Beef Bagel

7am. Can’t sleep. Still can’t sleep. Can’t get comfortable. Maybe if I try lying on my front for the hundredth time. It’s not working. I’m so fucking tired but my mind’s still racing and just can’t rest. I’ll try turning over again. I’m on my back staring up at the too low ceiling of my flapping grey tent only a foot away. Through the small square mesh sieve of the very top, I can see it starting to get broad out there. It’s grey outside. It’s grey inside and I’ve been in here alone for the last 4 hours with a million billion thoughts firing about my head faster than I can even think about them. I’m tired, no I’m shattered and I desperately want to shut my eyes and rest. My body’s playing ball but my mind’s refusing to stop. It’s on a roll.

Shit. I need to empty my bladder; again. I need some water too. My mouth feels foreign to me. I made a pact with the Devil some hours ago now and I’ve held off as long as I could. One bottle filled with water. One bladder in need of evacuatation. One sacrifice to make. No energy to get up and walk to the sess pit toilets so bright, so far and so very, very soiled. I had tried some form of gymnastics. Pants down round my ankles, my naked body arced out head, torso and abdomin thrust into the cold, cold porch between my tent and the outside world, I tried desperately to find the small gap at the far corner, only an inch or so wide; the only possible place send my urine. Hands out in a sideways press up, body stretched out, I just can’t reach and even if I could, I’d never be able to squeeze a drop like this. I gave in. I made the choice.

It was simple really. Right now what do I need? Do I need to drink water or do I need to pass it. Reluctantly but with relief, I unscrew the lid of the bottle and pour the precious liquid out through the gap that only my hands can reach. I try not to think as I watch the water spread out into pools, lie on the turf long enough for me to wonder what I’ve done and disappear, never to be seen again.

Back inside the warmth of my tent and on all fours, bottle to cock, I manage a small laugh. ‘If only my mother could see me now.’ I let go, praying I don’t spill. I hear the echoes of my urine inside the plastic, the pitter patter as it fills. I feel the pleasure in my gut and the warmth of the bottle. It’s still too dark and I’m judging capacity on the growing weight in my hand. I pinch. I empty. I do it all again. And again. And one more time. I’m done. I collapse back into my sleeping bag and try again. Maybe now I can sleep.

Hours later, the Devil comes to collect. Still no sleep, mouth dry, I have to get up. 8 am. I pull my cold jeans on and grab my warmest clothes. All too bright, all too bleary, I step out into the day a traipse my way into the main site with all the other freaks and lost souls. I don’t look. I can’t bare their faces just now. I wave my wrist at the guard by the gate. I’ve no idea if he was looking. I’ve no idea if he was even there. I stop and stand, surveying the bald dry arena, cans crushed flat under foot, a carpet of wrappers, paper plates and cigarette butts. The beautiful tree lined hills about us look down in horror at the valley below.

I see the stall, the only food one open. I do what I do best and join the queue, hands in pockets; armour against all things not me. I practice the words in my head, ‘Bottle of water please, bottle of water please.’ I get to the front and stare straight through clerk. ‘Bottle of water please,’ I bubble through the gunk in my mouth. Was that really my voice?

The deal is made and I scurry back to my tent, back to my bag and pray at last I can kip. 10 am and no such luck. The festival’s awake starting to swing. I’m still shattered and desperate. I can’t go through the day feeling like this…and then the texts start from the outside world. Friends, who either don’t know or have forgotten where I am, ask what I’m doing for the game. The game! I can’t think about it. I can’t know. I’m coming down very hard and my thoughts on an away trip to Old Trafford are not going to be soothing positive ones. No, block the game. Don’t think. Don’t answer.

Michael Carrick’s going to play against us. He’s going to be great. We’re going to have it rubbed in our faces and we’re finally going to accept that it was the worst thing that could’ve happened. The season’s going shit. No one’s on form. We’re doomed. It’s over… or maybe I’m just coming down? Maybe, I’m just coming down.

What the fuck was in those things? It’s hours later and I’m still trashed. The fly sheet’s making ever changing sheens of colour and pattern out of the daylight peering through the gaps in my tent. I can’t get back on it today if I don’t sleep. Just an hour or two would do it. My stomach’s the size of a hollow pea. I can feel wall touching wall, mucus lining smacking on itself, searching for something to digest. But I can’t eat a thing. The idea of food, of consistency and flavour makes my baulk. I dry wretch.

11 am and there’s a knocking on my tent. ‘You awake, mate?’ croaks Will, my scouser drug buddy.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘haven’t slept a fucking wink.’

‘Thank God, me neither,’ he chuckles, ‘I thought I was going to be the only one who was shattered all day.’ It’s definitely the drugs.

I poke my head out of my tent, face screwed up, one eye open, hair stiff and matted. Will beams down his Corey Feldman smile and we laugh at the state of each other. We may as well be mirrors.

We trudge our way in exhausted silence up the biggest hill there is. Destination, the only clean shitters about. I have no problem wallowing in the filth but Will can’t squeeze a thing unless he comfy. So up we go. The twenty minute walk takes forty as we bimble our way up the slope, passing team Zissou, Steve Irwin and Stingray and a man dressed as the Zoltar machine from ‘Big’. It’s all a little scary.

At the top, I wait gladly on a bench, praying no one tries to talk to me as Will sets up camp in the loo, hands together asking the Father for just one nugget, just one nugget. Double thumbs up as he emerges 20 minutes later; success and a smile on his face. Now let’s try some food.

We queue and queue in a dirty canteen with all the charm of a motorway service station. Bent metal trays full of slimy dark mushroom mush, hour old beans with a skin on top and rubbery, undercooked bacon are the plats du jour. We order what we think we can handle, sit down and wait for our bacon and egg baps to arrive.

The sun shines in through the greenhouse window and we’re caught in the glare. I’m restless and starting to sweat, uncomfortable in the relentless, warm beam. The food arrives ploncked down by a spotty kid, unimpressed at the festival goers taking over his canteen. We are not friendly customers.

I look down at the large dry bap, bacon peaking out, egg bubbled and burned. I’m not sure I can do this. I take a bite and it’s like trying to swallow wet sand. The flavour I can handle but no matter how much I chew I can’t bring myself to actually get the stuff into my belly. The bollus in my mouth gets no smaller and it just gets dryer as my mouth removes all the moisture. I chuck it back in one large effort to get it down, to get some fuel back in my body. I look back at the tiny dent I’ve made on the roll. This is going to take forever.

Thirty minutes later and I’m barely half way through. I put my breakfast down. I wave my flag and admit defeat. This just isn’t working. I go back to the tent.

2pm and I’m back in my bag, texts coming thick and fast. ‘Where are you?’ ‘The game’s on in a couple of hours.’ I turn the phone off. I don’t want to know. My eyes close and finally, finally, I’m asleep.

Dreams of football pass me by. I’m playing on the pitch with Roy Keane. He’s shouting at me. I’m not pulling my weight.

‘But Roy,’ I plead, ‘this is my first professional game.’ He isn’t interested and he continues to point and shout and turn in Skeletor. What the hell’s Skeletor doing on the pitch? Why’s he playing in midfield? Surely he’d make a better winger? Yeah, we need a left wing, maybe Skeletor’s the man but I don’t remember the transfer from Eternia FC? What was the deal? £5m plus £2m based on performance bonuses, opportunities to cackle and take over Castle Greyskull? Oh shit, I’m on the ball. I don’t know what to do. MJ doesn’t look impressed and there’s no one to pass to because Skeletor’s taking them all out. I knew he’d cause a bust up in the dressing room.

Next thing I know my legs are taken away and the ball is long gone. That’s blatantly a foul! I turn round to see the evil grin on Michael Carrick as he runs passed me and towards a quaking Robbo. He shares a wink with that traitor Skeletor. Damn that bag of bones. I sprint after Carrick, my lack of skills forgotten, determination etched on my face. We’re not going to lose this game, we’re not going to lose this game. I’m nearly along side the ex-Spur and we’re almost in the box. I go for the slide and Robbo screams as Carrick kicks the ball. The ball slows in mid air. The scream gets louder, the colours of my dream fade and I’m back in the tent to the sound of a scream and laugh from the camp next door.

I check the time. I turn on my phone. It’s 8 o’clock. The messages have stopped. It only means one thing. No contact, no result. We don’t want to talk about it when we don’t want to think about it.

I get up from my slumber and out on the town. I think we’ve lost but I don’t want to know for sure. I don’t want to ruin my night.

I catch up with Will and he’s already right on it. A girl on his arm and a smile on his face, he’s doing just fine. I feel like shit. Hours later I’m still not feeling the vibe and as I queue yet again for another drink in hopes of getting kick started, I over hear the words I’ve been dreading.

‘United beat Spurs 1-0,’ perfect. Perfect end to a perfect day. It’s 2 o’clock. Nothing good can happen today. I cut my losses. I go to bed. I try not to think about football. I’ll get fucked up tomorrow.

The Bagel.

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