Beef Bagel

I’m wide awake and my bladder’s full. I’ve no idea what the time it is. It’s light but then, it was light when I went to bed and when I say ‘bed’, I mean sofa. It was light when I went to sofa. Of course when I claimed the spot some x hours earlier, presumably not that many hours earlier because my eyelids are still stinging, it was more than just a mere settee. It was four poster, cream upholstered, 6 by 6, slice of slumber heaven with an individually pocket sprung mattress. It was the last refuge in the house and I had to fight for every inch of it. I look down at the floor a few feet away to where my defeated competitors lie with the few cushions I spared them as small protection between themselves and a hard wooden floor. The couple lie asleep. I think they’re asleep but then maybe they haven’t given up the fight just yet. Maybe it’s only been an hour or two. Maybe there’s more sleeping to be done and if I get up to relieve my bladder, maybe they’ll be awoken by my movement, my splashings into the bowl and maybe they’ll try to take my place on the sofa under article 38a paragraph c of the House Party Code, otherwise known as ‘The Law of the Jungle’.

It’s debatable ground. When does one’s place in a bed become cemented? I search my further knowledge of the Code for a qualifying article, a precedent. There is none. I take another peek at the couple and begin to creep my way to the loo. I remove last night’s feather down, 15 tog duvet that now appears to be made of an old fireman’s jacket and a rough, slightly damp, blue towel. At the bathroom door I check a glance back. Still they sleep or appear to and I take the leap of faith as I unbutton my fly and begin to relax my body but I’ll the time listening out for any sound at all, at the ready to stop mid flow and make a dive for my bed whether I’ve had a chance to put my tackle back or not. I try to avoid cathing sight of myself in the mirror. I know what to expect. I’ve seen the sight before and it’s not very pretty. In fact, it’s often followed by a wave of guilt. What am I doing to my body. I don’t need that right now. I feel bad enough.

Bladder empty, toilet flushed I dart back into the sitting room and swiftly back to the sofa. Mission accomplished and my rivals none the wiser. I still can’t sleep though. It wasn’t the need of a piss keeping me awake. In fact, I could have probably caught a few zzz’s without to much bother apart from a slight fear of weeing over my sisters furniture. Although I’m exhausted, I know I wont sleep. I’m caught somewhere between the end of a drunken coma, the seedlings of a hangover headache and the frayed nerves on the other side of a night’s cocaine abuse. Cocaine abuse? It makes it sound as if it’s the cocaine that’s getting abused and after spending the last ten hours battering the white rocks into pieces and crushing them down to dust before sharing it around with my friends, it’s easy to forget who was abusing who. I’m not disgusted with myself and I don’t feel all that bad but there’ll be no more sleep on this sofa that’s a good foot short of my fully stretched body.

Time passes, perhaps twenty minutes, half an hour, I want to know the answer but I’m too tired to move again and my mobile phone is completely out of juice. I remember it bleeping its incessant warnings at my ears a few hours ago, using the last of its precious battery in a display of flashing lights and vibrations desinged to let me know there was only enough power left to perform that task and perhaps half a frustrated phone call.

I hear movement about the house; footsteps around the kitchen creaking the loose fitting lacquered wood floor. Each grind and squeak sets my spine on edge like nails down a blackboard. They stop and for a second a new, equally painful sound is produced but the tinny janglings of water in hollow metal turn to a harmony of the sweetest music as I realise it’s the kettle as it’s being filled. Superb. The best man pokes his head around the door.

‘Alright, I’m only saying this once,’ comes a tentative voice behind eyes as pink as mine feel, ‘who wants tea?’

Two arms jump up from the lifeless corpses on the floor as their bodies remain firmly face down. I nod my head and Johnny disappears. A minute later with warm mug in hand, Sky Sports New is on and we’re on my favourite subject, the one I can talk about forever, football. Slowly our fellow stags join us as the sounds of goals and the cheering crowds draw them in like ants to honey and when I realise it’s only two hours until kick off, I start the murmurings for breakfast. Like wildfire the rumour spreads and before long we’re getting ourselves together as if it’s some kind of two month expedition. The men are dragging themselves to their feet, locating shoes, socks and coats as each item is secured to their persons. I feel woefully inadequately dressed in the face of whatever waits in the outside world. Two t-shirts and a grey linen jacket are all that protect me from the elements with not even a pair of sunglasses to hide the secrets behind my broken red eyes.

We march on down the hill like a hoard of the living dead, groaning at the cold against our bodies and the noises and colours of the day all too bright and real for us. We can barely work out how to cross the road. We can hear the growl of the cars and see their flashes as they zoom past. We can smell the sickly diesel smoke but somehow none of this information seems to relate to me and where I am and what I can do with all these stimuli. It’s hard enough concentrating on the mechanics of walking.

‘Left up, right up, left up, right,’ says the one brain cell in my head. Waiting on the curb, confused by the traffic, I’m listening for a specific sequence of events with the intensity of a safe cracker. No sound, no moving colours…run! I leap out onto the road only half trusting the moment to cross. There is no impact, there is no pain and like the chicken I’ve made it to the other side.

We arrive in the heart of Clapham, the crowds parting before us and passing out behind us in the invisible cloud of lethal stench that follows us about. Noses blocked and crusted we’ve no idea of the hum we give out, which is lucky for me as more often than not, I break step just a little to drop another evil addition to our poisonous vapour

At 2pm and with a crowd of 10 of us we’re finding space in a breakfasting establishment as hard to come by as left winger and after all too much effort (probably 2 refusals when I come to think about it) we opt for a pizza and pasta start to the day. No one cares any more. We just want feeding.

I go to take off my coat but as I get it to my elbows I think twice. I look around like Sarah Connor at the playground fence, the happy smiling children running about, the loving parents all oblivious to the hideous chemical massacre my armpits my are about to wreak upon this family restaurant to forever be known as Judgement Day. I smother my pong once more and wolf down the spicy sausage pasta when it finally arrives at the table. All conversation has been irrelevant. I’ve been pretending to talk to my friends but somehow I can’t process any of the information they’re giving me. I understand each word on it’s own but their greater meaning escapes me. I nod, I smile, I give up trying and occasionally I add a nice general comment such as,

‘Yeah, well it can get like that sometimes’ or ‘Hmmm, I suppose so.’

By the end of the meal I’m feeling slightly more human and I say my goodbyes before making my way to the Latchmere pub, an old local haunt and excellent place to watch the sport. The only problem is that today when I meet Hurricane Mitch to watch said sport, they’re playing the wrong one. We’re about to order our drinks in this oddly empty pub when the travesty dawns on us. The players on those screens are doing something funny. It looks like they’re all having a fight apart from half of them who are just standing in a line watching. The stanchions on the goal posts look rather tall and white and I’m sure no team has a green strip and oh no….it’s rugby! They’re chasing the egg! Yuck! Retreat! Retreat. We back out of the pub before I can even work out what sort of fixture this is that has been deemed more important than Blackburn vs. Tottenham. What kind of fool has made this grave error? Small wonder the pub is empty. I hope it serves the landlord right.

Mitch and I shiver our way back towards Clapham Junction to a Yates pub with as many screens as chavs. It’s not ideal but at 4.05pm already, it’s the game that counts. As we arrive we’re pleasantly surprised by the sparse and friendly seeming clientele but a little dumb struck by our choices of drink. I don’t want a drink. Niether does Mitch. We hadn’t really considered that. The last thing I need is yet another cold fizzy substance burning away at my stomach lining. I must be close to an ulcer as it is. Mitch is having the same dilemma and I follow his lead on a orange juice and lemonade. It’s only half fizzy and a lot easier to order than that cup of tea that I really want. Somehow I can’t face the inevitable sigh from the barmaid when she realises the drink is going to take more than shoving a glass under a tap and pressing go.

We find a table near a quieter screen, next to the empty pool table and near by a quiet black gentlemen reading his newspaper with a pot of tea. Damn it, I knew I should have ordered tea. He’s quietly enjoying the game, whilst sipping his warm brew. I turn around to see if I’m going to be enjoying this game myself. First I notice the score, 0-0. Check. The time, 5 minutes on the clock. Check. The next thing I see is the filthy brown kit and the flying dreds of Edgar Davids with his non-matching white goggles. I don’t suppose he’s had an away pair made up.

The game seems fairly settled already and even enough, if a little in the favour of the home team but then that’s to be expected. To my surprise it’s Mido and Defoe up front and indeed Zokora and Huddlestone in the middle with Ghaly on the right. It’s a solid line up with not much scope for wing play, particularly with the added bonus of a left footer playing at right full back.

Mitch wants to chat but I’m finding myself paying half attention to him as I hold the screen’s gaze 180 degrees from his through the course of our conversation and very soon I’m wishing I wasn’t watching at all. The home sides forwards combine to split our defence down the middle as David Bentley puts a ball through for the danger man Benni McCarthy to run onto. The South African beats Dawson for pace and skill and puts the ball home past Robinson. 1-0 or not as it goes. The flag’s up for offside and we’ve a lucky escape. The move was good and looked easy for them. No nerves in front of goal either but offside it was and considerably so.

The game continues and we answer with a little pressure of our own. Dawson narrowly misses a Benoit Who corner and shortly after, Edgar Davids drives wide from 25 yards out. There’s no width in the midfield all right but Huddlestone’s getting a great deal of forward play and Davids is playing like a champion again. He wants his place back in the starting line up and he’s making a good case. There is that passion when he’s on the ball. He’s hard to stop when he’s on the run and perhaps he’s an important ingredient that we’ve been missing, particularly away from home.

‘Who’s that?’ asks Mitch as twice, Big Bad Tom picks up the ball from the midfield and makes good runs to the edge of the box but it’s the same story and the same one we had last season. We’re still missing that final ball. Carrick was always too far back to provide that defence splitting pass and Danny Murphy hasn’t worked out for us in that department either. With Malbranque on the bench I wonder how far he’ll go to solving for us this problem.

Mido has a dig from distance and the slices the shot embarrassingly wide. If the goal were twice the size he still would have missed.

‘He’s not very good with his feet,’ I throw in for his defence. He’ll certainly never score from out side the box.

‘Rather important if you’re footballer,’ adds Mitch a little facetiously. I’m not finding it funny just now. I want to see us win and although we’re getting plenty of time on the ball, it’s Blackburn who look the far slicker unit.

The ball comes in a second time from a Blackburn corner kick and after a bobble about the box, it’s cleared away high and long from the head of Ledley King but as the ball comes down outside the area it finds Tugay below shaping up to meet its path. He strikes the ball with fine technique and all but myself clap the goal as he buries the ball in the corner of the net past the outstretched England’s No.1. Tugay rushes about the pitch, as you would if you scored a wonder goal. The replay shows a Tottenham fan behind the netting placing his head in his hands in slow motion as the ball spins away beyond every Tottenham hope. That picture speaks for us all.

Conceding a wonder goal is the most frustrating thing. You’re gutted your team are down but there’s no one to blame. There’s nothing that could have been done better to stop it. No defence would have done any good but you still can’t enjoy the goal either. It doesn’t matter how great it is, you can never appreciate the skill without an incredibly jaundiced view. So while everyone in the pub ooooos and aaaahhhhs, I sit there with my arms folded looking simply unimpressed waiting for the replays to end, the game to restart and for the Spurs to silence the Blackburn crowd.

The game kicks off again and both teams try just as hard as before to be the next to hit the net. Mido tries to harry the play and picks up yellow card for his trouble and perhaps unjustly so as Henchoz is lucky to draw the foul. The Blackburn players begin to wind the big Egyptian up as they take the lead from their crowd, who’ve taken a disliking to our man. They tussle with him blindside of the ref for the rest of the half. They pull his shirt, they hold his arm and God knows what sweet nothings they whisper in his ear but thankfully, today he’s bigger than that and eventually the crowd stop booing him too.

There are chances for Lee and Defoe but Skeletor, Brad Friedel is up to them both. The ball is flicked on by Mido into the Blackburn penalty area, where players are up like seals to get their noses first to the ball but little Jermain Defoe waits on the edge and his chance arrives as Henchoz can only get enough power on the ball to see it a few metres clear. The Little Yiddo takes a side swipe volley and goes to almost lob it over Friedel a metre off his line. But the shot is just too high and Friedel’s just far enough back to have his blushes and the ball saved.

Brett Emerton comes close at the other end with his head off a Pedersen corner but that’s their last chance of the half. Twice more we bite at the cherry and twice more we miss. After a defensive mistake, Ghaly heads the ball down for Mido to hit but again he smacks it wide. Seconds later there’s a fantastic solo effort from Edgar Davids. He picks up the ball around the half way line and runs with purpose straight at and through the Blackburn midfield. He batters his way by the blue and white shirts, who fall to the wayside the minute their shoulders drop behind his. It doesn’t matter how fast you are, once he’s by you, he’s a very hard man to tackle back.

Our now flying Dutchman slides a great ball in for Mido to meet on the edge of the area under pressure of a defender mirroring his every step on the wrong side of the ball. Mido takes a first time shot as well he should but it’s Defoe you really want in that position and you can see Friedel breathe a sigh of relief as our big man scuffs his shot to roll harmlessly away.

The whistle blows for half time and I’m brought back to land of the living with a sickening crack that strikes through my bones. Some lads are playing pool and it’s like the break took place within my ear, inside my spine. I roll my neck in pain in hope that one movement will shift some vertebrae and suddenly I’ll feel so much better. I’m obviously dreaming.

Mitch and I sit in relative silence, nursing the drinks we’ve no intention of refreshing. We swap our stories of the evening gone by. Palms up he shows his scars where the gravel is still embedded in his cuts. The skin’s healed over already and he’s a little concerned by the yellow fluid filled sacks appearing around each abrasion. He may well have to re-open those wounds. I don’t envy him and suggest he gets pissed and bites through his hand like a wolf escaping a snare. He considers the idea for second until I see the option in his eyes rejected by the turning of his stomach.

We stare at the menu on the table. Two meals for £6.50 but we’re not fooled by the glossy images of bacon and eggs on the cover. They’re clearly plastic or from another shop or something but we can guaratnee that whatever comes out of the kitchen here will bare absolutely no resemblance to that. Our suspicions are confirmed a few moments later.

‘Did you order roasts’ says a waitress laden with two plates of the worst, straight from the freezer potatoes and carrots, a depressed looking yorkshire and two slices of sinewy door matt beef. We shake our heads. We’re hungry but we’re not that hungry. We make a plan to eat something real after the game and maybe go and check Casino Royale. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.

The game kicks off once more and I’m thinking we need a change. I’m getting frustrated with Defoe and the way he just can’t play a generous passing game. It wouldn’t be a problem if he was actually netting any goals but his form is…well, how long can he live off his one great season? But it’s Davids who’s off and Malbranque who’s come on.

‘He was looking like your brightest player,’ says Mitch and he’s not wrong.

‘Yeah,’ I agree, ‘I’d have taken off Ghaly instead.’

Very quickly Steed puts through a ball for either striker to run for, right between the paths of the Blackburn back two. Nobody reads the move though and as much as I like where Malbranque is going, it’s no good making the pass if no one’s looking likely to get on the end of it.

Next we have a free kick between half way and the box, right on the edge of the pitch. As the big men come forward, I turn to my friend,

‘This is where we scored against Chelsea,’ and you can see an excitement amongst the players as it’s clear that the familiarity of this position hasn’t escaped them either. The kick goes in the same as before from Huddlestone, who’s doing all the delivery today. Once again the service is excellent and what’s left of my over-pumped heart is inside my mouth as Mido rises and makes a trademark contact. The ball flies into the net just like the other week and the keeper is left rooted in traditional style. 1-1…but no. The cheer in the pub is damped as we can see by the faces of the players on the pitch that the goal has been disallowed. It was clearly offside; a shrewd move to push up on the free kick but at least we’re looking dangerous.

The game quietens down for twenty minutes as neither side look like conceding and it’s only the roar of the crowd on the TV screen that grabs my attention once more as Ghaly is put through by an excellent pass from Lee. The Blackburn defence is nowhere to be seen as Boutros Boutros strides into the box to latch onto the ball that he just managed to get his toe to. He fakes the shot dinking the ball over Tugay, who’s leaping in with his leg outstretched in order to block the strike that never was and as Ghaly runs by to collect the ball, the smallest touch from the defending Turk brings our man to the ground and the penalty is awarded, whilst Tugay slumps onto his knees shaking his head. There’s no use complaining. It clearly is a penalty. The touch is only small but it’s enough to trip the attacking player.

But as Jermain Defoe grabs the ball, the drama is misplaced to the touchline. The referee has been called over by his assistant and the Blackburn players make chase to complain as they can guess as to what is to follow. After a few brief nods of the head, Phil Dowd brandishes his red card and Tugay is sent packing. Technically, he’s the last man but it’s not a good decision. The challenge was not cynical and the game will be ruined. What’s more, I know how a ten man side can rally together against all the odds. I’ve seen it too many times before. The penalty has become crucial.

‘That’s a hell of a game,’ says Mitch, ‘a wonder goal, giving a way a penalty and then getting sent off. That’s all the bases covered isn’t it?’

I’d be amused by his comment but it’s not on my mind. I’m in penalty tension mode. I’m biting my lips. I’m clutching my hands and I’m praying to a God that I know isn’t there. Skeletor has saved three spot kicks this season and Defoe has only scored one goal; one goal from a penalty. He strikes true as only he can and no matter that Freidel has guessed the right way, it’s too far into the corner for there ever to be a doubt. 1-1 and this time for real.

The game is alive and Blackburn are in no mood to settle for a point and good on them for it because neither are we. Emerton has a dig from thirty yards out and McCarthy goes for an amazing volleyed back heel that merciful Robbo is wise to. The trick on it’s own would have made it a contender for goal of the season and I couldn’t have stomached another wonder goal this game.

Back up the pitch and the Little Yiddo gives his last contribution of the game before he’s replaced by the big gun , Berbatov. Defoe picks up the ball outside the box, makes it inside a Blackburn defender and crosses in low and hard which is narrowly missed by Mido and Malbranque. Where was the rest of our midfield? Who was attacking the back post?

Our sub never seems to get hold of the ball to make the difference we’re after and the game’s chances begin to peter out. Both sides are still giving their all but the last good effort is skied by our Captain as he attempts to volley a corner that has failed to be cleared.

Four minutes of time added tp play and it’s looking like the stalemate that neither club wants. Both langushing in the lower league when we should be attacking the top. As time runs out, both midfields scramble for the ball to get that last bit of possession for that last attack on goal and as two players jump for control, Hossam Ghaly flies in a little too hard with his arms a little too high. Phil Dowd blows his whistle and without a second thought, evens the numbers with a straight red.

Again a punch up nearly ensues and MJ’s pointing in Mr. Dowd’s face. That’s a sight I’d rather not catch from a first person perspective. MJ is sent from the dugout and the players separated for enough time to restart the game for the remaining seconds to disappear. Sure enough the whistle blows and it’s a bitter point for both clubs. Both feel hard done by. Ghaly’s card was a harsh one but you’ve seen them given and much the same can be said for Tugay’s.

Mitch and I don’t stick around to mull over the defeat and the undoubted managers’ complaints. The day’s been a write off and I want to finish the job. We stuff ourselves with finest Italian food and head for the ultimate escape, where we can forget out sins and immerse our minds in the world of money, cars, action and hot, hot women. The name’s Bagel…

…The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006 at 6:08 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.