Beef Bagel

‘We can watch it on this TV,’ the first words of the day from Jules, as I walk across the mezzanine of the luxury flat we’ve scored for the week in Valencia. I look down at the smile on his face, the enormous Sony Bravia plasma screen and the mess we’ve created in this heaven. Beautiful granite surfaces are hidden by par-used crockery, the brushed suede furniture littered with pistachio shells, the polished marble floor strewn with dirty socks and the dust from a football pitch we found the night before. ‘Oh and guess what,’ he continues, grin broadening, ‘I found the porn.’

I descend the open mahogany staircase, fit for the set of Dynasty, ankle joints cracking themselves awake as I go, calves with a dull ache and a cry of ‘we’re not ready yet’ still sore from our game, where we bravely took on and just about defeated to two twelve year old Valencian kids, barely half our size and mass. We had realised the true nature of the English game as we kicked the ball long, ran as fast as we could and shouldered the feather light four footers off the ball. The kids had more skill in each toe than we had between us but it wasn’t a lot of use against our crunching sliding tackles. ‘Take that Ronaldo, Figo and all you other bastards, who knocked us out the World Cup,’ Spanish, Portuguese, they’re all the same in the end, aren’t they?

‘As nice as it is here, Jules,’ I say on reaching the bottom steps, ‘ I’d rather go and watch in that pub we found. I fancy a bit of atmosphere.’ It’s mostly true but part of my reasoning is a certain promise The Bagel blogged some days before. I am nothing if not a bagel of my word. Only a touch disappointed and actually quite fancying a pint of Guinness when he comes to think about it, my friend agrees and only mildy does he begrudge the prematurity of having to actually get up and get washed and get dressed. Well, get dressed anyway.

Two home made Spanish omelettes, a good freshener of orange juice and some ignoring of the tidying up later and we’re on the narrow streets towards ‘The Sherlock Holmes’.

‘Wait a minute,’ I outrage as the shock hits me a few steps into our journey, ‘It’s wet! It’s raining! I’m actually getting dripped on and it’s becoming chilly! This is not why I came here at all! I was led to believe that the precipitation in this country, remained largely, on the flat expanses of land!’ We stomp on through to our English destination, on this most English of days, to watch our English football. We repeat our drunken anglicized instructions to ourselves from the two nights before as we pass the familiar landmarks. Down Terry Venables street, through Naples & Sicily, through the place of virgins, left at the place de la football, passed dead hooker alley and on to that square where we sat and were teased by the rich, chocolaty fumes of a large hash joint we had envied over our tapas. Sure enough, the carriage lamp fronted, olde worlde piece of Blighty stands at our path’s end, five minutes from kick off. Nice.

We enter the twee establishment. Yards of ale and assorted ancient farming tools adorn the unpainted brick walls along with etchings of turn of the century scenes of shire horses and men in flat caps and braces pulling wagons of ale through the streets. The crooked wooden floorboards are furnished with old tun tables and the bar complete with beer towels. Behind the pumps stands the most incongruous of all the items of decoration, the Valencian barman. He is beaming. He is very pleased to see us. We add to the level of his pub’s authenticity. Immediately, he ignores the one or two ex-pat soaks at the bar, the only customers he has in this otherwise empty inn.

‘Football?’ he nods at us in thick accent and barely hidden excitement.

‘Football,’ we agree. He points over to the full size projector screen like a proud father. It’s hanging smack in the middle of the pub with no tables around it. No tables that is until now.

‘Sit, sit,’ he says as he drags over two dark lacquered chairs and a table front and centre, prime position for his English clientele. We sit down. ‘Drinks,’ he rolls through his smile.

‘Two Guinness please,’ says Jules.

‘Pints?’ says our man, as if it’s a joke between us.

‘Yes, please’ we reply and a stout pour later the beer’s in our hands and the match has begun. I breathe my remembered nerves and anticipation, forgotten from the holiday bubble around me now bursting in the face of an under performing Tottenham and an impressive Liverpool team sheet. Benitez has lined up his best. With Keano and Defoe up front for us, the struggling Danny Murphy in midfield and still no wingers to work with, it’s going to make a pretty tough team to beat. At least he’s showing us respect.

Our team maybe narrow but my fears are allayed straight away by what we seem to have in tenacity. Teemu Tainio’s on the case is already shoulder to shoulder with as many red shirt as he can find. He accidentally, catches Finnan a good one across his face as he wins a heading contest and seconds later is on his back when Sami Hyypia slides in for a take out challenge. No yellow card given

‘Reducer,’ comments Jules, ‘Hyypia’s looking after his team mates. He’s making a statement, showing his intent and putting his fellow Fin off his game at the same time.’ Jules is clever bloke. He’s a part time actuary and a full time pervert. The most intelligent person I know and he shows it in all but his choice of club to support. He’s a Gooner but I tell you, as I reminded him later that day, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’

Liverpool win a corner, thrown into the mixer but it falls back out to a waiting Xabi Alonso he takes a swing and scuffs. All the same the shot looks to be on target and it bobbles its way goalward masked behind a sea of legs. Robbo sees it late and dives for his post. Inches wide it rolls out of play. It didn’t look like our keeper had it covered; a lucky escape on a very soft goal.

The pub door opens in front of us. The bell above rings the shop like entrance of another Englishmen in from the rain. Our landlord hasn’t quite got that one right. Perhaps a tip he mistakenly picked up from the dubbed Spanish reruns of ‘Abierto todos horas.’ That’s ‘Open all hours’ to you and me.

‘Theth, theth, theth, Arkwright! Theth, theth th-thur-th-thur-th-thur Nurse Gladys Emmanuel’s bosom.’

The new arrival orders a glass of coke not a pint, much to our host’s disappointment and parks himself on a stool behind Jules and myself. Twenty minutes in and both teams are looking solid. Liverpool perhaps playing the more attractive football, showing off the fact they’ve got fit wide players to use but we’re putting in a reasonably solid away performance by any team’s standards. A free kick from Danny Murphy, inswinging and well placed is narrowly missed by an unmarked Ledley King. We’ll be unlikely to get it that good again and he knows it.

The punter to our rear is a Liverpool fan, made clear by our perfectly opposite ‘ooo’s’ and ‘ahhh’s’. What isn’t clear is the presence of his Mancunian accent when twice he answers his mobile to uninformed or inconsiderate associates.

‘She always calls during football,’ he whines on his second conversation amongst a few reactions to events on the screen, which are far from the close calls he makes them out to be. A few minutes later there’s a genuine reason to draw breath. Some good work on the edge of the box sees Bellamy with an angled shot, mid height at the far post and only a good save from Robbo full stretch to his left can send the ball passed for a corner. The leather clad idiot behind practically eats his phone as he omits some sort of Lancashire regret. He’s starting to wind me up.

With two or three shots on target to our none, Liverpool begin to assert their dominance. Their possession is far greater and their sorties into our penalty area more frequent than ours; well existent anyway. As the half continues our strikers see less and less of the play, coming deep just to get a touch. The Liverpool back four sit tight and solid and in constant guard of their area. They’re not going to get caught on the break with the ball over the top, which is going to be all we can try if we can’t play it through the midfield. The whistle blows with barely a shot on target for my beloved club and a hell of a lot of expected pressure to try to soak up in the remaining 45.

‘Predictions?’ asks my football loving and wonderfully neutral, no perhaps slightly Spurs biased colleague.

‘One nil to us,’ I boldly claim. ‘A sneaky goal against the run of play from a messy corner. Robbie Keane from a 5 yard tap in.’

‘Nah,’ Jules cogitates as if rolling through the risks and probabilities, ‘one nil the other way.’

Another pint in hand and a pleasant surprise as we’re treated to all the goals from the latest Bundesliga fixtures. No double commercial break and dull, opinionated commentary from the likes of moon head Sam Allardyce and pointless Andy Gray.

‘93% of all tricks attempted, 56% of the time result in goals for the opposition,’ mocks Jules in his Allardyce impression as we share our hated of the man who told Jay-Jay Okocha to play with less flare. ‘72% of Bolton fans are so by birth and had no choice in their being stuck with watching the most dull team to have ever graced the game.

Fully up on all German goals, some crackers amongst them and glasses refreshed by our over friendly publican, the picture switches and we’re on to the second half. It’s as if the game never stopped, like the ball went out of play and Liverpool have just grown a little in confidence, like they’ve realised we’re in trouble and the game’s reached critical mass. All it took was just a tiny increment in upping the play and now we’re under real pressure. Liverpool delve deeper into our territory and the Manc clown’s reactions go further under my skin. Surges forward from Bellamy and Gonzales and I’m sure I can feel his breath on my neck. Every rise from his seat, every clench of his fist, every noise from his rancid gob brings spasm to my muscles and a tightening of my nerves.

Sixty minutes gone and we make a much needed change. It’s a sensible one and one of the only two real options. Edgar Davids, sporting new white rimmed goggles comes on for Murphy, who has yet again failed to impress. No sooner has he touches the grass and the difference is obvious. We’ve ceased to buckle and what’s more, we’re finally on the ball and Edgar’s on the drive. Against the run a of play he’s picked the ball up from our own half and he’s using his power, dreads flying behind him, whipping the players he’s muscled his way passed. He reaches the by line and makes the cross yards out from the goal with only a touch needed in front of an empty net. JJ is charging up the middle of the pitch, Reina and the Liverpool defence are for the first time lost and all at sea. I’m nearly on my feet, my hands reaching for the air. JJ slides. JJ scuffs. JJ misses and the ball goes wide of the post. My hands find my face instead of the sky as if the shame is my own.

No time to rue the miss because the balls back down the other end. A low cross finds Bellamy with an equally golden opportunity and he makes an equally bad mess of it as his effort hits the post but the Welshman’s blushes are saved as the rebound finds the foot of a very grateful Gonzales. He doesn’t make the same mistake. One nil Liverpool and it’s only trouble now. The Manc behind celebrates. I genuinely want to hit him. I ask Jules if I can hit him instead. He does not agree to the arrangement.

A goal up and Liverpool pile on my misery. With not a piece more of an attack or any inspiration whatsoever. The reds put two more passed us. The first is some great play from Freddy Kruger look a like, Dirk Kuyt or Dirk Shite as Jules has been referring to him for the last 75 minutes. One touch from the edge of the area with an awkward non active offside Gerrard to draw Benoit Who from good position, Shite has all the space he needs for a solid volley and the second goal. Liverpool rejoice. Tottenham despair. The twat behind me is getting close to becoming the twatted.

We kick off again and nothing is any better. Liverpool further lifted by the comfortable lead relax and get into their game. They come at us in confidence and although partial suicide, there’s only one option left to Martin Jol. It’s time to go for broke. Time for striker number three. The tired legs of Teemu Tainio make way for the might of Mido.

We push further forward with all the belief of a paedophilic clergyman but it’s our holes that get exploited. Before we know it it’s three nil and thankfully the whistle has gone. I can do nothing but admire John Arne Riise. He strikes the ball from 30 yards out after a surging Liverpool charge. He ignores the players in spaces running along with him and opens up with that left foot of his for an unstoppable in to the far corner of the net. How often does he do that in training for him to be so cool and consistent about it when the pressure’s truly on.

I’m glad the game is over. I’m glad the tosser’s gone. I’m glad I’m a little pissed and I’m glad that Jules and I have a plan up our sleeves; a football plan, which could well ease my pain. Unfortunately, Valencia are up at the Nou Camp this weekend but Villarreal are at home and it’s only an hour away by train. Languishing in 17th with a very poor start to their season, it’s a club I feel I can identify with.

We couldn’t get a ticket from home but we figure we’ll get one on the gate. I was sure in the morning that the game was on the 24th but Jules was adamant that it was a Saturday game. After, no access to the internet, a little argument later, I concede to Jules’ memory.

We get to the train station and reinact some sort of GCSE role play as we try to buy the right tickets and find the right train. A few coins less and some suspicious fishy smelling flakey pastries in hand, we sit down for an hour long train ride. The countryside is less than beautiful as we travel further into south eastern Spain’s industrial heartlands. Every stop we go by gets uglier and uglier, the anticipation of our destination getting darker and darker.

Jules eases the tedium with a tale of other tourist football supporters.

‘So I’m sitting in a pub in Southampton right by the stadium. I wouldn’t have gone in there at 1pm on a Saturday but I knew the Saints were away from home, so I had the place to myself. So, a group of four forty something Americans, clad in typically Yankee tourist gear come in huffing and puffing and looking for St.Mary’s. “Where’s the Saint Mary’s soccer stadium,” they drawl in a tone that must have been designed to get on my tits.

“Well, it’s over there,” answers the barman, “but there’s not a lot of point in going there today.”

“Why not?” they reply.

“Well, they’re playing away at Middlesbrough today.”

“But the tickets say ‘Middlesbrough at Southampton’,” they protest.

“No mate,” says the barman, “that’s Middlesbrough vs. Southampton.”

“Oh no,” they say and it’s at this point that I can help laughing bubbles into my pint, “how far is it to Middlesbrough?”

And I can no longer resist, “It’s about 300 miles, if you leave now, you might just make it.’

The train pulls up between the two platforms of this one horse town. We hit the streets, following the mental map my friend has made from a computer screen viewed two months ago when we planned this trip. I haven’t a clue but my companion’s brilliance is confirmed when we pick up the signs for the Stadio El Madrigal. The yellow coloured club flags hang from windows on the streets as if to greet our small parade.

It’s two hours till kick off and as we pass a BP station I catch sight of a toilet I’ve been needing since we boarded the train. My stomach bubbles and I make a note that Guinness does not mix well with Spanish prawn and bread baked goods. The toilet’s predictably locked and I approach a nice looking Spanish girl in BP uniform with a feeling I’m going to have to buy some petrol first. She speaks no English but she’s fluent in human pain.

‘Los banos?’ I blurt and with a pitiful look and hasty hands she gives me the keys and no trouble at all. I fumble with the lock as the cramps increase, my pain grows and my brow sweats. I’m inside. I’m down. I’m empty.

As a rare treat, I’ll spare you the details but just this once. Suffice to say by the time I left, it wasn’t too pretty in there. I hand the attendant back the keys with a half smile and apologetic shrug and hope it isn’t her that has to do the cleaning.

Calm and relieved I return to Jules and we reach the blue and yellow painted stadium. It looks like quite a nice ground. With two hours to kill, the box office and club shop are not open and we find a cantina right next to the stand. We approach the frosted doors.

‘Whatever it’s like in there, whatever we find, we don’t pause at the door way.’ I make my friend promise, ‘We just go in and sit down and get on with it.’

The doors open. It’s red neck heaven. Tight black jeans and greasy mullets all round, a metal bar more like a surgical kitchen without the level of hygiene and tables dirty from a party that was… well…was. No one is seeing to its clear up.

There are redeeming feature to this place, however. Firstly the beer is cheap. Admittedly, it’s the only beer on offer but it is very good value. And secondly, the barmaid, although not a stunner, has a cracking arse. We happily while away the minutes slowly getting pissed and watching her work. There’s plenty of bending over to do and we imagine ourselves as the fabric of the taught blue jeans, faded over the buttocks where they must be taking tremendous wear.

Every half hour we go out onto the street. We check the box office. We check the club shop.

6.30 and nothing. 7pm nothing still and not even a fan to be seen? 7.15pm still closed and it’s at 7.30 when we really can’t understand why this place hasn’t been over run with the equivalent of the Park Lane massive. We go outside again and ask a security guard.

‘Er…er…football today?’

‘No, no, domingo.’ he replies.

‘Manana?’ we check.

‘Si, manana.’

I turn to Jules. ‘You bastard. You utter bastard. I fucking knew it was tomorrow. We came all the way out to this shit pit and sat in that nothing bar, great bum aside and on the wrong bloody day! It’s you. It’s your bad karma from taking the piss out of those Americans in Southampton. You’ve karmacally fucked me.’

It’s a long slow walk back to the train, which arrives mercifully soon after we reach the station. One hour later and we’re back in Valencia and in an internet cafe, the same one in which I sit now as a matter of fact. My mood plummets as a much wanted e-mail has still not arrived. The reality dawns that it’s probably not going to and I trudge back home to end this horrible day as quickly as I can.

‘Fuck this,’ I announce as we step through the door, ‘I’m going to bed.’

There is now an opening in The Bagel’s mind for the position of ‘most intelligent person I know’. Those who do not know what a calender is need not apply.

The Bagel

This entry was posted on Sunday, September 24th, 2006 at 5:54 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.