Beef Bagel

Welcome to the lunchtime flurry and the fourth international bagel sprint begging the question, “Just how much can he type in the under an hour or so he’s got?” And we’re off.

It’s been a bloody strange footballing time, I tell you. I’ve never felt so out of touch as I did on the train back from Newport yesterday morning opening the paper to read how we’d done at Blackburn two days earlier. Now, I’ve made it to MOTD before, once or twice, but to not to read the results in the paper was a very strange experience, slightly snuffed by the disappointment on draw. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting to see a Spurs win and I’m perfectly happy with 1-1 but it’s not exactly dramatic now is it?

LB and myself have been having a nice little four-poster bedded, country-walking, cosy pub drinking weekend tacked onto the wedding of one of her mates. I’ve never felt so anti-social as I did at that bash. After a full week of making the effort with new people at a new job, I just couldn’t hack keeping up the act in my spare time too and it was everything I could do not to be rude to everyone I met. I wanted to talk to parents of little children about cot-death and paedophilia. I wanted to talk to the bride’s family about divorce statistics and it was everything I could do not to tell this trussed up, fake-tanned, gold-dripping tart with curly-bleeched hair extensions that she looked like a poodle. It’s not her fault she’s cheap and tasteless. She just doesn’t know any better.

I didn’t even want to dance and The Bagel likes to dance. Not even Don’t Stop Me Now could get me moving and every double whiskey just seemed to sink me further. It was a good bash with a good enough crowd but sometimes, you know, sometimes, I just can’t be arsed to be sociable.

Football, quick, while there’s still time!

JJ’s selling his house. I love these stories. The word in the People from our midfielder’s estate agent is that he’s put his place on the market and has no intention of staying in the capitol. Well, excuse me if I stroke my stubbly chin repeatedly in a very slow and deliberate manner and say, “Re-he-he-eally.”

Firstly, I don’t think he’s going to leave and if he is he doesn’t know it yet. There’s a million and one journos with their ears to the walls of WHL and there’s no fucking way the firs anyone hears about it is through some Chingford estate agent. Secondly, why put your house on the market now? The guy’s not short of a bob and he can always rent some gaff or other after he finds a new club until he sells his current manor, and if you’re telling me that this suggests he already knows where he’s moving to, I say once again, are you really trying to tell me that that the first we here about this in-the-bag transfer is through some smarmy property jockey in a silk-lined suit? Ridiculous.

A story with a lot more credence than the world’s silliest newspaper and some bloke in an office is the one in the Mail and many other sources about 20-year-old central defender Vegard Forren who could well be coming our way for around £1m. Currently playing at Norwegian club Molde (least attractive club name ever), the kid comes in at…wait a minute, there’s almost nothing on him. Probably why he’s so cheap. All the same, here’s his head…

…and here it is when he was even smaller…

…ahh, now isn’t he cute? Now, at the time he was only 5′9″ but I’m hoping he might have grown a little since then else we’re about to chomp down on another defensive lemon and I’ve had enough of that bitter taste. Thank God for the success with Woody. Worth a punt for a mill I say.

Right, I can squeeze in one more and I’d better go with the Berba-quote. Yep, it’s that time again that we gird our loins for the onslaught. We put our sweaty palms together and look to the Lord. We click our heels three times and we say, “There’s no player like Dimi, there’s no player like Dimi,” and apparently it’s not just us who ends up going a little crazy.

“If any conversations with AC Milan start, I will be flattered,” he said our man as the first of the rumours came flying. “My head will boil again in the summer from the transfer speculation.”

And when asked about the price tag stapled firmly to his slick back bonse, he smirked:

“I know the price, but I won’t tell you.”

We know the price too, don’t we? I believe a certain Juan said £40m, and when he said £40m, what he meant was priceless. He’s our 6′1″ Faberge egg.

We’re back, we’re bad. You’re bagel, I’m mad.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 8th, 2008 at 2:19 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.