Beef Bagel

You know just how drunk someone is when they greet you for the second time in 10 minutes like it’s the first time they’ve seen you. That was the state of Jason when I got to his birthday drinks last night.

“Alright mate, come here,” he says as I repeat exactly what I said a few minutes ago, doing my best to make it sound fresh. I don’t have the heart to do it to him on his day, especially with such innocent drunkard’s smile on his face.

“How’ve you been?” he slurs.

“Yeah good, mate, really good. So much has happened since I went to the bar to get myself a beer.”

He smiles. I don’t think he’s even heard me and I know there’s only one way I can cure what ails him. Two Sambucas please barman. There you go Jase and like a lame horse, I put him out of his misery and I’m free to talk Spurs with Rich, a Spur since before you were born. We put the squad to rights or specifically, lefts as we roll out the shopping list for a natural left footer: Bale, Baines, Pederson, Robben, anyone and second string strikers: Ashton, Nugent, whoever it’ll take to finally crack the strangle hold “this Big Four as you say in England” have on the Premiership and the Champions League.

The evening begins to wind down and there seems little point in staying out beyond the last tube. England have yet again failed to get a clean sheet as Ireland award us the seven points in the Eurovision song contest that prevent Scooch gaining the ritual humiliation of nil point that they most certainly deserve.

“Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit!” scream Rich and I at the TV screen in what I hope is a warm up for the game the very next day.

Meanwhile, the Sambucas have not had the anticipated effect. Jase is still standing but now wildly swinging his arms about spoiling for a fight with a chrysanthemum behind his ear. No one is even listening to him as he darts about in the background arguing with the furniture.

On the bus back to the Bakery I’m chatting to a nice, young lady. The Bagel’s been seeing a squeeze since the day of Reading game back in April but there’s nothing set in stone as yet as far as either us are concerned - well, as far as I am. There’s been some speculative texting all evening on the chance we’ll meet up for some fun but our nights have diverged down two very different paths. The messages have gone from dirty flirting to pilled up nonsense and I’m not about to meet up and listen to her sweaty jabbering if I’m not feeling it too. So…

…I turn my attention to my traveling companion; nothing serious you understand just some gentle probing, a prelude, perhaps, to some harder probing another time. For now I’ll settle for a chicken donner and the associated guilt as I wipe the grease from my palms and forehead.

I feel no pain as I awake. Fresh as a daisy a look at my phone to see a respectable 9am and a whole host of messages from the lady. It’s actually possible to track the course of the drugs through her system as the texts run from insanity to lust to anxiety and finally embarrassment. She wont get a hard time from me when we speak. I’ve got enough t-shirts of that one to fill a wardrobe.

Instead I sit in bed and decadently watch the world go by, cruising the superhighway for such youtube gems as this…

…and R Kelly trapped in the closet but that’s one you can look up for yourself.

Time successfully squandered I’m up and out on the platform waiting for the White Hart Lane Express. It’s pissing it down and by the time the train arrives, its carriages are eerily quiet. There’s a group or two of what appear to be football fans but few colours on display and none of the talk you’d expect of points, positions, and goals. Instead, tooth sucking youth sits across the aisle in the only seat of six not ripped, the rest decorated in a rifled Sunday paper. I search for the sports section to little avail while the youth listens his tinny R&B considerately loud enough for all in the carriage to appreciate. I ask if he’ll turn it up. He isn’t amused and I make do with Property; anything but Business & Money.

When I arrive at my row at the WHL, a little soggier than usual for this time of year, there’s Omar and his crew of what appear to be cousins and brothers and other such genetic variations on his similar physicality of short, Mediterranean Yiddos. They’re a good bunch and I find it sad that it’s the last time I’ll be seeing them all til August. Sadder still is the arrival of the lads in front, whom The Bagel’s got to know a little better this season and even found out their real names, if only I could remember them but Penfold, No Name and My Old Mate George will do for me.

Next to arrive are Horseface and Mother troughing away on their stadium hotdogs, perhaps the only food worse than the hotdogs form the vans outside; and last and entirely least, the Junior Harpie.

“I got bottled last night,” she tells me as she arrives. I envy the person who did it.

“Did you deserve it?” I say.

There is no reply.

There’s a buzz about the stadium, a carnival atmosphere. No one even thinks for a minute that we’re not going to win this game. We must have the easier fixture of the day; at home to a team in the doldrums, with nothing to play for, not even a farewell game to the Premiership. It’s going to be a cake walk.

When the teams emerge, the Spurs our sporting the first proper view of the new 1st kit for next season; a Lilywhite top and with Lilywhite shorts and the only navy blue the colour of the numbers on the back. It’s beautiful. We are the white knights of fair play and entertaining football. We are Spurs.

From kick off we are in control. A Bartonless City are no match for our regular pair up front, our midfield of Tainio, JJ, Zokora and Lennon and our best back line with Gardner in place of Lee. We have no fears and we sing as if we’ve already won with 88 minutes left to play. It’s appreciation our at the Lane as we go through our players, cheering their praises.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!” He turns to give us a wave.

“Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!”

“There’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano,” I smile in anticipation of the final shout that always sends shivers down my spine with its high, loud note and single word of sheer adulation, “KEANO!”

And so we got though the team with the notable exceptions of JJ and Gardner still songless after all their time and service. The best of all though is for Ledley. It’s so good to see him back and coming to form. As we sing his song he runs upfield with the ball at his feet, something I’d completely forgotten about. It’s been good to see a centre half do anything but pass the ball sideways but to see such a positive run and look of confusion on an opposition midfield is fantastic. He runs with the confidence of any midfielder or striker on the ball and a clever one two with Berbatov he scrambles the ball to JJ, who chips a perfect ball over the top of the City defence and onto the shoulder of Robbie Keane who buries the ball in with a piece of skill we take for granted at the Lane this season.

We leap to greet the goal we’ve all expected. We know we’re home and dry. It takes a good two minutes to complete all the high fives of the friends in our gang, like the knotted, glass-clinkings at a dinner table toast. One nil. How delicious.

“We’re all going on a European tour, a European tour, a European tour!” (to the tune of Yellow Submarine)

The game restarts but we’re barely watching anymore. We’re just here for the fun now. There’s a giant inflatable football being batted about the crowd. It gets onto the pitch and the Lennon kicks it back off to our delight. It’s thrown back into the crowd but the stewards have taken note and they want it gone. It comes back out to a ball boy and he’s motioned by Steward S3 to keep it from the crowd. He takes a few steps towards his boss and then hurls it back to the fans to our cheers.

“Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!” we point to the kid.

The ball comes out again and this time the S3 is onto it and takes it away from the field and into the corner.

“S3 you’re a cunt! S3, S3, you’re a cunt!” sing the Park Lane and so the steward takes off his orange bib.

“Are you Ghaly, are you Ghaly, are you Ghaly in disguise?” they reply and he laughs and puts it back on and in the confusion the ball boy has disappeared from the field and returns with the ball for the crowd once more and they sing for the little hero again:

“Ball boy is a Yiddo, Ball Boy is a Yiddo, tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-la!” and “Ball Boy, give us a wave, Ball Boy, Ball Boy give us a wave!” He may be fired in the morning but he’ll never have a better day at the Lane.

The scores start to roll across the Jumbotrons with all eyes on the Chelsea vs Everton and the relegation matches. Fingers are crossed and knives are out for the Hammer’s relegation and there’s a cheer as loud as a goal at the Lane when we see Wigan one up at Sheffield.

Meanwhile on our field, City have come into it a little more DaMarcus Beasley is starting to have a little fun against a tired looking Tainio and Vassell is managing to get a little purchase down the left hand side against Tony Gardner, though rarely in the air of course. The visitors pick up a corner or two and you can feel us all tighten and cross our fingers at every set piece concede.

Dunne lumps the ball into the middle and after a bobble or two it pops out to Vassell, like Defoe’s evil twin complete with little goatee. He takes a snap at just six yards out and before my heart can leap England’s No.1 has shown why he’s just that and the crowd cheer his name after a good minute’s applause as his low left dive saves an equalising goal but this is the wake up we’ve needed and Spurs take control again.

Little Aaron’s doing so some sterling work down the left-hand side and he’s won himself a free kick outside the corner of the box, not far from The Bagel & Co. and as Keano turns and balloons the ball far, far from the target, he turns to us and smiles and we laugh and clap with him. He gets his hair ruffled by his team mates as they run past and we all enjoy a rare moment of comedy in what has been a season of excellent form for Robbie Keane.

Minutes later, though, it’s a different kind of laughter we get to enjoy, a joyous laughter in celebration of another goal. In a lucky one two with a City defender, Berbatov’s sneak pass to little Aaron has come straight back to the Bulgarian and given him the space he needs to shoot. After 59 games of watching this man, you just know he wont miss from there and we’re off our seats and screaming even before he’s hit it; goal number two and a safe cushion for our next European adventure.

But are carnival atmosphere disappears just 10 minutes later and does not return until the end of the game. Whether, motivated by fear of a half time hairdryer or pride in their own game, City have picked it up. They’re still coming at us to their credit and their efforts are rewarded with a goal from their hardest working player, Emile Mpenza. A simple cross from deep is poorly dealt with by our back line and the header to the bottom corner leaves Robbo rooted to the spot as our defence stare from man to man.

We feel vulnerable again. How sure are we that results will go our way. We stop singing and we count down the minutes to half time.

There’s a groan as we see Sheffield have equalised and that Chelsea have yet to score.

The whistle blows and I walk up for my final half time chat (no bagel today) for the season.

I’m late for the second half as I come back down making all and sundry stand back up pretty much the second after they’ve all taken their seats. Those that know me give me cheeky ribbing and those that don’t huff and puff but frankly fuck them, the majority could do with losing a few pounds anyway.

Omar has got his portable radio to his ear and he turns to me before the Jumbotrons have a chance to tell the tale.

“Tevez has scored,” he says and all the Spurs groan despite Wigan’s 2-1 lead at Bramall Lane. The visiting fans cheer at United’s misfortune, something I hadn’t considered. I thought everyone hated West Ham more.
“If West Ham stay up,” says Omar, “it’s because they beat United and Arsenal home and away; work that one out.”

On the pitch, City have come out guns blazing. You can just imagine what Pearce will have said to them, the talk of pride, passion and showing some respect to their one tier but now load and singing traveling support.

I get more and more frustrated as the minutes go by and I begin to voice my frustrations at our team in a way most unbagel. I never slag off individuals for not being good enough. The likes of Gardner or Ghaly do not incur my wraith for misplacing a pass or letting a man through but when we are clearly the better side not in control of an inferior team because we’re not trying hard enough, well, that is unacceptable.

“For fucks sake Spurs, pick it up,” I shout.

Mercifully, Manchester City are not good and try as they might and no matter how many times Robbo is sold short by his defence (four I believe) we do not let them score. As the 80th minute approaches both sides and both fans seem to have accepted that this is the way it will stay. All but referee Steve Bennett that is and Didier Zokora, who has convinced the official of a spot pick after a gentle brush from Richard Dunne’s shirt.

“He’s still doin’ it,” says Omar, radio still attached and not unlike a Cyberman.

The Little Yiddo steps up to the fluorescent green City keeper, who I’ve never seen before and I’m hoping this isn’t Defoe’s first touch of the ball after being subbed on for the parting Keano to a standing ovation. It isn’t his first touch. He skied a free kick a few minutes earlier and his effort is about as good this time when his shot is saved and even his second chance goes begging. We shake our heads rather in embarrassment than fear and our boys take control of the game for the remaining injury time all too easily and with no bombardment from City attacks.

Robbo punts the ball high and he whistle blows to our cheers. News comes in that from Stamford Bridge that 5th place is ours and the party beings and we’re all going on a European tour.

I stay for the lap of honour at the Lane, the player of the season award to you know who and the good feeling that we’ve consolidated our position as challengers to the Big Four despite playing 50% more games this time around.

MJ comes out to address the fans in a level of propaganda like the Nuremburg Rally but this is propaganda to which I gladly subscribe.

He’s hoarse as he tells us how he never worried we’d qualify for Europe. He tells us how fantastic our board is by continuing to invest in great talent - nudge, nudge and tells us how wonderful we are. Of course we our. We know that.

The stadium’s all but empty and I turn drink the last view of the old girl that I’ll have for a while. God, I love this place.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 14th, 2007 at 4:49 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.