Spurs vs. Fulham - Damage Report
‘Chicken. I ate dirty chicken. I wasn’t even hungry. The lights must have lured me in. I remember growling at the chicken man, stuffing my face, smearing it with grease at the bus stop and waking up in the depot. I muttered like a loon as I stomped my way back home.’
‘And now? Well, I seem to be in one piece, albeit a rather dirty one. My head hurts. No surprise there. I did manage to get my clothes off but it must have been a fair old battle. One trouser leg inside out, shoes estranged in different rooms and…damn it, one sock still on. I’d give myself a 7.5 on the totally bladdered scale.’
‘Social damage? Now, let me see. Tried it on with every girl in the place, carefully avoided all women with beards (otherwise known as men), slightly cracked on to a friend’s ex but think I got away with that and left the scene when I realised that I had begun spitting in people’s faces. That new self eject system I installed seems to have done its job.’
‘Internal damage? Throat feeling ok. Only a few cigarettes ponced. Voice test. Slightly croaky but to be expected. Don’t think full voice at the Lane is going to be possible but that’s the price you pay. Suspicion of hardcore liver damage, moderate to low. Not a single drug taken, despite access all about me. Stomach fine, chest fine, gut…..in need of emptying!’ I run to the loo and in one swift motion, I’m through the door, leaping for the porcelain, twisting in mid air, removing my pants and landing to a hearty and satisfying squit. Bowels emptied. Body check complete.
I step into the shower. Forehead resting on cooling tiles, strong jets of hot water massage my neck and run down my back in fast flowing rivers, removing the sins of the night as they go. Mind cleared, I open my eyes, water flowing over my face and into my mouth, cleaning the last of the sludge from my body. Alive and moving once more, there’s only one word left on my smiling lips, ‘Fulham.’
I roll over the stats and the team sheets as I pull on jeans, trouser leg now inside in, ‘No Bullard, no Routledge, no Lennon, it should make for a good one today and I’m thinking of the win.’
Down the street to the bus stop. Awake once more, my stomach’s starting to twist, unsatisfied with the toast, with which I tried to appease it. I make for the sandwich shop but turn on my heels. Cute girl or no, I’m not falling for that once again. Instead I make for the newsagents; one of three identical shops with identical proprietors, only differing in by how much they choose to rip you off with their cash machines and ‘over a pound’ baked beans. I need basics. One cereal bar and one water to the better, a pound fifty to the worse and I’m back on the road and on the bus to Liverpool Street.
A little too hot from the heater vent, gently breezing warm air up my trouser leg (inside in) and the wall of flesh wedging me into my seat from a bigger than average Caribbean lady, I settle down to finish my book and breakfast. I’m finally about to kill that Mockingbird but the bus ride’s just not long enough and the Tracker bar’s too sweet and the lady’s too loud and my water’s too cold and my head’s just not quite right and I’m just a little sketchy and I don’t quite make it to the end of the book before flashing lights inside the bus and the waiting stare of the driver tell me I’ve overstayed my welcome. Maycomb county will have to wait.
I hurry to the ticket machine, anxious to get back to my before the feeling fades. ‘Six quid? A return to Northumberland Park is really six quid? Bloody hell. I’ve got to get my car back on the road.’ I reach for the notes from the night before. I wince as I find my pocket empty and remember not even having enough to pay a debt well owed not twelve hours ago. I go for my change. Feels chunky, I should have something like six pounds…in Czech koruna. Shit. I hang my head. I know my last resort. I can already feel that my wallet’s not on me and no plastic to overcharge, no bank fines to worry about later. Head unmoving, eyes on an empty Topic wrapper, fate resigned I pat myself down like a weary bouncer. Nada. The only thing on me as if purely for taunt is my pre-pay Oyster that wont even get me through the gate but then… that’s it isn’t it? That’s all I need. Just to get through the gate.
My brain speeds up. I hatch a plan. Two minutes to go to catch the train in time. I walk along the outside of the platforms as casually as I can, each time eying the opportunity. Some are manned and some are not but all gated well and truly shut. I reach the end. I turn around to make a second pass. One minute to go. Too busy, too busy, too busy, go…
I see my chance, platform three, no security, no people, no train, go, go. A quick, furtive look a few steps and a jump and I’m over. The artistic score would be low but full marks for technical merit. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow but I’m over, across the platforms and onto my train.
20 minutes till kick off and a good 15 to finish my book. I sit down on a carriage soon heaving with Spurs. A boy in a Carrick shirt trails his father. ‘Oh come on dad, buy him another, that’s just not fair.’ I turn my head down and lose myself for the last time with Atticus, Jem and Scout. I reach the finale. It’s worth waiting for. My eyes well up the same time as Scout’s on seeing their neighbour for the very first time. He’s saved their lives. I close the book and put it down fast. I remember where I am and suck up my tears. ‘It’s just a problem with my contact lens.’
The train pulls in with 7 minutes to go and without really meaning to, I break into a run. I don’t mind being late today but I’m driven by something else. I just can’t wait to see the game. I can’t wait to be pitch side and right on the action after being so distant, stuck behind that athletics track in Prague. I want to see the skill close up. I want to touch the players and within 15 minutes that’s exactly what I do.
I’ve arrived in time for kick off and been greeted by my friends about me, who laugh as they see my sweat. ‘I’ve got to start exercising again or at least being late on a regular basis.’ The games not old and already we’re on top and what’s moore, we’ve wound up the opposition full back. He’s young and stupid and he’s reacted. He’s ours. Liam Rosenior is taunted by the fans. I’m sure I heard someone call him Leroy or at least take the piss out of his fro. Personally, I like his style but he’s looking way too funky to escape the jeers of the football world. He shouts back. He makes mistakes. We all jeer together.
‘You’re not very good, you’re not very good, you’re not very, you’re not very, you’re not very good,’ to the tune of ‘Knees up Mother Brown’.
With no Lennon we’re looking very narrow but at least we’re looking balanced. There’s no winger either side and awful lot to ask of Chimbondabonda and Benoit Who, both of whom are looking really, really good. Just wait till they got the midfield width to play with too. We’ll being seeing some real wing play then. Mido and Keano are up front and it’s Zokora and Murphy in the middle with JJ and Tainio to their sides. ‘Come on then Danny, show us what you can do,’ and to begin with he does. He’s looking good and if it weren’t for an off pace Mido, a near perfect through ball from our bench warmer would have led to a very good chance indeed.
After a good lot of sustained pressure and multiple corners as well, Keano winds up for a volley in the box on a ball that’s still high in the stratosphere. He strikes the ball full contact and right at goal to the wows of all spectators and only a lucky, well placed leg stops the cheers that the shot deserves. Still nil all. We’re looking good but I worry that that was the time to score. When good pressure goes unrewarded it’s easy for the heads to go down.
But it isn’t the players who have relaxed. It’s the fans. We’re not singing, not even the Park Lane. We’ve decide that there’s nothing to cheer about until we score the goal that we all know is coming. The Lane has gone eerily quiet. Thankfully, the players have not and after little more pressure and efforts from Chimbondabonda crosses and JJ free kicks, Teemu Taino finds himself 15 yards out with a shot on goal. Some accidental skill has fooled the defence and the keeper’s got it all to do…or has he? Because a rush of blood, a mistake, not looking up, looking up, whatever it was, means Tainio scuffs the ball and the golden opportunity rolls harmlessly wide.
Without the encouragement from the Tottenham fans, it’s the players turn for the heads to go down. With half an hour gone, their work has reaped nothing and the team starts to slack off. They feel no urgency and we tell them no different. Like us, they sit and play and wait for the goal to come. It doesn’t and the half time whistle blows. The only points of interest are near misses from corners, a yellow card for Boa Morte (very much silent throughout the game) and for Keano after complaints to the ref about a handball that wasn’t given. He spun around and chopped the air in frustration. He feels it too.
I chat to the lads in front. We talk of Prague and my chest swells along with my head as I mention I was there. ‘That’s right, you can touch me.’ My stomach interrupts me. Tracker bar long gone, it calls for my attention but with no money in my pocket, there’s no half time bagel till to offer it today. ‘Be still my pet.’
Play begins again and I don’t know what Coleman has said but Fulham look stronger than ever. The crowd’s still quiet, the players even more so and Fulham dig in. All day their defence has done the job and they’ve got their point in sight. They don’t intend on letting it go.
Good performances from Zokora, growing by the game, JJ still working hard and top goal scorer for us in case you’ve all forgotten, Murphy’s gone quiet, the defence is good when troubled but the strikers just don’t get the ball and we’re getting nowhere.
Twenty minutes to go and for some reason the panic has set in. Defoe has come on for Tainio but our shape has disappeared. Ball after ball is lumped up to the front for the Fulham defence to soak up. With only an out of sorts Mido to contend with Zat Knight and co. are barely troubled at all. What’s the point of bringing on Defoe if you’re not going to get the ball to his feet?
Ten minutes left and it’s edge of the seat. Davids is on for Murphy. He’s looking good and looking lively but the game has more or less fallen apart. It’s hit and hope now. Free kicks from Benoit Who and Defoe just aren’t the quality we’re after. The pressure builds but it’s carefully removed by some time wasting from Boa Morte. He’s holding his cheek to the whistles from the crowd as he’s walked off the pitch the slowest, longest way he can. Who cares if he’s fractured his cheek. Get off, get off!
Injury time and I’m edging my way to the exit. I’ve scored a lift with my mate Charlie, a yiddo through and through and we’ve got to get back to the car with speed. The play is frantic, chances to the left chances to the right, tension in the crowd, I creep my way backwards until the whistle finally goes and the Fulham fans rejoice. They’ve done their job and done it well.
On the way back home, we discuss, we churn, we muse. But the comment from Charlie is the one that says it all for me. It was a game where one team played well and deserved their point and another played well but really should have done better.
The Bagel.
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