Beef Bagel

The ludicrous show/mutual masturbation of the Champions League draw is still going on, even after the hour or so that’s already passed. But the news of significance is already apparent and that is that Chelsea have drawn Barcelona yet again. Ha ha. Can’t wait to see the steam from Mourinho’s years as he complains about Chelsea being the best and yet not being top seeded. Yeah, well if you’re the best, then why can’t you beat Barca?

They’ve also just drawn Werder Bremen, which I doubt they’re too chuffed about and they’re about to get their final group mates, who will be the kind of irrelevant monkey club that right now, we can only dream to be.

The Bagel

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I woke up this morning to find myself covered in footballs. Now, hold your imaginations a second. Don’t waste your time picturing The Bagel resting gently on his pillow under a mountain of bladdered leather spheres, including one carefully placed for modesty. No, you see, what I’m referring to are the results of finding a certain piece of stationary in a friend’s office, the scene of an impromptu after hours mini party. Actually, I think there’s been a chemical equation written about it:

2 Idiot Football Fans(s) Booze (l) Football rubber stamp (s) = Body covered in indelible ink footballs (s) Hangover (g)

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6.15pm West Hampstead.

I’ve arranged my day. I’m in north London. I could have been here any day. It was my choice but it makes sense doesn’t it, to organise your time, your movements, your life, around kick off at White Hart Lane? Doesn’t it?

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I could hardly sleep last night. It’s the first real game of the season and I’m as excited as a schoolboy on a gym rope. I starved myself of pre-season action and I’m just itching to get down to the Lane. There’s nothing like that welcome home as you climb the stairs to your block. I can’t help but quicken my pace, taking two or three steps at a time as I near the top. The muffle of the crowd gets clearer and clearer until your head’s inside and you reach the stereo sound. But the most beautiful treat of all is the pitch. The grass vibrates with a colour and a life. It’s dark, it’s light, electric and deep; there’s no greener green in the world. I’ll stand there for a while, drink it all in before I find my row, my seat, my crew. Everyone had a good summer? Any new faces? Any new haircuts? Yep. The Bagel’s looking forward to tonight. The only question remaining is over the result.

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My mate Jim’s right. I never used to be in the hating business but these days I’ve got a card, a secretary and majority shareholding stock in Hostile Bastard plc. For one, it’s anyone, who has the cheek to beat or say anything about our boys that incurs my wrath but on its own that would only be a mild, passing, niggling kind of thorn in my side. It’s the replay of these events in The Bagel’s mind, the details of the pain when I come to write my thoughts that stir them into full blown hatred. Where am I going with this? Big Face Sam, that’s where.

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It’s a family BBQ today. The first day of the season. How could they? After months of arm twisting, weeks of nagging and a couple of days straight on the thumb screws, I tapped out and agreed. I’ll come home. I’ll help out. I’ll chat to them all. Uncle Joe with his black cab and out of date assorted nuts.

‘I can’t believe I picked them up so cheap!’ I can. They’re stale.

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And there was I, hoping that we’d be getting Petrov (The Bulgarian one) (Martin) at a nice knockdown price. Two years ago, he was hailed as the new Stoichkov, a millstone hung around the necks of most promising Bulgarians. He scored 12 goals in 3O appearances for VFL Wolfsburg, not bad for a midfielder. He was bought by Athletico Madrid for £7m, rarely started and has scored only once in 36 games. So what’s the reported price tag for the man? Eight men in black suits and matching Ray Bans, handcuffed to attache cases containing a million pounds of non-sequential bills. That’s £8 million to you.

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With one player’s movement across London, quite literally eclipsing all other stories of the day there’s only a few tit bits of news on offer. Unless, of course, you’re reading Beef Bagel and oh look, you are!

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He’s gone. Andy Reid has left our club to graze on pastures new. At last.

We shifted his weight for the £3m MJ, Levy & Co. were after. The board were quoted as saying, “Andy’s departure will leave a hole that no one can fill.” Presumably because they haven’t invented machines that can cement that deep.

Couldn’t resist it. After all it’s the last swipe we’ll get at him. So, farewell to The Fan in the Shirt. It’s been…well it’s been and thankfully gone.

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The Bagel knows many of you will be deeply saddened by Manchester United’s unfortunate news yesterday afternoon. A flying meat hook from Rooney and a typical hack ‘n slash from Little Paul Scholes in the Amsterdam Cup means that both players will be missing from the 2nd, 3rd and most importantly, 4th games of the season.

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