Beef Bagel

Jesus, it is slow right now. There’s been bugger all to write about in the last 48 hours and I can genuinely say I’ve never, in all my two or so years, ever sat down to write as I did at this time yesterday and think, “You know what, I’ve got nothing to say.” I suppose that in itself is something to say but I thought I’d save that particular gem until I had a word or two to go with it.

I mean, look at us. We were reduced to talking about the haircuts of our players. That’s no slur against the Beef Bagel Faithful. As a matter of fact, I am very pleased at what an inventive and entertaining bunch we are. Incidentally, I like Woodgate’s hair do. It does bring a touch of the Continent with him and it may well help by whipping into the eyes of opposition strikers. Defoe’s on the other hand is silly and only slightly less so than The Tart’s explanation.

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The laugh that went around the pub as the replay showed Safety First, Michael Dawson, pushing the ball from danger with his hand told the story of yesterday’s game. There wasn’t a whole lot of expectation of a win at Old Trafford given it’s unhappiness as our hunting ground since 1989. There wasn’t a whole lot of expectation the minute our number was drawn next to theirs in the FA state lottery. The fixture was more of an eyebrow raiser, something to keep tabs on, because after the mid-week pounding of the arse there was always the chance we could take on the Premiership champions and for much of the game we did. But whatever challenge we mounted was certainly at an end the minute Dawson left the pitch in disgust with the editors of MOTD something to cover up and any lip-reader worth their salt with a smirk on their face.

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My face is aching from the smile I’ve been beaming out ever since Tuesday night. I’ve had the songs of the night buzzing round my head wherever I go and swelled with pride at each newspaper headline and conversation overheard on the tube but the best is the knowing nod at everyone I pass in Tottenham colours, caps and badges. You can see them come. They’re over 10 feet tall.

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Prologue

Writing a match report for me is thoroughly involved affair. I’m not even sure why I do it the way I do. It was never a conscious decision. I’ve tried in the past to cut them down, to give the facts and more than anything to keep them brief, but I can’t. I just can’t and believe me, they take plenty of time to compose. But don’t for one second I do it expecting any kind of rewards. I have my selfish motives, because every word I type takes me back to those 90 minutes and I get to relive it all over again.

It’s 1.28am - a few hours after referee Howard Webb sounded the final whistle, not that anyone actually heard it. I’m sitting at the desk of my night job ready to spend the shift telling my tale. The only problem is I don’t know if I can handle going through it all over again. Football fans die early, I’ve always said that. We stand there week after week being put through the mill by our chosen clubs dear to our hearts, which beat so fast and erratically; the antithesis of exercise and here I am about to bring the terror, the joy, the elation and tears to life in body again. Wish me luck.

Now, where to begin…

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Every now and then a game comes along that makes you feel likes it’s your first time at the Lane all over again. Tonight will be one of those games. There’s always a certain awareness in the back of one’s mind when a North London Derby is coming up. Away from home it’s often more a sense of dread but at home there’s the hope, the excitement, the knowledge that we can beat anyone on our day, the chance that today might be the day we put right what has been wrong for oh so many years now and we know how just how good it feels to do that.

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Apologies of the absence. Indeed this wretched night work is giving me a good and regular kicking while his two henchman, No Time and Tonnes Of Shit On My Plate, hold me down to make it easy. Like a private detective from a film noir, I head back to the Bakery, survey the mess that is, pull down my bed from the wall and dive under a duvet of down and paperwork. I haven’t seen daylight for a little while but apart from the positive effects on the skin I’m beginning to think it’s overrated.

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Oh no! It’s looking truer by the minute. It’s 2.30am at the moment and word’s filtering through that Steve Gibson & Co. are holding out for £10m for the overpriced, over-rated left foot loser and there’s a chance we might use Robbo as a sweetner. Why are we doing this? Is the new world market in football the North-East? Are we hoping to boost shirt sales by signing Downing?

I get it. The final disillusionment for the Toon army is being predicted for a few month’s time when Keegan/Shearer/whichever other poor sucker gets the boot from St. James’s and the Geordie faithful give up all hope of their club ever getting out of the hole which they’ve so carefully dug for themselves. They will then be searching for football teams to support and any team with a North-East born and bred player is a likely target for their added cash and naked white blubber on each and every match day. Apparently the market’s worth over £100m per year. The only problem is that two-thirds of this will be spent on translators for the ticket office and Spurs Store to work out what the hell they’re saying before we can take their cash.

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Kevin Keegan and Alan Shearer. Are they gluttons for punishment? How to destroy two of your club heroes in one firmly thrown stone. Passion they may have and even some experience but not a brain cell between them and I’d say the same for the Barcodes board if they actually make to appoint them. Why is it the Newcastle fans look back to Keegan’s work at their club over 15 years ago rather than his managerial career since? Sure he got Fulham and City promoted but he didn’t do much with them when they made it to the Premiership and he’s going to be going up against a very different league than when he last took the reigns of the Small Club from Scotland. Personally, what I like best about the story is that he’s still wearing the same shell suit he was when he “Loved it” back in 1996. Good luck to whoever takes role - not so much a poisoned challis as a straight bullet to the head.

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What is the point of having a second goalkeeper if you never use them? Radek Cerny must have been looking at himself every morning in the mirror wondering what else had to happen before he could actually get a game for the first team at Spurs. Robbo’s been under the microscope ever since that goal in Zagreb, with each end every mistake slowly adding up to a problem just too heavy in negatives for it to equal anything else. Should we be sad and upset that he was dropped? No. We’ve got another keeper and if he can play without carrying the ball into his own net or without his own brand of defensive howlers, then he should be used.

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Coffee is a wonderful thing. So is the dark. I’ve been working nights and a few days as well. I’ve lost track of conventional time. I’m never quite sure what day of the week it is, how much sleep I should be having and when. There is no morning or evening any more, just darkness and coffee. If there’s dark, I can sleep. If there’s coffee, I can stay awake. I pass by the people of London unseen, ghostlike slipping by neither touched nor touchable by their presence. Like Alice I could fall down and down into this temporal abyss, the only question being: how far does the rabbit hole go?

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