Beef Bagel

‘What’s the URL of your blog again?’

‘Um,’ my brain is rattling through the many, many posts The Bagel’s written since it all began. There’s too many, there’s too much. I buy myself a little time, ‘I sent it to you already.’ Did I? I think I did but I’m hoping I didn’t. It’s not so much the bagel news and the transfers, it’s the reports that have got my mind racing, the match day mornings, the nights before, the darker side of The Bagel. What have I said? What am I going to say? What will I say in tonight’s report? How can I not start here? I have to start here. The Bagel never lies but The Bagel likes this one. She’s interesting, she’s attractive but she already knows his secret. She knows the Clark Kent to his Superman and perhaps soon his kryptonite too. It’s a double edged sword. I want her to read it, I want her to know but how will she react to the darker elements, the attitude, the lust, the ladies, the kebabs and the dangerous obsession with a certain football team? I take a breath. I relax. Know The Bagel, know his beef.

We kiss goodbye, a rare treat despite the hours we’ve just spent together. She gives me what I need to keep me interested, to keep me thinking, perhaps to keep me dangling but I don’t care. I take it all the same, I take it willingly, just as I don’t care how close I bring the blade to that thread as I type it now. It must be told and it must be written.

The door closes and my concern for myself with it. I know why I write. I love Tottenham, I know I do but you can love your club without all this. I know why I write because I’m trying to tell the story of a football fan. What we have in common is as important as what we don’t and how we feel for 90 minutes each week is as much a reflection of how we feel outside it. Life imitates football, the drama, the passion, the highs and the lows. Each person, each player has a story to tell and what I write, what you read is as relevant as every pass made, every goal scored.

I’m late. I’m definitely late. It’s 2 o’clock when I thought it was 12 and I’ve no time for any plans made except my journey to Milton Keynes, my date with my friends and the Spurs. The world is a blur without my contact lenses, tossed away with my concerns. I walk past shapes of people. I wonder if I know them, if they know me. I sit on the tube on my way to the Bakery with barely a detail of who sits opposite. I could be blanking someone. They could be blanking me, so I pick up a newspaper, one of thousands of pages littered about my feet and wait for the time when I can actually focus on the words in front of me. I make up the stories as the ink swims before my eyes.

‘Pope gives birth to triplets. Benedict XVI last night shocked one and all as he went into labour in the St.Peter’s infirmary. Vatican sources describe the shock as the Bishop of Rome lifted his gown to reveal breasts and female genitalia as she squeezed not one but three new borns into God’s own world. A spokesman from the papalcy is due to hold a press conference later today when it is expected to be named a miracle but the Holy Father turned Holy Mother is doubtless to find him/herself up to their neck in Holy Shit with a world of explaining to do.’

I pull the pages close to my eyes to see what the real scoops are but the words make even less sense as they resolve into view. I don’t recognise any of them. Where are the vowels? I turn to the front to discover I’m reading ‘The Polish Times.’ I put the paper down and hope I’m not about to be quizzed in a language I don’t understand. The train fills up with bodies and I relinquish my seat for what I understand to be an old woman or at least an old person or at least a person. God forbid I should be offering a large suitcase a more comfortable ride to its destination. The suitcase thanks me and I assume I’ve done well or that last night’s host has put something unwanted in my morning cup of tea. I opt for the former.

I’m back at the Bakery, glasses on and in front of the mirror surveying the mess, with which I’ve been amusing commuters for the last hour or so. My clothes are ruffled and half slept in. One collar in, one collar out and may matted brown hair protruding from my head at the opposite angles. I even it out as best I can and with no time for a shower add a jumper to my apparel in order to smother the smell. I’ll need that tonight. Winter’s nearly here again and it’s going to be cold out on the terraces and wet I think as I grab a thicker coat in the knowledge of the roofless stand that awaits all the Spurs fans at the League 2 ground. With a piece of half buttered, half burnt toast from my mouth, I type the daily bagel and blow at the crumbs that fall to the keyboard, seeking the cracks between the letters. The odd one gets though and I stare for a second between the ‘B’ and the ‘N’ as I wonder how many words will be affected by the matter that’s just made it through. But this is a PC. It’ll be broken, obsolete or riddled with reams of malicious code long before typing becomes an issue.

I turn myself around as quick as I can with enough time to text The Dave before I disappear once more beneath streets of London town.

‘I’m going to be late. Probably 4.30 or 5.’

I figure I should let him know. There’s probably better things to do in Milton Keynes than wait for me at the station. Then again, there probably isn’t. I search all the way to Euston for a free newspaper I can acutally read and amazingly there isn’t a page in site. A comment from Toby the Yid has let me know of West Ham’s loss but I want to know, to make sure. What else happened in last night’s fixtures? Who may we face if we make it through this round? Desperate for knowledge, I’ll even read the loathed London Lite bargaining with myself that at least I’ll bin it when I’m done.

No time for a thing as I emerge from the escalator and look at the board to read two minutes till the next train. I run for the platform and for my ticket and I can’t help but utter, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ all too loud as an old man fumbles with his wallet at the window and starts asking complicated questions the young clerk can’t quite answer.

The kid behind the window starts pulling out a timetable with folds and extras like an ordinance survey map. The paper obscures his body with just a tuft of his black hair poking up high enough above the pages and is all that the partially deaf pensioner has to communicate with. It doesn’t make for a speedy transaction and I abandon the cause in favour of a now vacant touch screen machine to the rear when the clock ticks over another minute. I tap furiously at the screen as if its speed of response will be quickened at the pressure with which I prod it. It presents me with a bill for a single to the tune of twenty pounds and for a split second my outrage competes with my urgency but a small voice in side whispers the word ‘Spurs’ and the battle is over in a flash. The army of incredulity crumbles to dust with just a single shot fired and no casualties lost. The machine crunches and churns with my hand at the ready to grab the hot little ticket the minute it’s dropped into the world. I hear a conductor’s whistle blasts and I look over to my train as yet still on the platform, waiting for The Bagel before it dares move. At least that’s what I’m hoping. As soon as a single piece of the red and cream card crowns from the machine, I tug it from the workings and wave it at a person at the barriers as I leap for the train.

I jump through the doors as they beep and close behind me and into a world quieter and calmer than my own. The carriage is silent except for the ruffling of pages as after work novels are indulged and the murmurs of businessman, heads back, eyes closed, dreaming of a shorter commute or in some cases a longer one. I squeeze myself into a corner seat shut by blockades of overcoats and brief cases, as if the silent ‘my space’ attitudes aren’t enough of a deterrent. I don’t care for their middle class tuts as I make my way through. This journey’s too long to be standing.

I call The Dave to let him know I’ll be there and wide awake after my dozing day I search for something of interest. The pinstriped gentleman to my right is reading the wrong part of a paper, affording glimpses of the sport but shortly, he’s wise and folding it in two. The paper is for him and him only. Fair enough really. I turn to the man opposite. He’s asleep but on his lap lies his paper and a pencil. I eye it up for a minute or two. What would he say? What would I care? An announcement comes over the tannoy. He doesn’t stir a bit and so, much to the lady next to him’s amusement, I gently remove the London Paper from his warm, safe lap.

I read articles about Tom Huddlestone and his chance and sure enough on Alan Pardew and his troubles. The owner of my reading wakes for a second and looks me in the eye. I stare right back and turn the page. He doesn’t register the cool of his legs with the paper in my hand and is back to his dreams in a second. Done with the print, I’m on to the crossword but it’s just not the same without…hmm…without….a pencil! I pause for a second. Am I taking the piss? Yes, I am. I reach once more for the man in front and remove any respect remaining as the lady to his left lets out a giggle and smile.

20 minutes later, the journey nearly up and nearing the end of the puzzle when our arrival announcement comes in louder on the airwaves. I see my unwitting donor appear to come to life and I shove his possessions back on his lap before he’s fully round again. The pencil’s ok but the paper is folded crossword out with my writing as clear as day. I chuckle to myself as he tucks it into his satchel. I wonder if he’ll work it our later.

Off the train and waiting outside the exit, there’s already a few Spurs on display. A tramp of a man in an excellent 3-piece tweed suit stands next to me. His shoulder length thick, wiry hair and matching full untrimmed beard and moustache seem completely at odds with his clothes, as does the Spurs cap on his head. An odd bloke but I like the look of him.

The Dave picks me up in his car. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my old university housemate and I can’t help but be reminded of the days when actually getting dressed or contemplating anything but what’s on next seemed like scaling the north face of the Eiger. He takes me to a pub close to the stadium, somewhere we’ll be able to catch up before the focus of the game. The Dave’s a Forrest fan and the only man I know to hate Ron Atkinson more than Marcel Desailly must. I watched him season after season as Forrest slipped from league to league. He used to rant and rave but it got to the point where he’d just wave the back of his hand and light up another cigarette. Apparently only extreme lung damage can compare with relegation.

We arrive in the purpose built aircraft hanger of a pub, whose name I don’t think I ever caught, over the roars of the Tottenham fans, who had the same idea. We sit down and hold our catch up conversation as best we can between lessons in the Spurs songs as given by what appear to be mostly the Park Lane faithful. The pub fills and fills until the police arrive in all too small numbers. There are two of them amongst the sea of fans. I’m not quite sure what they’re hoping to achieve.

Fifteen minutes later and a tall familiar man enters the bar and joins our numbers. As directed by The Dave, my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, makes up our gang and after the exchanging of pleasantries we make our way to the National Hockey Stadium, home of the MK Dons and all of their club history, all two years of it to be precise. As we leave the nameless boozer, we meet the real police presence outside, several vans, horses, squad cars and bobbies on the beat are waiting patiently to guide the mob through town. They have done their homework.

Round the sides of the stands and into the easiest stadium I’ve ever had to get into and we find our seats right behind the left post of the goal. Well, we find two of the seats. One of them doesn’t seem to exist and the YTS Steward can’t quite work it our either. We take an extra one all the same and attempt to look hard if anyone approaches with a ticket in their hand. It doesn’t really work when surrounded by gangs of red-faced toothless nutters and we try for luck instead.

The teams run out onto the pitch and despite MJ’s comments of fielding a strong side, we’re second stringing hard, the hallmarks being tireless keeper Radek Cerny (still waiting for his chance), Ziegler at left back, Stalteri at right and baby face Gardner at the back along side good ole Calum. Ghaly, Davids, Murphy and Man Mountain Tom Huddlestone make up the midfield with Mido and Defoe up front. The Dons naturally consist of pure ‘who’ as led out by mascot Mooey the Cow in front of their hardcore in the opposite stand, The Cowshed, to complete this new teams, new town identity.

The whistle blows and the MK Dons are as quick off the mark as we our with our taunts.

‘It’s a girl’s hockey ground, it’s a girl’s hockey ground, it’s a girl’s hockey ground, it’s a girl’s hockey ground’ we join in, courtesy of a voice from behind but in this strange open, roof, open sided stadium, with the north stand all but missing, the sound disappears into the night and we very quickly recognise that a hot bed atmosphere is going to be impossible.

The Dons are coming at us and their line up wants for no subtlety as their two big man strikers aim to punch a hole in through the middle of our defence, through their very bodies if necessary and to be fair they’re doing a pretty good job. Some good use of the ball as passed around outside our area probes for ways in until a ball chipped in becomes the end of most moves. All the same our defence is working hard to clear the danger each time but clear it they do.

‘AFC Wimbledon, AFC Wimbledon, AFC Wimbledon, AFC Wimbledon!’ we try again in efforts to boost our team along with the obligatory ‘We’re the Park Lane’, ‘We’re the Shelfside’ and ‘We’re the Paxton’. Does anyone ever shout ‘We’re the West Stand’?

The singing dies down as it starts to feel largely pointless and with the Tottenham team in their less stylish 3rd kit and as yet to get going, I’m beginning to feel embarrassed that I brought my old friend to watch this dead rubber. But slowly and surely after fifteen or so minutes our boys pick up the ball and we begin to turn the screw. No one can really see much of the play all the way at the other end but it’s clear that we’re getting close as Big Bad Tom begins to distribute the ball and we oooooh and aaahhh all the same when our strikers make contact. To my joy and half expectation as I thought about it that morning we start up a song for Huddlestone and I think you’ll agree it has a familiar ring to it.

‘Oh Tommy, Tommy…Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Hudd-le-stone!’

Davids is working the ball like an old pro with Huddlestone the beginning of just about every move. Neither Murphy or Ghaly are looking that sharp and the back five are essentially adequate with the likes of Reto Zielgler slightly less adequate than the likes of Tony Gardner, who is marshalling the defence pretty well. However, it’s the strikers, although distant, who are looking like the Premiership players. They move with a speed and efficiency that’s just too much for a League 2 defence. They possess an instinct of action. They do not have to think as they slide balls through, run into positions and take their shots. They know where to go every time and it buys even Mido a yard or two off every defender. You can see the panic and the indecision in the MK legs and despite all their work this kind of pressure can only lead one way and that’s the way it goes after half an hour when Mido tucks in a goal off a low, long cross from Ziegler. He’s up way before the Dons defenders and with a touch that he makes look easy, it finds the net at speed with no chance at all for the keeper. It’s 1-0 and we start to sing again.

‘We only sing when we’re winning, sing when we’re winning, we only sing when we’re winning!’ we use to mock ourselves gently and to my pleasure I can see this tickles The Dave. With the game up and running, what it may lack in healthy competition we make up for in a good old sing song.

We amuse ourselves with more songs usually reserved for the opposition ‘Our support is, our support is, our support is fucking shit, our support is fucking shit!’ and ‘Can you sing a song for us, can you sing a song for us?’ Now this game is properly fun and very different from any kind of normal football support, so much so that we nearly miss the second goal when it comes just before half time. Some assumed great play from Mido leads to a pass to Defoe and all we can see from the other end is the net bulge as he hits near the roof. Our cheers go up and we chant his song although the comedian from behind and soon our gang are attempting to change the words.

‘Jermain Defoe, cannibal, Jermain Defoe, cannibal!’

With the game safely in our hands, the whistle blows for half time and we look forward to seeing the action down this end for a change.

No bagels. No roof. Instead we’re entertained by Mooey as he does his pratt fall over, running into the goalpost as if he hasn’t seen it.

‘That’s the first thing they learn at mascot school, isn’t it?’ comments Tha Dave and with no luck in the half time lottery we were mugs enough to get involved in and no possible legendary player to grace the field, we realise that Mooey is the best we’re going to get or so we think. For while The Dave and I are chatting of weddings, property and all sorts of things far too grown up, Charlie is transfixed by the site of the half time exercises of the Tottenham bench warmers, Robbie Keane, Aaron Lennon and Clive Allen. It’s the best football there’s been all game.

The second half begins with the substitution of Davenport for Dawson and very shortly after, goal number three. The Little Yiddo is put through by a ball down the middle from the Man Mountain. With a touch that’s just far too easy, Defoe slides it in for his second of the night.

‘Jermain Defoe, cannibal, Jermain Defoe cannibal!’

The game kicks off again and The Dons are beginning to wish it was over. None more so than their keeper, who can, not only do nothing about the goals but is also only a metre or two away from the mocking Spurs fans.

‘Keeper gives us a wave, keeper, keeper give us a wave!’ we sing having to go for a whole minute without a goal and then shortly followed by boooo’s as he doesn’t respond. But we don’t have to wait long for further entertainment as some great silky interplay between Defoe and Murphy, who has uncharacteristically decided to play for both halves, ends with Defoe on his hat-trick shot with only a one on one to hurdle. Unfortunately, what is a truly Premiership move is ruined as the shot is blocked only to be put in second time lucky by the big man, Mido. Two strikers, two goals each and more singing and taunting for us and the Spurs.

‘Keeper, what’s the score, keeper, keeper, what’s the score…………booooooooooooo.’

Defoe squanders his third goal once more in the very next minute and with the keeper proving no fun we move on to their left back, Dean Lewington or as he is known to the crowd, Mick Hucknall…

…can you guess why?

‘Hucknall, what’s the score, Hucknall, Hucknall, what’s the score?’

‘One Micky Hucknall, there’s only one Micky Hucknall, one Micky Hucknall, there’s only one Micky Hucknall!’

And obviously, we’re all in stitches. As it goes he’s playing a blinder. He’s big and he’s tenacious and he’s playing out of his skin but a cheer goes up after 70 minutes when Big Bad Tom is taken off, presumably in preparation for Saturday’s game and Little Aaron comes on to be marked by, you guessed it, Mick Hucknall.

‘Micky, you’re fucked, Micky, Micky, you’re fucked’ is slowly changed to ‘Lennon’s gonna getcha, Lennon’s gonna getcha,’ as play begins and you can just make out a smile on Aaron’s lips as he hears the call of the fans. After what seems like an age he finally gets the ball and we cheer his every moment on it like a keeper about to take a kick. The sound gets louder as he gathers more and more speed.

‘Woooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh,’ he’s past Lewington and most of the Dons defence as they panic and try to stop the little man, ‘wwoooooooooooaaahhhhhhh…..ohhhhhhh!’ as he’s finally relieved of the ball just in front of goal. To his credit, this is the only time Dean Lewington really gets done by Lennon. Firstly, we lose shape altogether as soon as Huddlestone’s off the pitch and secondly the Don’s defender is canny enough to work Aaron out, well as much as you can.

‘He’s got the idea now,’ says The Dave as he figures the same, ‘just don’t let him get going.’ Lennon’s acceleration isn’t that much better than anyone else’s, it’s his top speed that’s insane.

With our side just mucking around now and no real structure to our play, our hosts get the majority of the possession and really look like scoring at some point in the last ten minutes. After all our taunts, it’d only be fair. However, very few of their shots are anywhere near on target and the only one that isn’t well stopped is an excellent effort that hits the post. Even Lewington himself has a number of digs but all that happens is the rout is complete when Robbie Keane, subbed on for the last two minutes, is put through via a ball over the top that really should have been cleared by the last man. It was the easiest Keano will ever score, apart from that one on Shay Given, so much so that he doesn’t even bother doing the somersault. His first goal of the season and I hope the opening of the floodgates.

Just before the final whistle, there’s enough time for the stadium relay to announce that the MK Dons man of the match is….Dean Lewington. We all cheer.

‘Hucknall, at The Lane, we want Hucknall at the Lane,’ sing the crowd and at 21 years old, who knows maybe we will see him at The Lane another time soon. Good luck Mick.

We leave the ground in seconds flat after a most satisfying of drubbings with enough time to go for a curry by the station as well booked by The Dave. After some excellent food, including a huge nan and the ever popular After Eight mints we part our ways as The Dave heads of north into the night and Charlie and I south on the train.

The train back was so damn slow that the tube had closed by the time I got there. That’s right Charlie, you did well to get off at Watford. What is more astounding to me though is that the news has made it home before me. Sitting on the bus on my way back to the Bakery, my eyes pop out of my head as I spy the report of the game I’ve just been to on the back of yet another man’s paper, this time unfortunately awake. I consider just grabbing it from his hands but it looks like he’s already done the crossword.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 27th, 2006 at 10:55 am 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.