Three little keys. Each no bigger than my thumb. Somehow I expected more. A remote control, a sensor pad, perhaps key card for a console to check my finger prints and retinal eye pattern. But no, just these. Three little keys.
Apologies on the lack of action. It’s been one of those days over here at The Bagel Bakery. Going to have to keep it brief and to the point, which is going to be rather hard for me.
Blaze, Blase, Blake, Bob looks like we’ll get to find out how to sing his name properly, unless we come up with some nasty rhyme for him because Matuidi has been quick to scotch any rumours connecting him and ourselves. The young Frenchie who’s been described as playing ’sexy football’ by his manager and some sort bastard by me has said that he wants to stay at Toulouse, where apparently he is having a ball, doesn’t want to leave and penning contracts left right and centre, long enough to commit him well into the grave. He says…
There’s something very strange going on with this mysterious Ledley King injury. None of the more official sources (Spurs, BBC, Sky) are reporting anything whatsoever do with our club captain. There’s no mention of him leaving training early, any damage to any part of his body or indeed the use of his name at all. However, as pointed out by Mr.Smart, there is indeed a fair amount of word around the camp fire that he’s got some kind of leg problem and as far as it can be worked out, it isn’t a break and he should be fit come the weekend.
The captain has switched off the ’seat belt’ sign, the plane has taxied to the gate and yes, ladies and gentlemen, The Bagel has landed. No sooner am I back in The Bakery and The Bagel is at his desk compiling the daily bread and strange chewy doe like mixture it is today with its fair share of malted bits, the odd current and always a touch of the rye.
So much transfer news today and so few column inches talking about the matters in hand, i.e. another loss to compound our 4 point, 3 goal depression. I’m sure we’ll all agree that the scoreline was a little flattering on Liverpool. It was always obvious we were going to go for broke after we went behind. We went for broke, we got broken. It’s a tough one to walk away from but thankfully, I’m not seeing a lot of panic out there amongst the fans and the players either as a matter of fact.
‘We can watch it on this TV,’ the first words of the day from Jules, as I walk across the mezzanine of the luxury flat we’ve scored for the week in Valencia. I look down at the smile on his face, the enormous Sony Bravia plasma screen and the mess we’ve created in this heaven. Beautiful granite surfaces are hidden by par-used crockery, the brushed suede furniture littered with pistachio shells, the polished marble floor strewn with dirty socks and the dust from a football pitch we found the night before. ‘Oh and guess what,’ he continues, grin broadening, ‘I found the porn.’
I’ve got the spot picked out. Staggering through the old town, kebab in hand, trying desperately to hold it together enough not to look like the Iberian peninsula’s nightmare of English tourists, my buddy and I are stopped in our tracks at the sight of a Guinness sign and a chalk board.
‘Liverpool vs Tottenham, 13.45,’ I cheer as half a tomato wrapped in stringy lettuce drops from my gaping gob and onto the cobbled street. We stare for a moment at the garlic mayo splat beneath us. We look up at the name above the door, ‘The Sherlock Holmes,’ and fall about in our dismal failure to blend.
And how smug do we all feel this morning? Another day, another three Premiership scalps. We’ve already done well to still be in the League Cup. I wish it was still called ‘The Milk Cup’. Sounds so much better than all the other sponsors it’s had since. At least Carling’s better than ‘The Worthington Cup’ though. That title did it no favours at all. Who wanted to win a cup full of bad quality, warm, northern beer. You can just imagine Ledley going to pick it up with one hand, hold it down by his waste, have a cursory peer in and go, ‘Um…have you got anything else? No? Well, ok maybe I’ll just take the medal.’
A thousand pardons my dearest Bagel Buddies. Your bready friend is once again abroad, the lucky tyke and this time it’s southern Spain that calls. No business has brought me here today. A warmer climate, a cleaner air, a slower pace of bagel is what I’ve craved and exactly what I reap. But worry not, I’ll never forget you guys, you happy few, you band of brothers. The Bagel will always have one eye on all things Spurs even when on vacation. There is no rest for The Bagel and besides I may just take a bit of a busman’s holiday and watch some Spanish Football, full match report included. How do the other half live, after all, it is a game of two of them.
You are currently browsing the Beef Bagel weblog archives for September, 2006.