Beef Bagel

It seems pointless to start this story before 3.45pm on Saturday but I suppose every tale needs a background…

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He came! He came! I went to bed early last night like a good little Yiddo. I left out a glass of Lillywhite milk, chocolate mini-footballs for his reindeer, Hoddle and Villa, and a photo of Steve Perryman to keep him warm on his long night an sure enough Father Yidmas has come.

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Now, I don’t like the Daily Star at the best if times. Who reads this bastard child of the Mirror and the Daily Sport anyway? Fine read the big two tabloids for the football and nice warm glow when you turn to page 3 - actually I’ve taken to putting on a rather prolonged, considered stare, like I’m some sort of mammary philosopher looking for deeper meaning in 22-year-old Vicki from Croydon and her 36 DDs - and fine, read the Daily Sport if you just want a paper full of page 3 girls and a chuckle at such stories as “Pope gives birth to Alsation triplets, but what is the Star is just pretentiousness; people who think they’re better than the readers of the Sport.

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So, we lost. We did, didn’t we? I’ve only just finished watching the game from the comfort LB’s parents’ place in the west of England - so west in fact that is has become Welsh - but I’m not sure the last 90 minutes has sunk in as yet. The problem is, though, that maybe it has. I was disappointed to upset when the whistle blew and somehow we’d failed to found the equaliser that would have left us all quite content. I am not, however, gutted and I want to be. I want to be inconsolable like when England went out to Argentina in ‘98. I remember my non-football appreciating girlfriend at the time saying everything short of, “it’s only a game.” I’m no wife-beater but she would’ve felt my knuckles across her cheek before the last word left her soon to be toothless mouth. Like, I say, I’d never consciously hit a woman but there’s a medically proven reflex reaction, like the knee-jerk, that affects football supporters.

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“I can see a lot of different areas on your CV but nothing to indicate you would want this job. So, why do you want to work in finance?”

It’s the fifth time I’ve been asked this question, each time in a more different and more probing guise. The answer is, “I don’t,” and part of me wants to say it as much as my interviewers want to hear it. The concept of finance is not something abhorrent to The Bagel but this position is. The minute I walked through the door of this City office, these two clean-cut, clean-shaven men spotted me for who I was - someone with no interest in finance. But I’ve been sitting in this glass fronted board room for the last 45 minutes trying to convince them otherwise and I’ve been doing a good job. They know I’m not the man they want to hire.

“We’re looking for someone who’ll use this job,” the more senior of the two had said, his unwavering, stern expression matching his unwavering, regulation length, black hair, “someone who’ll wake up on a cold, Wednesday morning in February and want to come in early.” I thought he was going to stop at “in”.

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Spurs are victorious away at last, Pompey are beaten, the bell is silenced. Like a good football fan, I watched MOTD2 last night; the last piece of the weekend’s joy. Did Lineker muscle Chiles out of yesterday’s broadcast because of what Sky self-promotingly dubbed “Grand Slam Sunday”, and how many times each year do Sky use that three word phrase? How about “Big Four Sunday” or “Give us all your money Sunday” or simply “I am Murdoch and I own you Sunday”?

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So, rumour has it they stuck a roof on the away stand at Fratton Park. I always said I’ll never go back to Pompey after that spanking we received on Boxing Day a few years back, courtesy of a couple of long range efforts from Patrik Berger. More than anything, though, it was our utterly dismal display, my rain-soaked, skin-stuck clothing and the moment’s realisation that I could be back at home picking at Turkey bones and cold roast potatoes in front of one of 007’s better adventures.

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I’ve only just landed. My first league win at the Lane this season and what a good win it was. Did we deserve it over Man City? No, but did we deserve that badly needed points of three? We certainly did. In fact by my count we’re still one down. The real justice of the last two league encounters would be a win over Boringham and draw with City, so with only three points to show instead of four we’re due another.

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“Pardon, ou est ca?”

The 50-year-old Anderlecht steward with the kind of face you expect to see advertising Stella Artois turns to me slowly shaking his and rolling his eyes making the international symbol for “Forget it mate.” He pushes my ticketed hand away. I look down at my seat number and then back up packed crowd of the block I’m in. The Anderlecht hardcore have packed out their home in Block P. The aisles are stacked with bodies like the tube at rush hour. Each seat is stood upon by at least one fan, all of whom are in club colours, and even if I could work my way to any of them, they’re all complete with an oval groove in the orange plastic where the number has been removed. It’s a classic Euro free-for-all and myself and my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, have turned up late to a party we’re not exactly welcome guests.

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Remember this…

…actually, I don’t. Wasn’t there, but I’m sure if I call the number at the end of the trailer the Spurs Store will be glad to furnish The Bagel with a copy to sit on my own shelfside in the company of all manner of other bits of memorabilia including a musical birthday card and a stolen sign that reads “Spurs Store Payment Point”.

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