Beef Bagel

‘Customers should be aware that the last shirt printed will be at 5.00pm.’

It’s already 5.15. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and already looked round the whole store twice, maybe more. My meanderings have ceased to have any purpose. I’m not even looking at the clothes or the accessories, the array of mouse mats, bed linen, notebooks, baby bibs, beakers, bar mitzvah cards, pint glasses, dvd’s and videos of the glory, glory days, iPod covers, dog coats, playing cards, key rings, wallets, and a collection of sovereign rings that even Del Boy would be embarrassed to wear. I’m not even changing aisles any more. I’m just pacing up and down trying to see how slow I can walk. I look up as I realise I’m pigeon stepping like a kid in a playground.

‘Anyone for Hopscotch?’ I ask as I look up and realise I’m being watched. Not sure they get it but then it’s fifteen minutes to closing time and the adolescent staff of the Tottenham Hotspur Superstore want to go home. They do not want anyone to get between them and their Playstation games, their reality TV, their 2 hours on their Pay As You Go’s with hyper phonic real live ring tones that actually require the Berlin Philharmonic to assemble in your front room every time you get a text.

‘Sorry ladies and gentlemen we have to suspend this evening’s performance of Mahler because Stacey Lucas is getting a call from Aisha and she just has to know whether Tom Meredith fingered that new girl at the party on Saturday night. I’m sure you appreciate the importance of the matter.’ There are understanding nods as 9,000 leave their seats at the Albert Hall.

I’m being unfair. They seem nice enough but then no one turned the radio down as the announcement was made that Cesc Fibreglass signed to Arsenal for another 6 years. In the Spurs Shop! Not seconds from my turnstile, my seat and they have the cheek to let that filth dirty the Tottenham speakers! If the Cockerel on the West Stand were actually alive and not cast of pure solid gold, of which I have no doubt, it would crow it’s anger upon them all. Bill Nicholson would turn in his grave. I seem to be the only one flinching, blocking my ears and covering myself in a hasty, makeshift shelter of vintage shirts and match day programs. I’m rubbing the garments against my face and neck, their ointment soothing my skin.

‘I’m in a happy place, I’m in a happy place.’

Another same, same R&B track starts up. Panic over, I’m safe again. I look around, daggers of accusation leaping my from eyes. No one bats an eyelid. I want the manager. I want someone fired. I want…ooohhhhhh a Spurs statistics book. I leaf through the pages and pages of columns and digits; number of goals scored by Scandinavian Tottenham players during Ramadan of leap years ending in 4, attendances at reserve games when Stefan Freund has featured, it’s a treasure trove of pure bagelism. So much so, that I jump a little when my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, appears at my shoulder.

‘Sorry it’s taken me so long, I’ve had to come all the way from Rickmansworth.’

I take it in for a second before I tell him the boredom I’ve just experienced. No, his plight was far worse. He wins. A cross town rush hour journey is no picnic when you’re late to meet a friend and there’s kick off away against Besiktas in less than an hour’s time.

There’s no time to chat. We’ve got some shopping to do. There’s a bet that Charlie won and it’s time to collect. The bet was who could best predict the Premiership ‘05-’06 standings from the beginning of that season.. It was between Charlie, Jimmy Blaze (nay Fingers) and myself, The roll with the hole. It had been looking good at Christmas as it so often does but like Charlton I had disappeared into mid table anonymity by the Easter weekend. Charlie walked away with it. It was embarrassing really but I’ll get him this year.

The prize, as agreed, to be collected today, is the complete Spurs strip with socks, shorts and shirt printed with last season’s best player. There were a few contenders but we had decided upon Keano.

I had wanted to pick a shirt for Charlie myself, knowing that he wouldn’t arrive in time to get it printed. I’m glad I didn’t. Large, I was thinking but this idea was soon rubbished when he made an XL look like a crop top. Charlie’s not fat, far from it. He’s tall. He’s… very tall. When he plays 5 a-side he refers to himself as The White Ledley but more recently it’s switched.

‘Who’s playing against at the back tonight?’

‘Well, Dawson’s over his concussion and he’s playing alongside The Black Charlie.’

It turns out it’s double XL we’re looking for when we he emerges from the tent that is the 5 times super size, with camping stove, scrott rot and a knapsack on his back. Whaddya know, none left.

‘Scuse me mate,’ we find one of the less spotty and bored staff kids, in his Puma sponsored tracksuit but looking like that’s what he’d wear anyway, ‘have you got this in a 2XL?’

‘No,’ he drawls. There’s a pause as we all stare at each other waiting amazed that no one is taking the turn to speak. ‘None left,’ he says breaking the moment and clarifying his point.

‘Are you getting anymore in?’ we suggest with the encouragement of mystery shopper trying to help out an unknowing employee that’s about to get fired.

‘No.’

We break it down for him like it‘s foreign language, ‘Ok, how do we go about getting one?’

‘No, see Puma give us a new strip every year and then they change to a different one and then we don’t sell the old one any more.’ I’m loving the lesson in economics and marketing but we’re a little confused. We change strips every year. Everyone does. That’s how it works. The question is why are you not getting any more when there’s still three quarters of the season to go?

Baffled, we’re about to take the point up with this Alan Sugar standing before us but the words fail us as we realise the confusion that will almost certainly ensue.

‘We’ll, err, try online,’ we say as Charlie and I agree on that, which does not have to be said.

‘It’s not us, it’s Puma. They’ve just decided to change shirts every…’

‘…every season, yeah, we’ve got that now. Thanks for you help,’ I add sarcastically. Poor kid. He was trying to help, I suppose but then where was he when the radio needed to be turned down!

We turn to the shorts and it’s a pleasure to see the rows and rows of fine quality navy blue emblazoned with the beautiful sleek Spurs crest. A pair selected, we move on to the socks but my big footed friend can only find a size big enough in the keepers’ colours. We made the journey for the full strip, we approach the counter with one pair of blue shorts. Sorry mate. We’ll sort you online.

As we approach the till there stands the classic choice. On the left, a pleasant, efficient looking man in his twenties. On the right, a little hottie. Charlie pauses for a second between the two, pretending he’s not bothered and not to look like a pervert. I recall twenty minutes ago seeing her at her post, a collection of new Tottenham advent calendars in front of her. I feign interest as I turn one over in my hands, as if there’s any detail that needs checking. Yep a bunch of doors and some chocolate, I think that’s pretty much it. What am I pretending to expect, Chirpy leaping out behind door number 5? A washer dryer? A speed boat and trailer? I’m eyeing her up over the blue cardboard. She hasn’t suspected a thing. She can’t be older than 20 and clearly no one’s tried the old advent calendar manoeuvre as yet. Why on earth not?

‘How much is this?’ I ask weighing it up in my hand, no intension of making the purchase.

‘Two pounds fifty,’ she replies returning my smile as she nibbles coquettishly on the fingernails of her hand half covered by the cuff of the over sized training top she has to wear. It is the least flattering of sports casuals but somehow it’s working for her.

‘Not bad,’ I say, like some expert on Christmas novelties, ‘bit early for me though.’ Yeah baby, I’m even too cool for Christmas. She laughs but that’s enough for me. Just flexing my muscles. Oh yeah, I’ve still got it.

Charlie, of course, makes the right choice, as if he wasn’t going to?

‘Hello,’ she says as she looks at me. We smile. Hello yourself.

Charlie puts his shorts down and I feel faintly ridiculous when I get out my card to pay for his Spurs souvenirs like a parent treating his enthusiastic son. The scene is even sillier as Charlie is more than half a foot taller than me.

Purchase made, one third of the debt repaid, a little wave to my check out girl and having previously dropped in on the ticket office to check my reservations of the MK Dons (I shall be going to the ball), we’re ready to go with 25 minutes on the clock to get back to the New Bakery for kick off.

We search the radio for the build but all we hear are the backslappings from Blackburn’s earlier victory over Wisla Krakow, as if we care, and a story on the continuing saga of Muslim women’s veils. It’s pure nazism to tell people they can’t wear them but it’s foolish to think that you’re not going to receive as warm a response from someone when you don’t even allow them to see the expression on your face. Tell me I’m wrong.

In lue of any worthy reportage we make our own pre-match chat and within minutes we’re fizzing with the giddy half controllable hysteria that only a football fan can feel. On the one hand you’re a grown man but you can’t stop the kid inside telling you that it’s Christmas Day tomorrow. What will be inside when we unwrap our gift?

‘The front two select themselves. Mido’s injured and the Little Yiddo took a knock on Tuesday.’ I’m trying hard not to quote myself but I only finished the daily bagel a few hours ago. We’ve both been reading the same articles as we talk of the Spurs players’ Besiktas tales. We wish we were going but I console myself in the knowledge that this time it was just not possible. I’ll be there in Leverkusen.

The radio starts talking a language we understand as the team sheet is announced and our ears listen out for the expected names.

‘…Murphy, Huddlestone, Jenas, Ghaly…’

‘Ghaly?’ we chime.

‘But they left him at home injured?’ I protest.

‘They must mean Zokora,’ reassures my friend and we pay no heed to the misinformation.

With the whistle about to go where still not back at mine and I’ve no idea about parking in this new part of town. The blasted A10 has held us up but there’s only 6 minutes on the clock as we make it through the door and dive for the television.

The sound kicks in with the roar of the Besiktas support, the like of which I have never heard before. It’s louder on TV than I’ve experienced in a few stadiums and it simply doesn’t stop. The picture comes to life and sure enough Ghaly’s on the ball. Both Charlie and I are stunned but there’s little time to discuss as the shock that we’re on top trumps any other issue. This is Turkey, the ferocious home of football. Our lads are in the lion’s den and we’re passing it around better than we have all season, away or at home. The midfield’s in a tight diamond with the wings only guarded but not exploited by Ghaly and Murphy and so far they’ve got the play in check but still with a threat to get forward as Murphy does so with a lay off from Ghaly to a left footed strike from outside the area. There’s not enough power to trouble the keeper and surprised he chose his left. There was plenty of time. He’s not left footed, is he? The shot rebounds and Berbatov’s there to tap it home but our celebrations are short lived when it’s called offside.

JJ’s running box to box but content to keep it short and he’s not charging right onto goal, despite the superb display from Tom Huddlestone to his rear. The Man Mountain is there to sit in front of the back four and keep it tight on this tricky fixture but he’s comfortable, so comfortable at close quarters with these Turkish players. He moves the ball and makes the space, his huge back like an immovable boulder the opposition cannot scale. Two or three try to close him down but to no avail and he’s afforded better and better passing options as the game goes on. Not tethered to the back third of the pitch he can take the play further on and the whole team push up after the initial twenty minutes, relaxed that we’re in control.

The attacks that were just deep crosses from our advancing full backs have become meaningful play through the middle of the park, short passes all the way and suddenly our strikers are getting everything they asked for, balls to feet time and time again. The attacking force start to work together, you can see the training ground coming into practice as Murphy leaves a ball to run through for Keano but he’s just the wrong side of the defender to take the advantage; offside again.

Charlie and I are still stunned but with half an hour on the clock I realise I have to get the pizza in before it’s too late. I try a new number off the thinnest of menus, the only object to arrive in the New Bakery before I did. The phone rings and is answered by a voice I can understand; a good start already. I’m making the order and half concentrating on the game, guessing his questions so I can switch off for as much of the process as possible.

‘Which pizzas would you like?’ Robinson’s on the ball.

‘Red Planet Special and a Mega Meat, please’ he clears high and away.

‘Special and a Mega Meat, which size?’ Dimitar brings it down, magnificent control.

‘Both medium, please.’ he lays it off for the onrushing Ghaly.

‘Deep pan or thin crust?’ Ghaly’s steaming towards the keeper just ahead of the last defender.

‘Er…thin…er…crust…’ Ghaly takes the shot and it hit’s the goalie.

‘Did you say thin crust?’ the ball rebounds and it’s, it’s, it’s heading for the net and…

‘YEEEEESSSSSSSSS, er…ahh….yes, I mean, yes thin crust. Sorry there’s just been a goal in the football.’

‘Ahh, who is your team?’

‘Tottenham,’ I reply, pride in my heart.

‘Ahhh, my team won last night, Chelsea.’ I’m not about to tell him he’s scum, after all he’s about to make my pizza and he congratulates me none the less; a good sport but I’m barely listening as Charlie is shouting and I’m shaking my fists in celebration. A goal up in a fixture we considered a right off.

The pizza sorted, I put down the phone and at last I can share my delight with my friend. With fifteen minutes to play until half time, Besiktas have upped the tempo a little but we’re still holding strong. Their fans are still stomping and each new and unfamiliar chant sounding like the thousands of Zulus at Rorke’s Drift. We can’t even hear a single English voice and we’re the one’s who’ve just scored.

Besiktas have made some ground and won themselves a free kick, well with in range of our goal. Yilmaz is on the ball, one of the players you might expect to have a little skill from this kind of range and he doesn’t let us down. It’s not the most carefully place shot but it’s hard and true and although Robbo gives it way enough to palm it over the bar, for some reason the ball goes high and straight leaving a scramble for our keeper to punch away for the second time. He’s certainly silencing his critics at home. Perhaps that was part of his plan.

The Turkish advantage is only brief and very soon there’s another attempt from our new found player as Berbatov puts Murphy through with an excellently disguised ball, completely fooling the defender. A good left footed shot to the only place he can go for is just tipped away from a likely goal by the nails of the goalkeeper’s fingers.

Half time comes and not to soon when Besiktas’ best chance of the evening goes begging as Nobre makes it by Benoit Who, who to be fair should have done a little better. Nobre skies the ball over the bar from an acute angle but you can see his frustration as he throws his hands from the top of his head. He knows he should have done better.

The whistle blows and Charlie and I are still in shock as we ignore the words of the pundits and host. No half time bagels here but perhaps I could make it to The Bagel House at Stoke Newington next time. It’s one to consider. I wonder if they’ll deliver, seeing as it’s The Bagel and all?

I treat my friend to a cup of tea with floaty bits, the only drink this flat is equipped to serve just now but Charlie doesn’t complain all the same, despite having to watch the game from my make shift sofa, an old mattress and cushions. The set up has something of heroine chic about it, well a heroine den anyway.

The pizza arrives right on time, shortly followed by Jimmy Blaze and his ignorance of the state of play.

‘What’s the score?’ he asks with the fever of an addict kept from his precious fix.

‘One nil.’ I smile.

‘To us?’ his face lighting up.

‘Yep.’

‘Yessss! Who scored,’ and we fill in our friend on the course of the game with as many details as we can remember.

The second half kicks off and the Besiktas fans are still going strong. In fact, they’re probably even louder than before and their players can feel it too as for a short period they seem to be challenging for the ascendance but although the singing lasts, the play does not and after ten minutes we’re back on top again and our strikers are getting comfy too.

Berbatov and Keane are interchanging perfectly and the former is growing in confidence minute by minute. He’s getting much the better of the Turkish defender and he’s muscling his way around to seemingly impossible balls, each time finding himself free in the box and presented with an excellent passing chance or a shot on goal.

Just after 60 minutes he has all the space he needs when he takes it passed the last defender as he fakes the strike. We’re on our feet as he’s one on one with a sprawling keeper and a chance you want your strikers to put away. Time stands still as he makes his move and goes to shape it round the goalie, who throws every inch he has at the predicted trajectory but the shot’s a ruse and now our man has all the space he needs to pass it into the net as a helpless defender can only follow it in on a slide and become tangled like a flapping fish. We’re screaming with joy at this sweet goal and sweeter score line. Berbatov jogs to the corner waggling his finger, confident that this kind of thing is normal when he’s back on form but it’s new to the rest and they smother the new boy, eyes wide and he broadens his grin as he sees his talent through their eyes. Two nil and we’ve got to be home and dry. But the Besiktas fans don’t seem to care. They’re still going strong and if the travelling Spurs are singing with joy, we still can’t hear a peep.

Almost immediately after kick off there’s a chance to kill it stone dead when Berbatov again gets the better of his man and after a beat and a shimmy chips it up to Keano waiting on the penalty spot, who volleys into the ground, which beats the keeper but not the bar. Robbie looks to Dimitar and gestures down to the ground with his hands and an almost pleading expression.

‘Why didn’t you give it to my feet,’ it says but when you know him better like The Bagel does, you can read a little more. ‘I’m a great player,’ he says, ‘I can be so, so good when I’m on form. I can do things people have never even thought of but I need my luck and to get that, I need my goals. Last season I could have hit that with my eyelashes and blinked it in but right now just make it easy for me, just until I get a few in the net. Just watch me fly when I do.’

You will Robbie. Don’t worry. You will.

After 72 minutes Mercimek, the defender with the torrid time is beaten yet again but super smooth Dimitar. It could have been three as the Turk clearly fouls our man in the box but no penalty is given.

Lennon comes on with 8 minutes left and very shortly he’s on the wing with a full back between him and the area.

‘This guy has no idea what’s about to happen,’ I laugh with glee as I point at the poor Turk, 5 metres from the ball. He fakes a move of commitment to make the winger run but that’s far to much space to leave for Little Aaron. The full back is left staring at the spot where the pace man was as the dust swirls about his eyes but Aaron is long gone and metres away over his shoulders. We laugh with delight.

Berbatov is brought off and switched for the Little Yiddo, who nearly scores with his first touch. Benoit Who brings the ball right into the area and yards from the goal and puts it across for Defoe to tap it in. He doesn’t even make contact but in the replay we see that he would have been offside if he did. Did he know? Is that why he didn’t try?
The game goes on and sub follows sub on both sides as our valiant Spurs run down the clock and right on time the whistle blows and we really are on cloud nine. The Besiktas fans are still singing up and even applaud our side as they leave the field. Not a single racist incident all night and not a moment of violence reported. I applaud those fans in return and wish them every success in both their league and even this cup.

With the game up, the evening’s on a high and it’s only 8pm. There’s a gig to go and it’s the Raconteurs, who gain the pleasure of our Tottenham company. Jack White, the genius of our time, plays like a man who sold his soul. The devil must have tuned his guitar. Perhaps if MJ and the boys wait at a certain crossroads at midnight, in a certain part of the southern states, maybe the Devil will show and maybe he’ll tie their laces. Maybe he already has.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 21st, 2006 at 5:06 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.