Beef Bagel

Saturday - 12.40

Sitting in the heart of Hammer country was not where I thought I’d be watching the season’s opener. This was not a friendly local’s pub and indeed not the pub I was supposed to be in. The plan had been to meet my friend, Anna, at The Palm Tree in Bow but after dream after dream about missing the kick off the in the small hours of the night before, I really did find myself running late as usual. Will I ever learn?

With two minutes til kick off I dived into the first boozer I saw and in good time to as the players took the field on the one screen at the end of this corridor of a inn. I’d try and find The Palm Tree at half time. I couldn’t miss the first kick of the season.

I’m the youngest person in this place by a good 30 years and I’m not that young myself. You can almost see where the moss has grown between the sour-faced cockneys and their usual seats. There’s the odd grumble as I approach the bar but nothing untoward. Not even a good scrap would cheer this lot up as they wash through what remains of their joy with a mild and a chaser before pissing wistfully down the drain; the sweet smell of the urinal cakes to mask the bitterness of their end.

There’s nothing to be afraid of in here. It wound down a long time ago. To swing a punch would take a week in this sliver of a high street front that gentrification left behind.

“What can I get you darlin’?” comes a wonderful warm welcome that they can only mimic on Albert Square. The once attractive landlady gifts me a friendly smile and any feeling that I don’t belong is drifts away with a quick wink before she fetches my lime and soda. So this is the good old East End hospitality I’d heard so much about.

“There you go sweetheart.” I’m not after any but I’m rather flattered by this real life Angie. Pictures of local London heroes hang behind on the gold and green striped walls. Mike Reid, David Jason and Bob Hoskins beam back at me with their toothy publicity shot grins and each one with a signed message in silver pen, “It was a good old knees up,” “Best monkey I ever earned” etc, etc.

There’s not a lot of space near the screen save one seat at the end of the bar suspiciously empty aside a steaming coffee and a copy of the Mail.

“Is seat taken?” I ask one of the furniture with his knock off Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into his all too real blue Adidas tracksuit bottoms.

He opens his mouth a wheezes at me. I ask again and he motions to the landlady coming down with her cigarette. What smoking ban?

Instead I join table with my back to the residents; a phlegm gargling pensioner, his face folded into a single wrinkle and pair of glasses, and quiet looking man just glad to have his paper and peace from the wife.

But no matter to them. I’m focused on the screen. Day 1. D-day. The day we take on the world. The day the Premiership comes to its knees.

I’m not so convinced by the back four with no Ledders, no Daws and a Stalteri at left back. I’m even less impressed by Chimbondabonda’s hair do. Where are the rolls? Where are the dredds and like Samson he plays like he’s lost his power and he’s not alone.

The Maccams are playing like we expected. They’re tough, they’re strong, they’re well organised and what’s more they’re not passing too many astray. They look good, by no means a match but good.

Our midfield is bullied time and time again as Etuhu body checks his way about with a firm but fair thump to let JJ know he’s in a game. Tainio’s all but absent and all Didier Zee can do is sweep up possession and pass it on to blank-faced, palms-up Jenas. Half an hour gone, the midfield isn’t working and the strikers pushed wide for the ball.

“Heh,” gurgles Wrinkle behind me, “Tottenham, load of old shit.” It’s hard to tell for a moment whether he’s Hammer or just a typical bitter old Spur. In a way I know how he feels. This doesn’t look like the team I’ve been hoping for. Left winger aside it’s been the defence that’s the issue but here we are and the back line is the best of our ranks. It’s the rest who are out of ideas. Their lack of imagination dulls my own. My dreams and inspirations sink at every pass back, every unsuccessful probe into enemy territory.

The only spark from the side is Steed with a quick pass routine or two between himself and the strikers, all too fast those Championship feet and eyes. We break through a couple of times McShane and Nosworthy are too well drilled, too well pumped and improved by their every success.

Half time comes and I head for the door as Wheezy heads for the loo. A giant, like one of the Krays retired old muscle, he climbs in sideways through the toilet door frame, too tall not to duck, to broad not to walk in face on.

After all too long I find the Palm Tree Inn; a beautiful old pub, standing alone by the canal with people outside supping on the grass on this lovely hot day. It’s a beautiful pub but there’s no God damn football and I’m on the streets again heading deeper into Bow and now late for the second half. Every step I take my brow furrows more and my foot stamps down the harder. I hating missing the action and Anna will just have to find me later. After all, how dare she suggest a pub where they’ve no TVs.

Pacing down Roman Road and still not a boozer in sight. This is England for fuck’s sake. There’s a pub on every corner but no, it’s all chippies and fishmonger round here. Jellied Eels? I don’t want jellied eels. I want a pub, football.

With 60 minutes on the clock I find a darkened busy bar. Every 16-25-year-old in the area with their short, greasy, brushed-forward hair, their white t-shirts and gold chains, their cigarettes in hand and a pool cue in the other and not a table in sight; each is squeezed in amongst their over-weight, identical fathers and uncles holding in their guts to make any kind of space.

“Pint of lime and soda,” I ask.

“No soda,” states the lardlord. No soda? What kind of pub is this?

“Lime and lemonade?”

He tutts as he has to bend down to pick up an un-refridgerated bottle of R-whites which he sloshes in a dirty pint glass with the thick green, bleach like cordial. Delicious and only £2.50.

To the back of the bar again and the big screen projector where the game looks even more uninteresting but the balance still in our favour. My drink tastes rancid and I plop on the bar, never to be touched again.

The clock ticks down as the texts come in; from Anna ‘Where are you?’, from my cousin ‘I’m on a plane, what’s the score?’ and I try to reply with one eye on the screen, trying to spot who’s come off for Darren Bent to be on.

The game is opening up but not just for us. Our raids in on the enemy are not from our invention but from Sunderland’s mistakes as they throw their bodies forward to capitalise on ours.

Too many free kicks as we get down to the final minutes and a worried memory of last season as I pray with my sweaty palms clasped that we concede from a set piece. We’re staying strong and it’s still us hoping for the winner; a flick here, a nod there for the ball to spill to our strikers. One clear shot is all we need and each is deadly enough to score.

Three minutes of added time to go and that hope is wearing thin with Sunderland taking all the possession. I’m making the plan to leave this dive. In my head I’m down the street and back to the Palm to begin this summer day of revelry; a festival in the park but I’m left rooted to the spot with my heart on the floor and my stomach in my mouth as the home side find the net. The whole pub cheers save me, confirming any doubts I had about local allegiance. For a second I want to glass somebody, the whole pub, anyone. I’ve never felt so close to violence over football and I feel humiliated by these greasy Hammer cunts. I nearly storm out of the pub but not yet, not now, not before the whistle. The Bagel never sneaks out.

My pain only last ten seconds longer before the whistle blows and the cameras pick up Niall Quinn embracing his trollop of wife. I’m gone, I’m fuming and by the time I meet Anna I’m determined not to tell her and not to let this ruin the day but I’m bitter and I’m pissed off and it’s going to take a lot of medicating to lighten my mood.

Half an hour later and we’re in Victoria Park at the Field Day Festival. The beer queues are obscenely long and our drug supplies non-existent but after a little pimping here and some friend-making their we’re three glasses of wine and four beers each to the better and an hour later I score the much needed MDMA. The booze softens my memory of today’s nightmare events and the MDMA sends me far away and right into orbit. I’m a ball of feelings. I’m cushioned and light. I’m comfortable, I’m happy and I simply do not remember.

Tuesday - 18.00

This is ridiculous. I’m staring down at my shiny black shoes, still as uncomfortable as the day they were bought. The sparkling grey toilet floor merges like a stereogram in front of my eyes before my shake my head at the stupidity of it all. Here I am, a grown man, sitting on a toilet pretending to have diarrhoea. I’m not making fake squitty fart noises or anything. I’m just making sure I’m missed from my desk at this new and very temporary job so I can sow the seeds of my false illness.

It was a toss up between a migraine and a food poisoning. I’ve gone for the latter since I’ve never head I migraine and I’m not sure I can act it. No instead I’m going for the trusty tummy bug. I’ve had enough of them to get it right. First it’s just a normal visit to the loo, and then another and then another but starting to feel very sick indeed until you can’t get more than a metre from the porcelain.

I remember times when I was young, desperate to sleep but in too much agony to return to my bed or get any shut eye if I could. The nodding off ontop of the cold loo seat; a split seconds hope in a long, long night. I remember when I was 21 on holiday in Mexico in a backwards village, at sideways hostel. Three o’clock in the morning and I’ve got the shits abroad. It’s my third visit to the shack of an outhouse with the flickering light and it’s insect mini ecosystem. The only paper I have left are the coarse, tan pages of the thriller that I’m reading but I’m shitting faster than I can get through the book. I scan another page with my tired eyes before tearing it out, smearing the paper with my poo and my backside with the print.

Seven minutes are up and I hobble back to my seat with a little water dabbed on my nose and forehead for good measure. My shift finishes at 20.30 but I’ve got to get the train by 19.00 to make it to the Lane on time to watch our first win of the season and The Bagel hates to be late.

“Are you alright?” asks my manager. Excellent, he’s taking the bait.

“Actually, I feel pretty rotten,” I mumble through a deep drawn burp for good measure.

“Do want to go home?” he asks. Bingo but I want to look like I’m making the effort.

“I’ll just get some air for a few minutes and see how I feel.”

I walk down the stairs and take a little break, returning looking weak but trying to soldier on, and soldier on I do until just after 18.30 when I sling by bag over my shoulder and try to hide my grin as I escape this office hell.

The long walk up the High Road from South Tottenham station is made all the more pleasant by a copy of the Standard. Three up front says MJ. £34.5m worth of striker on the field at once with Keano on the hole behind Darren Bent and Berbatov. ‘Gutsiest move I ever saw, man,’ I think as my eyes widen at the prospect of nice open game.

It’s pissing it down when I come out of Somerfields with my half price, near sell by date, Ginsters Pepper Steak Slice dinner. I bless the Lady Bagel as I pull out the brolly she lent me this morning. I curse her minutes later as the umbrella material creeps further and further from the spokes. All but turned inside out in this moderate wind, my shoulders and bag are soaked, along with my chest, head and in fact face, all except a spot on my nose and some of my right hand that holds this awesome weather shield.

The apple I bought isn’t much better. One bite into this yellowing fruit and it turns to powder in my mouth and my hands. No fruit or fresh veg has passed my lips in days and I toss it into the gutter with a sigh, knowing it’ll be days before I try health again.

I round the corner of the Park Lane and walk with the Spurs as I hear the first ‘Yid Army’ of the season. The shouts and replies are more muffled than usual with heads down cast, hiding from the rain. I wonder if the greasy surface will affect our passing game or if it will make more open, more free flowing, more unpredictable.

As I climb the steps to my block, the Lane opens out in that beautiful way that I’ve been missing for what seems like a year. There’s nothing more stunning than a night game. The floodlit green of the untouched pitch, the darkness of the sky above, the blueness of the seats and the rain shimmering down in of drops water darting together at the smallest gusts of winds like schools of fish in the sea.

I’m looking forward to seeing my neighbours. I have been all week but my reception is not what I’d hoped from the lads in front with only a small chat to No Name. Horseface and the Laughing Mother are there as usual. Big and Little Man arrive drenched through but smiling and just in time but where’s Omar? There’s a stranger to my left and something else is missing. Something else…hmm….

“I can go to all the away games now and…alright mate, bit smart for you isn’t it,” ah yes, the dulcet tones of Junior Harpy. She now has a car and braces it seems. Wonderful. I can look forward to seeing hearing at away games.

“Guess who’s going to be pissed for Saturday’s game,” she boasts to a neigbour of hers. It’s all the worst embarrassments and insecurities of a teenager but she just seems bad because she so bloody gobby. She says everything that comes into her head, no matter how painful she’ll find it to look back on in years.

The game kicks off after Younes Kaboul is introduced to the crowd to great cheers along with a full home debut for Darren Bent. At last, I’ll get to see them both live. The only way to truly assess a new player is from the familiar vantage of my seat.

The game’s barely started and we concede and we’re taking the ball out of the net. The Everton fans are cheering at Joleon Lescott’s goal from, yes, a set piece, from Arteta but there’s no need to fret. In fact, I almost quite like an early goal from the visiting team. It stops a cagey affair and I love the cry as we rally behind the team ‘Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs,’ but where is it? The Toffees have died down and there’s murmurs and shouts from our crowd but no one voice. Nothing is sung together and the moment is lost. No rally, no surge and no spirit. This isn’t a good sign and there are no better ones as play kicks off.

We’re all sitting waiting for the Spurs that we know to appear, waiting for this phoenix to rise from the flames, the one that we saw last season but as the minutes roll on our hopes begin to fade. The one bright spark is Younes Kaboul and the way he brings it forward. Every centre half we have can play the ball but only one can bring it forward in runs like Kaboul is making and the crowd clap and cheer our new defender’s likeness to Ledley King. But a few maraudes is all we get. As word goes round of a player warming up and then a realisation that Kaboul is injured. This really isn’t our day and no one’s feeling too good about a back line of Stalteri, Rocha, Gardner and some sort imposter who looks like Chimbonda.

The biggest cheer we get is when Arteta toe punts a free kick deep into the Paxton end but it’s matched by one from the visitors as Didier Zee balloons our first shot from 30 yards at the other end of the field but our pressure begins to build. We win corner after some good work from Malbranque.

‘Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed’ go the fans and I wonder at this strangest of praise that sounds more like a boo than anything else. I hope he appreciates it. Finally we’re on our feet in something like the old belief and excitement and as the corner swings in from JJ one man climbs tall, taller than the rest and heads it down and into the net. We’re level and it’s the first hugs and high fives of the season.

“£34.5m worth of striker on the pitch and it’s Anthony Gardner who scores,” comes a voice from behind. Who cares? At least we’ve pulled it back but when play restarts, Everton just turn it on again.

“Come on you Spurs,” we sing, “Come on you Spurs,” but it seems to make little difference. We look worse than we did against Sunderland and Everton look every bit the team that beat us 2-0 last year. They’re organised, they pass the ball round well, their tactics are right but most of all they’re hard working. Every ball is chased down and just as before, even striker Andy Johnson runs back beyond the half way line just to make a tackle. Berbatov, Bent and even JJ just stare at each other as Everton pass the ball about, none of them wanting to drop back in case we get possession but we never do and instead a gulf opens up between white shirts in midfield with a sea of blue inside.

Arteta wins foul after foul as he dances about the edge of the area waiting for a tackle to come in. He’s going down a little easy but he’s a right to do so and every time the ref agrees. The first free kick is inches away from the perfect goal. His next cross finds the head of colossal Victor Anichebe and is only blocked by Ricardo Rocha but Rocha clatters Robbo in the process and the ball drops to Osman who’s shot has no one to stop it. 2-1 and Everton are back on top.

“You’re not singing any more!” No shit Sherlocks but why aren’t we singing back where’s our retort, where’s the belief. How about a “We’d forgotten you were here,”? That’d do; anything to get me, to get the team going but nothing just a stunned silence and a shaking of heads.

“We are bottom of the league, yes we are bottom of the league,” sings the Junior Harpy. She’s been laughing at our own misfortune in her own version of a cynical Spur. She thinks it makes her funny and I want to kill the one simpleton to her right that feeds her ego with a giggle.

“Top 4,” she says,”we’ll be playing Charlton next season; that’ll be our big game of the season.”

I start to wonder if there are any circumstances where it’s acceptable to hit girls. Isn’t there some sort of crime of passion defence?

One minute of added time announced as Arteta wins yet another not soft but certainly squidgey free kick from 30 yards or so. I can’t see right around the wall but when Alan Stubbs drills an uncultured daisy cutter into the wall, what I can see is a deflection off a Tottenham foot and Paul Robinson stand stock still as the ball rolls into the net. Three sodding one. The Evertonians are in stitches and we’re all but sunk unless MJ’s got something really special up his sleeves and as far as I’m concerned he’s wearing a vest today.

The whistle blows and I stay sat in my seat with my arms folded as all around me stand. It’s like sitting in a forest surrounded by tall trees and I feel alone in my sadness and left to wallow in my own self-pity. I can’t face standing up. I know my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) will be there rows and rows behind me waiting for a chat but I can’t face it. I can’t talk about this. I can’t see the look on his face reflecting the feeling in my heart. I feel like I’ll crack. We look like our team under Hoddle; pathetic, without drive and totally and utterly toothless.

I’m still in a daze when the players take the field once more. Spurs are out first but I hardly hear the whistle as I look up into the empty green seats in the upper west stand, home of the rich, the special and the unwilling to get caught in any traffic. I wonder why I do it. I’m not sure it’s all a good idea. Why do I shell out hundreds of pounds for this? Why bother faking an illness and worst of all, why do I spend my life writing a blog for nothing?

The second half just drifts before my eyes as it becomes more and more clear that we’ll never win this game. The start is brighter than before and the team don’t give up but we never get going either. Everton still look the more likely to score with both keepers pulling off net buster saves. There’s not a single song from our lips just a handful of ooohs and ahhhs as we hit the post or clip the frame but mostly its anger at JJ for running around with his palms up and creating next to nothing at all. No one is doing a thing.

The traveling fans begin to get louder as the victor gets closer and closer.

“Everton, Everton, Everton,” they sing in the same way our North London rivals sing with their very own name.

There’s boos about the ground when the torture finally ends, well from half the stadium that’s left. As I turn around there’s Charlie, Olivia and Gillian all there, exactly where I couldn’t look at half time and it’s the best moment of the match.

“Looking smart,” says Charlie fresh from his holiday with an unshaven face.

“And you’re looking scruffy,” I reply. All three of my friends are smiling and I can’t quit understand why. If it wasn’t for them I’d feel like the season was gone but there’s an unsaid never mind on their faces; an expression of ‘Well, that’s football,’ a confidence, a faith that this will not be the shape of the things to come. Two games does not a season make and somehow, I know they’re right.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 15th, 2007 at 11:06 am 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.