Beef Bagel

I can’t find them. I can’t find them. I know I’ve looked in these cupboards before but maybe I didn’t get all the way to the corner, maybe I missed them the first time or maybe I’m just out of ideas? I know they’re clean. I stand there in my room, blank. All draws open, all shelves empty, I’m an island in the laundry ocean. I give in. I’m been ridiculous. I gave up avoiding tripple drains years ago. Well, at xmas anyway. Tottenham do not need me. They don’t need my superstitions. They play well because they’re well trained and they’re picked from an excellent squad, not because I’m wearing my lucky pants.

I afford a little chuckle to myself and pick up any old pair, any old pair’ll do…but maybe not those. I choose my clothes for their practical purposes as I continue to make my point. Yep that’s a good t-shirt, nice and warm and what the hell, I’ll take a jacket along too, after all very changeable weather we’re having for this time of year. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never worn it down to White Hart Lane. Wouldn’t want to get caught out. Yes, I’ll take a jacket down too.

I walk outside. I’m far too hot. I consider the four floors of stairs between myself and my flat. I weigh it up against the six hours before I can put my coat down. Somehow I decide to push on. I’m not late, I’m not even hungover and unable to make this simple calculation. I’m just lazy.

‘Hmm…not late, eh?’ I roll the novelty of this one around my lobes. I enjoy the unusual freedom. ‘So,’ I take the next steps, ‘if I’ve got a little time, I can maybe get something to eat. Why should I have to be starving by half time and and rely on a bagel to get me through?’ Why indeed. Eyes to the sky, a stroll in my step, I take a turn into a white brick cafe.

‘Nice in here,’ I’m thinking. Thirty something couples breakfasting to Dizzy Gillespie; parsley on their bacon, darjeeling in their tea. Spider plants in earthenware pots, sunshine through the windows like some wonderful roof terrace greenhouse in loft in down town…

‘Can I help you?’

‘Hm? Oh, yeah,’ I’m back inside my head, eyes to the menu. ‘Bacon sandwich?’ I’m thinking, ‘no, let’s go healthy.’

‘Goats cheese and roasted vegetable sandwich, please,’ I say as I turn to the voice at the counter. It turns out the voice is quite cute. English is not its first language. How didn’t I hear that the first time? Polish, Russian, hard to tell but definetly Eastern bloc. It wears a floral pinny and little head scarf too and a real smile, unusual in this town, doubly so in a cafe. We’re sort of, staring at each other. That’s amazing, that’s… oh no, she’s said something. That’s what’s going on. She’s waiting for answer. I make a guess.

‘Er…brown?’ I chance.

‘Ok.’

I breathe a small smile of relief as she gets to work on my take away. Her body rocks gently as she smooths the marge over the doorstop bread. A little St.Christopher catches my eye as it bounces about on her chest like a ten on the Richter scale for the little man on his mountain path. Now there’s a lucky traveler.

Eyes up from the board, she looks at me looking. Did she say something? I decide not risk it this time. I stay silent. So does she. She carries on. Our life flashes before my eyes. Her name’s Maria. It’s xmas. We’re in a new flat, living out of boxes. Wooden floor, no sofas, two gifts under the sprig of a stolen tree, a mini Keano adorning the top. I open mine. A kama sutra, the saucy minx, signed by Martin Jol? I’m not sure he’s who I want to be thinking of when I’m trying to get my foot behind my head for ‘flatulent badger’ but I appreciate the thought.

She opens hers. I wait patiently, expectantly, a little nervous. She bites her lip and looks up all warm and coy. She tosses her present to one side and makes for me, a lioness through the pampas. How could she not? A matching Tottenham underwear set; the cockerel on her knickers and football styled bra pads, surely no girl could resist?

‘£2.25 please.’ I’m somewhere in our 40’s, arguing as to who’s going to take the kids to school. Fantasy over, I hand her the money and walk out the shop. The bell above me rings as I go. It rings again and I smile to Maria as I reach for a tabloid and I’m back out the door.

On the top deck of the bus, paper laid out, sarnie in hand I’m all alone in my private ride to Liverpool St. Station. I’m reading the build up and chuckling through my food.

‘Everton haven’t won in the league at White Hart Lane since 1985,’ ha ha ha. Oh yes, there’s many a good Toffee spanking I’ve witnessed over the years. I think of their squad. I think of the way I placed them way down the teens in my pre-season predictions. Who the hell have they? Reject Phil Neville, one good season Beattie? They don’t stand a chance.

A soggy pepper lands on Andy Johnson’s head. ‘Oh yeah and him.’

I get to the concourse. Usually teaming with suits, I can only imagine, identical black bowlers, pinstriped trousers, umbrellas at the ready and a series of hearty ‘Mornings’ (or has Mary Poppins led me astray?) are replaced by patches of crew only given away by a shirt under a jacket, a logo on cap or a scarf in the pocket. The troops are gathering, the hubbub growing. I stand up on the gallery and watch them all arrive.

Still time on my hands, I make a move downstairs and walk my casual way to the departure board. I can be at Northumberland Park by 2.15pm, easy but…why do I always come this way? I can get the train to White Hart Lane Station instead? I never go that way and besides I’m moving to that train line soon. How about investigating a new root? Book in one hand, paper in the other I walk to the waiting train feeling like Stanley in the jungle, ‘Dr. Hotspur, I presume?’

I’m tucked away in the corner of the carriage peering out from the cover of a nearby seat. I tried to read my book. Still trying to kill that mockingbird but I can’t seem to get through it. How am I supposed to read when there’s Yid Chat round the corner.

‘Andy Johnson’s all they’ve got.’ Two young lads at ease in their shirts. The banter runs back and forth with players brought in between the odd mother joke and reference to a mate called known as ‘Sicko’. One can only imagine.

‘So who we going to sign after we win today?’

‘Don’t know what we’d do with Baptista, except mistake him for your mum.’

‘We could do him coming up from behind, sort of like I do yours. She still shouts ‘Bunjevcevic’ when she comes, you know?’

The train takes forever and I realise why I never bother going this way when the walk from the station takes me to the wrong end of the stadium but all the way I’m buoyed by the spirit of the crowd. A ‘Yid Army’ breaks out loud in my ear as we reach the away corner and the queuing Scousers. The shouts jump back and forth. We taunt them as we pass them by.

‘3 points! We always get 3 points, we always get 3 points, we always get 3 points.’

Inside the stadium and to my seat. The lads in front are here early today and Omar’s come alone.

‘Should be easy enough today,’ I greet them. They all agree and there’s smiles and good moods all about.

‘Didn’t your son enjoy it?’ I ask Omar.

‘Oh no, he loved it. Just couldn’t make it today,’ I’m pleased to hear and nod in confirmation. We are a good club. We do play good football.

As kick off arrives the teams roll out and as is their want these days, the away team has packed out the middle and who’s this running onto the pitch? Tim Cahill, oh yeah, forgot about him. Can’t say I’m a big fan poc-faced Aussie but I do respect his style and ability. Scored goal after goal from midfield last season and wasn’t afraid in the World Cup either. A good player is Tim Cahill. I really don’t want to see him shadow boxing at our corner flag today.

The whistle goes and there’s not exactly what you call ‘attractive football’. Ten, fifteen minutes pass and the game is yet to settle or am I wrong? Has it settled already? Is this as good as it gets? Five minutes more and the Park Lane crowd are getting bored. There’s been very little to sing about, so we sing about ourselves.

‘We’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane Tottenham.’ The answer comes back and back and back again. We’re all Yiddos but the game’s got no better.

And then there’s a moment, two moments in close succession that give a little hope, a little chink of light, a little sign that very soon the balance will tip and we’ll begin to take advantage. It’s gone that way before. It very often does. It’s just a question of making the first breakthrough.

On 25 minutes after a long throw from the left, a flick on by Berbatov and a bit of pinball in the box, the ball looks like it’s heading in. Heading in that is, until Gary Naysmith adds a little touch of his own. Out of nowhere he boots the ball hard straight up and narrowly misses scoring a net buster. Instead the ball pings off the bar and high into the air. We look around. We laugh. I’ve got to see that one on Match Of The Day.

Minutes later we’re laughing again. For some reason Joseph Yobo decides a fairly nothingy ball had to be intercepted and he must have seen a serious danger because he flings himself headlong and upside down in a half executed overheard kick clearance. The contact he makes with the ball is good. The contact he makes with the ground is even better. I can imagine the crunch as I see his leg jar against its hip. He takes a while to walk it off.

Another move and perhaps we’re starting to build. Lee and Lennon work the ball down the wing and towards the box until all I can see is a bundle of bodies an the away crowd excited to bursting. It’s Kevin Kilbane, it’s his second yellow and he’s gone. Surely this is the turn of luck we’ve been waiting for but half time’s approaching and we’re still looking so lackluster it’s not true. There’s no drive, there’s no quality, there’s no nothing.

‘It’s like a bleedin’ circus,’ screeches the Junior Harpy to the rear. She doesn’t always sit behind me but today she’s right in my ears. ‘Come on Berbatov, you cunt, pick your game up. I don’t know, fuckin’ footballers paid thousands of pounds; I could do better.’

The Park Lane faithful sing up. ‘I wish I was over there.’ She says. I wish she was too. I’m even considering paying for her season ticket. Perhaps we could have a whip round our block. I’m sure everyone’d be more than generous on the matter. Omar and I catch each other’s eyes. We shake our heads. We roll our eyes. No words are needed.

Half time and what do you know? I’m not hungry. So, er…no half time bagel. All the same, I go to see Charlie, a Yiddo through and through. We barley even talk about the game. We know the score. We’re not looking good but we were here before last season. No problem.

Back to our seats and the second half begins. We’re even worse than before. What the hell’s going on? The ten men Everton have come out steaming and we’re doing sod all. Cahill, Johnson, Naysmith for God’s sake are playing like men possessed and before we know it we’ve turned the ball into our own net; a fitting goal the way we were going. Some good successive pressure results in a set piece or two for Everton until a corner from Arteta finds Davenport’s touch and 5,000 screaming away fans.

‘10 men! We’ve only got 10 men, we’ve only got 10 men, we’ve only got 10 men!’ It begins. Everton dig in hard. They’re playing better, they’re a goal up, they know they can win and what’s more their fans know it and they don’t stop telling us so.

We come back with the only retort we can, ‘You only sing when you’re winning, sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.’ It doesn’t even touch the sides.

An hour gone and MJ plays his cards. On comes Defoe for Lee and it’s three up front with JJ at right back. Things get worse. Whereas before Everton had the best of the midfield, now they have it entirely. They own it like its land. There are no Tottenham players allowed in the middle of the park. We’re pushing forward without so much as a chance at goal and suddenly Everton are on the break. Osman takes the ball off Davids, it’s out to Neville, who puts in a great cross for Johnson to tap it in perfectly placed between the centre backs and perfectly past Robbo too.
‘Nice goal.’ agree Omar and I. It was. No two ways about it. Well worked and now we’re fairly screwed. MJ plays his last card and Zokora comes on for the tired out Tainio but even he looks like he’s never played before. Things just look worse.

Everton can smell our blood, our panic as Andy Johnson chases back to midfield, challenging Davids man for man and doing a hell of a job. He gets the tackle. The away fans cheer. They’ve taken over our stadium. White Hart Lane is theirs.

‘Da, da, da, da, Andy Johnson, da, da, da, da, Andy Johnson.’ Not the cleverest of songs but at 2-0 on our home turf I doubt they’re too bothered. It’d sound great if I were one of them.

Towards the dieing stages of the game we get the ball to their box we have a few goes but the efforts are comical. Keano misses the ball from 6 yards, Berbatov’s limp free header goes straight to Howard’s hands and our one good shot on target sails smack into Defoe. All this money and not an ounce of skill. It’s like magic. It’s like we’re cursed. It’s like….oh God…and it hits me, like Alec Guinness on the river Kwai, ‘What have I done?’

My lucky pants, my strange breakfast, a different train, a different station, no half time bagel, no half time BAGEL I tell you! It’s been staring me in the face. It’s all my fault. I feel ridiculous taking the responsibility but I can’t ignore it. What else can make us play this badly, this ineptly? It’s luck. It’s all luck. You can have all the players in the world but if your luck’s not in you’ll never win the game.

The whistle blows and Everton are on cloud nine. Good for them. They deserve it and once again we walk out in doubt of our club. Are we good enough? Are we?

As I walk back to the right station passing the Scousers on the way, I know how I’ll deal with this. I’m going to a party tonight. I’m going to get trashed. I mean really trashed. I won’t even know who I am let alone Tottenham or even football. As the drugs start working and shots start flowing I feel myself fading out and I promise, I promise I’ll get revenge. I’m going to Goodison and I’m taking over their stadium.

I consider the final drink before I lapse into nothing. There’s beautiful women everywhere maybe I should stop short. Why waste the night completely? You never know I could get lucky? I gurgle my last laugh, I drink my drink. All is gone.

The Bagel.

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