Beef Bagel

Now, I wasn’t going to write a post today, seeing as it’s my Birthday and all, but the best thing happened to me as I awoke next to the Lady Bagel this morning.

Steady.

I was presented with am envelope addressed to me which contained not just a normal card, not just a Spurs Birthday card but a Spurs birthday card with greetings form Robbo, Keano and Ledders on the front that plays ‘Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotpur’ when you open it. Best card I’ve ever received. What a lady.

I pushed my luck and asked her if we could make love in the Cockerel position, which I decided means her going on top and singing ‘It’s a Grand Old Team to Play For’ whilst I point up at her and go ‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo.’ But before she had time to answer I thought better of it. I love Spurs but I’m not sure I want to take it that far into the bedroom. A pair of knickers saying ‘Come on you Spurs’ for LB wouldn’t go amiss though.

The Bagel.

So close to the end of the window and yet we find ourselves in some sort of transfer black spot; a vacuum, no more like a serious of whirling transfer eddies where we spin from one rumour to another without anything ever actually getting accomplished.

As soon as the last season closed it was all about bids for Berbatov and Defoe. They pledge their futures to Tottenham, we spin though a few cycles, the sales draw to a close and guess what, it’s back to the same rumours connecting them with Man U and Chelsea & Pompey respectively. The interesting twists come with the offers for the Little Yiddo, if the papers are to believed that is.

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Just when you though it was safe to step back to the window…

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I found it very difficult to be upset yesterday and even as I awoke this morning with the knowledge of the football results in my head before I know my own name. It could be the absolute comfort of the surroundings of my parents house; the soft beds and softer carpets, the big screen TV, the first days of real summer and the endless flow of food form the annual Bagel family barbecue and its days upon days of fillet steak left overs. The pain of a Tottenham defeat can be lost through this mountain of cushions.

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Was MJ’s job offered to Juande Ramos? Whatever happened to Lord Lucan? Was Jack the Ripper in fact the Loch Ness Monster and how many members of East 17 does it take to change a light bulb? Such mysteries of the world we will never truly know the answer to although I suspect they are: no, he just died in some gutter, I seriously doubt it and 4 - one to do all the work and he other 3 to stand in the background striking a bunch of cockney gangster poses.

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Not black times down Bill Nicholson way but certainly grey and at the charcoal end at that. It’s not so much an embarrassment on the all too obvious U-turn that was made after it was obvious that Ramos was not available as the vulnerability we feel as a club who have been on the up. The one to pity here is MJ; a man who has been good to us and one that the club has well and truly stabbed in the back and then said, “Er…can we have our knife back please?” and promptly stabbed him again.

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Well, it’s all about us today or more specifically, all about MJ, poor little mite. It really is looking like his days are numbered now with not a single paper missing out on the story and bookies, Coral, even refusing to take any more bets. We don’t want him to go, the players don’t want him to go, it’s all rather sad really but don’t just take it from me, listen to new boy Bent:

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“Martin Jol, Martin Jol, Martin, Martin Jol,

He’s got no hair and we don’t care Martin, Martin Jol,” I tell the Lady Bagel is we lie in late on Saturday morning.

I’ve just taught her her first Tottenham song and I’m hoping she’s going to need it. I’m not sure how much singing she’s going to be doing especially without me there with her and so I switch back from the White Hart ditties and stick to the main plot.

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Headmaster Levy must have sent a prefect down to get MJ because every one in the football school seems to know that our manager was last summoned to his office. With all noise from the terraces muffled and only a painful wait for Levy to sign some papers, punctuated by the sound of a ticking clock, Jol stood there looking down at his feet until Mr Levy lowered his reading glasses and said:

“Explain yourself boy.”

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I saw this sketch years ago when we all first discovered Jackass. I think it’s testament to my mental age but it still cracks me up.

How does he keep a straight face…

…hope that brightened your morning.

The Bagel.