Beef Bagel

I’m sitting in the airport. The flight is delayed but that’s not altogether a bad thing. Myself, Nick The Gherkin and my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) have been racing against time, bad weather and a car that wont do more than 60mph up a hill to get back to Murcia and catch the flight back home.

My head’s been buzzing since we hit the road fresh from being turfed out of bed from our hotel in Malaga a good four hours ago and it’s only now that we’ve made the check-in and cleared immigration that I’ve finally had the chance to unscramble my thoughts on what has been a very European experience.

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By the time you’re reading this The Bagel will be airborne somewhere over Europe with a £3.50 Ryan Air mini beer in his hands. Destination: Murcia, the nearest cheapest airport to the match and just the right distance to make for an amusing road trip. By the sounds of the warnings ahead of Semana Santa (that’s Holy not Father Christmas week) we’ll have to ditch out transport in Portugal to get a chance of parking but when we do make it to the city centre I’m not sure how much time we’re going to want to spend in the designated “Tottenham Hotspur Fan Zone”. Will the Seville authorities get it right? They’ll need hamburgers, they’ll need strippers but most of all, they’ll need beer, lots of beer and they’d better hope it doesn’t run out.

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The Bagel himself is well and truly sorted and looking forward to a three day jolly beginning tomorrow but there is a gentleman by the name of Juan who may be trying to get rid of a ticket.

More tickets available.

The Bagel.

“If we go to bed together, I promise you nothing will happen.”

The words echo in my mind as I reach over for a glass of water to soothe my red raw throat. I really meant it at the time but the two spent condoms lieing limp on an unfamiliar bedside table tell me otherwise. My bottom lip is cushioned against the hard rim of tumbler by a layer lip smee over an inch thick. The creamy matter squishes against the glass and I wait for a second to find out if it’ll cool me as the water trickles into my mouth. It’s like I’ve a blunt razor lodged in my throat ripping at a little more flesh every time I swallow. I’m going to get a cold but then what can you expect for night, a morning asleep with cocaine blocked nostrils and my mouth wide open, breathing any would-be bacterial and viral assassins.

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