Beef Bagel

I wonder what time it is. Now, if I open my eyes, if actually move, I know I wont be sleeping again but the problem is I haven’t set an alarm. It could 7am and I’ll be stuck here with a tired, sore head to toss and turn or more likely toss and toss until I admit defeat and face the world. Or, on the other hand, it could 12pm and I’ve got to peg it to the Lane. So, before I make either schoolboy error, in Through the Keyhole Style, let’s examine the evidence…

I cast my mind back. Was I drinking last night? Yes, I was drinking last night. It was a lock in at my local. Five people. One gooner, two publicans, me and…and…a the assistant manager of the Tottenham ticket office! I laugh allowed as I recall the coincidence. I smile at the opportunity I had to discuss the loyalty points system as coherently as I could and I groan at the memory of our Tottenham themed drinks that we forced on each other. The rule was simple only drinks that were either blue or white.

It was all fine until I had drunk enough White Russians to send milk bubbles down my nose with each and every sticky burp and then we moved onto Blue Curacao and such filthy drinks as an Alien Sunrise. Mercifully, we agreed to switch to the away strip of chocolate and gold and all the coke mixed drinks that that would allow.

I remember getting home at 3am in delightful company of a kebab shop burger, so charming in her flavour, so satisfying in my loins and so very quiet and undemanding after I was through with her. A quick snooze on the sofa and crawl to bed.

I check the light through the blinds at the Bakery. It’s long past dawn. I’m not wearing my shoes in bed, another good sign and my head…not too bad. Yes, it seems safe to look at the clock and I’m not upset by the sight of 10am and I reach for my laptop and check out the team news ahead of the game and the voices and views on the pre-game Beef Bagel.

Time passes all too quickly as I read the comments and trawl the sites for every piece of news and opinion I can. Each morsel is fuel to my excitement, which is not as naturally high as for derbies gone by. I’m hooked by 11am and so deep in that the next time I look it’s 12pm and I’m going to be late.

I make a sweaty cheese sandwich amongst a sea of unswept toast crumbs of loaves long gone and out of date. I choose the least soiled knife and wipe it on my gown, the sterilising my tools before the operation. No time to both eat and shower so I combine the two with my breakfast in the soapdish; a move of pure genius. Perhaps there’s a market for a time saving waterproof, bathroom-breakfast set for the busy professional on the move; a wall mounted toast rack, dinner plate sized soap dish and a loofer handled knife and fork set?

But I’m pausing to consider for too long and it’s back to scrubbing my toast chewing face before I’m out of the bathroom and drying myself off.

No clothing dilemma today. I’ve known what I’m going to wear since the day I was born. Today I wear my Tottenham shirt and wear it proud.

I run to the train with my eyes on the clock every step of the way. My body and mind are restless throughout the journey. I’m biting my nails and jiggling my legs wondering if perhaps the train may just run a little quicker today, maybe the driver will miss out a station or two.

I’m first out the doors when the train pulls up and down the stairs, cutting every corner I know on route. I’m setting the pace and a fast one at that, as I run through the estates to the calling cry so loud from the Lane in the distance,

“Come on you Spurs,” I can hear, “Come on you Spurs!”

The tannoy echoes the line-ups as I run down the back of the Paxton end; each turnstyle another name as the boos resound for our visiting guests. I turn the corner down the East stand, my home straight and the tune of the crowd changes.

“And first in the line up for Tottenham Hotspur is No.1, Paul Robinson!”

The cheer goes up and my step quickens, a smile breaking out on lips. It’s not what I need for the grit to finish this hot and hung-over run but it’s derby day and as every season goes by the gap narrows between ourselves and our rivals. How narrow will it be today?

Inside the stadium and bounding down the gangway, the players limber their legs and shake their muscles and I’m greeted with the same gag on fifteen faces as my friends and neighbours eyes turn to heaven, knowing nods, all tap their fingers on their watches both real and imagined.

Only as I sit down does the full extent of the scene hit me. The lush green grass in the summer sun, the home and away in full voice but best of all the bright red and white of the arsenal strip that brings out the purest of Lilywhite. My body’s stopped racing but my heart has only just started.

“Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!”

The whistle blows amongst the chaos and the action begins.

Straight off the bat there’s a slip at the back and Gallas, who still looks odd in an arsenal shirt, let’s Dimitar through with his back to goal. With Lehmann, stranded and no time to turn, our striker flicks the shot agonizingly high over his shoulder and 30,000 fans hover over their seats ready to leap at the impossibly early impossible goal. But not this time. The ball bounces high and wide and we sit back down to a speculative, ‘oooooooooh!’

The team looks hungry, we show no fear and as we push and probe at the arsenal defense they bend and yield in a way much easier than many times before. Didier Zee, desperate to get one over his countyman Toure, begins a now trademark run from deep. Most teams don’t expect this from our man as yet to bag his first for Spurs and they let him come until 25 yards when they close him down and he takes his shot low but well wide of the mark.

We love the positive play and Danny the Drum, knowing the trends, beats out the rhythm of the song that right now means the most.

“Martin Jol’s Blue and White Army! Bang, Bang, Bang, Martin Jol’s Blue and White Army!”

Yet again we’re on the attack with a break to the wing and cross in just high and cleared by the visiting back four. Another cross in from Tainio this time and we’re looking by far the stronger side. I glance about at the arsenal players and there’s just no danger like there used to be. There’s no Vieira, no Henry, no player to fear. The tired Ljundberg is like a mark of the threat gone by. Ten minutes in and we look better and every time Wenger stands up to wave his hands and sort out his team he’s greeted in the usual way,

“Sit down you paedophile, sit down you paedophile, sit down you paedophile, sit down you paedophile!” (to the tune of La Donna e Mobile) until he complies to our wishes much to our applause.

But the visitors come to life. Down the other end of the pitch, a flash of red and a confusion of white spells out a typical arsenal move. With a trademark defense slicing, the ball finds the back of the net. The away fans go up but so does the linesman’s flag.

The crowd about me point and jeer but I don’t feel the pleasure myself. It’s a warning, a sign and I know better than to think it just nothing. Sure it was offside but it wont be next time. I know they’ll get their chances and the players on both sides seem to know it too as the visitors step it up and we back off with the return of that genuine threat.

We sit back for ten minutes, too deep for my comfort with all 22 but Lehmann sitting happily in our half. The arsenal defence pass the ball about, looking for the spot to begin their move best. They test and they probe with a pass to midfield but each time the ball comes back, the move checked by a player in white.

I start shifting about in my seat. I hate this kind of play. There’s no call to sit so deep and feed the opposition the respect and the confidence they need to play their game away from home. Worse still, doing this to a team like them is pure suicide. Their best assets are in attack, with the keys to unlock the meanest defence and I’m screaming to press as we attempt to contain.

A move finally breaks out between Adebayor and Ljungberg, a strange looking pair in attack, and it takes a shot blasted well high and wide to give us the wake up we need to come out and start playing our game once again.

Zokora’s on the run from deep again. Twice in the first twenty, he really wants it today and we cheer him on like a racehorse with every stride he makes. He brushes aside Ljungberg and the midfield just bounce off him as he gathers pace to charge the back four, one red shirt still clinging to his hand. Two more defenders converge and our man wins the foul under the weight of the three, the perfect place for a good free kick. But that’s exactly what it isn’t when Jenas curls it up and into the stands. No matter though. The early deliveries aren’t so important and it’s good to get a practice in first.

“Where’s Christian Zeige when you need him,” quips Omar, harking back to a famous goal with true Championship winning evil breath this morning.

The game seems to have found its level with both teams looking dangerous and, were it a neutral ground, equal but with the pick of the chances it’s Spurs who are definitely playing at home and it’s impossible to hear the songs of the away fans, which appear to coming out of their open mouths.

The Lane is not rocking like it has been. This is not our biggest game this season but we’re enjoying the match and it’s as if this one notch down in support is a mark of it being a notch that we don’t need to beat our rivals today.

We’ve won a corner and as JJ waits at the feet of the away fans, there’s trouble in the box. Berbatov is standing right on Lehmann in a tactic so much used this season by all Premiership set pieces. But of course, Lehmann being Lehmann and the only arsenal player still worthy of our hate, he pushes and elbows and stamps on our man in yet another display of this behaviour that he feels is his God given right.

After too many minutes of shoving, Mike Dean blows his whistle and calls the two over, along with Diaby, for a chat and the dishing of yellows much to the appropriate cheers and boos of the two sets of fans.

JJ’s cross is good, a more practiced second delivery and my heart’s in my mouth as the giant fair head of Michael Dawson looms high and hard on the ball. I think it’s a goal as he aims it down and it bounces of the pitch, heading for the net but it’s the nod from Keano just yards from the line that secure the joy in my heart.

There’s not the crazy fervour of a goal against Chelsea or a come back against Seville but a good cheer for an expected, earned goal; one deservedly ours and after the first wave of high fives and cheers pass, we’re doing the Yiddo dance on a bright sunny day.

Play restarts much as before but perhaps with the balance a little more even. arsenal look a little more dangerous, particularly as Fabregas comes on for Ljungberg, a series of sprays and white tape not enough to hold the Swede together.

We have our chances and they have theirs but never is my eye on the clock until the 44th minute when I’m glad it’s just so, as the visitors hit the post and miss an open goal from a very, very good chance.

The whistle blows and the pressure stops. We’ve time to collect out thoughts and the team time to regroup.
I turn around a motion to my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, and we know it’s bagel o’clock. We meet the usual suspects up the top as we discuss our prophetic dreams, perceived confidence and the possible outcomes.

“We’ve scored first,” says Oog, “goal from a set piece, now all that needs to happen for a traditional derby is them scoring a last minute equaliser.” But there’s a certain non-traditional London derby in mind and it’d feel like a pretty good season if we broke two such long standing hoodoos.

All too quick the interval’s over and it’s back out to watch the second act.

The first fifteen minutes are not looking pretty with chance after chance from arsenal moves and barely a peep from the Spurs. The visitors do not seem to be playing their normal game. They’re not running the ball in, looking for the perfect moves; the usual arsenal give and go. Instead they’re crossing it in but most frighteneing of all, they’re out jumping us. Every time I see a white shirt jump, there’s a red one leaping a good foot higher. There’s shots from Fabregas and Rosicky and Toure hitting the post with yet another header.

In seasons gone by this would have made me flinch but I can’t remember a derby where the scum haven’t trouble the woodwork on at least one occasion. The one a few years ago where the Asley Cole made the goal shake was my first wake up call and I’ve never feared them since.

“Come on you Spurs!” we sing, “Come on you Spurs!”

We urge on our side to pull it together, to get a grip back on this game and remember who they are but clearly something isn’t right and I’m visibly twitching as I itch for the change in approach and tactic that MJ is yet to make. The only trouble is, I don’t know what that change should be but the rest of the Spurs seem pretty damn sure,

“Jermain Defoe is a Yiddo, Jermain Defoe is a Yiddo!”

We wait for 60 minutes as is MJ’s want and all the time the visitors are getting stronger and the Tottenham team weaker. Eventually Malbranque comes on for Tainio but the switch is soon forgotten as finally the arsenal pressure pays off; as has been expected.

On 63 minutes Rosciky goes down all too easily just in front of The Bagel and the scum win their “well earned” kick. Dawson is waving his arms, pushing the line away from his keeper, sensing the danger. But as Fabregas delivers the in-swinger, all I can see is three tall, black men, like copies of each other in arsenal shirts, almost fighting between them to get the touch at the far post without a Tottenham player in sight. One tap and it’s in, in what looks like some very poor defending of a well taken move. Where was the defence? Where was Robbo?
The visiting fans come to life but we’re not too worried. It’s not as if we’d stop them scoring and it’s not as if we have any new objective in our minds. We were always looking for a second goal.

“Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!”

But as the team kick off it all falls apart. There has been no wake up and we’ve simply collapsed.

The visitors continue their attacks and we cannot get hold of the ball. In an effort to change once more, Huddlestone comes on for the isolated Lennon but it goes from bad to worse. Big Bad Tom has truly lost his form. Every touch is bad and every pass it loose.

arsenal score again. Another free kick. Another header. Another goal and with twelve minutes to go our voice is lost along with our football. Finally the visiting fans have the stage to themselves and all that can be heard are their songs around our ground.

“It’s so quiet, it’s so quiet, it’s so quiet at the Lane,” they mock to our very own tune.

I’m angered. I’m bitter. Not only am I infuriated at their inaccuracy and their darkest of pots calling our shining white kettle black but with our players in this kind of form, there’s simply nothing for us to sing about. Any support we give is turning into nothing; pur passion and support straight into a vacuum.
“1-0 and you fucked it up,” they sing to the tune of Go West.

Touch by touch our team is getting worse. Every ball is misplaced and intercepted and every time with to loudest of groans.

“You’ve got your Tottenham back, you’ve got your Tottenham back,” sing the away crowd to the tune of La Donna e Mobile and they’re right. I can just picture Bunjy and the Doc out there right now.

Finally, the Little Yiddo comes on for the broken Zokora, translucent shirt stuck to his skin but despite the change things are simply worse. We cannot so much as get a cross into the box throughout the last ten minutes and the more we falter the more the arsenal sing.

I feel a slap on my shoulder as Omar, Little and Big Man and the lads in front all leave. They’ve taken enough and I understand, I do but The Bagel never leaves.

“We can see you sneaking out, we can see you sneaking out,” sing the arse (to you’re not singing any more) with the only irony being that many of their fans are leaving too, miniscule comfort that it is.

A little hope goes up as the official indicates four extra minutes and Senderos comes on to sure things up under the guidance of Wenger, wearing his hot grey jacket in the sun to stop him being noticed by our paedo-singing fans. Still we look hopeless and arsenal strong and with the end in sight the away fans sing that song that Chelsea used to enjoy; the one that haunted my dreams,

“You’ll never beat the arsenal! You’ll never beat the…”

The song is stopped.

It’s killed off dead.

A one-two.

The last move.

Our only shot of the half and as JJ strikes the ball low and hard, I watch Lehmann dive, I watch Lehamann miss and I watch the ball find the bottom corner and the net billow at it’s touch.
Perhaps arsenal were still singing but not a note could ever have been heard as the stadium, only two thirds full, erupts with the noise of a fully packed house.

There’s no one but Horseface and Mother left and I grab them both in celebrations before simply standing proud in my white Tottenham shirt against the blue of the empty seats and the whole of the away stand and fans caught in the “V” of my wide splayed fingers. Fuck you arsenal. And when we have a minute to pull it together, we sing what needed to be said:

“2-1 and you fucked it up, 2-1 and you fucked it up, 2-1 and you fucked it up, 2-1 and you fucked it up!”

As Oog and I meet for a drink in the sunshine there’s a sense of victory only tinged by a terrible performance. But the arsenal fans were right. For the last twenty minutes, we did look like the old Tottenham but what an admission that was. They said it themselves. We’re no longer that Tottenham. We are a threat and they know it. My only thanks is that we were that old Tottenham long enough for JJ to become Jamie Redknapp for just a minute and with the same sweet strike from outside the box, bring it back to 2-2.

A truly traditional derby.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 23rd, 2007 at 2:08 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.