Beef Bagel

“I can see a lot of different areas on your CV but nothing to indicate you would want this job. So, why do you want to work in finance?”

It’s the fifth time I’ve been asked this question, each time in a more different and more probing guise. The answer is, “I don’t,” and part of me wants to say it as much as my interviewers want to hear it. The concept of finance is not something abhorrent to The Bagel but this position is. The minute I walked through the door of this City office, these two clean-cut, clean-shaven men spotted me for who I was - someone with no interest in finance. But I’ve been sitting in this glass fronted board room for the last 45 minutes trying to convince them otherwise and I’ve been doing a good job. They know I’m not the man they want to hire.

“We’re looking for someone who’ll use this job,” the more senior of the two had said, his unwavering, stern expression matching his unwavering, regulation length, black hair, “someone who’ll wake up on a cold, Wednesday morning in February and want to come in early.” I thought he was going to stop at “in”.

I look through the glass behind them and out for an answer into the office where I’d work. My eyes fall on a clock. 12.32pm and 23 seconds. 24. 25. This is the last thing I’ve got to do before rushing to meet Oog at Euston; freedom to Manchester, my self I want to get back to. I yearn give in, to tell these men what they want to hear but I’m not going out like that, not after I’ve done so well, not after Guy in his light grey suit took a disliking to me. Guy wants to cut me down. I realise I must have upset him. He’d been sitting there scratching a pen against his pad, taking notes a second into my every answer like a human polygraph machine. He nearly went through the page when his boss asked me what I thought of their website. I hadn’t considered this question and I certainly didn’t stop to think that it’d been Guy who had designed it. It was nothing special when I looked at it a few hours earlier and I wasn’t going to lie and kiss someone’s arse for the sake of it. But then the admiration for someone’s honesty probably doesn’t extend to good feeling after you’ve had your hard work slagged off by an interviewee.

Guy promptly started to ask me some questions of his own, trying to catch me out, to get me to contradict myself, to tie myself in knots and cut me down to size. Each attack from this shark of a man with gnashing milk-stained teeth and razor sharp fin of spiked up hair is followed by a sneer as he fails with his bite. My flesh is mine and I will be stripped. But these two fiercely intelligent and frighteningly direct men are nobodies fools, least of all mine, and their bullshit detectors have practically melted under the strain, the better parts of them just knowing that I’m not telling the truth.

My eyes return to the room and I fix them squarely on the more senior man, stiff as a board save an excellent knitted tie and the underlying sense of a very dry, very sharp sense of humour. I thread an answer to his question with the perfect weave of my previously spoken words, a new analogy, an ounce or two or truth and an unbending mask of sincerity. He nods and satisfied breaks our stare.

“So, how do you think Spurs’ll do?” he asks on a lighter note as we stand to end the meeting.

“Tonight?” I check.

“Is there a game tonight?”

“Away at City in the Carling Cup,” I announce with pride as I swing my tattered grey ruck sack over my suit jacket shoulders. “Who do you support?” I ask fearing the worst.

“QPR, it’s er…”

“…a proper football club?” I interject.

“Well, yes but we don’t see much proper football.” Good answer.

The two take me to the door, the final custom and Guy shakes my hand all too firmly with a sincerely practiced look in his eye.

“I was going to ask you who your favourite Spurs player was,” says Nice Tie to the back of my head, “but I can see by the beard it’s Steve Archibald.”

I turn slowly on my heels for the final goodbye unsure whether this is a dig at my appearance or trying to impress me with his knowledge. I pause to reply and close the door behind me.

“Ricky Villa, actually.”

Flying down the steps a shrink and shake like Steve Martin and John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles when they wake up in bed together. The cold, fresh City street air sloughs the putrid disguise from my body with transformation complete back at the Bakery as I throw down my suit and pull on jeans. Bag packed I’m out the door feeling oh so human again as I head for Euston Station with time off and football in mind. Is there any better combination? I see my friend on the concourse before he sees me and greet him with an away day smile and my version of a song that’s been stuck in my head all money. “All I want for Christmas is Oog.”

With high spirits and that holiday feeling, we splurge our cash on the finest M&S has to offer: baklava, a sausage and scotch egg party selection box and the St.Michael version of Stella - Etoille D’Or, wife-beater for the middle class man. The journey up north passes with beer-fueled excitement as we slowly turn the quiet coach of this Virgin Express into football chat for all to hear. Will Defoe be starting up front? Will O’Hara play a part? What chance do we stand against an Elano boosted City with their unbeaten home record?

It’s bitterly cold as we step off the train and onto the streets outside Manchester Piccadilly. An unchosen university option and a broken heart from over four years ago are my only experiences of this town and neither any longer have any bearing on my life. A part of me would want to get some back for the hurt that it caused but there’s no reason to dislike it any more. No vengeance is needed. I’m here on a jolly and that’s exactly how I feel. Christmas trees light up this harmless, city square and there’s no resemlbance of the town in my head that could have been better more appealing than The Bagel. The time for closure has long since passed but it’s good to meet my enemy all the same.

With an hour or two to kill Oog and I head for a bar and stop for a few in the appropriately named establishment, The Northern, and I give my A to Z advisor a call. My sister, the Croissant, does as best she can as she relay’s the directions to Eastlands from the City website. There’s very little help apart from the fact that you can walk it from the city centre but fortunately Oog has the presence of mind to grab hold of the first man he sees wrapped up nice and warm in the comfort of a white and sky blue scarf.

Fortunately, Danny our new friend and City fan is neither insane nor a knife wielder - well, so far as we know - and he fills us in on what it’s been like to follow this rejuvenated, re-housed, unbeaten football team. It’s a pleasure to be guided by this typically good humoured and stoical Mancunian, living in Old Trafford, as we climb out of the city bowl, passed an abandoned mill resurrected into housing and into Sports City, home of the City of Manchester Stadium and what remains of the site of the Commonwealth Games.

There’s incredible about seeing a stadium for the first time - Fratton Park aside. Each one an awe-inspiring monument, a church to the god of football. As we walk beyond the mill, where, I’m pleased to say, there was no trouble whatsoever, the land empties out into a more clear horizon of low rise suburbs than the sprawl of a city. I look up from conversation with Danny to see Eastlands itself rising above the gentle rolls of the hills lit up on this crisp night, with sky blue beads at the top of it’s pylons like the UFO settled on land at the end of Close Encounters. Ahead, the traffic of cars and people, jam packed, snake their way up to the same destination like the world united in a pilmgrimage to see extra-terrestrial life for the very first time.

We say goodbye to Danny as we enter the grounds and wish him luck before Oog and I attempt to hide a four pack of Etoille D’Or in a lap-top bag behind a dirt burger van before making for the turnstyles. Stripped of our beer we make it inside in time for the whistle. The pitch opens up before us as we go out to the stands. My view of the ground opens up through a three foot wide doorway at the very centre of one end of the stadium. The bright lit green of the pitch grows wider and wider with the depth of the sound from inside.

We have an excellent view directly behind Robbo’s goal and twenty rows up but right on the cusp of the hardcore home fans. The game kicks off in this well-crafted ground; a fitting venue for tonight’s clash of such similar attack minded sides. The single bowl of seats is brimming with fans at the shorter, two-tiered, ends of the pitch but there are all too many empty seats where the roof curves up on the long sides in a partial third tier, just as Danny had warned their would be - the penalty of 50,000 capacity ground.

Bunches of balloons like sky blue grapes float about the low gradient of the crowd in this slightly too spacious venue with the pitch just a little too far from the front rows of fans; a hangover from its athletic track days. Still though Blue Moon soars about the ground with the pride of the fans clear as the Pompey chimes when they hit those high notes. “Blue Moon!” they call but just as I’m thinking how much I hate that song, their chorus comes to an abrupt halt. I’ve barely had time to take in the action, to look at the team from this unfamiliar vantage in the unfamiliar bright yellow when our first real attack reaps dividends. Ahead in the distance, the unmistakable mini legs of Little Aaron Lennon motor his body up the wing in a cartoon whirl and without a second’s hesitation he bangs in the cross. There’s a flash of yellow, a keeper dive and nobodies quite sure if we’ve scored. The City fans at the other end are quiet and unmoving but then they would be and it’s only as the Spurs mass at the far corner flag in a formation definitely not ever seen in open play that we’re sure there’s been a goal and we know it’s time to erupt. Just five minutes, we know there’s still plenty to do and it’s no surprise as the home fans call eventually drowns us out.

“Come on Citeh, come on Citeh, come on Citeh,” they implore their unbeaten team. As the game kicks off though, this doesn’t look like an early fluke. Games are always hard to judge from a foreign angle but we’re passing it about with assurance. We look as much at home as those in sky blue. City are in possession as much as we are but their moves are cut out. We are solid. We are composed and we are reading the game. Kaboul and Zokora are keeping cool at the back and no matter what tricks and through balls are threaded by Elano and Co, the are anticipated, dealt with and every decision is supported by every one of our line. The full backs know exactly when and how to aid the centres. We play as a unit, but unfortunately not for long.

As we move the ball out, possession is lost in the back of midfield, ahead and to the left of exactly where I stand. Didier Zee’s instincts are quick as he decides to commit and nip the danger firmly in the bud. He slides in on Elano cleanly but with both feet up by the end of the tackle and referee, Steve Bennett, goes straight for his whistle and then for his pocket. There’s cries for injustice amongst the Spurs with myself the only one who probably thinks it’s right when the red card is shown. It did look two-footed for me.

The traveling Spurs barrack Bennett with, “Can we have a referee” and “Bennett, you’re a cunt” but it makes little difference along with Zokora’s complaints and he leaves the field. Jermain Defoe is even less impressed when he is subbed a minute later for Teemu Taino to deputise at right back, while Chimbonda moves into the middle. We take a deep breath in and gird our loins for the onslaught we know is to come. There’s only two ways this can go: a total collapse or spirited defensive performance - a cup classic.

I’m standing on the very edge of our fans with only a ten foot gap and a steward between myself and the hardcore home crowd.

“Citeh, Citeh, Citeh, Citeh,” they sing loud into my left ear while I try to concentrate on the voices to the right.

“There’s only one Ricky Villa, one Ricky Viiiiiiilllllla, there’s only one Ricky Villa,” we chant in praise of our cup hero to the tune of guantanamera.

“One Ricky Hatton,” they reply for the second time in two weeks for their fallen champion and instead the Spurs faithful and The Bagel chose to focus on another of Manchester’s local heroes.

“Harold Shipman, Harold Shipman, Harold Shipman killed your nan, Harold Shipman killed your nan” (to the tune of Guide Me Oh Thou Great Redeemer), and then it starts and so does Oog.

To begin with it means nothing to me. I’m unaware of what’s going on, despite being the closest Spur to the sound. Part of my mind thinks of the pantomime of football and it’s only as Oog turns around shouting, “You can’t fucking do that,” in a Glaswegian accent far sharper than his normal softened tones that I reailse what’s going on. Part of the City crowd is hissing at us and not because we’re villains.

“You can’t let them do that,” says Oog as he grabs hold of the black steward to my left.

“Just ignore them,” the steward replies.

“I shouldn’t have to. You should stop them. It’s illegal and you shouldn’t be smiling at me. How would you feel if they were shouting anti-black chants. Would you ignore it then? Are you just going to stand here or are you going to do something?” he says as he turns to a different steward behind.

“I don’t know what it means,” replies the smug attendant.

“They’re making the sounds of the gas chamber at us. It’s racist abuse. So, now that you know, what are you going to do?” Very little, appeared to be the answer.

Oohs and aaahs from the home fans roll on in the background as the match develops. Manchester City try to press their advantage and come close three times over before the half is done. Bianchi so nearly makes contact at the far post as a cross is nipped in and the ball is turned just wide right in front of our eyes, but all I can think of is the atmosphere, the hissing and exactly how this makes me feel.

“I expect this from the likes of West Ham but I always like City fans,” says Oog, shaking his head. I’m disappointed with them too but not hurt. I just think of them as idiots for doing it and besides, I was happy to sing about Harold Shipman (for the record, Oog didn’t). I’m sure I should be more offended. Isn’t my attitude the same as the Jews in Nazi Germany until they realised what some of these “idiots” were actually prepared to do? It bothers me that it didn’t bother me.

Both the sending off and the anti-Jewish behaviour have added a nasty edge to the game, not a genuine threat but it’s a little harder to enjoy an away day when it’s a clock watching exercise and when even the authorities seem partisan and happy to let a social and legal injustice go by.

Oog debates the matter with me when half time comes, which no doubt will continue at the bottom of this page. I detest the greyness of this subject. When is it ok to say what? What are the laws of racism really trying to protect? What do these people really believe? Oog goes up to a policeman at the back of the stands and explains what’s been happening, who is responsible and exactly what the stewards haven’t been doing.

“What’s the sign for film?” asks Oog returning to his seat. I show him the charades sign and, with a some inexplicable mental bloke, takes about five goes to get it as right as he can.

“Why do you want to know?”

“The policeman back there’s got a video camera. I don’t think they’ll do anything but if that City fan that’s been doing it to me does it again, I want to shit him up.”

We cheer the Spurs as the take the ground again and pray that we don’t concede quickly. There’s little doubt that we couldn’t survive extra time but less of us getting that far if we ship a goal now. City are straight in the Tottenham half and it’s clear very soon that we’ll see little of the game at this end of the field. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on from this angle. Our formation looks strong, the shape good and there’s something else: we just don’t look panic. You can tell as a fan when there’s trouble ahead. Players tense up when there’s imminent danger, their movement changes, bodies seem erratic. We see City in possession, we see them pass it about but all we see is togetherness and calm in the Tottenham ranks. There’s just no point worrying for 45 minutes when you can’t see a thing. So, I let go little and trust in what I sense.

The blue shirts seem to find no way in. Every tackle we attempt is completed, every leg out is a block and we’re getting far too much possession for a team under the cosh. It’s the best defensive display I’ve seen all season. The confidence, the fitness, the team ethic that Ramos instilled has come together at just the right hour.

The clock at the far end counts the minutes down and as our faith and resolve strengthen with the passing of time, our boldness as fans is expressed.

“Eastlands, Eastlands, Tottenham Hotspur are going to Eastlands,” we try in reference to our Uefa Cup run that may end at this very ground in May next year. That seemed to feel good. We go again with the riskier,

“Wem-ber-ley, Wem-ber-ley, we’re the famous Tottenham Hotspur and we’re going to Wem-ber-ley” until it’s time for the all too often silenced,

“Spurs are on their way to Wembley, Tottenham’s going to do it again. They can’t stop them, the boys from Tottenham, they boys from White Hart Lane!” and still no equaliser comes. What shots we do see just look desperate from City as their long range efforts fly to row Z and mot probably out the roof were it Maine Road. Three times Robbo flies through the air twisting like cat to reach for the ball in a display of that keeper we bought, that one Man of the Season in his first for the club, the unstoppable blocker, the hero of the team.

“England’s No.1, England’s, England’s No.1,” we cry about the crowd and for the first time in weeks, nobody disagrees.

The City hardcore have become as desperate as their team and some start with the hissing again but not for long. The police descend in numbers and it’s something like bingo as they make for the very man with whom Oog was having trouble. A steward in front turns to Oog and says they mentioned something at half time. I can feel the pride being from my friend, unless it was mine reflecting from him. Not a word did he say to that City fan as he was taken away from the stands, not so much as eye contact did Oog descend to take. I marvel that this game, this match can show how one man can and cannot make a difference.

On the field City push further and further on. We gain more confidence, more possession and we begin to raid their half. It begins with the odd ball out to Dimitar the Great who holds the ball up against three blue shirts for as long as his skills will allow. His languid legs confuse and fool the defenders until their combined weight can finally push him off, but not always in time. He starts to get passes away, playing well as the lone striker. JJ and Steed start to support and suddenly that clock at the end is running a lot faster.

Hero of Fratton, Jamie O’Hara enters the fray with 20 to play. His muscley frame and turn of pace is a shock for the weary City players, pushed hard and desperate for that goal. With their spirits dropping he bashes his way through on the break and picks out Steed popped up in the middle. A touch, a drag, he’s round the defenders. We look down straight gobb-smacked that he’s yards out and one-on-one with keeper Hart. I can barely believe my eyes from this dreamlike angle in this dreamlike moment; no time to even consider if he can slot it. By the time I register just what is going on, we’re all on our tip-toes and looking straight down. He flicks with the outside of his right in an image that is still burnt on my mind and we explode with a game’s worth of pent up joy as we know that we’ve just made it through. 10 men, 10 minutes to go, a bundle of yellow shirts at our feet and thousands of grown men leaping about teenagers.

“10 men, we’ve only got 10 men, we’ve only got 10 men, we’ve only got 10 men, 10 men!” we sing to their very own Blue Moon and memories of a cup game a few years back come alive again , only with the studded boot very firmly on a Tottenham foot.

Berbatov so nearly make it three a few minutes later, no less than he deserved but it’s all a bonus from now on. By the time the whistle blows, theirs barely a City fan left and with Christmas round the corner and the frosty air around there’s only one song to chant as we jump about in the stands,

“Jingle-bells, jingle-bells, jingle all the way. Oh how fun it is to see Tottenham win away, Hey!”

Back out on the streets Oog and I text those who know and care, keeping low until we’re safely on the train out to meet Oog’s friends who look after us for the night. Outside Piccadilly station a bulldog-faced City in a sky blue Santa hat, hisses at passers by through dirty cheap fag hoping for a reaction, looking for a fight. We meet another City fan on the train - a nice old chap and we talk football of all the league along with a Man U supporting white-collar lad with a three or four beer look in his eye, a friendly demeanor and some excellent Wayne Rooney stories. Such two different sides of the city and two different sides of the City.

Oog and I decompress and debrief in the comfort, warmth and superb hospitality of Catriona and Simon in their Wilmslow, Cheshire pad - an enormous thank you to them for rounding off a perfect away day. There was beer to welcome us, highlights to watch on TV, tea and toast in the morning and even a lift back to the station. “Always open to the away fan,” was Simon’s welcoming reply on receiving our gratitude. I hope he means it. There’s a lot of Premiership clubs in that neck of the woods. If you want the number of the best B&B in town, give us a call but a small warning,

“Three beds, they’ve only got three beds, they’ve only got three beds, they’ve only got three beds. Three beds!”

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 19th, 2007 at 8:21 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.