-something caps for mighty Germany, a key player for European giants Borussia Dortmund, pretty damn good on Championship Manager. We expected great things. But then, you were a George Graham signing. Consequently, your first action in your debut at Hillsborough was to crunch an opponent and then... hoof the ball into the upper tier. Magnificent.

I love how your shooting makes us all laugh, while also fearing for our lives. You have never, in 105 gloriously competitive appearances, managed to score a goal. The crossbar, the post, the corner flag - all of these have been explored, but still no goal. No ripple of the net. The tannoy man has never said ‘And the goal for Tottenham Hotspur on 64 minutes - number four, Steffen Freund!!!!'.

Whenever you receive the ball, we all cry ‘shoot!!’, lest we forget your one piece of predatory genius in a Tottenham shirt. A pre-season friendly at Stevenage, already 5-0 up, the ball falls to you 20 yards out, and with a deft flick, you chip the goalie with deadly precision. Your celebration was a sight to behold. In our hearts, we all ran around the pitch like madmen kissing the Spurs badge, just like you.

I love how you are always willing to start fights with even the most timid opponent and always need to be dragged away, kicking and screaming like a lunatic.

I love how you picked on Roy Keane at White Hart Lane and promptly filled your pants and ran when Keane, along with the brutal Ryan Giggs, chased after you.

I love how you kick Patrick Vieira at least eight times every time we play Arsenal and never get booked for it.

I love how, despite being a comically and admirably dirty midfield destroyer, you have never actually been sent off for Spurs.

I love how you were invited as UEFA’s guest of honour for Liverpool’s epic final against Alaves last season. Imagine Lennart Johansson’s train of thought: ‘Who shall we invite? Matthias Sammer? Ottmar Hitzfeld? No, let’s go for the boy Freund…’

Steffen Freund, I love the fact that you, despite having the flair and poise of an intoxicated ox, have become a crucial part of Glenda’s style revolution at The Lane.

I love how, against Derby this season, you chested down a clearance and pinged a perfect cross-field ball onto Taricco’s thigh.

I love the fact you give us all hope - the pub clogger, the star-gazing seven year-old, the hard-man wannabe. If you can make a good wage from being, fundamentally, so crap, there is a ray of light for every aspiring footballer.

I love how you can make me stand up while watching a game in the pub and, much to the amazement of everyone else, shout ‘Yes, Freundy, yes!’

I reply to these sceptics by saying ‘Steffen Freund - he’s my hero'. And you are a hero, brave Teutonic warrior.

Und ich liebe dich.