Beef Bagel

Oh yes. Yes, this feels like match day all right. My mouth is like leather. My tongue more like that of a shoe, a Clarks t-bar sandal as it goes. My hand reaches out in the uncertain hope that I had the sense, no the arse, to pour myself some water before diving for the comfort of a mattress. Eyes closed, the familiar sound of a nearly knocked glass halts my search and I realise I’ve found gold, liquid gold, something better; close by refreshment allowing my brain to go under again before I force it awake, before a trip to the kitchen and all the time and thought it would take to interrupt my dreams, my unconsciousness and let the seeds of a pounding hangover begin to take root in my mind.

Today’s started well already. Glass of water, shoes off, contact lenses removed and I’m able to drift away again to the land of a painless slumber.

It’s light but then it was before I hit the pillow. Half memories of the evening spent blend with the inventions of a mornings vivid dreams. The singer of the band really was Iggy’s long lost brother, his daughters actual ever-living creatures of the night rather than just vampish treats with the kind of bosoms that make you want to be an infant again. Was his song really called ‘Fuck You’? It was, it was…

…and the chap from The Chap with a slick back do, the browns and greens of an after war knit and talking of the modern day addiction to celebrity, whilst packing the shag to his pipe. Real? Really? Yes, fact.

And the prices at the bar? £4.25 for a bottle of Bud? All too true. Only in these throws does the money actually come from my eyeballs. Only now is the pound of flesh, a real currency. There’s plenty more where that came from.

What about the Swiss guy? The least neutral man that country’s ever produced. One minute he’s buying me a drink, the next I come back from the loo and he’s crushing my friends bank cards in his hand. I look over in confusion and he sticks his middle finger up at me. What did I miss? All I know is that rapprochements are not well advised. These are the kind of psycho’s who glass people because ‘they looked at me funny.’ His long angular head and furious burning eyes spell evenings home in his Geneva bedsit, in a wedding dress and bright red lipstick, wearing a little girl’s head and laughing at the TV, showing only a flickering static filled screen. On the hour, every hour, the clocks shout, ‘Cuckoo,’ but the irony is lost on him.

And now? Where am I now? I’m in Liz’s bed. I open half an eye, just one, so as not to wake the other. There’s Liz’s books, Liz’s clocking ticking 10.45am, Liz’s blinds only half drawn with a searing bright sun beam inching dangerously close to my head but where’s Liz and who is she anyway?

‘My flat mate’s away for the weekend,’ echoes a voice from the night before, ‘you can sleep in Liz’s bed.’ I’m hoping Liz doesn’t walk in any time soon to see The Bagel asleep in her bed, my dirty crumbs all over her crisp sheets, stale booze seeping from my every pore. I decide to hide from her in slumber; to be unconscious if she should return or at the worst to feign it but just before I disappear again to that happy world, a little smile grows on my lips and a low chuckle in my throat as I remember our visit to the Bagel Bakery for one of Stoke Newington’s finest and I try to forget our efforts to chat up one of their late night ladies through mouthfuls of food as she dodged to avoid the random hails of semi digested salt beef and half chewed bagel bits along with our seedy advances. God, I’m a gorgeous drunk.

11.30am. I’ve slept enough. Usually, the excitement on a day like today is what gets me a up. I can’t help thinking about the game, the team, the visitors, the hopes and fears but not today. After two crushing games in a row, it’s hard to feel there’s much to gain from an encounter with the Champions Elect. One hundred and twenty minutes of heart ache at the Emirates isn’t going to make for many fresh legs, even if their spirits are up for the fight. I’m not sure if I am but then we don’t have to be. This isn’t a game that we’re supposed to win and there’s no rivalry at stake as well. No embarrassment, no bragging rights. This is the team to win the league, not the smug french scum or those ugly Chelsea fans but plain old Man United.

I leave Liz’s bed and get to last night’s clothes, strewn about her room in a fairly random fashion. My shoes lie far apart with my socks not far behind and at least my trouser legs the right way out. There’s evidence of some control. My shirt feels tacky with last night’s sweat. It’s cold against my back and I shrink as it shrouds me once more. A jumper on to warm me up, a coat and scarf just to make sure and I head for the kitchen and straight for the kettle, my light at the end of the tunnel, my only way to get back home.

I throw glass after glass of ice cold water and cranberry juice down my sandpaper throat as I wait for the kettle to boil, in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of the slow dull ache I feel creeping up my spine; each shot pushing the tension back down one vertebrae at a time until all about me is numb. I’ve bought myself some time. A coffee, a bacon sandwich and now I’m happy the hangover’s at bay. It’s time to get home and get ready myself for Spurs.

The sun shines low and bright into my near sighted eyes as I make to the station on this crisp and cold afternoon. My breath forms a mist in front of my view, just to make sure all to me is blind. I listen for the sounds of the cars at the crossings, as I take chance by chance to lead me back home.

Back at The Bakery, there’s time for a shower, some toast, a fresh set of clothes and I’m out the door once more and, woah…season ticket. Don’t forget that. Forget my scarf, forget my clothes, walk naked to the game, sit frozen to my cold plastic seat in the buff for ninety minutes and ask kindly for a fan to piss me free but don’t forget my ticket.

I jump on the White Hart Lane Express, my routine down to a ‘t’. I sit in silence as three Mediterranean men discuss a subject I cannot tell in a language I don’t understand; Turkish, Arabic, Albanian, I’m really not sure but each with teeth like splinters and stubble just as sharp.

‘Big game today,’ turns one to me in a thick accent and careful pronunciation.

‘Are you coming along?’ I ask.

‘No, I watch on TV but I like Tott-en-ham very much. Good squad.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree, ‘it’s a lot to ask though.’

‘Yes, but I think good chance,’ he says as they get to his feet and to the doors at the Seven Sisters platform. He shoots me a smile and I can’t help but grin back.

‘Why not?’ I’m thinking. On our day, we’re capable at having a go at anyone. Why not indeed Mr. Splinter man. Good chance.
‘Big game,’ mocks a grey haired supporter revealed by the absence, ‘fat chance.’

I just stare back for a second as he disengages from discourse. I hate those negative Spurs fans. Always moaning at the players on the field, never happy with any result, taking refuge in their shallow hopes and stifling pessimism. Let’s just enjoy the game and see what happens, shall we?

We arrive at the station and I join the Puma sponsored herd as we drain from the carriages and march towards the Lane. The crowds get thicker, the chatter louder, the sounds and smells of the sweet frying onions, the clop of the horses, the ‘Programs, get yer programs,’ the ‘Any spare tickets for the game’ and one by one calls of the Yid Army.

I arrive at my gate almost half an hour early and I’m about to give a call to Jimmy 23 (nee Whiskey) and chat about the game until I remember the warm up. If there’s one team I want to watch prepare for the game, it’s this one. I cancel the dialing call and get to my seat, where Horseface and her Laughing Mum sit waiting traditionally early.

‘Alright, how are you? I ask, as we catch up on last week’s events. I begin to impart my philosophy on football, the pleasure’s as important as the pain but I’m getting a feeling they’re not in agreement. I can see their side too. It wouldn’t be so bad to win every game, just for a season or two.

I look out to the pitch, where Heinze, Saha and teacher’s pet John O’Shea play headers and volleys in their substitute tops. Their touches look good and I’m trying to compare their skills when my eyes catch something altogether more impressive. In front of a goal kept by Noddy impersonator Edwin van der Sar, stand Paul Scholes, Henrik Larsson and the potato headed boy wonder Wayne Rooney. I feel awestruck just by their presence. I’d forgotten what it’s like to see the superstars of football, to be that close to some of the finest players of the game. It’s by no means the first time I’ve seen them or been so close to such good players, it’s just I hadn’t been thinking about them before today even as individuals, let alone what they can do with the ball.

Each one takes it in turn to strike from 20 yards. Each one with seemingly little back lift, each shot fizzing into the crowd at the Park Lane or mercifully caught by the straining net. What better way for a keeper to warm up than to practice saves from the shots of such maestros? I stand transfixed for a good ten minutes as I watch the three aim not for the goal but parts of the net; top corners, bottom corners, straight down the throat, high in the air, the skills, their power is frighteningly good and as the minutes draw by, one by one the players leave the pitch.

Last man standing is Rooney. With three ball left he takes each one as he turns to go. The first from 30 yards. In it goes. The second from 35, a miss. The third he flicks up and kicks as he walks, talking it all the way to the edge of the tunnel, to the half way line. With back to goal and not so much as a look, he wallops it high in the air and over his shoulder and I follow the ball as it arcs up above and down to the goal, where it misses by a matter of yards, the warning shot enough of a message.

The lads in front arrive and we talk disappointments, team sheets and future away days before I’m greeted at my shoulder by Hugh, fresh with his new season ticket and a smile on his face. An old Celtic fan from his more Scottish days he’s pleased to see Larsson starting. I’m not so happy but then it’s not like there’s an alternative easier option.

‘Thought you were going to be late,’ I say as Omar arrives to my left with Big Man and Little Man in tow.

‘Nah, just havin’ a last cigarette before my 90 minute fast.’ I catch a whiff of his breath as he delivers his line. Jesus. Great guy, love him to bits but my God, he’s got to brush his teeth or smoke fewer fags or chew some gum or something, anything.

‘At least they’re taking us serious,’ he says at a safer distance as he nods to the team sheet on the Jumbotron. It’s a first string crew all right, with Ronaldo, Giggs and our old boy Carrick, who gets his well deserved round of applause.

‘No, don’t clap him,’ comes that sickening voice from behind. The Junior Harpy’s arrived with her chavy mates, who’ve got no time for our old midfielder, ‘He’s Judas scum.’ There’s simply no point in having it out with her. She’s not worth the effort. An intelligent girl but a thick little slag as well. I wonder if she’ll be there in decades to come. Will I be an old man with my children at the Lane and still the screech of her chords ringing in my ears? Is there anything I can do? I could plant crack on her seat. She’ll get arrested or develop a nice healthy habit, spending her time sucking off tramps for a share of their change in hopes for enough for a fix. Either way, she’ll be away from the Lane and out of my ears.

The whistle blows with Berbatov and the Little Yiddo up front, Didier Zee and the Man Mountain in the middle and no JJ in sight. A full game plus extra time might have been a bit too much of a return for the lad.

‘Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!’ rings out about the stands before the first ball is kicked as has happened in all our biggest games this season. We know we can win these fixtures. We know if we play at our best we can match any team. We’ve had one big scalp this season, perhaps the biggest and now it’s time for another.

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

But we’re not the only ones hungry for success. The United away fans, held legendarily high in The Bagel’s esteem, along with the Slavia Prague visitors and begrudgingly the Pompey lot and that fucking bell. It may be easier to sing throughout when you win most of the time but it’s their repertoire that never fails to impress. They have more songs than any other fans I’ve seen. Tunes you never hear elsewhere and most of the time I haven’t a clue what they’re saying but there’s one you’ll never fail to recognise, as their fans on their feet, packing the stands, waving their scarves, sing and sing,

‘United! United! United!’

The first ten’s a good contest and we’re matching them on the park. Possession is even and we’re doing that thing to them they always do to us. We’re defending from the strikers back. We stay deep in their half, when they have the ball, spread evenly, marking man for man, our strikers chasing each and every pass as Vidic, Ferdinand and Van der Sar try to move it round the back, looking for the best option. The ball is cleared rather than played and we get a go ourselves as Lennon makes a run but straight away Scholes is there with one of his typically mistimed tackles and escapes with just a warning from referee Mark Clattenburg. Another one of those and his game’ll be nicely hampered by a caution and a yellow or so we think until a second foul by the little ginger is waved on after he takes Berbatov down. We’re none too impressed.

The ball pings back and fourth as good moves by both teams are thwarted by confident displays from keepers and defenders alike. Two chipped free kicks from 25 yards by Big Bad Tom from those areas, where we’ve scored before this season.

‘Come on you Spurs’ both times as we know we can snatch the lead but so do they when Ronaldo gets off his first shot of the day, well wide but the speed of legs and his fleet footed skills baffle the eyes in a blur as he skips from challenge to challenge but the cheers go up where on more than one occasion our new man Steed takes back possession with a well timed slide and starts a run of his own up the very same wing. He may not be as quick as the young Portugueser but his gravity’s lower and his body far stronger and neither Ronaldo nor Carrick can get the ball back once they fall to our play-maker’s wake.

‘We’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane Tott-en-ham,’ sing our crowd but I’m only half paying attention as I sing back the response, ‘We’re the Shelfside, we’re the Shelfside, we’re the Shelfside Tott-en-ham,’ my eyes on the ball, my song only just audible. The game is too good.

United are starting to turn the screw and our players begin to retreat in that classic way that just wreaks of suicide. You can’t contain a team like this. You have to close them down. You have to get in their half and in their faces and after just too many moves set up by Giggs and Evra getting down our left and efforts from Larsson and God no, not Michael Carrick, please, when his hammered shot sails just high. They get a good shot from 5 yards out, which is lashed at and missed by Cristiano Ronaldo much to our shock, not least of all the player’s.

Gary Neville and his dirty tache give the player a quick talking as they retreat. He’s telling him to calm down, to slot it home, not to bury it. No need to take the leather off the ball.

The chance is the wake up call we needed and try to push out as Robbo takes the kick. United get the ball back and miss out on what looks like a clear call when Larson is brought down in the box. All I can see is the lash of Gardner’s legs and the falling of a red at quite some distance but your eyes get accustomed to reading the game from your seat.

‘Looked like a penalty to me,’ I confide in Omar and he nods back in agreement. With dejection in the United minds, there’s a chance for the tables to turn. In our best effort of the half, the Man Mountain slides one through to the right hand channel and finds Dimitar the Great right in his stride and with a shot on goal, for which there’s no hesitation. He places the ball to the far corner but it trickles just wide as the keeper gets his fingers to the shot.

‘Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!’ as the ball comes up for the corner, which becomes a free kick. The pressure is building and the visitors can feel it, when in desperation, Gary Neville brings Chimbonda down in the box with a tackle that’s more like a bear hug. It’s hard to tell if he would have reached the ball but it’s a good shout for a pen that once again isn’t given. I suppose at least we’re even.

They get the ball away, feeling the heat themselves and Rooney tries to make the game his own when he takes on Lee in the left back position and loses the ball to our utter delight. The crowd cheers as our player comes away, running back up the wing, but behind the Scouser is baring down. We can all see the look in his eyes. That same instinct that makes him a competitive player, that same desire to win is about to cause that red mist to descend and sure enough he receives a yellow as he goes sliding in with a blind side elbow to boot after our full back has released the ball.

‘Rooney, you fuckin’ ugly cunt!’

‘You fucking Scouse wanker!’

The individual insults are hurled at the player but soon they blend into one. One that will work,

‘Rooney, you let your country down, you let your country down, you let your country down, Rooney!’

But it’s just not loud enough. It starts well in the Park Lane but the game resumes all too soon and he never gets the full force of the song. It’s a shame. We could’ve really pissed him off and spoilt his game.

Instead there are tackles flying in elsewhere. Neville and no lips Rio with even less brains both making fouls and our fans are cheering and shouting,

‘Piss in a bottle, you couldn’t piss in a bottle, piss in a bottle, you couldn’t piss in a bottle.’

We’re all on our feet. Just before half time and we’ve really got them rattled. We know we can win this and so do they.

The ball runs loose down our left wing and with our men pushed up, Ronaldo runs out for the counter. He picks up the ball and accelerates to full speed and just as I’m thinking that no one can stop him I see a white shirt running up behind and my eyes open wide as do those of all us Spurs as we realise we’re about to witness a race, a test. Who’s going to be faster, Cristiano Ronaldo our our own Aaron Lennon. Some may talk of having the ball at his feet but I know what I saw and I know what I feel. Whatever happens today there’s one thing we know now for sure. Lennon can beat them all.

But seconds from half time, it’s Ronaldo who laughs. The player goes down in our box after another un-Lennon checked break. He skips round Lee and somewhere between our full back and Steed rushing back to help out, the Ronaldo hits the deck and without a doubt, Clattenburg points to the spot. I have no idea whether it’s right or it’s wrong but the Paxton don’t look happy.

Somehow I can’t quite believe it as he places the ball to take his shot. Part of me thinks that Robbo can save it. I mean, why not? It happens, sometimes, just not very often. I’m praying it’s one of those times and my heart takes a leap as England’s No.1 jumps the right way but it’s just not enough and I can’t look across the pitch to the place, from which that sound is coming; that horrible cheering from the Mancunian fans.

The players leave the field and I leave my seat to chew the fat and a bagel or two as I meet up with Hugh and my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through.

‘We always concede a goal on half time to the big sides,’ says Hugh in our first of many East Stand chats. He’s right but I’ve a good feeling.

‘I’ve got a good feeling,’ I say, ‘I think we’re going to win this,’ and I say the same to my neighbours as I return to my seat but I’m not so sure when I see Baby Face Gardner and the rest of the crew running, no that was just it, walking back out to the field.

We’ve all seen the penalty decision on the monitors over the course of half time. We all know it’s a dive and we’re all ready to give the cheating Ronaldo hell as he comes over to take a corner.

A lone voice screams out from fifteen rows back. He’s got plenty to say and none of it nice but no one can make out a word apart from the two that punctuate his every line,

‘Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah YOU CUNT! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT!’

Whether it’s the plan or whether he can’t face the abuse, I don’t know but after a few steps towards that lions den, Michael Carrick comes over to take the kick instead; his reception somewhat different with an applause and a round of,

‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo,’ which seems all too kind after his delivery is summarily netted on a good run from Vidic, past a helpless Robinson, so unfortunate after two good saves. A good ball, a good set piece and now a good way off the pace.

We kick off again, legs looking heavy and our centre looking as soft, with no possession and no bite to our challenge. Just to remind us of what we miss, Scholes clatters Lennon again and still there’s no card.

‘Can we have a, can we have a, can we have a referee?’ ask the crowd.

But by now there’s little left to marshal as the last of our fight disappears with the third of their goals, the nail finally in our coffin. Our crowd goes silent after Scholes pokes on in from just a yard out as the unstoppable, unspeakable Ronaldo undoes us once more. Somehow, I’m still enjoying the spectacle but you can see in the gait of our players, their heads hung low that they just don’t believe any more.

The game slips away to the songs of their fans.

‘Ryan Giggs, Ryan Giggs, running down the wing,’ to the tune of Robin Hood. It’s a good song.

‘You are my Solskjaer, my Ole Solskjaer’ another good song.

They’re having a ball and it’s just not right.

‘Fergie, give us a wave, Fergie, Fergie give us a wave,’ and I’m surprsie when the Chewing Gum Machine complies. Somehow I expected the man to above such things. I’ve never seen Jose or the Paedo do so but then perhaps that’s the talent of the man, the extent of his managment skills. His away fans are like any other players in his squad and every one just as important. Their numbers, their fervour as important a factor in thier performance and he gives them what they need.

Subs are made but to no avail as despite his surprising efforts at going forward, Hossam Ghaly’s missed tackle on Loius Saha sets up a run for the striker and a through ball to Giggs, unseen as he slips round our defence. It’s a good move, poorly defended and at four nil down we’re on the wrong end of a rout.

It’s not right. We deserve more. They’re the better side but this thrashing’s just not representative and half the crowd file out.

‘Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio!’ wave the United fans but that’s as nasty as they get, aside their fun at our handball claim, which looks perfectly valid to me. They begin to mock us with it every time we play the ball,

‘Handball!….woooooooaaaahhhh Handball!…..Handball!’

It’s actually quite funny and even at 4-0 down I’m still enjoying my day. We’ve played better than it seems and it just doesn’t hurt to lose to this team. They are good. They’re very good and they’re not our rivals. Anything from this is a bonus and we’ve lost nothing today but that’s not how Robbo feels. He picks some mud from his boots and throws it to the ground as he waits to take a free kick from deep within our half. It’s not been a good few weeks and I can’t help wondering how the players’ wives must feel when their husbands come back from game after game, loss after loss with disappointment in their hearts. How long do you stay at a place that lets you down?

With ten minutes to go, a good effort from Keano, brought on for Defoe, sees Van der Sar off with a broken nose and all their substitutes made. After a change of mind, John O’Shea puts on the gloves and those that are left at the game enjoy some hopeful last minutes shouting, ‘Shoot!’ anytime our players are on the ball but with our teams heads hung so low it’s just not possible to take advantage of their loss and even with ten men to our eleven we finish the game goalless.

On the way back to the station, I don’t feel too bad but I can’t help but think of Michael Carrick’s words on the difference between the two clubs. His presence a sore reminder of what we now lack. He meant no disrespect to ourselves, so he said.

‘It’s acceptable to lose at Spurs but at Manchester they expect more,’ or something along those lines. If losing is in our culture, how are we to ever get those trophies or that Champions League football that we so badly desire?

There’s one man who I’d like to send a special shout to, a man who must be receiving a fair bit of flak today, that is assuming United fans do come from Manchester, which by their accents, they do. Yid of the Norf, I hope it’s not to bad up there. We’ll get them one day.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 5th, 2007 at 6:06 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.