Beef Bagel

There’s something not quite right about this piece of toast. I’ve not long bought the bread from Lidl (yes, times are hard) so I don’t think that’s what it is but then, I’m thinking as I continue to chew with suspicion, I am taking about produce from the world’s grottiest supermarket. It’s the only shop I’ve ever been to where they don’t even bother with shelves. The forklifts just dump down the pallets and heard the tinned euro-goods into a great ridges from the foot hills of long life orange juice to the two minute noodle mountains. Every item must be checked carefully to see that it is what it appears to be. Always remember to keep it simple. If it looks to be easy, to good to be true, then that’s because it is. Breakfast in a can is a great idea but the execution left me with processed fried eggs repeating on me for days. I sent an old lady into a coma when I offered to help her with her shopping. You could actually see my breath as it went up her nose. The rest just dropped to the floor.

So it could be the bread but I don’t think so. It doesn’t taste like stale bread and the only other thing on this slice is butter. Hmmm, I suppose this does taste vaguely dairy, like off milk. Oh God. The butter has gone rancid. I’ve always wondered how you tell and here we are. This is what it’s like. It’s creamy but it’s the wrong kind of creamy. Not quite sour but just…wrong. I chuck the toast away as the repellence of the flavour gathers momentum. Damn it, my Heinz Beans and Pork Sausage on toast dinner didn’t hit the spot and this was supposed to be some sort of pudding. I stare down at the second slice of my dessert. It’s smeared with the evil curd but there’s honey on top; sweet, sticky, very strong tasting honey. It masks the butter just enough to get it down my throat but does nothing for the aftertaste, I find out as I wretch and splutter my way out of the Bakery door and to the WHL Express.

My cynical attitude towards our 125 celebrations, written on Beef Bagel not two hours ago, vanished the moment I saw Pat Jennings and footage of Billy Nic on the news. I’m catching the train half an hour earlier for the pre-match build up, the parade of legends and whatever else the club have in store. Unfortunately I’m not alone and as the train pulls up I realise I’m going to need a can opener to cram myself into the already bulging carriage. There’s tuts and sighs as I muscle my way in and a dirty look from some five foot lady when she thinks I’m brushing my body against her on purpose. I give her a withering look as if to say, “You’d be lucky love,” and she turns away.

My glasses are steaming up as the temperature rises on the train. My five layers, scarf and hat are seeming a little excessive just now and by Seven Sisters I’m beginning to feel a little faint. I can still taste the rancid butter in my mouth and down my nose, dirty still from a good warming churn in the depths of my bowel. The “molested” lady is babbling some nonsense down the phone to her mate and I’m wondering if I can make to my stop without throwing up all over her. I imagine my vomit of homogenised pork and semi digested beans not soaking into but nestling on the springs of her tightly curled black hair; the horror on her face; the slight smile on mine and possibly a little dribble.

The doors of the train crank open and the crowd fall out as one, leaving the odd commuter to try to get back on the train against the current of the tide of Tottenham fans. The fresh air does me the power of good. All thoughts of dinner are gone when I see great beams of light projected high onto the clouds in N17 and pouring out of White Hart Lane. There’s a party going on inside and I don’t want to miss the games.

The programme may be a tenner and the commemorative shirt at least five times that but there’s a freebee waiting at everybody’s seat. Each royal blue moulded plastic seat is furnished with a 125 anniversary flag and we begin to wave as 50 of our greatest players are brought out for this gala night. A good 25 of the players I’ve never heard of but I applaud all the same and besides, it’s a beautiful sight of 36,000 flags flying high in Tottenham colours as we chant “We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham” over and over at this historic moment. But it’s when the recent cult players get introduced that the crowd kick up particularly large roars; Eric the Viking, Ginola, Steve Perryman, Gloddle, Gary Mabbutt but the biggest of all are reserved for Nayim and Stephan Freund, cult heroes to the core.

The last five legends to come out bring the silverware won under Mr Tottenham himself, the Great Bill Nicholson and the chant changes from “Yiddos, Yiddos” to “Heroes, Heroes.”

After a minutes round of applause in honour of the great man and our 125 years, the legends are swept off the field and he teams take their positions just like a normal Premiership match. There’s still some business to be done and I fear for our performance as I recall the last special game; the game after Bill Nicholson’s death and a 3-0 hiding from Fulham on my birthday of all days. Let’s make this day one to remember, not one we’d like to forget.

From kick off it the feeling amongst the fans is jubilant enough. We’re singing, not a huge amount but it’s all there and it’s only as time goes on that the Villa faithful, who have turned out in their droves under a more successful Martin O’Neill, begin to make the more noise but what the hell I figure, they’re the away fans; that is what they do. But there’s something more. Last season and the season before there was a real atmosphere down the Lane, a confidence in our team and the fact that we’re not going to lose. In fact, that we’ll more than likely win. But each encounter this campaign has turned in to a must win fixture and each performance is just enough to get us through but not the Tottenham we’ve been hoping for or used to before.

It’s a strange midfield with Didier Zee, the Man Mountain, Tainio and Lennon. It’s only when No Name turns to tell me that JJ’s injured that the line-up really makes sense. As the game goes on, it becomes apparent how much our missing midfielder can add to out game and without the cocktail of tenacity and talent that is Steeeeeeeeeed we begin to look a little average. Tainio gets through on a couple of chances which buoy the crowd but our oohs become winces as we suspect that’s as good as we’ll get from the Laplander and just how many chances will go begging.

“Let’s hope it’s not one of those nights,’ says Omar, reading my mind. I dread to think and instead focus on the positives. Err…well, we’ve got much more possession and er….Gareth Bale. Oh look he’s just beat his man right in front of me (sounds rather pornographic). Nice interplay with Keano (again same possible connotation) and ah good, he’s won a corner (no, nothing there). Ball comes in and…goal! Yes, Berbatov, perfect and I’m on my feet with the gang giving the confident high fives and hugs in our acceptable display of man love.

Twenty minutes on the clock and we’ve got the beginning of that buzz again. Each time we’re looking for that game that’ll turn our season around and just maybe that was the moment that’s done it. Our out of form star player has scored, it’s our 125th birthday and if we can just hold on to this lead then maybe Robbo can spill the ball at the other end of the pitch and gift Villa an equaliser. Hang on. Shit. Another set piece. Another keeping error and confirmation that we are that team we thought we were.

The players and the crowd begin to retreat. Villa are boosted as are their fans and from this moment on that’s all we hear round the Lane; dirty Brummy singing. Like all other sides, they claim to be ‘by far the greatest team the world has ever seen,’ rather than say, Barcelona or the Milan side of the 80s? No, these perennial mid-tablers clearly blow them out of the water.

The Villa team start to get a sense in themselves. They don’t have a lot of possession but you can see their pride in defence. They look sharper and harder, more aggressive in the air and more urgent to the ball even if our players get there first. Our midfield sits back, each trying to pass their way through the claret and blue wall without any of them making a run and suddenly our strikers are stranded and frustrated. We’re playing all the football but minutes later Villa prove that they’re the ones scoring the goals.

Yet another set piece, as the ball bounces off centre-half Laursen again with his second for the night and the ball rolling through Robbo’s legs. Our fans are not happy. The Junior Harpey’s little brother or whatever he is chirping up an all too familiar brand of negative bullshit that he thinks makes him funny or knowledgeable but just makes him sound like a typical cynical Spurs fan that we try so hard to avoid.

“Play it short Robinson, for fuck’s sake,” comes another voice from the stands along with other angry fans and their armchair managerial decisions.

“Second ball”

“Push up”

“There’s nobody there?”

“Tainio, stop going inside. You’re supposed to be on the left. You’re a disgrace.”

I disagree. Those fans are a disgrace and I grind my teeth as I think of the role of the supporter. The clue is in the name. Support. How does it help a player to knock his confidence down further when he’s trying to pick himself up? Besides, what the fuck do they know? Maybe that’s what Tainio is supposed to be doing, while Bale comes up a little further than he should with a little support higher up from Keano. After all, that’s how the first goal happened.

The Villa fans are having a field day. They’re starting to take the piss.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Tottenham, Happy Birthday to you,” and

“England’s No.1, England’s, England’s No.1″ as they mock our calamitous keeper.

I’ve got to admit it’s good and let’s face it, it’s exactly what we would be singing if the shoe were on the other foot.

Still we come at the West Midlands club but still they keep us back and what little confidence the players have left is vanishing down the plug hole. We’re only a goal down but it feels strangely impossible all ready. Perhaps a half time talk is all that’s needed, I’m thinking. Maybe a little Dutch magic but suddenly the players are going to need something a little stronger from Holland to make the difference in the second half because five minutes from time Gabriel Agbonlahor scores the game’s first goal from open play as he turns Dawson inside out and beats Robbo at the far post. It’s good goal; a good away goal. Villa are doing everything a visiting team is supposed to. They not getting the play but they’re defending with confidence and attacking on the counter and when their chances come, they’re taking them.

The whistle blows to a resounding boo at the Lane and I can’t even look back to my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) nor at whatever insulting messages have been sent to my phone by a Villa mate I’ve agreed to meet the following night. Perhaps I’ll just greet him with a glassing.

I stay sat in my seat just looking out onto the pitch and wondering how the hell we’re going to claw this one back as four of the Tottenham legends come out to tell the crowd their garbled echoing stories over the impossible pa system. None of them dares mention that we’re all having a shit time.

The second half is agony for ten minutes as we watch our team, none lifted by the break, disappear into nothingness with the crowds fury at Tainio finally satisfied as MJ brings him off for Defoe to a brief chant from the fans before we remember that we’re still losing 3-1. But the rot doesn’t stop there. Five minutes later and I’m watching that all too familiar sight of our keeping diving to absolutely no effect as the ball still finds the net from a fierce daisy cutter from you guessed it, a set piece, and the Villa fans go wild.

Sixty minutes on the clock and still we can’t turn our less and less confident possession into a goal. The silence of the home support is supplanted decibel at a time by a noise but only tuts as passes are misplaced with a frightening regularity. Our side is getting desperate and the crowd exasperated. Tuts turn to groans and groans to shouts and a few of the voices begin to leave the ground. I can’t say I blame them. I’m thinking it too. I never leave early but as I look across at our flashy new hoardings, I see the quote from Billy Nic,

“It’s no good just winning. We’ve got to do it in style,” and I’m not feeling the sentiment but then, I don’t think he coined that one while looking down the barrel of a 4-1 spanking at home to Villa.

No Name leaves. I look up at the Jumbotron. I look at the 25 minutes remaining. I look at the time. I look at the three goal difference. I consider cutting my loses. I don’t want to be here when the whistle blows and we lose. Perhaps the only way to salvage what’s left of this evening is a quick and easy train ride home followed by several cups of tea and whole packet of Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers?

I’m weighing it up but Gareth Bale, bright light as ever wakes me from my spell. He’s giving Gardner a torrid time on the far side of the pitch and it’s been amazing me all game the tightness of the angle from which he whips in his crosses. Again, I think the 18-year-old has taken the ball too far but he fires it into the mixer and I’m on my feet with as it connects with the Defoe and cannons cruelly back out and off the post. My head is in my hands and my eyes held shut away from this, yet another missed chance, when the Spurs around roar their sound and I look up to see Chimbonda running back with a smile in his face. A life line and I can feel a seed of belief inside me and I know there must be one in our players as well. We need to score again soon. We need to keep that momentum

Silverback gorilla, Marlon Harewood and his strangely chipstick legs, have been brought onto the pitch with the express duty to hold the ball up and frustrate both our defenders but mostly our fans. Bent comes off for Berbatov, still yet to find his form and I put my hands together in hope that our £16m acquisition can succeed where Dimi has failed.

The action’s all too far away for me to pick out the details but our crowd is singing again and the visiting Villains are eerily muted. Crosses and corners rain in from the left and the right. Bodies leaping like they care not for their own safety, both attacker and defender alike but 10 minutes later and we’re still two goals behind.

“I’m off,” says Omar as he offers me a nudge and angry look. My mate George and Penfold, of the Lads in Front, follow his lead and then out of nothing it happens. We cry for a penalty as Darren Bent goes down, just as we’ve cried for a million handballs so far that have all gone ignored. The whistle blows and referee Mike Dean points to the spot. A cheer goes up and we’re all on our feet waiting for Keano to make his move. My view is obscured by some Aston Villa legs but I can see our man and I can see their keeper and I can see it when the ball finds the bottom right corner.

“Fucking Yeahhhhhhh!” I scream as I punch the air with a passion I haven’t felt for weeks. Every stress, every anger, I’ve piece of torture from home, from work but most of all from Spurs; any remotely negative experience is expunged from my soul in that one shining moment and with it the shackles have fallen from my heart. I feel again and I can believe again.

We all stay on our feet throughout the last ten minutes of the game. Five minutes later the ball s fired home and we think we’re home and dry until the goal is disallowed. The team carry on and I keep praying to that football god. Come on Dawson, get it up there. Get it in the mixer. Chip, pass, cross and through ball batter on the door of the Villa defence and still they’re holding together. Down to injury time and another wave from the Spurs, so full of desire now, so ready to fight. The ball comes in, a shot, so close, the pain, a rebound, someone get your foot on it, a shot, a block and..and..it’s in!!!!!!!!!!!!Fuck, Fuck, Fuck Fuck, I’m dancing about, I’m grabbing the last of our gang, Big and Little Man as we look stunned at each other and the scenes on the pitch. It’s a fucking miracle, it’s a birthday fucking miracle! Billy Nic is smiling down and with a little wink he looks at WHL.

Finally it’s our turn and we vent on the forlorn Villa fans,

“4-1 and you fucked it up, 4-1 and you fucked it up, 4-1 and you fucked it up, 4-1 and you fucked it up,” (to Go West).

When the whistle blows, we cheer a grateful cheer to the sky and the gods beyond. I look round to my equally stunned neighbours.

“My body is still shaking,” I say to Big and Little Man. “Twenty minutes ago the season was over.”

We drain out of the stadium in a muted, gob-smacked stupor. The draw is like a victory but that’s not what all the silence is about. There’s a fear in my body as well. We’re playing like shit. We’re an absolute liability. We’re entertaining but more to the point we’ve got a lot of work to do and no signs that we’ve been doing it. Part of me prays that this was enough of a turn around to kick start our season but part of me knows better. Villa are a decent side but non-Big Four teams never looked this confident at WHL in the last two seasons and without our fortress, we are nothing.

I’m still shaking my head as I write these last words. Did I really just watch all that? How the hell did we pull that off?

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2007 at 1:43 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.