I can’t remember the last time I had so much breathing space before a Saturday afternoon kick off. Here I am, it’s 11am and I’m up. I’ve just about finished the washing up. It wasn’t even much of a chore, unlike shopping for a rug on Friday night. I don’t think I’d wanted to do much but hearing the words “I can’t make it, I’m going rug shopping,” come out of my mouth when I was invited to a gig was a very strange thing indeed.
Well bugger me blue with a fish fork. That, my friends, was a game of football.
I had to make the quickest of turnarounds at the Bakery after my interview; out of my suit and into my Tottenham best with the shock horror that I’m wearing my “lucky” away pants which I’d given up on a long time ago. With no time for superstitions and pangs in my belly, I slap some butter and good layer of Marmite onto some granary bread with an evil eye on the cold slices still poking out of toaster where I forgot by breakfast this morning. Come to think of it the fuckers are still there.
Storms on both sides of the sea made missing breakfast for an early start a blessing in disguise for the turbulent, Alton Towers-esque journey to Amsterdam. Once on terra firma with settled stomachs we grabbed lunch and took in some of the city highlights (art galleries rather than red light district – honestly!) before heading to the train for PSV. Met a few Ajax supporters also coming along to the game, seemed a good bunch.
“It’s 9.45am, we’ve got to leave in 15 minutes. Here’s a cup of tea.”
It’s a good wake-up. I can’t translate the sentiment into words in my brain, let alone open my open my gak-sealed mouth to deliver them, even if I could kick start my voice box into life; but it’s a very good wake-up for a man on sofa using a coat and a dog’s blanket for a duvet with only three hours of sleep under his belt.
I blink a few times and G walks away from my field of view. The cream coloured room is glowing gently yellow from the sunlight-warmed windows, just as it was when I last saw it. A scattering of half drunk beer cans litter the coffee table to my left at eye level. An army of empties stands over at the bar, tightly-packed covering a third of the varnished wood. I don’t need to look but I know the debris gets worse over by the pool table that completes this perfect games room, almost the size of the Bakery, in the house of my friend, Ash.
The fun ended, last night, the minute the League Cup was taken back inside. We can have no real complaints on the result, we were bested. PSV were more professional, more comfortable, more in control, even their fans were better despite that “We only sing when we’re winning” chant with which they seem to slightly miss the point. Loved their rendition of the A-Team theme tune though. No idea what that’s all about. Were we supposed to reply with Battlestar Galactica or Cagney & Lacey?
It’s hard to tell what’s been my favourite part of the aftermath: the pictures in the papers; articles on our impending great future; going into work wearing my Tottenham shirt in the face of a loud mouth little Chelsea fan, cheering in his face and then going, “ok, ok, I’ll take it off,” to reveal another Tottenham shirt and doing it all over again; or perhaps walking down Holloway Road the next morning in my 1967 Spurs jumper, head held high, going into a newsagents and buying a copy of every paper? The shopkeeper says, “Are you a Spurs fan?” I nod and show him my ticket for the game. “Are you an arsenal fan?” I ask. He nods quietly. I grin broadly, “Good morning.”
“The only enjoyable thing about a cup game at Wembley is the final whistle, and then only if you’ve won” - The Bagel, 24/02/08
The half-covered red LEDs of a clock radio read 7.30 on a dresser beyond the foot of my bed. ‘Wembley’ the first word in my lips before even my eyes were open. ‘Wembley’ I let it roll around my mouth. I try to say it without smiling but it’s like eating a doughnut without licking your lips. ‘Wembley’ - the sound of the ‘m’ and the ‘b’ bounce around my head like a Berbatov ball juggle when he lands it from 70 yards up and under and onto his thigh, his foot, his ankle and puts it down wherever his genius chooses. ‘Wembley’ I’m wide awake, my eyes like saucers scanning the blank plaster ceiling of this dimly lit bedroom like it’s the stadium itself, the crowd and noise shimmering before me, Jenas eating up the turf as he pulls away from the helpless blue defenders and down the keeps throat in front of my eyes and thousands of Spurs willing him home. Wembley. Wembley.
Apologies for my absence but it’s been all systems go at the Bakery for a little while. There’ve been buns flying out the door, flour dust quite literally all over the shop, the ovens have only just started to cool and, as seems to be the way at the mo, I’m k-nackered.
I’ve promised myself that I wont write a full match report on Saturday’s gut-cruncher of a fixture but I’ve a feeling that my fingers will get the better of me as I continue.
It was a relief to be at the Lane on Saturday; a nice gentle 3 o’clocker against Man U. After the stresses of the last game we saw it was something of a massage for the soul to meet the crew with all the talk of Wembley and just where we grabbed our seats in the booking frenzy that was. I was even late to the game didn’t make much difference. You see, United at home is one of the best games of the year. You get that rare experience watching a fantastic team close up without really bothering if you lose to them. A solid and plucky display resulting in an ultimate defeat is usually the order of the day and one which ends in the warm knowledge that we can send Fergie and his men off with another three points towards the cause of stopping arsenal and Chelsea winning stuff. Everyone’s a winner. But not today.
Damn it, I knew this was going to happen.
Prologue
Writing a match report for me is thoroughly involved affair. I’m not even sure why I do it the way I do. It was never a conscious decision. I’ve tried in the past to cut them down, to give the facts and more than anything to keep them brief, but I can’t. I just can’t and believe me, they take plenty of time to compose. But don’t for one second I do it expecting any kind of rewards. I have my selfish motives, because every word I type takes me back to those 90 minutes and I get to relive it all over again.
It’s 1.28am - a few hours after referee Howard Webb sounded the final whistle, not that anyone actually heard it. I’m sitting at the desk of my night job ready to spend the shift telling my tale. The only problem is I don’t know if I can handle going through it all over again. Football fans die early, I’ve always said that. We stand there week after week being put through the mill by our chosen clubs dear to our hearts, which beat so fast and erratically; the antithesis of exercise and here I am about to bring the terror, the joy, the elation and tears to life in body again. Wish me luck.
Now, where to begin…
It seems pointless to start this story before 3.45pm on Saturday but I suppose every tale needs a background…
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