Beef Bagel

My eyes are open. I’m done sleeping. I’ve not had enough but, with daylight piercing though the cracks around the blind and a hangover just waiting to kick in, that’s all I’m going to be getting. Lying on my back with LB in the crook of my arm, I stare at the ceiling a while twitching my nostrils in turn. They feel like they’ve been bored out to double their size. Crossrail could be making a stop in them by 2012; tourists pouring out of my nose asking me directions to the Olympic Park.

My bladder finally forces me out of bed as it tugs hard on the neurons between itself and my brain with the warning, “Ignore me any more and I’ll wet the bed if you so much as snooze.” It could be bluffing but never under estimate a desperate bladder. The toxic urine poisons its mind. They don’t think straight. They’re prepared to do anything and this isn’t a chance I can take when in bed with the lady who loves me. LB can cope with a lot but I’ve a feeling it would be a bridge too far if she woke up to the feeling of my worn waste liquid soaking through her pyjamas and coursing over her back. What’s more this isn’t even my bed. It’s not hers either and I don’t really fancy trying to explain that one to our friend who’s been kind enough to put us up. “Err…yeah….I got a bit sweaty in the night.”

In the bathroom, my body sends tingles up and over my flesh in gratitude as the fluid is released but my growing smile quickly drops as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Staring back is one very crumpled looking Bagel complete with two great smeared slabs of peacock blue above his eyes. Last night’s fancy dress Halloween party flashes before my mind for as long as I let it. The theme was ‘Famous Dead People’. I was Cupid Stunt aka Kenny Everett, in the best possible taste.

I dread to think what I must have been like by the end of the evening. Alcohol and drug fuelled, I recall forcing people up to dance assuming they were in the same state as me as I leapt around to Don’t Stop Me Now. There’s few things more frightening at a party than a wild man in drag flashing his fish-nets and pants at all and sundry.

I grab a wadge of tissue paper and put it to my nose hoping that my vital organs stay put when I blow. Like a doctor examining a stool sample, I peruse the results: mid to dark green, plenty of it, no blood and no signs of last night’s cocaine.

Half an hour later and it’s time to go for breakfast. We drag ourselves from warmth and comfort into the stick clothes form yesterday - not my dress - and I fish my used contact lenses out of the water of two mugs used as emergency storage. Like a fool I forgot to bring my glasses for today; a rookie move. I’m grateful that at least I remembered my season ticket and I try desperately to hang onto that thought as the dry lenses lynch onto my pupils like limpets. The problem is that it’s not just my dignity I left at the party, I’ve left one I’ve my trainers too and I’m forced to wear a shoe from my Kenny Everett costume.

On my way through Brixton I dodge the puddles as best I can with my left foot squeezed into a woman’s size 8 split open at the back to accommodate my size 11. Water soaks up my jeans and through my sock as I limp down the road after a good feed at an up-market greasy spoon with a serving of short, fat Cumberland sausages and double fried eggs. There’s no time to go home to get another pair, even with the clocks back an hour, and I’m going to have to just hope I can make it to the Lane and back without losing it. I have a feeling I’m going to be reduced to a plastic bag tied around my foot if I’m not very careful.

As I say goodbye to LB she tells me that I’ve still got some eye shadow on; just the way I want to look at a football game, make-up and limping with a wet woman’s shoe. Wonderful.

The walk from the station to the Lane is a joke. Haphazardly laid paving slabs at every kind of angle and plane make a minefield of patches and pools which splash up into my shoe until I’m wet from what feels like the knee down. I feel like Ed Rooney by the end of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. A steward at the turnstiles takes a look inside my bag, shoots me a puzzled look but decides it’s not worth asking and lets me through. I don’t suppose many bombers carry a pair of hold up tights, a permed blond wig and a set of novelty breasts.

I get to my seat to find two unfamiliar faces to my right where Omar and Little Man should be. Both look like short overweight South American drug dealers on holiday in North London; a little too well wrapped up and gently sweating in their puffer jackets and clothing at least three jumpers thick. I greet Horseface and Mother with the usual ‘hello’ and both I can take my slightly rained on seat, the players are out on the pitch shaking each other by the hand. A resounding boo goes up as Robbie Savage is announced, far bigger than the one for ex-scum, David Bentley. I’ve always had a soft spot for Savage since I first saw him down the Lane. He never once causes trouble with the fans. Never gloats; just keeps his eyes to the grass and his mind on the game. Neither is he a gifted athlete but living proof that anyone can play in the Premiership if you really want it enough.

Bagel favourite, Clive Allen, stalks the touchline in his suit, presumably rented for the day or borrowed from cousin Martin. You just know it’s the proudest day of his life. You also know it’s the only time he’ll ever do it. The game is of little importance given this time of transition and dreams of a high league finish all but forgotten but still from nothing comes a burst of “Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs” echoing round the ground. We all know this a new dawn, if not quite sun-up, and chance for our fortune to change.

From the whistle, it’s clear we’re a different side from recent weeks. The heaviness from MJ’s death row uncertainty is lightened but not lifted. The players are free to play again but the confidence is not yet back and nor is the cohesion. We can pass the ball again at least but that’s about it. We can keep possession as well as they can but they look more menacing on the ball with some chunky, skinhead No.19 causing a few problems down our right hand side. Little Aaron is called back by Chimbondbonda to do a lot more defending than he’d like with Skinhead getting the odd good looking cross into the box for the Blackburn strikers to narrowly miss. Roque Santa Cruz is a big lad and my mind flits to the terror that is set pieces and I wonder the trouble he’s going to cause us as the clouds of drizzle are swirled about in the wind, pockets of damp swarming in the air.

Lennon and skinhead clash again. I’m amazed to see Little Aaron come away with the ball thrilled to see him do his man for pace. As Skinhead turns his back to start his hopeless chase I realise he’s actually David Dunn with a new do. Instantly he’s less of a threat both on the field and in my mind. He’s a good player but no one you’d go crazy to sign.

On the far side of the pitch, it’s Malbranque who’s causing the problems; his low centre of gravity and thick set frame proving hard for Blackburn to shift and his vision and skill too much for most to cope with but the visitors have a man on form themselves and every high ball, every through pass and every good move is cleared, intercepted and shut down by centre half, Christopher Samba. Even with a stooped gait his 6′5″ body looks giantlike and when he’s not a thorn in our side, there’s Skeletor, Brad Fri-dell to save the day. The Blackburn captain’s first block is a one on one as Little Aaron is put through by Steed. His second from a Robbie Keane header at close range. Me and the rest of the Tottenham fans just know it’s going to be one of those days with an annoyingly consistent keeper’s heroics between us and the points we badly need.

With the Rovers defence locked tight, the Lilywhite team try to mix it up with fast moves and ill-executed flick passes that never come off. We lose patience as possession is wasted with these careless attempts. The crowd tuts and groans as one, with the only though on our minds, “Just keep it simple.”

It’s visitors’ turn to attack with David Bentley standing over a free kick in a good position. The Park Lane try to put him off with,

“Bentley, you let your country down,” to the tune of Blue Moon and you just pray he doesn’t slot it or he’ll be right up in their our faces screaming with delight. He hits it straight into the wall and there’s relief is doubled by the fact that we didn’t concede from yet another set piece.

By half time, the game has evened out with our confidence swelled some at having made no silly mistakes. The only other thing of note is that I’ve discovered I hate the Jnr Harpy’s brother even more than I hate her. At least her comments are intelligent, if screeched and unwelcome. His are just inane and droned out in adolescent insecurity in the hope that somebody finds him funny.

After half time’s meeting with the crew by the Bagel Wagon I go back to sit with my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, and Olivia for a chat and a different angle on the action. I’m not that involved in the game myself; not the gameplay but the emotion. Whether it’s that I’m used to us losing, I’ve been expecting us to get thumped or just the fact that last night’s frolics have taken the edge of my feelings is unclear but I rather feel like the world is in a glass bubble and I’m just happy to sit and watch it, without getting too involved. In fact, when the game begins again, I want it to last forever. It’s really entertaining and just pleasant to be watching acceptable football again.

“It’s a good match,” says Charlie as I share with him my thoughts, “it could go either way really,” and just three minutes in, it does. Little Aaron’s put through on a great little pass from Keano and our pace dwarf is brought down in the box before he can make his shot on goal that frankly I’m glad he never got round to. The crowd and the ref have little doubt and neither does Keano when he starts, stutters and slots it home in a lesson to the kids on how to score from a spot kick.

One minute later though, it’s the same old story and we’re facing our version of a penalty, a set piece, and we put our hands together in hope that we don’t suffer the instant equaliser that has undone undermined our every effort all season long. We survive and the Lane let’s out a breath together but ten minutes later it’s the equaliser for real.

I’m half way through a conversation with Charlie and only vaguely paying attention as Benni McCarthy hits his shot from the corner of the area as it finds an outstretched Dawson and balloons off our defender over Radek Cerny. I only get a sense of the power of the shot when it cannons back into the net off the far post and the wrong part of WHL erupts with noise. I’m happy just to keep on talking with this goal no more annoying than a troublesome flying looking to suck up a little sweat , while I sun bathe quite happily on a tropical island with a book and a pinacolada served in a fresh cut coconut. But I hold my chatter. Not everyone will be feeling as devoid of passion as a man with his nerves on standby after a night’s over-stimulation.

“Going down, going down, going down,” taunt the thousand or so Blackburn fans who’ve bothered to make the trip on the upper tier of the away stand.

“We’re all going on a European Tour, a European Tour, a European Tour,” we sing back to the tune of Yellow Submarine at their ‘misfortune’ against Larissa.

“Stand up if you’ve won the league,” they return but, we have? Twice.

Back on the field, Steed takes a knock on his shin, which he appears to shake off but five minutes later and he’s off the pitch with Bent to take his place. Our shape begins to disappear with it unclear as to whether this is supposed to be 4-3-3 or Keano on the left of midfield. He seems none to sure himself. Blackburn begin to take the ascendancy as the last 10 draw near. They take the lion’s share of possession but we don’t seem too flustered. Our own attacks rarely make it to the front line though with the gap between our attacking ranks widening beyond an easy pass.

With two minutes to go before the 90, Dimitar the Great is switched for Defoe after yet another game where last season’s star player has failed to find his form. Bent has barely touched the ball since his arrival and it seems unlikely that Jermain will get much better. His first chance is when he’s asked to challenge Samba for a high ball.

“There you go Jermain, jump!” mocks Charlie.

The ball breaks for Rovers and Lee is forced to bring down Matt Derbyshire around 40 yards out on the flank.

“Nice one Bruce,” comes a voice from behind as I agree that it was the right move.

“That’s Champions League experience,” I say with confidence as I wink at my friend but I how wrong I am. I’ve failed to spot that this is a free kick, it is stoppage time and we are Tottenham. Add one fairly decent, deep delivery, one jumping header barely dealt with, one unmarked player and a late lashed shot - the recipe for goal pie, which the visitors lap up with gravy as they dance around in delight at their last gasp win. I’m not as devastated as most but this time it’s broken through my apathy.

“Do-do-do, come on and do the Samba,” sing the Rovers fans as they hail the goal from their star man today.

The whistle blows and the crowd boo which happens now with the same regularity with which we used to hear the Glory, Glory Tottenham Hotspur victory music.

Out on the street, I barely say a word, partly because I’m tired, partly because I don’t really care and partly because it’s taking all my concentration to make sure I don’t plunge my soggy, open left foot into a pile of rain soaked horse shit. What does it matter. There’s change in the air and what we do from tomorrow is what counts now.

Back at Liverpool Street, I decide the only thing to cheer me up is a super-sized Angus Burger meal from Burger King. It’s the cheap, icy cola I crave as much as anything else and I curse as I only find £3.50 in my pocket and my account £100 over overdrawn. “Amount available today: nil,” reads the machine.

I walk to the pictures of the £5 meal I so desire and sure that it’s the wrong thing to do, my legs drive me to the nearest fruit machine while my brain creates a diversion. If I stop to think about this, I’ll never do it. My hand starts chucking what nuggets I have into the machine while my brain informs me just how unlucky I feel but my brain is wrong. This machine is lonely and wants to play. I know nothing of how things works with it’s unfamiliar format and features but it drags me along all the same and gives me my £5 in return. I turn to go but it’s doesn’t want me to just yet. “Please stay a little longer, Bagel,” it says as it asks me whether or not I will get the repeater. The answer is ‘yes’ and another £5 drops out onto the tray.

The fact that by the time I get back to the Bakery my food is cold and my drink is warm is neither here nor there. The point is that my luck changed. I am not a habitually unlucky person. Habitual bad luck does not exist. All it takes is a little faith and the odd risk. If it can work for The Bagel, it can work for Tottenham and I’d say an old fruity in a station is a lot dodgier than successful Spaniard with a mantelpiece of medals.

Clive

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, October 29th, 2007 at 12:07 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.