Beef Bagel

‘Do you ever tell them that they’ve already got perfect breasts?’ I ask as I dip a stubby green vegetable into the pinkest of taramasalata.

‘Well no,’ answers my old school friend, now a junior surgeon in plastics, ‘but sometimes we say a prayer for their passing…In loving memory of a perfect nork that will sadly no longer be, Amen.’

Five of us sit down this morning, lunchtime for breakfast: a doctor, a vet, a bagel, a management consultant and Jules, a colossal pervert. We’ve been sitting together for all of ten minutes and we’re already talking like the adolescents we were. There are a million things we could be discussing about each of us; a wedding, a PhD but no, we want to hear from the man who looks at tits all day. Does he ever stop for a quick wank while they’re under anesthetic and exactly what does he do with the nipples while they’re their stuffing in the implants, something to chew on during the op or just stick them on the sides of his head?

Sunlight catches the face of a watch and that my eye and I jump from this world of new breasts and old laughs as I get sight of the time. T minus 1 hr 15mins. I eat my last bits of the most delicious sausage and bacon (the Full House breakfast at The Troubadour on Old Brompton Road, not cheap but tastier than Georgie Thompson in her huskiest of tones) and regrettably make my goodbyes as I make the charge for the Lane.

On the journey up from West Brompton tube (all too close to Chelsea land, a trip for another day) I wonder why I’ve left. I was having a good time. Good food, good company, sick humour and instead I’ve gone with the cultured option of whatever pack of thugs Sam Allardyce decides to bring down to kick us around our own pitch for ninety minutes of the sort of game your girlfriend would use to justifiably turn around and say something like, ‘I just find it boring.’ So, do we sweetheart but those Northern monkeys, they can’t get enough of it…or not as it turns out.

Timed to perfection after an uneventful journey only brightened by the sight of Little Man and Big Man running past me panting their greetings, I arrive in my seat to see that the majority of the Bolton faithful have not arrived in theirs. The Spurs fans occupy the entire first tier with the eight hundred or so away supporters tucked up in the corner and dappled with empty blue molded plastic seats, where more from deepest darkest Lancashire should be sitting.

‘We’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane Tott-en-ham’ sing those sitting under the Bolton fans immediately after kick off. Thier arms are high in the air. They want to let us know that they’re with us, that they’re Tottenham fans, that Bolton take no one away.

Kevin Nolan, looking as lardy as Lampard is on the hassle immediately and you know this is as soft as it’s going to get all game. He’s harrying Little Aaron right on the wing as our man tries to hold the ball. David against Goliath and as Nolan comes round him with his tree trunk legs, it’s a wonder our pacey gnome doesn’t disappear up the Bolton captains arse. Graeme Poll, ref for the day and conspicuously not at the Carling Cup final blows for a foul and already Nolan begins his complaints, as we do ours.

‘Oi Poll, shouldn’t you be in Cardiff?’ and the somewhat less cultured but equally effective, ‘Nolan you wanker.’

Only two minutes in and already we’re pumping the ball up into the box the way we’ve been expecting our visitors to. The free kick becomes a corner.

‘We can’t expect much from set pieces today,’ I lean to Omar as the giants in their away maroon jog back to defend the kick. The only sub six footer amongst them is Stelios and with a serious little man complex and an anger about his play that I can only assume is from a scorching case of herpes, he’s no push over. The delivery’s good. It’s great to see JJ back and Dawson can only turn the ball past the far post as not for the first time I get that feeling that it’s a miss we’re going to rue.

But we don’t seem to perturbed by battling Bolton and their initial aggression hasn’t accelerated into that full hacking frenzy from Speed, Campo and well, all of them including Anelka when he can be bothered. With Tainio and Zokora on song, we’re getting possession and Lennon’s running form deep, straight up the middle of the pitch. He darts past two opposition shirts and is only stopped from reaching the box quite sensibly by Faye with little choice but to leave his leg out, which Little Aaron gladly accepts. Another free kick but nothing to speak of this time despite the callings of the crowd,

‘Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!’

We can feel we’ve got the ascendancy. It’s only been five minutes but we’re on the ball and all the Spurs are playing well. The defence looks solid with Lee giving some sterling work against Bob Carolgees’ mate, Diouf the Dog and even Rocha’s looking alright in place for the injured Tony Gardner and the oh so absent Ledley King. Bolton are not playing badly but we’re making them look ordinary and they’re not coming at us with any more than we’ve already seen.

The real joy though, is up front. Robbie Keane is on the verge of his event horizon. The Keane machine requires cranking, tuning, kick starting. He needs a good run and some well struck goals before his engine ceases its splutter and he’s firing on all six of his cylinders. He’s not engineered with state of the art technology; low oil, low fuel, high performance, graphite headed, carbon fiber molded, speced up modern dream. He’s a strange and wonderful contraption of ancient days from a extinct and marvellous civilisation. He’s brass parts, felted air valves, an impossible head scratching mechanics nightmare that by the laws of physics simply shouldn’t run. He takes time to come to life but when he does it’s these very features that make him so unstoppable, so unpredictable and after his brace at Fulham he’s getting near that point again.

Between Robbie and find of the season, Dimitar Berbatov, the Bolton back four are in for a torrid time today. There’s an understanding of trickery between the pair. Both with lethal shots, one the complete striker with the ability to hold the ball, the intelligence to release and a presence in the air as good as any and the other the proverbial truck load of monkeys.

Already Bolton are beginning to sweat and after 11 minutes they need no longer fear any more for the nightmares have come true. A high ball from Robbo is flicked on superbly by Berbatov under apparent pressure from Faye and straight to the feet of Keano racing in from the lefthand channel. As soon as the ball is on the floor and under control he fires the shot at high speed shaving Jasskelainen’s near post and despite a touch from the keeper there’s just too much power to stop the shot from ricocheting into the net. It’s one nil and we can hardly believe our luck.

‘Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo! Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo-Yiddo!’ we sing, as has been the terrace fashion of late, doing the Yiddo dance as we go, which involves jumping up and down in time to the words and punching the air with alternate fists for those uninitiated. Our crew is in traditional celebratory huddle before we sit down again and wait to see what the visitor have to say.

Sure enough, Diouf manages to get a cross in from behind Lee (or Ping Pong as he’s being called by someone behind) the first time he’s got the better of him all game and angry little Stelios is there for a free header fired mercifully straight above Robinson’s head. Our keeper makes the reaction save and our lead is maintained but we’re too elated and too far away to realise how close it really was and that’s as good as it gets for Bolton all half.

Buoyed by two wins on the bounce and a lead against the Champions League contenders, we spend the rest of the half on the attack and with a great deal of success. Berbatov gets a low hard cross in from the left post, just yards in front of the goal, which is turned in by Bolton’s Faye but after the whistle has clearly blown for an offside call. We’ve heard the sound, we know it wont count but we cheer it all the same to let Faye know what an idiot he’s been. It can’t be good for a player’s confidence and it’s most amusing for us.

Again Faye is struggling under the play of our big striker as a high ball is taken down and cushioned neatly with his back to goal. Berbatov waits and waits, holding off the defender as he flounders with fury like a fish on dry land in stark contrast to the Bulgarian barely breaking a sweat. He waits and holds and waits until Keano catches up to the ball released perfectly into his path for him to unstitch with a ripper of a shot kept out by the fantastic Bolton keeper but as the rebound comes out and JJ runs in there’s only one place the ball will finally rest. Goal number two. Jenas opens his mouth and hitches up his knees while he runs the length of the Park Lane Stand cheering with the Tottenham faithful.

‘Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov!’ we sing with a little help of Giuseppe Verdi (thanks to The Dave and YotN). He may not have scored but that’s two he’s set up and one disallowed. His skills today are impossible to avoid.

We just manage to calm down from the second after Mark Lawrenson’s words have stopped echoing around my head, ‘When you’re one nil up, the equaliser’s only a goal away.’ Yeah well, now it’s two and we’re on the attack again. Chimbonda’s been released after some excellent interplay between himself and Tainio on the far side of the pitch. He works his way around the full back with that effortless languid skill, that disguised strength and he’s charging down the down the by line from the corner flag. A thousand white shirts are waiting in the box amongst the panic of maroon and it’s Keano arriving at the near post, who flicks the ball in by seeming to just stand there dead straight with his feet together. Even before the ball evades the waves of Jasskelainen’s hands, we’re on our feet and in raptures far greater than the two previous goals this game.

As I jump for joy I see my feelings mirrored in the face of one of the lads in front, who looks like my mate George. In his screwed up eyes I can see the wild disbelief that surges around my very own mind and we smack the hardest of high fives as think the very same thing. Twenty minutes gone, three goals up against the fifth placed side. We’re sure the game is ours.

‘We’ve got to win this now,’ I say to Omar as we sit back down a few minutes later. He nods in reluctant optimism.

‘I don’t want to tempt fate,’ he checks, ‘but we ‘ave been ‘ere before.’ I choose to ignore the reference. Yes, we may have been here before but this team hasn’t. We’re not talking about a side of Bunjy, Taricco and the Doc anymore. This is the new Spurs and we don’t fold like that. In fact, we go for more.

There’s smoke rising from the giant bonse of Allardyce on the other side of the field and he barely looks at Faye with his blood red stare as he brings the defender off the pitch to try to stem the flow of goals from the Bolton leaky dam. It makes sod all difference. They’re not playing that badly, we’re just playing that well and one amongst us is playing out of his Bulgarian skin. He cushions another ball down for Robbie Keane with a soft stunned volley for the Irishman to catch at full flight and half the crowd seem to cheer the goal as the ball flashes just wide of the outstretched keeper and his far post too. Bolton are in all sorts of trouble but ten minutes later they’re handed a life line.

So good has Lee’s work been that Diouf has switched wings in hope of some better purchase against Chimbonda of all people and indeed he gets a cross in to the far post which is snatched off the head of a Bolton forward by none other than the Korean player once more. The ball goes back for a corner as the whole ground applauds our full back’s effort. It’s hard to tell from the other end of the pitch but as the ball is cleared from the well taken corner, the whistle blows for what appears to be a foul on one of our players.

‘What happened?’ I ask my neighbour.

‘I though it was hand ball?’ answers Omar and seconds later the white shirts are surrounding Graeme Poll and a penalty has been awarded.

‘If it’s hand ball, he’s got to send him off,’ he continues and like he’s calling the game, the referee shows a red to one of our players, the question is who? For a minute I think it’s Dawson. No, not Safety First! Without him we’ll fall apart. ‘Oh, no,’ I think, ‘not Tainio. We need the engine room,’ and as Robbie Keane leaves the fray I’m glad it’s him. With the two banks of four still in tact we can continue to play with shape and purpose and if we need to find another goal there’s always Jermain Defoe.

The crowd turn on Poll and most likely unfairly so. There’s shouts of ‘Wanker!’ and ‘Poll, you cunt!’ but for all we know, he’s got it right.

Gary Speed places the ball on the spot and Robbo bounces around between the sticks in a sight I feel I’ve seen all too often this season. Each time I’m under the illusion he’s going to save it but each time I know that it’s just not true. The strikes good and far enough into the bottom corner for our keeper’s right choice not to matter a jot. The sighs of the Tottenham fans are louder than the cheers of the Bolton ones and their jumps of joy look more like the scurrying of a handful of ants.

With ten minutes till half time we’re all praying we can hold out without conceding until MJ has a chance to rally his troops and Bolton know this too. They pepper us with their best spell so far, trying to make both the momentum and their extra man count while they’re feeling it. Anelka and Diouf come to life and it’s all hands to the pump as three shirts at a time jump in for body blow after body blow to get between the strikers and Robbo’s goal and after the ten minutes plus three of stoppage the Tottenham players walk to the tunnel feeling well and truly tenderised.

‘45 minutes to go,’ says Omar, ‘us down to ten; they’re going to be told to just lob it into the box. This is what Allardyce lives for.’

I go up to the bagel wagon for a munch and half time chat with Jimmy Pancakes (nee Wrong End) and Jules, a football fan with the darkest of secrets and my disapointment with the lack of Capri-Sun, E-number infested though it is, is counter balanced by the presence of Oog, a welcome addition to the gang with his Shelfside season ticket. We’re upbeat despite the red card (perhaps it’s something they put in the bagels) and enjoying this goalfest of a match. The praise is for Lee, Zokora and of course the man Berbatov. The question is can we keep it up for another 45? We collect vouchers for Chelsea away in the FA Cup, make arrangements for a drink, provided we win and it’s back to our seats for the start of the second.

From the word go it’s as if we’re playing with 11 or 12 and as well as the whole team are performing it’s impossible not to single out Berbatov. It’s as if we’re playing 4-4-3. Every time the ball goes forward, he’s there. Whether it’s run through for him to hold up or launched high before he plucks it from the air, he’s always there and when he’s not, it’s because he dropped back to go and get the ball himself.

I have never witnessed him on such total form with such consistent touch. He controls every pass, no matter how wild and each time one touch to bring it down perfectly into his body and away from the defender. His comfortable skill is staggering, each movement as smooth and relaxed as playing football with his kids in the park, each stroke of the ball effortless genius. Not once does he miscontrol in the entire 45 and as wonder replaces wonder we gasp louder, singing his every touch.

‘Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov!’

A ball comes in high from a Robbo up ‘n’ under. The Bulgarian controls it on the volley with his right, straight onto the outside of his left which he uses to knock it over Campo to turn and volley the ball, which has as yet not touched the grass. He strikes it sweetly with his right and is only stopped from what would be goal of the month by an excellent save from Jussi Jasskelainen in as good a form as ever.

‘Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov!’

All Bolton can do is concede card after card as they try to stop the man. He nearly scores as the corner finds him free but he heads just over the bar.

Fat man Pedersen, the scourge of old Tottenham comes on for full back Gardner and the visitors go for another up front in desperate search for the first they need to turn the tide but the Dane isn’t good enough for new Tottenham. The waddlings of his oversized rear about the pitch at White Hart Lane are as useful as the lame duck he appears to be imitating.

The ball comes in high and long over the thinned Bolton defence as Berbatov controls it with his back on the by line and face to face with the hideous visage of Ivan Campo. On the turn he flicks the ball up and over the defenders head, runs around him and lays if off this time for JJ to have another go at goal. We gasp in awe while Jenas hammers it true but again the keeper does enough and even a second time as Malbranque (on for Tainio) sees his follow up tipped wide.

‘Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov!’

A minute later and he’s on it again. It’s as if he knows there is nothing that Bolton can do. He’s reached his zone of confidence where he can do no wrong. Anything he can think, he can pull off no matter what the defenders try. He shakes off another and sets up Steed, whose shot is deflected wide by Campo.

‘Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov! Dimitar Berbatov!’

Now with 10 minutes left on the clock, we know the game is ours. They can’t get two now. They’re just not good enough. It’ not going to happen and knowing the same, Allardyce tries one last change as he brings on striker Vaz Te for Kevin Nolan, leaving the midfield and defence horribly exposed and four players up front and the tactic nearly works as the new man’s first touch is a well found header from a Diouf cross but his shot flies well wide of the mark. By now we all know how this is going to end and what Bolton fans remain are filing quietly out.

To add insult to injury Little Aaron grabs the fourth, no less than we deserve after Steed runs the length of the wing crossing for a tap in for Lennon. We stand, we clap, we smile. We bask in the glory of our third win in seven days and a great three points very, very well won. We cheer as the whistle blows. We applaud the players and the players us. Good work one and all at the Lane today and just as good elsewhere as we cheer Chelsea’s late winner against the scum at Cardiff. It’s a grand day in English football and even better when we’re down the pub watching the brawl at the Carling Cup final, able to cheer every swing, every reaction, every red card but most of all Adebayor’s hissy fit as he’s sent most probably by mistake from the field.

As Chrissy, Jules, Oog, Jimmy Pancakes and the Roll with the Hole here, sit praising our team with smiles on our faces and Spurs in our hearts we dream of what’s to come. Would we prefer the FA Cup or the UEFA? Would Dimitar the Great fit into any team in the world and as the beers sink down we realise we’re only 10 points off the Champions League. Sure, arsenal have two games in hand but then, that’s the power of the booze but maybe, just maybe the power of the Spurs too.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 26th, 2007 at 2:18 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.