Beef Bagel

Urrrgh. Cold. Damp. My foot recoils from the floor in horror. Matter has stuck to its arch and I wave it around searching for somewhere to put it. My face screwed up, I perform some sort of ungainly balance as I reach for the wall with my opposite hand for my fingers to crawl their way along. They find what they’re looking for and my eyes shut for a second or two as the spotlights burn brightly into my brain. Still teetering on one leg, I unscrew one lid and upturn my foot to meet its gaze. A strange, green flecked, milky substance drips down my sole in a pattern not unlike the Ganges delta with a chunk of red onion as its Himalayan source.

I look down to the floor beneath, littered with empty pizza boxes, opened envelopes, ignored letters and the offending article lying right beneath my foot. On sodden, soaked off white packing paper, where the sea of chilli meets the great sargasso garlic lakes, lie the tattered remains of shish kofte island. No meat is left but thick mangrove swamps of stringy lettuce and island groups of tomatoes and onions connected by sand bars of discoloured, dissolving pita bread make up this rancid archipelago. The lone vegetable slides from my foot and lands back home with a splash. I withdraw from the scene. My fascination turned to horror at the site, at myself and at the gunk on my foot as I hop away to the bathroom to scrape the evil juice from my skin.

Clean again, well relatively speaking, I survey the damage once more. Boxes half emptied are the furniture of the room, save one television still flickering a silent Sky Sports News and one mattress, where I lay not hours before cuddling my kebab. I’m just grateful I didn’t take it to bed. It wouldn’t be the first badly wrapped kebab I’ve had in there. I stare deep into the shameful remains like a clairvoyant into the tea leaves and piece by piece the night comes back to me. It comes in reverse order. Swaying in the kebab shop, propped up against the counter, the friendly owner hands over my food and gives me a wink as I leave.

‘See you next time, ok boss?’ How did he know? That’s the first time I’d been in there. What did I have written on head? Hungry pisshead? Dirt food connoisseur? Whatever it was, this man knows his market and he knows it well but I hardwire a mental note to stick to chips as my foot twitches in reflex. Deeper I go, deeper, beyond the trudging angrily about the environs of my flat, the grumblings of a drunken loon,

‘Pitiful, fucking pitiful! So many greaseries and all of them closed. It’s only 3.26am!’

Deeper, deeper, the taxi ride home, leaving the bar without a word, the drunken blonde that I chose not to steal from the crook of a friend’s arm.

‘You look really good,’ she whispers in my ear as she nuzzles her head against mine, slurring hot lust in her voice. It feels good. It feels really good but I’m not going to do it to him, not again. I withdraw a little, enjoying the pleasure from her touch as long as I dare before the switch flicks and the unstoppable desire kicks in.

‘Thanks…I….er….I……I like your hair,’ she pulls away to face me.

‘Really, do you?’ she says like this means something to her, ‘people say it make me look like an android.’

An android? Marginally unattractive and piggy but an android?

‘No, it looks really good,’ I lie and the confusion buys me enough space to reach for my coat and make my silent exit.

Back further, deeper and the pickings are slim. The bar is packed with bodies but it’s what’s known in the trade as a sausage party. Any women I meet are either ex’s or wives and both are bad news. The wives take up your time, flirting like there’s no tomorrow, hands all over you, loving the attention and the knowledge that they’re still attractive but enjoying it far too much to let you know you that the road ahead is firmly closed. The ex’s are there to give you the cold shoulder should you even try to engage. They’ll let you know it’s too late or you still don’t stand a chance but only after watching you try for an hour to regain any lost power or stock up for future heart breaks of their own. All must be avoided.

Deeper, deeper and I’m talking to an ex or near ex anyway. The results could be complicated but I’m giving it a go. Everything I say is coming out wrong and she finally walks away with a an offended ‘Yeah, thanks very much.’ She’d told me she hadn’t touched a cigarette in 6 months. I had picked one up and was rubbing it against her body. Somehow she didn’t find it funny. Not sure why? I did.

I break from my trance and a lung filling breath turns into a stretch as I shake off any guilt or regret of my actions. On reflection, a kebab is probably the least messy thing I could have put my foot into.

It’s 11.30am. At least I got some sleep. It could be very different. I could be shivering on the floor of a flat with several other bodies, my thin coat as a duvet or indeed still wired awake, twitching on a sofa, a dirty joint at lips if I’m lucky and a day coming down to look forward to. I’m glad I’m not there. Today I’ve got something much better than all of that and I’m pleased I’m in a place to enjoy it. They call it a derby but it’s only a small one really, a warm up for the real affairs to come. West Ham are coming to play and there’s a little more at stake than usual with last season’s last day defeat still a sting at the back of my mind.

No victory will ever be able to make up for the opportunity missed at Upton Park. Not for a while, anyway. It lay in the balance, so carefully poised, so perfect for a second, so close. We stood at the brink of the future with ourselves on one side and Arsenal on the other. Henry would have gone and others with him. Carrick would have signed and more would have followed. One club rising, the other falling; the sun and the moon at a perfect dawn. But our chance came and we couldn’t reach the hand from the heavens. We scrabbled and ran and climbed as high as we could but all we could do was brush fate’s fingertips against ours for a second and watch as it passed into the distance.

Such a thing this game cannot make up for but we can at least compound their troubles. Languishing in the bottom three, despite the excitement of their impossible signings, we can help make it a season they’ll wish they could forget. Four points for them, home and away cost us our chance. They’ll not be so lucky this time around.

I wash and dress at speed with an errand to run before I’m off to the Lane. Delusions of grandeur and hopes of a sale have lured me down to the Conran Shop, home of the most stylish items one could ever hope to have adorning your space. As I move from one beautiful piece of furniture to another may heart sinks lower and lower. The beds, astronomical, the sofas, unbelievable, the tables ludicrous, the crockery laughable. I move further and further down the food chain as I begin to find my meagre budget. I leave empty handed after another two minutes with only a side plate and a packet of joss sticks in range. Sure my place’d smell good but that plate didn’t look very comfy. Flat pack Bagel, here we come.

I’m back on the tube and heading north to Camden Town, where today’s journey to Spurs begins. The carriage is full of teenaged goths of varying commitment from a simple nose ring to skinny, pony tailed dreamers, who’re convinced their name’s are Neo. A fifteen or so year old girl is dressed in a long black coat, white painted skin, black buffalo boots like giant, rubber stilts, greasy hair, thick glasses, teeth in braces. It’s not a good look. You can bet all photographs of this era will be torn up in three years time. That is, if she gets over it soon. I hope she gets over it soon. I see her in fifteen years time, a quiet company clerk, a lawyer, a banker, unassuming, the only clue left, the glasses and perhaps a piercing in her labia, at whose knock the temper is awoken.

Voices from another end disturb my thoughts. A broad West Yorkshire accent explains to her daughter the complexities of London life with all the subtlety of an American.

‘Over there, that’s East Lundun. The people there are soooo poo-er. That’s why they’re buildin’ the Olympics over there.’

‘Poo-er’ are they? You reckon they’re more ‘poo-er’ than the anyone in Bradford or Darlington or Huddersfield? I pity the ‘poo-er’ bastards who have to live up there.

The doors slide open and the carriage is silenced as a group of ‘lads’ led by one too old to be considered as such, stamp there dominance on the train. Their middle aged alpha talks loud on purpose, intimidating the passengers too young or foreign or those unfamiliar with the football fans that they clearly are. I’m silent too, not that I’ve been talking but I wont look away. That’s what they want. I wont look away but I wont look either. It’s like dealing with dogs but a little less hygienic. They can smell fear and they’ll take any space you afford them and more. Sometimes it doesn’t bother me. Particularly when it’s funny but this is not. It’s just loud and controlling.

‘Oh yeah, squeeze some more sardines on,’ the leader announces. The trains not even full. The others smile and bounce about, all similarly dressed, black jackets and shaved heads and semi-tanned from holidays in Marbella, where the only Spanish uttered was ‘San Miguel.’ They must be West Ham. There’s not a colour on them and they’re looking up at the map of the Victoria Line to work out where they’re going.

‘Oi lads,’ says the leader again, ‘Not bad at the end there with the black t-shirt on.’

They all turn around and a girl at the end of the carriage shrinks into the corner, pretending she hasn’t heard. The doors slide open and I through the group to get off the train and onto the platform, passed a kid in a Tottenham top. To my anger and shame I hear their chants as I walk to the exit,

‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!’

One tube later and I arrive at Camden with about 5 minutes for breakfast before my chariot arrives. It’s pissing it down and I find refuge and tucker in the Healthier Food Cafe. It’s not a bad spot with nice staff and a mighty tasty full english, which unfortunately I have to wolf in a mighty hurry. Jimmy Candles (nee Blaze) joins me in the cafe and helps me with my task before we’re back out in the rain and jumping into the smoothest ride in town, courtesy of my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through.

With half an hour till kick off and dirty traffic all round, we crawl our way to White Hart Lane, the tension rising, the minutes falling. There’s no build up on the radio, just the commentary from another game and the only news we glean is from a text from Toby the Yid,

‘Why isn’t Berbatov playing?’ We’ve no idea.

Our excited hopes of a vengeful drubbing are silenced as kick off draws near and we’re still yet to park. No one likes being late for a game.

‘Fancy a run?’ asks Charlie as he parallel parks on Sherringham Avenue, where else? Hoods up, belts tightend, tickets secured, we start off and I set the pace as I find my rhythm, breakfast threatening a second appearance as I belch away my discomfort. It can’t just be the one bit of exercise I had the previous weekend but I’m feeling comfortable in my stride. I know I can run all the way. I know I wont stop till I reach the ground, until I can see the whites of their shirts.

My hood’s up and all I can hear is the echoes of my own breathe about my ears and the steady beat of my feet against the wet ground as I push irresistibly onward and onward. Nothing can stop me. Across Lansdowne Road and nearly half way. I haven’t looked but I know I’ve lost the others by now. Jim will have stopped for a cigarette, his real oxygen, after twenty paces or so and Charlie…I can’t hear him and I’m not looking back, not wasting time. I feel alone and I feel strong. Round the last corner, gripping the stones of a pebble dash house as I pull my way round and my pace quickens when I see the blue and white girders at the top of the stadium and hear the ghosts of the sounds that comes from within.

Down the home straight, I’m running faster and faster afraid of missing a thing, anything, everything. I weave in and out of the fluorescent policemen, the piles of horse shit left by their steeds. Home and away shirts with long gone names make way as I speed my through passed the dirt food addicts as they queue for their supplements of vitamin filth. Into the turnstile and I’m tearing at my ticket book. Voucher 4 it is but did I just hand over 5 as well? I hear a roar of the crowd and I don’t care anymore. I’ll worry about that another time.

Passed the program vendors, the toilets and the people still at the bar drinking their beer, are they mad? Up the stairs, by the stewards, down the steps, along the row and into my seat at last with just two minutes on the clock. That’s a good run. I greet the crew around me and they smile at the effort they know I’ve just made. We all appreciate dedication to the cause.

As I look to the pitch the first thing I see are the new, white, Spiderman goggles of Edgar Davids offered a start in the midfield. No Zokora or Ghaly but Lennon instead with JJ and Man Mountain Tom Huddlestone to hold it all together. Sure enough, there’s no Berbatov and it’s Mido and the Little Yiddo with our faith in their Lilywhite hearts and their sites set firmly on goal.

Little Aaron’s already terrorising the West Ham defence with temporary ex-Spur Paul Konchesky with a whole afternoon of work ahead of him. Lennon’s put through on a pass from Defoe but with the entire back four snapping at his heals like hounds as he approaches the edge of the box. It’s strange to see the lightening winger straight down the middle with a one on one and perhaps it’s strange for him too but it’s something, of which he is well capable and somewhere we’d all like to see him more often. Under the heavy pressure he takes the shot early and strikes the ball just wide. The day he gets his eye in is the day we rocket up the league.

For the next ten minutes it’s all about Lennon. We feed the ball out to him time and time again. He takes it to the by-line and each time gets closer and closer to the goal before he gives out the cross. On twenty minutes there’s another great chance. Little Aaron’s got as far as the box and he pulls back the perfect ball to the itching feet of Jermain Defoe who can’t receive it fast enough. He strikes with a low, firm, side foot but keeper Rob Green gets a touch to the ball and despite the power of the shot, tips it all the way up and over the bar.

‘England’s Number 1, England’s, England’s Number 1!’ shout the West Ham fans. It’s amazing how so many clubs have it wrong.

But these are precious few moments of excitement in an otherwise most turgid of halves. We’re tight at the back with our fantastic four, as solid as ever with Big Bad Tom putting in another fine performance but our work rate has slackened and this is no more obvious than up the front, where West Ham are allowed to bring the ball all the way to us as we see Mido strolling about in the background. He just doesn’t look interested today.

‘Oi Ferdinand,’ shouts the Junior Harpy as the West Ham defender hobbles about near our touchline, ‘your shorts are all the way up your arse. You could talk out of that mate. Not that I’m looking,’ she adds. She’s actually getting quite funny.

‘God, call this a derby,’ she continues, ‘this is rubbish.’ She’s not wrong either. No one’s up for it. No one’s chasing it and West Ham certainly aren’t putting anything together.

What’s worse is that referee Steve Bennett seems to have taken leave of his senses or his optician anyway or perhaps he’s trying a new way of officiating the game. It’s called reverse refereeing. You simply blow for the same incidents but give them the other way. Corners become goal kicks, the fouler becomes the fouled and hand balls are ignored altogether. It’s not even half time and I’m already on my feet.

‘Use your fucking eyes, Bennett, you tosser. I can see it was a fucking hand ball from fucking over here, you fucking prick!’ Oh yeah, The Bagel likes to let it out too.

After nearly half an hour, West Ham get their one and only chance of the game. Gorilla Marlon Harewood picks up the ball on the wing and with Benoit Who committed high up the pitch, there’s space to exploit and a run on goal. At the edge of our area, by the corner of the box, the cetnre halves are closing him down but with a yard of space and no support and no options he takes the shot, mid height to the far side of the goal. It’s not a bad effort as it goes but Robbo’s there and ready and he makes the diving save and the ball rolls off pitch.

The half runs painfully dull again until minutes from the end when Defoe’s on the ball and charging down the middle at a crowded but back peddling West Ham defence. He’s made some space and he’s looking good but straight from behind with no difficulty this time for Bennett, Javier Mascherano stops the little man’s charge.

Defoe turns around and there’s some very small afters, the likes of which I cannot see at the time but what is clear is that the Argentinean is pretending he’s hurt. It’s actually possible at thirty yards to see the look in his eye as he makes up his mind to try to get our man sent off. He’s grabbing his arm and rolling about as only a Latin would dare. Myself, my friends about me and most of the Tottenham faithful are on our feet and shouting.

‘Fuck you, fuck off, you fucking piece of shit,’ is about as cutting and as clever as we get. The West Ham fans are doing the same.

We want a card and we want a good free kick but the players aren’t ready for that just yet. The boots go in on the prostrate ‘World Class Player’, who’s been useless all game and body adds to body as critical mass is reached like a chemical reaction and the mob forms a life of its own. As the referee and players are buffeted about, I realise I’m going to see my first fight at White Hart Lane. I feel my sense of excitement grow and I’m aware that I want it more than anything else. I’m never been particularly interested when it happens on TV and I’d rather our players weren’t sent off but I want to see fists flying today. I want blood. I want tribal justice.

The shoving stops just short of punches but it’s all been enough for the fans. The whole stadium is on its feet from the Park to the Paxton and our shouts of abuse turn to choruses in union. The derby is alive.

As Steve Bennett beckons Defoe over to receive his yellow card the away fans chime together,

‘You’re just a short Paul Ince, you’re just a short Paul Ince, you’re just a short Paul Ince!’ It’s actually quite funny but we jump in and protect our man with his song at their expense,

‘Jermain Defoe is a Yiddo, Jermain Defoe is a Yiddo!’ and just so they know so, ‘West Ham’s our Feeder Club, West Ham’s our Feeder Club, West Ham’s our Feeder Club, West Ham’s our Feeder Club!’

The game gets going again with a ridiculous 1 minute of added time to play. The officials are fearing a riot. But 1 minute is all we need as some good work from a nothing situation by Edgar Davids on the left gets him to the corner and he passes to Mido, a yard out at the near post with his back to goal and a defender glued up behind him. As the ball rolls in he flicks it round with his right in and in an amazingly deft touch for this man, he swivels round to meet the ball again and fires from the tightest of angles and to our amazement, it bounces home off the far post. One nil in the dying seconds and we’re jumping around for joy. The whistle blows for half time and things are looking considerably rosy.

I go back up to meet Charlie and Jim and there’s very little to discuss that we haven’t already said. We’re all just pleased to be a goal up and there’s not a doubt in our minds that we’ll go on and win this but there is that chance that history may repeat itself. With only a one goal cushion the last thing we want is to fall to a draw after another undeserved Anton Ferdinand header. We chew on our bagels and plan our next games.

‘So we’ve got Milton Keynes on Wednesday, Watford at the weekend, Reading away after that, Leverkusen…what else is on offer? Anyone fancy Blackburn away?’

Back to our seats for the second half and thankfully, the game’s maintained some momentum. The Hammers are silent. They only sing when their winning. Our crowd is buoyant and so is our team. Our play gets better and we fashion chance after chance as the blunt edged Irons can only do their best to soak it up. There’s efforts from Dawson off a corner, Lennon with a cross, Davids with a screamer and even Big Bad Tom as he finds himself with a clear run on goal. You can see he doesn’t really want the responsibility as he takes the shot way early from 30 yards out. He’ll know better for next time. He’ll get us a goal one day.

With twenty minutes to go it’s one Argie on for the other as bulldog Tevez enters the fray.

‘Has he scored yet?’ I ask one of the lads in front.

‘Well, he hasn’t but you may have just put your foot right in it.’ Our laughs are humbled as we baulk at the genuine prospect. There’s a genuine fear of ‘please God, not again,’ as time runs shorter and we start to sit back.

Defoe breaks up the pitch as we search for the second, the finisher but he’s brought down just as before but this time by Paul Konchesky. Steve Bennett signals ‘no foul’ and we’re on our feet and livid. It’s one of the most ridiculous decisions I’ve ever seen and I’m not sure if what came out of my mouth was actually words. There are no letters in this alphabet to write down the primitive howl of incredulity that I beat from my chest as he motioned play on.

Five minutes later and another chance to kill this off as the ball is layed off to Big Bad Tom for his second shot of the game. He strikes true from 20 yards out. As he makes contact so sweet and so strong, for a second the scene is changed. Night is now day. The rain has stopped falling and it’s a sunny day in April three years ago. Jamie Redknapp hits the ball in exactly the same way, from precisely the same spot to grab a goal back against the Arsenal scum.

‘As soon as I hit it I knew it was in,’ he says later in the post match interview, ‘I just hit it so sweet.’

I’m back to the moment and the ball cuts through the air not rotating one bit as it flies. Green makes the dive but it makes no difference because this time the shot is wide. Next time, Tom, next time.

Ghaly and Keano come on for Lennon and Defoe and Omar doubts the wisdom of the move.

‘E’s done a wrong ‘un there. Shouldn’t of taken Defoe off he was doin’ well.’

Keane gets the ball in an advanced position but instead of pushing on and breaking in numbers, he looks for the pass and checks it back.

‘E’s been told to kill it off,’ adds my neighbour, ‘that’s why e’s on.’

And kill it off we do, as the minutes count down with tension but so much more comfortably than last year. We’re not letting go of it this time and we can even afford a moment to smile as Marlon Harewood cops a ball to the nuts.

‘Ooooohhh,’ say myself and one of the lads in front, ‘right in the nuts,’ we chime. ‘Look, look he’s still holding them,’ continues my friend, as he hobbles about cupping his balls his hand. A few minutes later he’s taken off; groin trouble presumably. We worry as we wait to see who they’ve got lined up but it’s Christian Daily with his zimmer frame. We settle down as we wait for the whistle and sure enough it comes. 1-0 it is and the three points we needed. We’re up to thirteenth.

‘Good result today, eh?’ I say later that night as I pass a stranger in a Mansion shirt.

‘What? Oh yeah, we really needed that,’ she adds, ‘we really did. You take care, love.’

I’m walking away from the moment and I’m thinking how wonderful football is, how wonderful Tottenham is. I’m dreaming of another win, a rise up the table, cup runs and a challenge on the big wigs and just as my dreams are reaching their impossible zenith I hear a cry from the lady behind.

‘Yid Army!’ she shouts as an after thought. I turn around slowly, smile and take my hands for my pockets as I reach for the sky and let rip with every bit of larynx I’ve still got left.

‘Yid Army!’

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 24th, 2006 at 2:51 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.