Another weekend and another result that wasn’t quite the season kick starter we were all hoping for. Languishing at fifth from bottom seems a hell of a climb from last season’s heady fifth from top and with only two league goals to our name, the atmos is a little on the thin side down at WHL.
‘Chicken. I ate dirty chicken. I wasn’t even hungry. The lights must have lured me in. I remember growling at the chicken man, stuffing my face, smearing it with grease at the bus stop and waking up in the depot. I muttered like a loon as I stomped my way back home.’
Away games are always different for The Bagel. This one was doubly so.
I find myself with rather a lot of free time today. Why? Because I have no friends? No. As much as The Bagel may have distanced himself from many non-footballing minds over the past years, he does not, as yet, sit rocking back and forth in a corner of his Tottenham flat, reciting game statistics from the 1901 season, dressed in Spurs woolly hat, Spurs scarf, shaking an old rattle every ten minutes on queue. A social life I have. Am I suffering from Pilsner poisoning and unable to do anything aside crawl to a bar and order more beer? No, not true either.
Five hours to kick off and I can’t sit still. My feet are tapping out the rhythms to the chants so loud in my head and so silent on my lips; for now. As predicted, last night’s ‘rest’ consisted of dream upon dream of scenes from tonight’s game but none about the football itself.
Arrived in Praha-ha-ha at lunchtime today with tickets, Spursmates and much excitement. Been practicing our Chimbondabonda chants and drinking sweet pilsner in the sweet, sweet sunshine. The Bagel is loving this Euro shit.
7am. Can’t sleep. Still can’t sleep. Can’t get comfortable. Maybe if I try lying on my front for the hundredth time. It’s not working. I’m so fucking tired but my mind’s still racing and just can’t rest. I’ll try turning over again. I’m on my back staring up at the too low ceiling of my flapping grey tent only a foot away. Through the small square mesh sieve of the very top, I can see it starting to get broad out there. It’s grey outside. It’s grey inside and I’ve been in here alone for the last 4 hours with a million billion thoughts firing about my head faster than I can even think about them. I’m tired, no I’m shattered and I desperately want to shut my eyes and rest. My body’s playing ball but my mind’s refusing to stop. It’s on a roll.
I am typing with one hand. The other has been stuck to my head for the last 20 minutes. I’m queuing. I’m making slow progress. The drippy hold music is driving me crazy and each of its repeating dreary phrases is a cruel reminder that I’m paying 50p per minute for the pleasure. No, this isn’t a sex line. I don’t have some sort of waiting fetisch. I am, in fact, on the phone, trying to get through to the Tottenham Hotspur ticket office. Switching ears.
Don’t know if it’s the internationals or that every journalist is on holiday after the transfer flurry but newswise, it’s quiet as a mouse out there; quieter in fact. It’s more like the sound made by a black belt 3rd dan ninja mouse, stealthing about in his brand new cotton wool slippers that leave no prints. And what’s more, you lot are quiet. I know you’re out there, I can feel you reading. Where are all the song suggestions? Huh? Where’s the craft? Where’s the witt? But most importantly, where’s the love?Here’s a little encouragement for you. How about this for a Lennon song:
In just over a week’s time The Bagel will be taking to the skies on board some tin can of a budget airplane bound for lovely, lovely Prague. According to the BBC website, the weather will be…well it’s hard to tell actually. The temperatures range from 19-30 degrees C over the next few days but there is one constant and that’s that there ain’t a cloud in the sky. Beautiful! Let’s hope the football is too.
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