Beef Bagel

“It’s 9.45am, we’ve got to leave in 15 minutes. Here’s a cup of tea.”

It’s a good wake-up. I can’t translate the sentiment into words in my brain, let alone open my open my gak-sealed mouth to deliver them, even if I could kick start my voice box into life; but it’s a very good wake-up for a man on sofa using a coat and a dog’s blanket for a duvet with only three hours of sleep under his belt.

I blink a few times and G walks away from my field of view. The cream coloured room is glowing gently yellow from the sunlight-warmed windows, just as it was when I last saw it. A scattering of half drunk beer cans litter the coffee table to my left at eye level. An army of empties stands over at the bar, tightly-packed covering a third of the varnished wood. I don’t need to look but I know the debris gets worse over by the pool table that completes this perfect games room, almost the size of the Bakery, in the house of my friend, Ash.

A few hours ago we’d been the last men standing - well sitting; slumped and twitching in come-down and shattered after a stroll into the first light of day with the last joint of the night. I swivelled and fell to the cushions as Ash went bed but the world paused and came crashing down with me a few seconds later. With each movement of my eyes my shrunken brain launched from one side of my cranium to the other, thumping against the hard, bone wall with a sickening crunch. “It’ll settle in a moment,” I thought, but moments later I was staggering across the room; my prize, the door to the kitchen, spinning in front of me seemingly acres and acres away. I scrabble for the door handle and rip it open with little regard for the sleeping house. I brace myself at the kitchen sink, my clammy hands gripping the cold stainless steel edges.

Bang, my brain smashes again and I roll my eyes as I feel it coming on, that old panic of knowing your body’s taken as much as it can, the flick of the switch in your mind, the reflex message for your diaphragm to pull like a rope around your guts, squeeze together everything moveable and hurl it upwards. Your mouth swells with a great whoosh as the contents of your stomach gush into your head. Your eyes widen as the foul soup of semi-digested forgotten snacks and ph1 stomach acid swill about your cheeks. I spit it out into the sink, eyes streaming, vision blurred and I wait for round two.

A deep belch from my guts spews even more of the caustic liquid up and out. The first was just a scout, this one’s more serious. I can’t see it but I know there’s more. I wipe the strings of salivary vomit that hang like treacle from my lips and rest my forehead on the granite work surface to catch my breath.

So much better; happy. There’s nothing like the relief of a good puke. The anticipation is gone, your body cleansed; whatever was inside that was causing your body the trouble has been expelled. The only way is up. I open my eyes again. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here. I may have dozed off for a minute or two. I look up carefully to the rest of the kitchen. It pauses for a second like an object at the apex of its flight before it slips and swings wildly out of control again. Smash goes my brain, wretch goes my stomach and the last pools of remaining chime drop into the sink with a splash. I gasp and brace myself again. Nothing. I wipe my eyes. The sink rocks and swirls beneath me. A griddle pan sits face up with the handle high at one end, vomit splatters in the middle and pools of orangey-red second-hand lamb rogan josh at the bottom. I rinse it away and, deciding enough is enough, brave the spins and make for the comfort of the sofa. Sleep; sleep; I could sleep anywhere right now and this sofa feels like a king size, double thick mattress; the dog blanket and coat like the most glorious duvet stuffed with do-do down. Sleep; sleep.

As I sip the precious, life-giving tea, the hot liquid washes away the taste in my mouth; beloved caffeine warms into my system and I get to my feet while the window of willing exists. I don’t feel good but I after 3 hours sleep, a couple of MDMA and speed mix bombs and more beers than I remember drinking for a long time, I could be doing a hell of a lot worse. Were there anything else on today, I’d be wracking as much of my brain as I could muster to untwine myself from my commitments, hatching plans to make good my escape; but when there’s a trip to WHL, a London derby and a friend’s first visit to N17 at hand, well, that’s a different matter.

The world floats by as I sit in the heavily reclined passenger seat of G’s warm car. The horizon arcs in front as we top a gentle hill. The carriageway snakes lazily into a fold in the hills many miles away underneath a shining panorama of silver-edged, back-lit clouds. It’s as if nature is trying to impress me but I remain unmoved by her try-hard efforts, her cheap tricks caught in a purgatory between the waking world and sleep. Time is as meaningless as the miles. They tick by as I catch unknown snatches of sleep; the difference between day-dream and true-dream indistinguishable.

We stop at an unknown service station on an unknown road. I rush for the toilets. The world seems horribly real and I exposed and helpless against it as I pass the twisted faces of travel-tired screaming children; electric make-up, lurid tracksuit teens and an AA man who gets all too close as he leans over like an arching tower to offer his insurance with creaking smile.

What didn’t make it out of my mouth at 7am is itching to work its way out the other way. Fighting to hold back the cramps, I back out of stall after stall repulsed by the state of the seats, porcelain and floor; puddles of yellowy piss, brown-scraped bowls, the smell of urinal cakes if I’m lucky, until I find a option that ticks all the boxes. Jeans at my feat, skin against commode, a quick look to make the final check - toilet paper - and I’m good to go. So much better.

Back to the safety of the car with a tiny doggy bag for my tiny stomach, the smallest Burger King offers complete with its smallest snack - a hamburger. I’m not even slightly hungry as I stuff the tasteless meal into my mouth. I know I need it. I know it’s good for me. The idea’s slightly repellent but I let my mind wander away from the bun like cardboard, the meat like a door matt, the sesame seeds like gravel in my teeth. I know it’s good for me. It contains the three most important thing for a recovering body: grease, salt and sugar. It’ll sit in my stomach for a good few hours of slow-release nutrition for my starved body. Just the ticket.

“That burger’s done you the world of good,” confirms G a few minutes later, “you’ve really perked up.” I’ll take his word for it. I imagine the Lane, 36,000 bodies bumping me about, high energy, high tension. To say it’s appealing is still a while off the picture’s getting better by the hour.

We arrive at the Bakery by 1pm to pick up my ticket - it was a rookie move to not have it with me already - and we rest a wile before catching the WHL Express. My excitement grows as the stations tick by, every stop raises my spirits each piece of Tottenham chit-chat between G and I like appetisers before a grand meal.

“Do you want swap seats?” I ask G, feeling slightly silly as I offer up the view before the Lane hoves into sight.

“Er..yeah,” answers G, feeling just as silly in excitement. It’ll be the first time his eyes have seen the beauty of WHL. I watch them scan the horizon, flicking between high rise and low trying to get a peak of what I’ve seen so many times now. Wider and wider they grow until suddenly they stop still. I know what he’s seen; the top of the West Stand sits high above the rest of Tottenham. The floodlights break the cloud in the sky. The blue and white girders zig-zag the roof tops of the other stands in what is unmistakably a Premiership football stadium, but best of all the solid brass cockerel sits foot-lit and proud against the London landscape - the most beautiful sight for miles.

We walk through the turnstiles at our block for the day in the South-East corner, and, with five minutes to kick off, climb the steps to the stands. I know what waits at the top. I remember what it’s like to climb those steps for the fist time with the real heart of the Lane hidden behind a white-washed wall until you reach the top and the home of the Spurs opens up in front of you with all of it’s colour and sound hitting you in one big wave. You only get your first time once.

Even at WHL, I’m a little nervy about finding the right seats but it all seems very clear as we find our places on the very edge of the Shelf between the East stand and the hardcore of the Park Lane. The angle on the away fans is strange but you can tell the Hammers have packed it out. Fists in the air, they sing there bubbles song as they unfurl a huge claret and blue silk flat from their top tier balcony, claiming their corner of North London.

“Chim-chimeney, chim-chimeney, chim-chim, cheru,

We hate those bastards in claret and blue!”

We sing our welcome to the set of fans that probably hate us more than anyone else. I never used to have a problem with their club until I started coming to regular football. I was always far more concerned with the scums of the north and the west but perhaps only Chelsea can compare with the amount of raw hate that usually comes from the away section on derby days. Today seems a little different though. So close in to the Park Lane faithful it’s hard to feel anything but Tottenham pride shining through.

The game kicks off and I leap as bang splits our from just metres behind me and I turn around to see Danny the Drum beating out a rhythm with his rolling pin from his vantage point in the crow’s nest - the drum’s nest.

“Bang, bang, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang-bang,” he asks.

“Tottenham!” comes the reply from all in the ground and I look to G to watch him grin at the sound the White Hart Choir.

West Ham are a tricky team on paper with a host of seasoned campaigners from other clubs in their ranks and quickly the likes of Boa Morte and Ljunberg pick up the pace of the first attack at the far end which forces the flying yellow body of Robbo into a save to the applauds of the Paxton end. I’m hoping this isn’t a sign of how the game is going to go. I know these things have to settle but this lot will have a field day against a twice-losing Spurs if they catch an early goal and I’d hate to see a West Ham party in White Hart Lane.

We begin to take the ball under control the minute it meets the feet of Tom Huddlestone. His cool head and accurate passing make a different midfielder to replace the athletic, tireless JJ but an effective weapon nonetheless. He starts to knock the passes to the wingers and full-backs, short at first but growing in length and audacity as he finds his confidence with each completion.

The visitors realise the danger and their forwards drop back to defend at the flanks as Hutton and Chimbonda advance. Ljunberg hacks in to stop the cross and makes the foul to the delight of our fans who sing him the chimes:

“Gay-boy, gay-boy,

Gay-boy, gay-boy.”

I can’t help smile and G titters a laugh to himself having never heard the song reserved for Ashley Cole and Freddie. How could a footballer ever come out when crowds are so clearly homophobic?

Big Bad Tom stands over the ball with his shoulders hunched, head down, feet a step apart. He heaves a short breath and kicks. The ball sails in at a perfect angle to our eyes. It arcs away from goal and right into the crowd which lies waiting until the first body in pure Lilywhite rises a seeming foot higher than anyone else and Dimitar Berbatov’s header rolls neatly into the corner of the net.

G and I turn to each other in disbelief for a second as if neither is sure that we can have scored so early but confirmation is made loud and clear by the sounds of cheers and the sight of pumping fists all about us.

“Who are ya?

Who are ya?

Who are ya?” we sing as cohorts of hands below us in the Park Lane lash back and fourth casting insults straight down to the West Ham fans who stand gutted and motionless.

“Where’s ya fuckin’

Where’s ya fuckin’

Where’s ya fuckin’ flag gone now?

Where’s ya fuckin’ flag gone now?” we cry as we continue to berate our guests.

The game, it appears, has settled very quickly with us the only team playing football and West Ham reduced to kicking our men about the ankles in frustration. You can see they know they should be better. These are not bad players, but players playing badly, unorganised, without a plan.

Minutes later, only this time on our side, the Hammers’ hack and slash gifts us another free kick with Anton Ferdinand the culprit this time.

“You’re just a cunt like your brother,” we sing to Guantanamera. Thankfully, not quite like his brother; he’s a more useless kind of cunt, the kind of cunt who offers one of the best strikers in the league a free header and then concedes another free-kick and does exactly the same. The same delivery comes in and Berbatov finds the net again.

G and I are ready this time and we bounce around with our cheers, doing the Yiddo Dance:

“Yiddo, yiddo, yiddo, yiddo, yiddo,” we sing in a tune that has no likeness.

The players crowd the smiling Berbatov in the corner below us. They hang off his frame like Jesus in a crowd, adored and anointed by his followers.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov” we cry as we hit the top notes of our 36,000-strong aria. The sound bounces off the roof and echoes for second or two after the final notes have been sung. I watch our No.9’s back and wonder what it must feel like to hear your name like that. It must be impossible not to swell with pride, that unsurpressable smile like walking out into an airport arrivals lounge with all the smiling faces staring back.

“2-0 in your cup final,

2-0 in your cup final,

2-0 in your cup final,

2-0 in your cup final,” we sing again, altering the words from Go West.

Not 15 minutes gone and you can already tell that West Ham are chalking this one down to another bad performance are waiting for the game to end. The boys in white pass it about from one to the other as the Hammers scamper about trying to get the ball off a team in no particular hurry. Our cheers for each completed pass frustrate them even more they continue to kick and to foul in their efforts to win possession.

We cruise and we mock until just before the half time whistle as Luis Boa Morte crunches in to take out Little Aaron Lennon on his weaving journey to the box. Once a pace man himself, the West Ham wingers annoyance is doubled in the admission that neither his team nor his speed are up the task. West Ham are looking like a team of has-beens, a collection of bigger club journeyman mal-teaching some interesting looking youngsters.

The referee runs over to the spot in front of the away corner and excitement of the crowd jumps as we all know this will be Boa Morte’s second yellow card. The challenge was bad and it’s bye-bye Boa as the official waves the colour of card that’s harder to see from a distance but all the more obvious by reaction. The arms of the Park Lane army wave in unison once again and this time in goodbyes as we sing loud and laughing,

“Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio,

Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio-o,” to the tune of ‘ere we go. The last ‘cheerio’ brings loud giggles to the crowd. Ten men to play, two goals up and 45 left, it’s easy street at the Lane - well, at least most people seem to think so but I know a man who thinks like me and my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, repeats my thoughts up at the Bagel Wagon at half time.

“Man City in the FA Cup, we’ve seen it happen before.” I think that game will live with us for as long as we survive. Thank God it was only City. If it were West Ham it’d be unbearable.

As the second half kicks off, the crowd are as casual as the players. It looks like the orders have gone in to kill the game off but that doesn’t seem like Ramos’s style. The Spurs knock it about with no sense of urgency at all and after 20 minutes the more intereseted Hammers see a chance. They push and they press with the energy, pace and desire of a team with a chance. A two goal cushion is a match winner, but knock that lead down to one and the nerves of the leading side will bend and often buckle with worries on their shoulders and fear in their hearts. Our fans provide little support. Even Danny the Drum has ceased his work with only patches of the crowd responding to his call.

The West Ham players begin to turn the screw venturing further and further forward until we call on the likes of Dawson and Mr Fantastic, Jonathon Woodgate to clear our lines. Woody patrols the field barrel chest on spindly legs - small wonder he picks up injuries - like a natural leader lending confidence wherever he strides. His strength and composure, his skill and ability are Tottenham through and through: substance is nothing without style.

Eventually the fans wake up and the players with us. We shout as we concede corners. We yell as we fail to push up after the set pieces and slowly the game gathers speed again.

Juande brings on Gilberto, the villain of PSV, to replace Malbranque in the midfield and regrettably Darren Bent is brought on in place of Keano. For the rest of the encounter the action switches to the far end of the pitch, no matter who Curbishley brings on to stop the rot. He’s been out-thought and out-played once again.

The game springs back to life one again as the third goes in. From a distance we see once of our players stop the ball at his feet inside the corner of the area for a split second before he swivels in an instance and fires low and hard past Rob Green. It’s only as the cheering dies down that I realise who it was. Two appearances and one goal, that’s a record any striker would be proud of, let alone Gilberto the full-back as he makes amends for his first showing. It’s hard to tell how he’s been on the ball up until then, but one thing’s for certain, he’s got no issue with shooting.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning,” we sing to ‘Curbs’ and quickly back to our team with “We want four” to complete our splendid day out.

Five minutes on the clock, not that anyone’s really looking at it, and nobody seriously thinks we’ll do it. Three nil and a clean sheet is quite enough and with Bent on the pitch, there’s no way we’ll….SHIT, and G and I turn again in the same delight and surprise.

“4-0!” he shouts on the spin, “ha-ha 4-0,” and nobody’s even paying attention to the match or even the whistle when it blows. We’re far to busy chanting “You always lose 4-0″ to the remaining West Ham fans and “We can see you sneaking out” and more “Cheerios” to the others. It’s been a gala, showpiece of a game at WHL and I’m thrilled my talismanic friend got to see this as his first. Time for a season ticket, G.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 11th, 2008 at 6:06 am 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.