Beef Bagel

The trouble with us is that we’re just too good. Last night’s 3-2 scoreline makes for a strange looking 6-4 aggregate that doesn’t quite tell the story. In both legs our men have come out firing and been the better team by too wide a margin. We take possession, we push them back, we threaten from all over the midfield and then our strikers cut through what remains of the Portuguese defence like a warm knife through even warmer butter.

As soon as we looked like winning, there became little point in playing that hard and each time Braga got a goal back. To be fair to the team that looked they been attacked by a box of highlighter pens, they did have a good go at us after the interval but really they were just outclassed.

The understanding between Keano and Dimitar the Great is nigh on telepathic. You could see Berbatov’s frustration at Malbranque (groin) when he just didn’t get it. For some reason the Belgian born midfielder just couldn’t pick up on the electrical impulses emitted into the air or the flush of pheromones released into the environment by our big striker. Imagine?

He waved at Steed like he was an idiot but Malbranque didn’t make the same mistake next time and hey presto, goal number three. But then, that’s the genius of Robbie Keane, he’s the perfect strike partner for any man and when that man’s is a demi-god, it’s the guaranteed recipe for goal pie.

Goal Pie

79kg Bulgarian Beef

63kg Irish Genius

Marinate in a strong midfield sauce

1 dash of Lennon juice

1 can Joly Green Giant

1 distinctly average team

a pinch of luck

Then bake for ninety minutes until well and truly through to the next round

The real fun of the evening is that at times it felt rather like an exhibition game. They never really put us through it and all about me had time to chat football in the cheeriest of tones. The Lads in Front were sitting behind me, in some strange mix-up, and right next to the Jnr Harpey, who was actually on good form, perhaps tempered by the good influence and her missing friends.

But the real banter was inspired as ever by the Park Lane or more specifically Braga keeper, and his very short, shorts. Like cut off tights they were. We wolf-whistled and we taunted:

“Does Sol Campbell know you’re here?” (to “You’re not singing anymore”) and

“Brighton’s Number 1, Brighton’s, Brighton’s Number 1!”

By the end even Santos was joining in by touching his toes in front of the hardcore, presenting them his clenched cheeks. It was appreciated. No other way to take it I suppose (pardon the pun).

Must skedaddle for now. To sum up, we’re in the quarters and we love Berbatov even more. Everything else is just a foot note.

Here’s one a bageled earlier,

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 15th, 2007 at 2:16 pm and is filed under Bagel News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.