Beef Bagel

Away games are always different for The Bagel. This one was doubly so.

At White Hart Lane, The Bagel is man alone. He travels alone. He sits alone. He thinks alone. Oh sure, he knows the people around him; camaraderie long developed and much appreciated but the middle of The Bagel, the centre, the holeiest of holeys remains his own and only when he comes to write these words does he share his inner crumbs. But away days are different and today, accompanied by my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) and the long lost Jimmy Fingers, makes last season’s epic to Wigan look like a short hop across town.

Despite my dreams, my fears and the fact that we’re all dressed up in strips from down the decades, we’ve made it to the concrete communist Stadion Evzena Rosickeho without so much as a dirty look from single Slavia fan. Perhaps they’re saving it up for later. The 19,000 seat statistic belies it’s size. With gaps between the seats and a 400m athletics track around the grass, it’s a bigger ground than most you see at home. Yet it’s dwarfed still by the world’s largest stadium next door. The mighty Strahov made purely of the greyist eastern blok, containing 8 football pitches and seating nearly 250,000 fans. Atop a huge hill, over looking Prague and as stark as life in Soviet Russia, we’re very much aware that we’re not in Kansas any more.

Fans eye each other with cold suspicion as we circle the stadium to find our stand. Dirt burger and donkey dick sausage vans are translated to Gyros kebab vans, grilled cheese huts and bizarrley enough, a full, open, flame grill barbeque. Now, that’s the way to do it. Unintelligible Czech replaces unintelligible mockney but the sports casuals and weight problems remain the same. It’s all so familiar but all so wonderfully Euro. At last UEFA beckons.

The only real difference is a welcome one indeed. Strip clubs of the town, knowing their market and knowing it well present beautiful, tanned and perfume sweet Slavic girls to dance on backs of 4 by 4’s, as stages for the throng of Yiddos. The beats blare and the women dance; nervous smiles on their confident bodies as they realise the power of the mob. There’s no respect here and the very worst of Spurs are in control.

‘Stick your finger, stick you finger, stick your finger up your bum. Stick your finger up your bum!’

It’s base, it’s horrid but I’d like to see it all the same. The club owned, branded limos and minibuses have caught their evenings cash. With rides promised back to town and rides promised in it, all they have to do is sit, wait for the game to finish, while thay spend their fantasy windfalls.

We move on. It’s something not quite right. Something we don’t quite want to be a part of.

Passed the security, through the comedy turnstiles; rusted steel splayed out of shape with enough space for the largest of Czechs to walk by without so much as touching it. I doubt they even turn. To the concrete urinals and the singing’s begun. Never knew 12 men back to back, Pilsner flowing through them would ring such a sonorous chorus.

‘All I want is a team of Robbie Keane, a team of Robbie Keane, a team of Robbie Keane…’ with a smirk on my face I’m back to my mates, the number of Keanos echoing behind me and cross fading to a larger, louder rendition all together, ‘We’re all jumping on a European whore, a European whore, a European whore!’ I can’t say I’m going to be joining them but I can’t say I disapprove either.

Back to Charlie and Jim and we’re all set. The three of us exchange glances. The moment we’ve been waiting for is here. We turn to go. No words are needed. Perfect complicity. Side by side, we walk into the arena. White steps up to grey skies and blue seats replaced by a grey car park tunnel to black skies and a floodlit sports arena with the bright red running track and the green square pitch the only colours in this grey, post communist scene.

Up to our seats we know we wont be using, front and centre behind the goal but miles and miles from the pitch. We’re early. We’re really early but so is everyone else. The team comes out for the warm up, our first sight for the men we’ve come all this way to see and instantly we’re in full voice. Each player is greeted with his song and each time they recognise our efforts and applaud our dedication. It feels good. We know we’re making a difference.

We’ve been through the repertoire at least twice already and kick off’s nearly upon us. Two hundred metres away in a telescopic showdown, the Slavia hardcore or ‘Slavia Hooligans’ as their banner says, light flares and wave threats at their English counterparts standing among us, gritting their teeth and crushing their beers. With no idea what they’re saying from the expansive stadium and lack of fluency of Czech, we decide we have to tell them who we are.

‘We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, Super Tottenham from the Lane.’

Had this stadium a roof, we’d be blowing it off but instead our songs disappear into this acoustic vacuum. This stadium can never have an atmosphere. Just wait till these Slavs get a load of White Hart Lane.

The whistle blows and hundreds of toilet rolls are hurled from their east stand. Is this some comment on our side being shit, do they think they’re in prison or are they just suffering from severe constipation? The game begins and out of everyone in the world, the 3,000 fans, who actually made the trip most probably have the worst view of the game.

The first ten or fifteen minutes and despite not being much of an outfit, Slavia are probably on top. They’re in our half far too much but we don’t seem to care. We’re singing up. We’re just happy to be here. It’s a strange game to watch. It’s more like watching a reserve match or a training drill. The distance, the empty seats and quiet make for an atmosphere severley lacking in pressure and excitement and the Spurs players can feel it. After twenty minutes Tottenham start to settle and the chances begin, all be them a good 150m away from our eyes.

We control possession and control it easily and fouls unfoldfrom Czech frustration. They’re barely as good as a Championship side.

Play becomes distant and just a little boring and the Tottenham fans find alternative entertainment. We’re creating banter with a nearby group of Slavia fans and hello, what do you know? There’s a couple of ladies amongst them.

‘Get your tits out, get your tits out, get your tits out for the lads!’ cultured but effective. She flashes a lovely looking pair to goal like cheers from the 3,000 fans. Her friend follows suit. We cheer again.

‘Does she take it, does she take it, does she take it up the arse?’ Her boyfriend gives a massive thumbs up. Cheers once again. ‘Easy, easy, easy,’ we all reply, as if we’re any more cultured. ‘Tits, tits, tits, tits,’ we order to a drum like beat. There’s noting clever here but the message is simple. ‘Show us again.’ She’s become a performing monkey she knows it. She doesn’t show us again.

We turn to Robbo, ‘England’s No.1, England’s England’s No.1.’ He turns round and goes to show us his tits. It’s funny to think but how could he not have been listening. It must be hard to concentrate when 3,000 fans are chanting for nudity behind him. He’s a man for God’s sake; flesh and blood.

Minutes later and the action on the pitch rightfully draws our attention once again. A surging run from Didier Zokora sets JJ up with a chance. With one under his belt already this season, that was all the invitation he needed. His low, first time drive from the edge of the area finds the corner of the net. 1-0 and we erupt with the real reason we came all this way for. Robbo turns and celebrates with us. We’ve got the away goal. We’re on top and we just know we’re going to win.

We hold till half time and await the next 45, which comes and goes without event. Plenty of good chances, this time in front of our eyes with a poor close range header from Defoe and a one on one for his replacement Keano, being the best of the night. On the whole we’re bored. We don’t expect them to score and if we the ball’s not hitting the Slavia net, then we’re not particularly interested. If the team are treat it as a warm up match, then so will we.

Zokora, however, has a fantastic game, JJ the same, with his box to box ability as strong in the goal as in his double tackling ability. Perhaps man of the match for me. Elsewhere the feeling is lack luster. The Spurs players know they’re far better and allow for a period of complacency, where the home side get all too many set pieces for our liking. As some sort of Czech version of Bolton this is what they do best and we have Robbo to thank for making the score the result to boot.

As the full time arrives to our cheers, we’re told to wait inside the stadium for a further twenty minutes. No one needs to say why, no one even complains. The Spurs players come as close as they can (about 30 metres) and thank us for our support. We’re glad to be appreciated. We’ll be there next time too.

The stadium empties, save ourselves and a remaining few hundred of the Slavia Hooligans. Is it a warning or are they refusing to go? One by one they filter out, their flares fizzle and die. They’ll be time for clashes later. Alone, we’re finally released on the quivering town below.

Outside, the limos are crammed with drunken, horny Spurs ready to complete their sacking of Prague, albeit paid for, like soldiers of a dishonourable army. My friends and I detach. We want to get back to our room and take off our shirts. We’ve had enough of being Spurs abroad. We came for the football. Nothing more.

While Old Town Square and the nearby flesh pots swoon under the weight of the Yid Army, The Bagel and his buddies retreat to our private party. Hours later, no less drunk and no less hungry for a continental kebab, we stagger back to our plush hotel for a refreshing two hour sleep. I’m never booking the early flight again. Our heads are up before they’ve hit the pillow and a bleary hour or two later we’re at the gate and ready for home, eavesdropping on the Tottenham firm.

Our wait seems short as we’re regaled with tails of Birmingham away, Wolves at home and before long we recognise the two attacked on the first night in Prague. They’re broke, they’re beaten, they’re sexually spent and that’s what it’s all about for them. I don’t dislike it, I don’t look down on it but I wonder how this game can bring us all together.

Is it just Tottenham fans? I really hope not. Or worse still, did they start like me? When will football become my only escape from my wife and kids? When will the game change for me?

I arrive back at home, shattered and glad to be myself again. My disgust becomes a memory, the shining light of an away result my reality. Can’t wait for the second leg.

The Bagel.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, September 16th, 2006 at 1:55 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.