Beef Bagel

6.15pm West Hampstead.

I’ve arranged my day. I’m in north London. I could have been here any day. It was my choice but it makes sense doesn’t it, to organise your time, your movements, your life, around kick off at White Hart Lane? Doesn’t it?

I’m fixing a man’s computer. Technophobic isn’t the word. I had to explain what a mouse is for. He can’t connect to the internet. I’m happy to help but it’s getting late and my patience is wearing thin. My brains are all wracked out.
‘Perhaps if we press ‘escape’ we’ll be free to look at the internet?’

The comedy of the statement is lost on me. I want to tell him to shut up. The error message comes up once more. Page not found.

‘Why don’t we ‘delete’ this page so we can get to Google?’I want to explain it to him. I want him to be quiet. I contemplate the answer but it can’t be done without words like server and ISP. He’ll never get it and time is running short.

6.20pm

Must leave in ten minutes. I’m not going to be late. Not today.

‘Is it going to be ok?’

The computer scan’s half way through. 12,000 files, 73 viruses found.

‘Yeah,’ half an eye on the clock, ‘that’s normal.’

‘Will I still be able to look at those nice videos?’

The man’s 68 years old; loves his porn.

‘Don’t worry I’ll get you some more before I go,’ but Limewire wont connect.

I’m out of ideas. My eyes fall on the router. What the hell, it’s worth a go. I turn it off and on. The progress bars springs in to life. Google waits patiently on the screen. We’re back in business.

6.25pm

The scan’s still running; 15,000 files and going strong.

‘Come on, come on,’ my lips are mouthing the words. ‘Right, I’m going to have to go in a minute. If you click here, you can get to the videos. These are the ones with anal and this is the rimming.’ Any other day it’d be funny. I go to wipe some crust off the screen. I change my mind.

Three clocks chime the half hour. I grab my bag and coat, issuing instructions as I break for the door and his thanks form the backdrop for my thoughts as I fly down the street to the train station and tonight’s awaiting fixture. I saw the lads play on Saturday but I can never judge a player till I’ve seen them from my seat and there’s plenty of faces to get a good look at tonight. What’s the new kit like? What’s our style of play? Who’s going to start? But most importantly, will it be the treat it was last season?

West Hampstead Silverlink, not my part of town. Not even my train line. Unfamiliar types of people crowd the platform, faces I don’t even recognise the like of but through the crowd I spy a shirt. Two kids chatter by the railings, one home and one away, both with oversized Mansion tops. I’m on the right path.

The train pulls in and the herd moves on, myself amongst them; a sea of tuts and luggage, each person squashed up to the next. Hands touching thighs touching bums touching cocks but never an eye meeting. No, that would be be too intimate.

I slide my book through the fleshy canyons and up to my sight only inches from my nose. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. It’s a good read but today I can’t make it through the smallest of paragraphs. Each one begins in the deep south of Maycomb county but drifts quickly away to a Lennon run, a Keano goal, a Robbo double clap and thumbs; England’s No.1.The book goes down. My phone comes up. 6.53pm and the stamp and shuffle of an agitated horse from a woman to my side; skirt and jacket, make up and heels, blonde. Did I touch something delicate? Did she like it?

Just past 7 and the doors open at Islington tube, a station too close for comfort. Mass exodus and my lungs can fill again. I wink to the blonde as I go, well, to the back of her head anyway. I check the clock and double step it up the platform, onto the escalator and down to the Victoria line. Not far now.

The train is waiting like the Spurs Express. No need to sit. No point in reading. All I can think about is the game. God, I hope we look good. I eye up the passengers. 20% shirts, 40% Spurs, 60% drones. The train moves off and I make out the talk above the scream of the tracks.

‘…I don’t think we should play Davids…’

‘…we wont play as well without Carrick…but the money we got…’

‘ …yeah but look at Chelsea…’

Stop by stop the clan is growing. 40% shirts, 70% Spurs, 30% drones. I’m nervous. No, I’m not nervous. I’m scared. What if I don’t love it as much? What if it only means as much as the World Cup did? I hate not caring about football. I jolt from my dream as the train breaks hard, thoughts thrown to the back of my mind. Seven Sisters. The carriage empties but I’m not getting off. I’m going to Northumberland Park. It’s Tottenham Hale for me. Quicker? I doubt it. Lucky? Most definitely. It worked all last season. It’ll work today.

Tottenham Hale and off the tube to the mainline proper, 10 minutes to wait for the train. The platform’s awash with the Yid Army. Burberryed Essex lads; tighter jeans and whiter trainers. Wide boys done good; ageing mullets, dripping in gold. Shirts, caps, black kids, asian men, white fools, bankers, brickies, barbers, girls, boys and babies. I love them all. Dedication speaks for itself.

An express pulls up and we wait as the doors close after a Yiddo at full speed. We all chuckle at his muted protestations. Have a nice time in Harlow, mate.

The real train arrives. Pitch invasion. The empty carriage is crammed. A solitary commuter sits huddled in the corner, shrinking under the protection of her mac and sudoku puzzle.

A ring on her finger, ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she’ll say to her husband and kids as she recounts her tale, guyed by a stiff cup of tea.

Minutes later we spill out onto the concrete and the sudoku lady breathes a sigh of relief. I look at my phone. 7.35pm. I’m early but my legs are in control. Out of the station and over the road, the sea of fans is growing. I reach the Olive Branch, obscured by supporters. New shirts in full force. Home, away, even the 3rd kit looks good today. Perhaps I was wrong. On to the stadium and the fans have taken control. Police, locals and cars all in a tense minoruty. ‘Yid Army’’s break out from point to point and sorry looking vehicles inche thier way through the throng.

Sweet onion smells from dirt burger vans tell me I’m yards from the Lane and I march on past the processed, ketchuped grease munchers. I’ll eat when I get home.Through the turnstyles, passed the loos and to the stairs. I’m almost running now. Two at a time, three at a time, four and I stop…a promise I made to myself. I take it slow. I can hear the crowd and the impossible inaudible tannoy. The sky, the floodlights, the stewards we know so well. One more step. I turn the corner and I’m in. The pitch is beautiful, the sound symphonic. I pause. I breathe. I take it all in. I’m home again. Scared of not caring? Who the fuck was I kidding?

I swagger down to my row and shuffle my way along; each season the faces friendlier, the welcome warmer. Everybody’s ggreeted like a hero. I sit down on my old faithful and chat to my neighbours. Everyone’s good, everyone’s well and everyone’s excited and what have we here? Omar, my left hand man has brought his little son.

‘One of yours?’ I joke.

‘Yeah, it’s his first time.’

I shake the little man by his paw, ‘You’ll never forget it,’ I tell him. He smiles a shy little smile. I hope he doesn’t.

The team come out to the customary cheers and applause as the small Sheffield crowd are drowned. Their upper tier is full but there’s few to be seen in the away stand lower. I would have expected more. A week night, I guess.

The game kicks off with Tainio in for Zokora and Keane in for Defoe. It’s great to see our depth of squad. From minute one we’re on them. They’re under pressure from the first and given no chance to settle. Their team sheet is a smattering of has beens ans half known names amongst a world of who. We delight in letting them know at any substitution.

‘Who?’

We all know the game plan here and so far it’s working a treat. Hit them early and watch them crumble. If they go a goal down, they’ll have to chase the game and if they chase the game they’re going to be wide, wide open.

Tainio’s already doing a fantastic job. He’s taken control of the midfield and you can almost see the legs of the opposition shaking. They know they’re in trouble. Each one looks like the clone of a plumber from Wakefield; broad shoulders, gormless looks, heads like potatoes. They’re doing what they can but they’re outclassed in every position, in every way.

Before they have time to gather any kind of makeshift game plan beyond ‘Don’t let them score,’ it’s all too late. Robbie Keane, already on the same kind of mind bending form as last season, slips a throughy out to Lennon. A trick, a shimmy, a feint and he’s to the by-line and he’s got the cross in. The ball rolls along the grass, a yard out from goal, past three defenders and a keeper to the easiest first goal Berbatov must ever have scored.

We all jump up with that beautiful sound in our ears. White Hart Lane’s in rapturous shouts and all thoughts of Bolton cast from our minds. Berbatov’s first, the season’s first; a sweet, sweet goal. My neighbourhood posse, to my left and in front, form our usual huddle and handshakes. Our new junior Spur is held aloft with a smile on his face. His hair is ruffled by all and our christening is as much for Berbatov as it is for him.

‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo.’

One nil and as Big Daddy used to say, ‘Easy, easy, easy.’

Play begins and the Blades are simply reeling from the shock. They still have no possession and we come at them again and again and ten minutes later it’s two nil. Keane to Berbatov, Berbatov to an onrushing Jenas, who powers his way into the box. One on one with the keeper, he flicks it over to play it again for an open shot into an empty net. Great play, well taken. He needed that.

Once more we’re off our seats and the Lane’s in voice. ‘We love you Tottenham,’ ‘There’s only one Keano,’ you name it, we’re singing it.

Twenty minutes in, two goals to the good and the game feeling like it’s already won, the Tottenham team lift off the pressure and despite some possession by the Blades, it’s simply not possible to get a look in. The rest of the half, no the rest of the game is just all too easy. We look great.

Berbatov, looking even more like Andy Garcia in the flesh, is just the man we’ve been after. He’s tall, he’s strong, he attacks the back post but best of all he’s got skill. He doesn’t just knock the ball on, he controls it on his chest, his thigh, he makes the space with his body, puts the ball just where he wants it and into the path of one of his team mates. He looks like he’s been playing with Keano and Lennon for years.

Benoit A-E is quick, strong and not afraid to take a shot (one of my favourite qualities). In the absence of a left winger, there seems to be an immediate understanding between him and Davenport, as time after time, without the slightest signal or give away, Benoit sprints up the line and Calum knocks one over the top. He’s looking really good.

Davenport himself is starting to impress. Still not as solid as you’d want but his runs forward with the ball are, dare I say it, better than Ledley’s and he’s unlucky not to bag himself a goal as twice 1-2’s pay off for him. I’m thinking he’ll be good at home.

The whistle blows for half time and there’s smiles on all home faces. I go upstairs for my half time bagel and talk European adventures with my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through and his mum, Gillian, long time Tottenhamite and spectator at the ‘66 final. You can’t beat that. Where usually we niggle and complain, there’s silence in our happiness. 2-0, let’s see some more.

Back to our seats and back to the game. Normal service is resumed once again, with perhaps a little more possession for the team from the north but to no avail, of course. We contain them with similar ease to the first half and Robbo is cheered each time by the Park Lane and all his faithful.

It’s impossible to say just how many chances we have. There are sitters for Keano and Lee, near misses of Defoe and Davids and chances for pretty much every player in lily white. Zokora comes on a looks good. Defoe comes on and looks just bursting with goals. You could have counted the Sheffield chances on the hands of a one armed man with a scythe for nail scissors. It could have been many, many, nil.

As time ticks on and we laugh at each chance missed to increase the score, I actually feel sorry for the Sheffield players. It’s humiliating. They want to go home. To add insult to pathos the crowd begin to enjoy a good bit of player baiting. All it takes is a lone voice from the crowd, no wit involved.

‘Oi, Armstrong, you’re a cunt,’ at regular intervals. I’m not sure why it’s so funny, no one is but it had us all in stitches.87 minutes on the clock with the football still flowing, Omar says his goodbyes. He never leaves early but his kid is tired. It’s late after all. Five minutes later and the rest of us are going too, everyone satisfied with the win and the style that we were all hoping to see.

‘See you Saturday,’ is the overwhelming message over back slaps and winks and before long I’m in a car with my Spursfellows, Charlie and Gillian, getting a lift back home. We’re warm, we’re comfy and we’re playing a fantastic game. What are the most ridiculous sounding team names we might draw in the UEFA cup? What a luxury.

In case you were wondering, the winner was ‘Wisla Plock’. Hands up who wants to go to Poland.

The Bagel.

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This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 23rd, 2006 at 5:01 pm and is filed under Match Reports. 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.