FA Cup 97/98

What’s that Crowded House song about ‘four seasons in one day?’ At half past two we had a hurricane, plus the bonus of sleet. At three o’clock we were moaning because we had the sun in our eyes and by four we had all frozen solid. Couple this with having to sit in a freezing puddle for a couple of hours and you have a fair approximation of the day. At least when you were allowed to stand you could stamp your feet to keep warm. Calling Grimandi a ‘arsehole’ at the top of your voice doesn’t really cut it in the keeping warm stakes. Enough of the Suzanne Charlton piffle, what about the Bobby Charlton stuff? Well, it really was ‘four seasons in one day’, predominantly 1975, 1976, 1983 and 1984; you know, ‘Arsenal The Wilderness Years’, when we were seriously shite.

If I tell you it was midway through the second half before we had a shot on target, (a clever poke from substitute, Stephen Hughes) then you’ll have a pretty good idea why the weather was the most interesting thing happening. It doesn’t say much for a team when clouds move faster than your forwards. Not until the last fifteen minutes when Wreah and Boa Morte came on was there any movement off the ball at all. And then typical Arsenal, there was that mad five minutes at the end when the full horror of having to go to Vale Park on Tuesday week finally dawned on them.

It was a horrible underachieving performance. The only bright spots being a stalwart Steve Bould, a gutsy Ray Parlour and a one man show from Marc Overmars, who obviously liked the weather. Grimandi, deputising for the groinally challenged Lee Dixon certainly did everything to live up to the first syllable of his name. God, he was awful. Obviously, he got a set of sprinkler attachments for Christmas. Why he insisted on wearing them on the front of his boots is beyond me. I’ve never seen so many balls come off a pair of feet at such weird angles in my life. A couple of games like that Gilles and you’ll be keeping Remi Garde company in the Old Frogs Home. Anelka continues to go backwards. Back to the reserves would suit me.

Port Vale? Not brilliant, but it was embarrassing the way they caught us on the break. At the end they were hanging on by their fingertips or boot tips if you count the one they kicked off the line.

A portion of the crowd booed the Arse off at the end, I thought that was a bit unfair. I’ll reserve judgement until Tuesday week. Remember, there’s the Hammers and Leeds before that.

Which brings us to the quiz of the week. I know it’s a bit parochial, but where the hell is Port Vale? You wouldn’t believe some of the places the people who sit around me think it is. One of my mates reckons that the best way to find Port Vale is to ask a cabby to take you there. If he says no, then it must be south of the river. And he’s got a geography ‘o’ level.

Man of the match: Marc Overmars (At last!)

14.1.98

Port Vale 1 Arsenal 1 (Arsenal win on penalties)

Watching this in a pub full of Spurs, Chelsea and quite unbelievably, Sunderland supporters, was not a lot of fun. Add this motley crew to the two blokes I went with, one a fanatical Forest supporter, the other a kind of floaty West Ham fan and you could see that it was a sort of ‘backs against the wall night’. Which was quite apt, as the Arsenal played it exactly the same way.

If you had just run down the ramp of a flying saucer that afternoon and this was your first ever footy game you’d have been hard pressed to spot the premiere league team. Bags of what the commentators have named ‘honest endeavour’ but what we call at Highbury ‘the same old cack’, this really was a game that was there to be endured.

Anyone with an ounce of brain could see that the way to beat the Vale was to go wide, run down the wings and terrorise their centre backs who looked as mobile as your average bungalow. Oh, no, Arsenal tried to pick their way through the sticky midlands minefield and invariably they looked surprised when the whole thing contrived to blow up in their faces. Crap tactics, Wenger. Consequently, Arsenal made the First Division side look a whole lot better than they deserved.

The team as a whole struggled to qualify as average, with only Overmars, Keown and Parlour looking like they had ever seen a premiership game, let alone actually played in one.

Of course it went to extra time. Here we were in really percentage play territory. If ever any difference in class and distinction was going to tell, then this would be where it happened. Bergkamp’s goal just did that. It was a beautiful lift and curl that he dug out of the ground and curved over the goalkeeper with the barest hint of any back lift on his foot. A goal from a world cup final not a third round tie in some drizzly part of the midlands. Get hold of a tape of that one. Marvellous.

Actually, their equaliser, deep in extra time, wasn’t that bad. They definitely deserved it.

So penalties. Really, you had to fancy the Gunner’s chances. Despite Dixon making a complete ricket of his poke, it all came down to Spunky going once more into the breech. This really is his arena. All their penalties had a jittery quality to them; someone called ‘Bogie’ had his effort saved, then one of their lads, obviously a Waddle fan, sent the ball through the Van Allen Belt and that was it. (Incidentally, Port Vale had two players called ‘Bogie and ‘Doyle’ playing in the first team. Very professional.)

A necessary but unsatisfying match, (a lot like the kebab I had on the way home) but it does set up a killer 4th rounder against the Merse.

Man of the Match: Marc Overmars.

24.1.98

Middlesbrough 1 Arsenal 2

Well, I’m glad Merson scored. He latched on to a long ball in the second half, made a bit of a dummy of Manninger, went around the ‘keeper and slotted it into an empty net. Classic Merse goal. It’s no surprise that Merson looks the best player in the Nationwide League. (Mind you, I’ve seen alsations on Highbury Fields with better ball control than first division players). Certainly, for long periods of the game, every time he went near the ball, I had to stop myself jumping up and cheering. Blimey, do I miss him. To me, Wenger offing him is tantamount to a war crime. Four and a half million quid? That wouldn’t keep David Dein in Chardonnay for a week. And what exactly has Wenger done with the four and a half million ackers that he got for The Merse? Zip. Whatever Wenger does in the future, he’ll be forever judged by that decision.

It’s probably time to get off the Merse hobbyhorse and talk about the rest of the donkeys. Quite simply, Brian (no longer ‘man of the match’ now ‘manager of the month’) Robson cocked this one up big-time. Deluded into believing that he manages Man Utd, rather than eleven walking billboards for Cellnet, he decided to rest half of his best players on the bench and give his kids a run out. Quite simply, the Arsenal tore them apart in the first half. Well, let’s be kind, the first minute. Bergkamp, obviously knobbed off at having to go to Vale Park, decided to finish this one quick and put a splendid ball through to an accelerating Overmars, who left the non-mobile mobile phone advertisers standing, ran into the area and smacked it past Schwartzer. 1-0. Less than a minute gone; most people were still trying to drink microwaved Bovril and ram that dubious sausage in a bun down their craws. After that ‘Boro unravelled like a badly knitted Christmas jumper. Arsenal, ever profligate, wasted chance after chance. Anelka, in particular, gave a stunning exhibition in the general vicinity of every barn door presented to him. Wasteful, wasteful. Just as I was building up a good head of steam about Anelka’s general uselessness, he put a stunning ball through to Ray Parlour, who without stopping to hit the ball off someone’s arse or head, clipped it past the goalkeeper for one of the best Ray Parlour goals ever. 2-0.

After that Arsenal resumed their bombing raids and it stayed that way until the second half when Robson realised that 28,000 odd people were laughing their socks off at his attempt at tactical acumen. The second half was better. Manninger grew in confidence and made a couple of great saves. The newly hydrolysed Tony Adams looked solid and Dennis Bergkamp was just wonderful. If anyone picked apart Middlesbrough, it was him. Merson scored his richly deserved consolation goal and I hope it gave Wenger pause for thought.

So, Arsenal are through to the last 16; Chelsea on Wednesday and Southampton fresh from beating Moan Utd, next Saturday. It’s beginning to look interesting again.

Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.

15.2.98

Arsenal 0 Crystal Palace 0

How was the match? Well, let’s put it this way. When I’m on my last legs, wired up to the beepy machines, my colostomy bag overflowing, my brain turned into a sponge by all those crappy beefburgers at Highbury, then this is the last match I want to remember. What can you say about Palace? How about, no corners, no shots on target, no shots of any description. In fact, a complete vacuum masquerading as a team. Ten defenders and Thomas Brolin. Brolin, with his podgy frame, his flowing blonde locks and petulant underbite gave us all a shock when he waddled out of the tunnel. Someone near me said, "fucking hell, they’ve got Sharon from Eastenders playing upfront."

Arsenal struggled manfully against a team that obviously thinks that ‘soccer’ is something that Ryan Giggs does to his girlfriends. There was nothing on show today to convince me that Palace aren’t fit to be on the same planet as Barnsley or Bolton, let alone the same league. My, they even made Southampton look good. They were that bad. Overmars, Hughes, Parlour even Anelka gave it good go, but it was useless. Palace fans will no doubt see this as a ‘disciplined’ performance. Perhaps, they’ll be the first team to win the FA purely on penalties. Might be worth a few bob down the bookies.

The problem with the Gunners was purely down to the absence of Adams. Bould was the lone centre back. Grimandi played wide and Dixon had this weird ‘roving ambassador role’ that basically involved him making these strange diagonal runs that made him look like a feeding pigeon. Consequently, Petit had to run all over the park, covering absolute acres just to keep anyone fed with passes, through balls and hair tips. Interesting geometry, but a pig of a game to watch.

Palace, like some valiumed up agoraphobic housewife only really ventured up the field once, hovered gingerly around the Arsenal penalty area and nearly had their legs broken by a ‘take no prisoners’ Alex Manninger tackle. He got booked, they screamed penalty. Who gives a stuff? Obviously they fluffed the ensuing free kick, (Dyer by name, dire by nature.) We should have had a penalty too in the second half and didn’t get it, so that bit of karma perfectly balances out, I reckon.

By the end we were praying for release. Marvellous. Palace next Saturday, Palace Wednesday week. It’s like being back at school and getting detention.

Man of the Match: Emmanuel Petit.

25.2.98

Crystal Palace 1 Arsenal 2

Well thank God Dennis Bergkamp managed to shake off that nasty virus that had been dogging him for the last couple of weeks. But that’s enough of Crystal Palace, what about the Gunners then? Well, if you stopped at any of Selhurst’s extensive catering facilities for a cup of warm drain water or a melted Wagon Wheel before the game, then you would have missed the first goal. Within the first minute Bergkamp lofted a ball almost from the halfway line and Anelka ran on to it. He took a defender with him, poked the ball onto the post and they kind of both ran it in together. Scruffy old thing it was.

This was probably the best of the Gunners encounters with the team of the eighties, which isn’t really saying much. Dixon produced one splendid moment when he shot from about forty yards out and hit the top of the crossbar. Later, Palace had Dale Gordon sent off, which we thought was a bit harsh. We know Anelka was through on goal, but let’s be fair, the chances of him scoring were somewhere in the same league as a Dalek singing in the Royal Albert Hall. The ensuing free kick was a wicked Bergkamp rap that bounced off a Palace player’s bonce and sailed into the goal. Well, I suppose you make your own flukes.

Their goal was a sad bundle that could have come off anyone. Later, Overmars, fresh off a plane from Florida came on for Bergkamp, and spent the rest of the game using the Palace goal for target practice. I wish I looked that sharp when I get jet lag.

Palace looked dead. If they were a dog you’d lay them down with their favourite squeaky toy and ask the man in the white coat to give them a painless injection to ease them into the next world. Shame, really, I felt sorry for them.

A funny night, full of funny goals. In fact the only really satisfying thing was Man Utd losing to Barnsley. Oh, and the Wagon Wheels.

Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.

7.3.98

Arsenal 1 West Ham 1

What’s the difference between Harry Redknapp and Arsene Wenger? Well, Harry understands that strategy is making the most of the components you have, arranging them in a beneficial pattern and then have them work as a unit to achieve a plan. Wenger, it appears, thinks that strategy is a suburb of Strasbourg.

West Ham arrived at Highbury ground down to the bone. Their injury list forced them to play a certain way: a strong midfield spine comprising of Moncur, Lomas and Lampard with Berkovic as a roaming playmaker. Simple really. All the gunners had to do was break them down; go over them or around them. But Arsenal are all one paced now; keep hitting that wall with your head until something gives. Completely pointless. Wenger always picks his best side, but rarely varies the pace.

The first five minutes were the best. A scorching Bergkamp free kick tested Lama and Tone fluffed an open goal by trying to volley a ball with both feet at once. Remarkable. After that it was back to how many swine you could thread through the pearl necklace of the Irons midfield. Small children learn that if you keep doing something and it doesn’t work then you try a different approach. The only people who exhibit the same monotonous behaviour again and again are the mentally ill and, it seems, professional footballers, particularly the Arsenal. Fucking dreary, I’d call it. Bergkamp tried, but no one wanted to play ball. Keown was superb and Manninger made one stunning save smothering a ball down by the roots of the post that Seaman would have only seen on a video the day after. Anelka wandered around like some freshly dead bloke in a George Romero film and Lee Dixon played like a woodwork teacher filling in for the sick P.E. master. Horrible.

Their goal was an undeserved half hit bit of bad marking, whilst Arsenal had to make do with a Bergkamp converted penalty. And who got the penalty? Martin Keown, the well known ball playing, attacking striker. You didn’t see Anelka from one hour to the next. They’ll be putting wanted posters up at Highbury next. He’s like the bleedin’ Scarlet Pimpernel.

This was not encouraging. This was nearly a full strength side. Unfortunately it looked more like a full strength Tottenham side than an Arsenal one.

On the final whistle, Vieira hit Moncur and guess what? He only missed. Typical.

Man of the Match: Martin Keown.

Postscript: West Ham, those defenders of footballing tradition (‘no executive boxes at Upton Park’) have deemed that if you want to go to their shithole of a ground then you’ll have to cough up £24.00. That’s three quid dearer than Chelsea. I think the pub beckons.

17.3.98

West Ham 1 Arsenal 1 (Gunners win on penalties)

Having eschewed the dubious pleasure of bunging the Hammers twenty four quid to sit in their MFI ground, it was with great pleasure that the aforementioned quids were traded in for a long line of pints at what was fast becoming our second home; namely the Gunners in Blackstock Road. Once again the pub was full of swaying, craning people, all making more noise than they ever did inside Highbury. Amid growing rumours of the Arsenal moving permanently to Wembley it was somewhat ironic that here, tonight, they were busting a gut to get there, when really, all they had to do was sit tight and wait for the removal van to turn up.

West Ham, apart from the perennially injured Kitson, appeared to have a near full strength side. Hartson, who is looking just a wee bit lardy, led their front line, partnered, somewhat eccentrically, by the whirling, uncoordinated, all arms and legs machine, Abou. Wenger, meanwhile had opted for Anelka, who at last appears to be exhibiting signs of actually waking up. For the first quarter of an hour there wasn’t much in it. Arsenal contained anything the Hammers threw at them and still managed to form a few half chances. Of course, nothing is ever simple with the Arsenal; they’re absolutely incapable of playing any match that doesn’t have ‘incident’ stamped all over it. Well, it was very straightforward. Lomas was trying to get Bergkamp to swap shirts before the game ended so Den just tonked him. Straight elbow across the nose. Drew blood too. Very impressive. Footballers are no different from anyone else. Everybody cracks sometimes. I just wish that I could smack someone across the mush without the pleasure of ending up in court. The referee had no choice. A big red one was shown and Dennis got to bathe his bits in the communal bath two hours before anyone else. There were other dirty bits later on; Keown put his hands around Abou’s throat. Abou then turned around and nutted Big Mart. Also, Vieira, kicked Moncur up the arse. You know, little things, but it kept it entertaining.

Ten men. No Bergkamp and hours to go. West Ham piled on the pressure and Arsenal ‘stood large’ as that idiot Andy Grey kept on saying. Of course, with all that West Ham pressure, it was inevitable that the team to score would be the Gunners. Vieira received the ball upfield and surrounded by Hammers he tricked it through a troupe of dancing legs to Anelka who blasted it out of the pack with a low, hard shot that just had a bit of dip on it. The best Anelka goal yet.

That was the first half. The second half was all West Ham. They played well, lots of accuracy and fire. But Arsenal were just pure unadulterated class. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a genuinely exciting defensive performance and this one was breathtaking. Keown, Adams, Dixon, Winterburn and the jaw dropping Manninger played like something out of Roy of the Rovers.

Their goal, a textbook piece of terrier persistence from John Hartson, was lucky to fool Manninger with its near post twist. But it did set up extra time and what we all knew to be the inevitable penalty shoot out. No one knew how Manninger would fare against the deadball situation; most of his fine saves have been beautiful pieces of instinct. So, with one hand holding the dregs of a pint and the another spread over the eyes in mock horror we craned to see the bloody climax. Most of the penalties were a bit shit. Garde’s wide bloomer must have had the pigeons of Barking shitting themselves. Hartson missed again and Berkovic had his rather good effort superbly blocked by a Manninger extended hand. All square after five and Adams stepped up for the sudden death bit. The newspapers the next day were very rude about his effort, but we thought it was great: an under powered punt in a dead straight line. Of course, Lama moved. If he had stayed still, it would have hit him and he would have saved it. Having already had my heart pump about four million gallons of blood during the final moments of the United game, I could feeling the veins flexing dangerously as Abou lopped up to the spot. It’s funny, but we all knew he’d miss it. Something about his run up, his body language or simply that he’s a bit shit. Hit the post. Huge explosion. Beer everywhere. Women kissing everybody, including that aromatic bloke who sits in the corner of every pub in the UK wearing all his clothes at once. Fabulous. A semi against Wolves. Wembley in May a week after we’ve won the league. It’s all there. Glory. The Double. Tone grabbing the pot from the Duchess of Kent. Yeah.

Coming down from the orbit of Planet Football for a moment and the reality is probably going to be a lot more mundane and disappointing. Still, I bet Spurs would like to be at the other end of Seven Sisters road at the moment, don’t you think?

Man of the Match: Martin Keown.

5.4.98

Semi Final

Wolverhampton Wanderers 0 Arsenal 1

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Villa Park. They’ve done a bit of rebuilding, a lot of tarting up and generally what’s left is one of the better league grounds. Ensconced in the upper tiers of the imposing Holte End, away from the speeding weather fronts of rain and wind, we had a view of the pitch that made it look like a postage stamp in perspective. I’ve never been that high without a stewardess. After nearly four hours of motorway and driving rain we were ready for a day to remember. The place was packed with red, white, orange and black. Every Wolves fan seemed to have brought a balloon and an orange wig with him, whilst the Arsenal boys, intent on seeing the job done, then playing later, kept the props down to scarves, flags and Sainsbury’s carrier bags full of Sunday papers and inedible sandwiches. Practical bunch, ain’t we?

The first buzz that went around the ground was that Overmars was playing. Pumped full of cortisone, he gingerly ran onto the pitch to a roar that made my ears hurt. Wreh and Anelka carried on up front, that being more a necessity than a tactical masterstroke, considering the absence of Wright and Bergkamp. The midfield, Parlour, Vieira, Petit and Overmars was fine, but it was a bit worrying to see Grimandi at right back. Not a lot of choice there, I admit. The Wolves’s manager, Mark McGee, likewise wasn’t that impressed with Grimandi, because he stuck a player out on the extreme left for most of the game; somewhere between a winger and a ball boy.

Wolves began strongly. Don Goodman, the Mungo Jerry lookalike was causing all sorts of havoc. Running diagonally through the middle he frequently found his wide mate on the left, who tested and hammered at Grimandi time and time again. Arsenal looked jittery, seemingly ill at ease with the extra width of Villa Park. After about twelve minutes, with Arsenal supporters still filing into the ground, Segers in the Wolves goal punted a crap clearance past a dozy Steve Sedgley, straight to Vieira. The black mantis controlled it, walked it through the middle of the Wolves defence and slid it across to Christopher Wreh. The Liberian took it cleanly, moved slightly for a better position and sent a cutting ball past Segers. I never even saw the ball go in. There was a concussive roar and 15,000 Gooners leapt skyward; coins jumped out of pockets, packed lunches were squashed and small children made even smaller. Amazing. A big pile of Arsenal players were bundled on top of Vieira and Wreh was doing backflips and supplying all those Sun sub editors with headlines like ‘We’re on our Wreh to Wembley.’

Of course being ungrateful Arsenal supporters we all thought that we had scored too early. There were still 78 minutes left.

For the rest of the first half Arsenal grew in stature. They coped well with an annoying Wolves midfield, a freezing torrential downpour and an idiosyncratic referee. You know, the usual story. The Wolves fans were getting soaked and all those dickheads in the orange afros were looking a tad damp. The Arsenal responded by singing a rousing chorus of ‘We’re not getting wet’ to the tune of ‘Knees up Mother Brown.’

The second half began with Wolves playing their best football. Seaman did his version of the Birdy Song in goal and made a right old rover’s repast of a couple of tame shots. Petit, in his enthusiasm, gave the ball away too often and Grimandi was lucky not to be sent off. But as is becoming the norm the Gunners, slowly, slowly began to claw their way out of the boggy hole that they had put themselves in. Overmars, looking 50% of what he does normally, began to cause all kinds of problems. At one point he was fouled in the area and came up with the sticky imprint of the penalty spot stuck to his back. Of course, there was no penalty.

Waiting for the final whistle was interminable. When it came, Winterburn jumped up and down, making windmills of his arms, his mouth a large oval of joy. Other players were swapping shirts and Overmars, the most elegant of all, trotted over to the Arsenal supporters in the Holte end and performed a simple, dignified bow to the fans. Magic. Makes a change from Dennis Wise coming over and calling us all ‘cunts’, I can tell you.

The journey back was all rain and motorways, but somewhere on the edge of London the weather cleared and there in front of us was a sign that said, ‘Turn here for Wembley’. That’s an omen if I’ve ever seen one.

Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.

OOOOOO Teddy, Teddy. Went to Man United and you won fuck all (Repeat, ad nauseum)

16.5.98

Cup Final: Arsenal 2 Newcastle 0

Arsenal 2 Newcastle 0

What I love about Arsenal fans is that even when you’re having one of the best weekends of your life you can still find a quiet moment to have a go at a twenty four carat turd like Teddy Sheringham. Not many people have their own hate song, so old Brueghal features must be blessed. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. So what happened this weekend? Well, the sun shone like a big sunny thing, all the daily papers were black and white at the front (RIP The Voice) and red white at the back (allez les rouges) and we were all sweating like old sausages in our ‘genuine replica shirts.’ I can’t believe that the players actually wear the same shit as us or maybe it’s just that fat blokes and nylon are a bit of a combustible combination.

Well, we started off with the big fried artery blocker for brekkie and then it was a quick skip down to the tube and off to the twin towers. At Baker Street we encountered a baying black and white conga of face painted Geordies who were totally put out by the complexity of the London underground. We were sitting in a carriage when they all bowled in and asked us if the train was going to Wembley. There must have been forty geezers in Arsenal shirts there. My mate turned around and said ‘no’. Bugger me if they didn’t all turn around and get off.

Every time you see the twin towers from the tube it gives you a little thrill. A red mass resolved into red and white dots, the dots became ants, became men, women and children all dressed up in their finest final finery. We could see this mass of people moving slowly in the sun, bobbing towards the towers. The Gooners were on their way to Wembley. A second later we picked out a line of black of white snaking through the middle like the black spiney bit on a prawn. The Geordies. A quick word about the Newcastle fans. They were fantastic. Even walking down Wembley Way on the way home they were brilliant. They told us off for looking miserable and even sang, ‘Can you hear the library sing? Nooo, nooo.’ (Read ‘Highbury’ for ‘library’ then you’ll get it.) Top blokes. They deserve better.

The main chat on the tube was the inalienable fact that we were going to lose. Nobody, but nobody fancied it Double? Forget it. It was a nice dream, but that was it. Even with a fit Bergkamp there was no altering the script: Shearer would get an early goal, we would chase the game and they would nail us on the break. This we knew. Still, settling for the league was no disgrace. On and on we went like this. Even the couple of Geordies in the carriage told us to shut up and not be so pessimistic.

After running the salmonella gauntlet of Wembley way we found our seats inside the ground, smart little backless jobs about ten rows from the front, just to the right of the royal box. Nice. On the seat were two red balloons and a rolled up red card that we were supposed to hold over our heads at strategic moments. Great idea and on the back of the card was printed the words to a dozen Arsenal songs; well at least the ones that lacked a few Saxon descriptors for squelchy bits and where you put them. As with all these things some of songs were a bit made up. Who’s ever heard of the Lee Dixon song to the tune of ‘If I were a rich man?’ Complete twaddle. (Interesting aside. On the Sunday, fogged by Guinness and nauseated by Stella, somebody sang the Boa Morte song to me. Honestly, it’s the worst Arsenal song I’ve ever heard. Here goes. ‘My old man lives on the A40, whooooooahhhhh Boa Morte.) Have a sniff. Smell it?

Being in the ground by half one means that you have to listen to the Royal Marine Commando Brass Band Elite ruin Frank Sinatra songs and even worse listen to Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet completely destroy ‘Abide with me’. If he wasn’t an Arsenal supporter I’d have him on that hypothetical plummetting cable car along with David Mellor, Ken Bates, Sheringham, Paddy Ashdown and Anthea ‘Bean Flicker’ Turner. Oh, and Michael Bolton.

Footy wise we had a look at the Newcastle team and were amazed to see Watson on the bench. What was Shearer going to do? Supply his own balls? Really, you would have thought that Dalglish would have learned to use his brains by now. I suppose he was frightened to use his head in case Shearer kicked it.

The Arsenal came out to inspect at the pitch and soak up the day; Hugo Boss suits, black ties and shirts, they looked well sharp. Wrighty did his best pimp roll, strutted and pouted and looked cooler than an eskimo’s icebox. By contrast, the Newcastle lads looked like area sales managers from Quick Fit. 1-0 to us in the dude stakes.

When the team came out proper it was to a roar that made your organs vibrate with pleasure. 50,000 red and white balloons, drawn by the blue oval magnet of the sky, floated up and away to that place wherever balloons go. It was a perfect moment. Finally, after roasting and basting ourselves in our own sweat for a couple of hours, Paul Durkin, a kind of ginger Hitler (remember Petit getting sent off?) peeped up and the main event of the day got under way.

What struck us in the first twenty minutes, apart from flag poles and placcy bottles, was how shit Newcastle really were. Dalglish’s master plan was to play everybody in his team out of place and try and get them to do jobs they were ill equipped to do. Barton was lost in midfield, Pistone (or ‘pissed one’ as my missus calls him) man marked Overmars and Shearer, who would have been given better service from a Saturday girl serving in a shoe shop, prowled and scowled like a recently told-off school bully.

And us? Well, we’ve come to realise that Wenger doesn’t really cut his cloth to fit. He plays his best team and lets everyone else worry about tactics. It’s taken us lot a season to realise what he does.

An early header from Anelka went inches over the bar and a shot from Ray Parlour went several miles over. Ray, in particular, was magnificent; he turned people, ran through them, grafted, passed sweetly and generally did the work of five men. If all Wenger had done this season was to preside over the blossoming of Ray Parlour then he still would have his name sung in the beery halls of Highbury for the rest of eternity.

It was one of Kenny’s masterful tactics that led to the first Arsenal goal. Overmars ran down a long Petit ball, drew Pistone with him, waited until we were all fit to explode and then majestically put the ball between Givens’ legs. The ball, looking completely unworried, bounced into the goal and gently fluffed the net. Bingo. Tumble drier time. In the confined legal minimum seating aisles of Wembley Stadium we danced our leaping up and down dance and roared like beasts at the perfect unblemished sky.

Cup Finals are funny things. I reckon going one-up makes you more nervous. We shuffled on our pins and needled arses, chewed nails down to the pith and watch the spotty bulbed clocks of Wembley count up to 45.

Half time was great. There was a bit of a punch up near us that was brilliantly diverting. A big bloke with tattoos having been mouthed off to by a gangly kid decided to go in for a bit of face smearing; all Arsenal fans and all handbags, but it made me laugh. But that’s nerves for you. I’d have probably laughed at Princess Di’s autopsy, I was so strung out.

Second half and the Toon Army were screaming at their little barcoded drones to ‘attack, attack, attack.’ Well, they probably did their version of attacking. Certainly, the Arsenal back four were having no problems, until, well, until Keown slipped, the ball bobbled free and Shearer, patient as a snake, had his chance, whipped a fierce shot across the face of the Arsenal goal. Seaman looked like someone had thrown the magic boomerang. Just stood there with his mouth open. Time moved like cold treacle. The ball, after several years, whacked the post.

This is the point where careers, reputations and memories are made.

It could have bounced in. It could have bounced out. If only that butterfly in the Amazon Basin had flapped his wings a bit faster. It bounced out. Their moment had come and gone.

I think I was eating something like a mint, but it could have been a tongue, a chewed lip, buggered if I knew. I was delirious. My mate, Dave, looked like he’d been given half hour to live. And maybe he had.

Parlour, his engine now more Rolls than Reliant picked a ball up in midfield and stroked it upfield in a shallow arc. Anelka came from nowhere and suddenly was one-on-one with a Newcastle defender. His shot, low, hard and straight had barely left his foot when a screaming wall of red and white nylon erupted in front of me and blotted out the day. I jumped likewise, fleetingly feeling foolish in case Nick had hit the side netting or something. But no, it was a real, honest to good goal. We were two up in the cup final.

The Arsenal fans, delirious and manic, babbled, fidgeted and felt every ball being played as if somebody were stroking their exposed nerve endings with a steel comb. Some miserable hump brought up the Man Utd final when we were two up and they made it two two before Alan Sunderland got us out of jail with the latest of house collapsers. We all told him to shut it.

With about five minutes to go and peculiar feeling of calm came over me. This has been probably the most phenomenal season I can remember (well, 26.5.89 was a day, not a season) and yet it hasn’t been all brilliant. Two good friends, Arsenal to the bone, died this season and I was thinking of them, looking up at the sky, when I spotted a lone silver balloon drifting slowly up into the blue. Then I knew. This was going to be our day. Their day. Other people seemed to feel something too. A noise beyond noise seemed to come from the Arsenal fans. It grew from people’s hopes and expectations, it’s been there for twenty seven years and now it was coming to the surface; a bottled spirit set free on a red, white and gold afternoon. The spirit of 1971.

We were screaming before the whistle went. When it came it was inaudible. Mexican wave? Nah. We did the Mexican hug; nearly forty thousand people in one big sobbing heap. Now we could say it without fear of tempting fate. The Double. The only holy grail with two chalices.

The party started there. The players danced and screamed and tumbled like kids let out of school early and everybody regained that little bit of magic that everyday life does such an efficient job of blotting out. The cup looked magnificent as Tony showed it to the sky (the firmament, not the shatealite channel) and we all sang in the crappy flat way that people do when they are blissfully happy.

I’ll leave it there because that is the defining moment of the season: silverware, sunshine, friends, red and white, your heart so full of life you’ll think it’ll burst and an appalling off-key rendition of ‘We are the Champions’. Lord knows how Freddie Mercury ever got to those high notes.

See you August.

Man of the Match: The papers reckon Ray. I reckon Tony. My mate Dave reckoned Winterburn. My other mate Chris reckoned all of them. He’s right.

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