Beef Bagel

‘Just a few sit down pills.’

The phrase is bouncing around my head, what’s left of it. It’d seemed like such a gentle idea at the time. My friend Phil had called me asking if I could score on his behalf and foolishly, I returned his call.

‘You want them for tonight but it’s the 29th? New Year’s Eve is Sunday?’ He knew.

‘Just a few sit down pills.’

I thought, ‘what the hell?’ I really hadn’t been doing all that much of that kind of thing but you may beg to differ as you read back on my match reports. I really hadn’t. There I was at home, with Zelda on the Gamecube in my hands, thick socks on and interested in only snacks, tea and working my way through the next dungeon but then maybe that was the problem. There will always be Zelda, socks, snacks and tea. The plains of Hyrule are not going to go anywhere but my youth, my dwindling youth? I know what’ll happen if I don’t go out tonight and that’s not a problem but what will happen if I do? What adventures am I missing out on if I stay home? And the very last thought in my head before I said ‘yes’ was this,

‘Well, whatever happens, I’ll bet it’ll make a good bagel.’

I chuckle, no, I groan as I remember those words to myself at 11am on Saturday morning, lying their dazed and exhausted after five hours of non-stop restlessness, broken only by all too frequent trips to the loo. It’s those damn shitty pills again. I look at the room, out of focus with my short-sightedness but still I can see the bookshelves gently breathing. I’m hallucinating. This is not ecstasy. Not any more. I’m convinced people have started cutting these things with acid or ketamine or slurry or something. What if they haven’t changed, though? What if it’s me? Maybe all these years of body abuse have finally taken their toll? Maybe I’ve broken something? Maybe I’ve worn away that bit of the brain that deals with sleep? What if I never sleep again? Maybe it’s not the drugs themselves, the cut of the pills. Perhaps this is what happens now when I put any narcotic in my body? I’ve done so much that I just feel this way after I take anything. I give my brain a good kick and then have to wait through the surreal woken hours for it to reverberate around my skull and finally come to rest.

I’m panicking. I know I’m just panicking but only because I know I am but this is it now. I’ve had enough. It’s finally gotten to a point where the down isn’t worthy of the up. I mean it this time. I think I do.

My friend on the other sofa is sleeping like a baby. I can hear something in his throat click every time he changes from inhalation to exhalation. It’s beginning to get on my nerves. The bastard’s just rubbing it in.

‘Just a few sit down pills.’

I’m not sure how I let this one slide? It sounded so relaxing. ‘Sit down pills’ like the bit that was going to wipe me out was the standing up, rather than the two or three bottles of champagne each, as many tablets, many more joints and God knows what else I shoved in my body of the blur of the previous evening.

11.30am. The minutes, once slow like the last five of a narrow lead at the Lane as I prayed for a little shut eye, have now accelerated to a gallop, now that I’m going to have to raise my frail body and delicate mind from the ashes and attempt to make my way across town. I can barely think, let alone speak. I’m so very, very thirsty but I’m not sure if I can handle an encounter with a shopkeeper or any person for that matter. I’m going to need water to soothe my injured throat, burnt by the endless smoke, with which it was gorged, anaesthetised by the class A drugs flowing through my tissues. I want to throw it up, expel the whole apparatus from my body but I know I’m just tripping still.

I consider my options as my walk takes me closer and closer to Brixton tube and they’re getting fewer and fewer the more I put it off. The quiet street, on which I started has flows onwards into larger and larger avenues until my senses are all too alive with the busy London stream and I wonder just how mashed I look to every pedestrian that passes me by. I just can’t compute all the information being thrown at me in this broad stinking daylight at 100 mph. Every time I cross a road, I’m taking my life into my hands. I guess each time that there’s nothing coming and hope I’m right for the time it takes me to get to the other side. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because he wasn’t still fucked from the night before.

By the time I reach the town centre and today, its labyrinth of a one way system, I’ve run out of chances to go to a shop, unless I can handle a busy kiosk or queue. No chance. I cross the main roads, practically hanging on to the shirt tails of a man in front. He turns round to give me a strange look. It seems best just to pretend I’m one of Brixton’s many crazies. Thankfully, the notion’s acceptable and he tows me safe to the far curb and the entrance to the tube.

I stop before I go in, realising this is my last chance before a good hour of underground. If I’m going to be sick, I want to do it now. I’d never considered it until recently, after I met a bouncing Geordie lass, who’d thrown up over a packed platform of commuters at Gloucester Road Station as the doors of her train opened. Suit upon suit dripping in thick northeren vomit. I’ve since developed a phobia. A few deep breaths. I figure I’m as ready as I’ll ever be and I begin my journey to WHL via the Bakery for a quick pit stop.

The route down the escalators and onto the train is smooth enough and it’s only when I come to rest in my seat on the tube that the world catches up with me. I take a look at the living people about to lead the charge into the first weekend of the January sales and me, looking to curl up and die. Just as I’ve realised what I’ve done, the doors close and I’m trapped. I’m too warm but if I try to remove my scarf and coat I’m going to end up making a scene as I roll around the floor of the carriage like a contestant in the throws of a one man wrestling match, only in some bizarre five minute slow motion version. No, stay hot. It’s only one stop until I change and change I do as Stockwell arrives mercifully quickly.

I stumble out of the doors and to the next platform, where thank God, once again the train’s ready and waiting. Again, I bag I seat but this time at the expense of a middle age woman, who is none too impressed at my lack of chivalry. I look up to make whatever non-verbal apology I can but the minute I fix on her features, they melt before my eyes. The hard, yellow light of the tube and my now spectacle improved vision has revealed exactly how high I am. This leather tan lady with her bright pink lips is staring down at me as the loose skin at her mouth twists and contorts until she has the face of a bulldog, growling her drooling chops at me. I can feel the visible recoil of my own. Shit. Got to look away before she licks me. God, I couldn’t handle that right now. The slobbery womany dog breath!

I turn my head away and hope she does the same but I run right into what looks like an old sea dog opposite. He’s wearing a blue donkey jacket, his lips playing with a sodden looking unlit rolly. The black-grey stubble at his sandpaper jaw goes right up to his eyes, beyond. Christ, it’s onto his forehead. Or is that his hair or is he just covered in an all over grade one? He turns to me, feeling the scrutiny of my gaze and we lock eye to eye for a moment until I pull away from his laser red stare. It’s just not acceptable to trip off people in public. I’m starting to find it funny and have to look at the floor, while biting my lip as I giggle uncontrollably at apparently nothing at all. After a few minutes and a strained neck muscle or two I get a grip.

With a deep exhalation and finally in control, I look up to the carriage once more. The old man of the sea has left, as has the bulldog but just as I think the coast is clear an asian woman sweeps down into her seat opposite mine. As she comes to rest, her body disappears. Where has she gone? She was right in front fo me? And then I realise. Her dress is the same pattern as the train’s upholstery. All I can see is the continuation of the grey and white zig-zag pattern and her head poking out from top. The strangest part is that she’s sitting there as if nothing’s amiss. Now sure, I’m hallucinating but she’s definitely wearing a dress of the same pattern. Why on earth would anyone chose to wear something that hideous? What did she do, walk into a shop and say, ‘I want to look exactly like the Northern Line.’

I run from the tube as soon as my stop allows and onto my home street and realise with glee that I live in the perfect part of town. My neighbourhood’s at least 50% full of either impoverished down and outs or the ultra fashionable, both of whom end up sporting the same kind of styles. Today, as a drug addled loon, I blend right in with the freaks, with only my disgust at the sweated skewered roasted animals hung inthe windows of oriental take away shops to contend with. Before I know it, I’m home with enough time to squeeze out a nugget from a seemingly endless movement of bowels and eat the only thing I can stomach to keep me going, a table spoon of granulated sugar.

I’m still crunching the crystals about my gums as I board the White Hart Lane Express but at least now tripping with more energy than before. When I finally reach the Lane, the light at the end of my tunnel, my prize and my safety at the end of this mountain of a journey, I’m greeted to the warmest welcome by my local crew.

‘It’s like a Royal Reception,’ quips Little Man, as I make my way down the line shaking each Spursfellow by the hand. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the lads in front and Omar as well. It warms my heart to see them and I hope what comes out of my mouth is sense enough for me not to offend. I’m careful not to speak too close. Normally, it’s Omar whose breath could cut through bank vaults but I haven’t brushed my teeth in over 24 hours. Every lick of my lips tastes like pure armpit.

As I’m busy watching the individual LED’s of the Jumbotrons dance before my eyes, the whistle blows. I hadn’t even realised the players had taken the field and I look across the pitch to see ranks of identical looking players, all about 6′1″ with short or shaved, lightish brown hair, standing in vibrant red strips, lined up like a table football team. It’s as if Benitez has spliced the DNA of Gerrard and Carragher to make a squad of players, with Luis Garcia and Crouch the genetic mutants.

Straight off the bat, Liverpool are looking solid. They’re a well drilled unit, not like a Liverpool side I’ve seen before. The players aren’t all that different but more mature, disciplined. The back four move as one, up together, down together and each time stopping our strikers and midfielders as if they’re holding a fishing net between them. It doesn’t help that Mido’s starting with Berbatov on the bench, most likely with a blanket and lemsip to stem his fever. Love that man.

After five or ten minutes, the game settles and it appears that the big Egyptian is not going to play today. We’re having difficulty getting the ball through the midfield to the feet of Defoe, so naturally, there’s a fair bit of long ball required, except our big striker is refusing to jump. Well, he’s jumping but he’s jumping to miss. He’s hoping to get in the defender’s way, hoping it’ll get past them and he can run round to collect. It’s a brilliant plan with only two minor flaws. One is that this isn’t Charlton, it’s a Champions League side and their centre halves are not going to miss the ball very often, maybe once all game. The other problem is that Mido has just got back from a groin injury, so he’s not exactly up to the pace of the game himself and is turning at about the speed of an oil tanker. He’s not the fastest lad anyway. Mido’s good when he plays but he’s missing in action today.

Jermain’s keen as ever, making all the right moves and runs but just isn’t getting the service from his partner and the midfield of Didier Zee, the Man Mountain, Boutros Boutros Ghaly and Malbranque (groin). Steed’s doing his thing as well as a man out of position does. He gives the odd moment of fancy footwork but doesn’t attack that left flank space with any instinct. Very often there’ll be Lee with possession and nowhere to pass or worse still a weakness exposed and no left winger to cover.

Ghaly’s playing a little better than he did against Villa but the quality of opposition actually makes him look worse. He’s not trying the same trick over and over and is keeping the ball better but he just seems to make the wrong moves. He takes on three red shirts and is lucky to win a foul. He makes a good run to absolutely nowhere or worse still doesn’t look up for the pass when the break is on and it takes this kind of team only half the time to recover their position and composure and in that instant the moment has gone.

Zokora’s not having a good game. He’s muscled out by Gerrard and another red shirt everywhere he goes and gives away more possession than any other player on the pitch. It’s not really what you want from your engine room. The game just looks too fast for him and he doesn’t seem angry enough. He needs to throw himself in, maybe start picking up some cards for being too physical. Let’s see the fight.

Even Big Bad Tom can’t get it together. This is the first team I’ve seen, who can muscle the Man Mountain off the ball. He looks as stunned as we do when his legs buckle under a fair challenge and he’s relieved of the ball by none other than the Liverpool captain, who’s obviously done his homework but it’s from Huddlestone, from where our best move of the game comes. Mido picks up the ball from deep and lays it off to Ghaly, who brings it forward with a flick out wide for Tommy H. In a fantastic piece of skill from just on the right of the box, our big, big man fools the full back in red, crossing the ball sharper than square just behind the defender’s heels and watches as Defoe just doesn’t quite make the contact he wants under pressure.

The crowd our alive and singing the midfielder his song, passed down from generation to generation of Tottenham player,

‘Oh Tommy, Tommy! Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Hudd-el-stone!’

The crowd may be in voice but I am not. I try but a gargled whisper comes out of my sore throat in a key that definitely isn’t right, even if it could be heard. There’ll be not a word of crowd support from me today and for that I’m sorry, Tottenham but I’m feeling just a little spaced out to be part of the mob today. I was rather hoping to ride the top of an emotional wave and just enjoy the journey but the whole experience is a little more surreal than I’d bargained for and I hardly feel like I’m there at all. The description from one of the fucked up Frenchman in Killing Zoe always hits it right for me,

‘It is as if the world is in a glass bubble and you are pushed up against it like a windscreen wiper.’

The away fans, who I’m pleased to see have filled their allocation, are in fine spirits and singing something about winning the European Cup five times. It’s a good song. It must feel good to sing it too but we don’t really care. Whatever they come up with, we just drown out with,

‘Sign on, sign on,

with a pen in your hand,

You’ll never get a job, you’ll never get a job,

Sign on, sign on.’

That’s to the tune of ‘You’ll never walk alone,’ just in case you’ve never had the pleasure of watching Liverpool at anywhere other than Anfield.

When we eventually get bored of this one, we switch tack.

‘Feed the Scousers, let them know it’s Christmas time.’ Always a good shout, particularly as it’s the end of December.

Although Liverpool look the better side, the game’s fairly even and despite a sinking feeling, probably more from my come down than anything else, it could go either way. It’s not like we’re desperately blocking wave after wave of red attack. Our defence is looking quite comfortable save a couple of shots that end up dribbling straight into Robbo’s arms. Had the contacts been better, they could have gone in but Safety First and the deputising Good Old Calum are definitely doing the job. Doing it that is, until the last minute of injury time of the first half.

As I say, it’s looking fairly comfortable and we’re hoping for a half time break at nil all, where MJ can fiddle and prod and fill our boys with the tactical genius that it’s going to take to continue our winning streak at home but Zokora has other ideas. In a moment of madness he loses the ball just outside the area, trying to play it out past Gerrard of all people. A quick one two cutting straight through Dawson leaves Kuyt with a shot that’s saved but only really fumbled by Robbo and Davenport between them, who’s so stunned, doesn’t deal with the rebound, leaving the little thumb sucking, shit sucking Luis Garcia to knock it in at the near post.

The Liverpool fans are rather pleased. We are not. The whistle blows and I sit down in my seat with my hood on my head hoping no one will try to talk to me. My brain’s working at about the speed of a three year old, that’s two Joe Coles and I’m not sure I can supply more than the short grunts that he does, with the added bonus of my killer breath. No chance of a bagel today. I’m ashamed to admit that the idea makes me sick. Chewy, chewy bread and mouth like a cement mixer as I try to process some sort of chicken paste filling is not my idea of a mouth sorter outer. I’m sorry not to catch up with my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through but I know we’ve got a couple of away days coming up and they’ll be plenty of chat for later.

Instead I watch the grass shake and shimmy in front of my eyes. Wait a minute, it is shaking and shimmying, really. The wind is blowing a gale and I must be nearly through my ‘high’. I begin to dream of rest, shut eye, home and even the idea of food is starting to appeal but it has to be something soft, sweet, greasy, a bit of a treat…hmm….

Before long the players take the field once more to the rendition of ‘Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs.’ I love it when the crowd still believe and at only one goal down, why shouldn’t we? But to begin with, it’s the same sorry story. No action, no movement and Liverpool just looking too good against our too mediocre show. We haven’t really been tested at home since Chelsea and it’s showing. We haven’t had to fight for a long time and it’s almost as if we only think we need to put in half of the effort to win but this is a much bigger side than Villa or Wigan or Charlton.

Mido’s still not doing the job and the crowd start to call for a change.

‘Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov,’ in that classical tune that one day I’ll find. Our favourite man side jumps up the line, applauding the fans as he warms up his legs but it’s Danny Murphy, who’s brought on first at the expense of Didier Zee, who’s just not been doing the job all game. It’s frustrating with him because the talent’s all there. He’s got bags of it but there’s a blockage in the line somewhere, a problem with the execution. Before you go to sleep at night, say a prayer for Zokora. He just needs that thing to click.

The Liverpool fans sing in appreciation for Murphy and it’s a good thing to hear but then they can afford to be generous with a goal to the good. Shortly after, it’s Berbatov’s turn and predictably he jogs on for Mido to huge applause from the Spurs. As the Bulgarian takes the field, the heavens open and I mean wide. I’ve seen rain at WHL and even got wet a few times, despite the all over cover but that day it was like being at Sea World. It was absolutely chucking it down, so thick the droplets grouped like clouds as they swirled in the gusts blowing all over the stands.

I’m laughing with the crew as we stand up to reduce our over head target. We’re soaked to the skin. I look to jacketless, hatless Omar, looking like a fountain, water flowing off his body in streams, his eyes forced shut by the torrents running down his head. He’s holding the top of his shirt together, like it’s going to make the difference. Wave upon wave throws itself at our stand but at least our spirits are lifted by the hilarity of it all and I don’t know if it’s the weather or the changes but Tottenham begin to look up too.

The last half an hour is our best period of the game. When Berbatov gets the ball, it stays up front and every now and then he sparks a chance, a half chance or at the very least a move of some sort. Great pressure gives us corner after corner and the odd free kick with The Man Mountain’s delivery getting it in to some dangerous areas. On the whole, our visitors deal with it well but there are occasional slips. A Steve Finnan mistake sees the ball ricochet off the cross bar before bouncing back out. A well worked move from Bonders gives a shot for Defoe that is slashed wide of an open net by Ghaly after Reina couldn’t hold the ball and finally we find the net as Berbatov shoots home. We jump for joy, our pressure has paid off but the linesman’s flag says otherwise.

By the final whistle, after a whole 4 minutes of added time, I’m the only one of the crew left at the Lane. The lads in front have gone on 88 as is their tradition and Omar and Little and Big Man shook my hand goodbye in the dieing seconds with very sour looks on their faces. I understand their feelings. It wasn’t a good game. We did not perform well but I really had fun. Somehow getting drenched made it all the worth while but then maybe I was just pleased to be more or less feeling like myself again.

Three points against Liverpool is always going to be a difficult thing and we only really missed out on one at the end of the day. The away fans we’re respectful and didn’t take our stadium and sing us down. I console myself with these thoughts as I fill my face with three McDonalds cheeseburgers on the warmth of my sofa at the Bakery, my wet clothes drying on the radiator. Sound asleep, I’m out for 12 hours, 9 till 9 and pretty much felt human again when I woke up, well, as much as a bagel can.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 3rd, 2007 at 5:49 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.