Beef Bagel

“Pardon, ou est ca?”

The 50-year-old Anderlecht steward with the kind of face you expect to see advertising Stella Artois turns to me slowly shaking his and rolling his eyes making the international symbol for “Forget it mate.” He pushes my ticketed hand away. I look down at my seat number and then back up packed crowd of the block I’m in. The Anderlecht hardcore have packed out their home in Block P. The aisles are stacked with bodies like the tube at rush hour. Each seat is stood upon by at least one fan, all of whom are in club colours, and even if I could work my way to any of them, they’re all complete with an oval groove in the orange plastic where the number has been removed. It’s a classic Euro free-for-all and myself and my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, have turned up late to a party we’re not exactly welcome guests.

If we did announce our allegiances with a clear plummy call of “Do you mind but I think you’re in my seat” or “Does anyone hear speak English?” then I’m sure we’d be the guests of honour. Yes, the screaming, head-shaven Brussels ultras would doubtless welcome us with open flick-knives and carry us high upon their shoulders before impaling our bodies onto the spikes of the top of the cage which keeps the rest of the ground safe from Block P and its inhabitants.

Charlie and I share a nervous sideways glance. Never have I felt so conspicuous not wearing a football shirt. We squeeze our way to the very front, right up against the cage and a good few metres from the front row of Anderlecht fans standing back further and higher for a better vantage. With our backs to the Belgians we’re safe to speak and even pervert whatever songs they sing to suit our lyrics as well as join in with the Tottenham faithful to our left. I yearn for my Tottenham brothers across the block-wide no-man’s land of girders and fences while insults and war-cries fly back and forth like shells and mortars.

This feels like the most proper European fixture I’ve ever witnessed. It’s how I always imagined it would be. Night time; the steep-sided, wire-caged, passion-crazed fans; each set trying to prove itself harder than the other, each team with better football, each club with a greater name and every kick of the game adding bar by bar to the pressure cooker atmosphere - the closest I’ve been to the pre-Heysel games of the early 80s.

Anytime we’re on the ball whistle rain down from both tiers screeching at the Lilywhite players. How dare they come to take possession? And God forbid any should go to ground, whether as the tackler or the victim, or the outrage of the crowd will sound like a stone wall penalty has just been refused.

A new chorus erupts from behind us every two minutes of a familiar football song and each of them in English, not for out benefit. These are clearly the apings of the English clubs from many years ago.

“Oh when the Mauves,

Go marching in,

Oh when the Mauves go marching in!”

Start the crowd in Block P and within seconds the whole stadium is alight to the same song with naturally myself and Charlie replacing “Spurs” with “Mauves”. The fans at the far end are bouncing up and down in time in that way that English clubs never do and ought.

Our view of the action is laughable. At pitch level and with two sets of meshes impeding a clear look at the pitch, we can only guess as to what is going on from the noise of the rest of the crowd. We’re happy to make suitable noises along with our fellow blockmates only for different reasons. When one of their attacks breaks down they applaud the vision of their forwards while we applaud the strength of our defence. When we get close to scoring we rue the missed chance as they shake their heads at their near slip up. It seems to be working pretty well until it dawns on me. I turn to my in hushed English:

“Charlie, I can handle holding down out celebrations if we get a goal but what are we going to do if they score?”

He looks ahead, his wide eyes locked on the pitch as the terror flashes across his face.

“Yeah, I’ll take a draw right now,” and as the whistle blows we know we’re half way to safety.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I smile as I read the message from Jimmy Nice (nee No Beard) reads:

“I’m in. Got a ticket. In Block P as well. Where are you?”

He find us down at by the cage eyes like saucers and chuffing hard on a fag for security and under the safety of a souvenir mauve and white Anderlecht scarf.

“Bloody hell, this is a bit heavy,” he says as we can’t help but crack sniggers and smiles as if we were already looking back on a situation that is for now very much alive.

“Some bloke sold me a ticket after I bought the scarf,” he explains. “He asked me if I was sure I wanted it. He let me have it, shook his head and said ‘For God sake, keep your voice down.’”

The boos of the crowd tells us that our team has taken the field and we brace ourselves for God knows what as the ultras return to the block. Bodies forward, eyes to the front once again; we can only imagine the faces the fans behind us but somehow I’ve a feeling the reality is far more frightening. I look over to a steward in the corner. I consider pretending to be a lost tourist who’s made a mistake. “Please sir, there seems to have been a mix up and I’m in the wrong end. Do you think you could escort me over to the away section?” My actions are disuaded by Charlie and rightly so when 20 minutes later we see some Spurs in another stand being escorted outside of the stadium altogether.

Instead we watch as the pressure from the Mauves hots up until finally our nightmare comes true. The whole stadium rises up in front of my eyes, Robbo dives and the fans at the far end throw their hands up high.

A noise explodes from behind. We brace ourselves. One second. Two seconds. Still we daren’t turn round. Three seconds and then it hits. The Anderlecht fans run down amongst us and throw themselves at the cage, climbing up with no attempt to make it over but just to jeer at the Spurs to their left and to celebrate with their two colourless comrades and the scarf wearer with them. We we hop and gesture and pull empty expressions caught between our anger and senses of self-preservation. It comes off more like three men looking awkward on the dance floor than anything that belongs in football.

A steward pushes the Anderlecht fans down from the cage from the other side and we retreat to a safe corner until the crowd dies down. Within minutes, through, the tables are turned as what we were convinced was Berbatov until we got back to England, is felled not 10 metres away from us to the joy of the jumping Spurs as the referee blows his whistle and points to the spot. The hardcore behind us run forwards again in pointless remonstrations of injustice. We shake our heads as well. “No way, and we’ve just taken out penalty taker, Keano, off the pitch,” is our justification for the same emotion.

The stadium is filled with whistles and boos until Dimi slots the ball in a shot that for a second I was convinced was saved. The away fans go made and the three of use share cheeky smiles and punch the insides of our pockets rather than the air.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!” comes the call from the Yiddos, so tempting to our ears with its beautifully operatic and joyous cry.

Instead we continue to hold it down and continue to pervert the Anderlecht chanting.

Clap, Clap, Clap-Clap-Clap, Clap-Clap-Clap-Clap “Steve Jobs!” they seem to shout, and not having anything against the AppleMac pioneer we decide to join in. It’s only after a few rounds we reliase it’s Frutos for whom they sing. No matter. We smile and continue with Steve Jobs, until we move on to Tin Tin and then Poirot and finally start replacing the words of their “Here we go, he we go, here we go” song with “Moules et frites, moules et frites, moules et frites.”

As the four minutes of added time are announced we begin to shit it, almost as much for a late Spurs winner as an awful Anderlecht eventuality, but sure enough the clock runs down and we leave with secret smiles amongst the head-hung Belgians, the songs of the penned-in Tottenham fans ringing in our ears - another successful away day, if a little unorthodox.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 7th, 2007 at 9:30 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.