So Paddy Got Up - an Arsenal anthology (17 page)

“We’ve got to get final tickets, ye auld fanny.” This was how Dave invariably spoke to me. Every sentence finished with some flourish of Scotch invective. “Then, when Bowyer nets a last minute winner, we can noose ourselves fram the Wembley arch.” But there was a problem. Thanks to Arsenal’s Byzantine ticket allocation system, even though we’d racked up enough away games to qualify, they weren’t assigned to our borrowed season ticket. And even if they had been, we’d only have been able to get one. Of course we considered burning our meagre savings on a tout. “Frig a dee, hen!” (Dave also favours insults that imply I’m a woman.) “Some lad on Twitter says he paid a scalper £680 for a pair. We cannae afford that.” Hours were wasted on Google Chat, debating what we’d be willing to do to get tickets. Some of which involved unmentionable acts with tramps. “Wid ye let Harry Redknapp watch if it guaranteed we won?” I actually thought about that one. But as the game approached we’d all but resigned ourselves to going to a pub near the ground, when a call to a software contact finally came good. It’s in the game, and so were we. Dave’s reaction was as celebratory as I’d come to expect from him. “Nice work, neebur. We’re definitely noosing ourselves now.”

In the week before the match, whatever fragile confidence we had was washed out to sea by waves of self-inflicted doom. We were our own worst enemies; the low point being an hour spent pinging each other pictures via text of Birmingham players looking happy. Reading those conversations back now, we sound less like nervy fans and more like deranged cellmates. “I’ll be awful company on the day, hen, ye ken that reet?” said Dave, over Google Chat. He even typed in Scottish. “Pure shaking with fear.” And so we were. I think on some level, from almost as soon as I got out of bed on the big day, I knew something was going to go very badly wrong.

Part of the problem was that by this point we’d each come up with a bizarre suite of match-day superstitions. Some were fairly run of the mill: tapping wood after saying anything that might be jinxy about a player, wearing the same clothes to the game, that sort of thing. Others were weirder. When watching games on TV I’d taken to touching the ceiling whenever we were defending a set piece. I still don’t know why, and clearly it wasn’t very effective. Sandwiches had also become an issue after I’d cooked Dave a BLT at half-time during Braga away, which we went on to lose 2-0. “Nae more jinx sangers ye daftie!” On the morning of the final, my girlfriend, who remains astonishingly tolerant of this sort of bullshit, made us sausage sandwiches. Dave and I eyed them nervously; then dug in. With hindsight, that’s probably when it all started to go south.

From that point on it’s hard to remember a single thing going right. In their infinite idiocy, First Great Western had decided to put on a bus replacement service between Bath and Swindon in both directions. The same bus that habitually got us in at 2.00am on Champions League nights. “Imagine being on the bloody rattlebus back if we havenae won,” muttered Dave, as we filed aboard alongside Gooners young and old. Arsenal were, of course, stick-on favourites, which brought with it its own voodoo kind of pressure. I scanned the other fans’ faces for signs of confidence and didn’t feel especially reassured by what I saw. We knew this: win and we wouldn’t be given any credit. Lose and it’d be broken cannon logos in the papers again. I put my headphones on, hit play on the Arsecast, and wondered whether Gazidis and co had missed a trick in not selling club-branded brown paper bags to breathe into.

By the time we arrived in London it was pissing down. This was immediately identified as another dark omen. “Ye ken our team of dancing peacocks disnae perform well in the rain, fannybaws.” Fraying nerves meant that the mood between Dave and I was unusually tense. We’d already almost fallen out over whether to wear colours – too jinxy, obviously – settling instead on scarves, and whether it was acceptable to place an insurance bet on Birmingham winning. (Him: pro. Me: violently anti.) The air of joylessness was enhanced by my refusal to drink pre-match, on the basis that I just wanted to get to the ground and get on with it, partly because I was worried our tickets weren’t Kosher. They’d arrived as email attachments to be printed out, meaning we were walking up to (what felt like) the biggest game of our lives clutching two sheets of A4 with ‘This is your ticket’ written on them. “We’re never getting in with these fanny tickets, barrygadge.”

Before heading to Wembley we first met up with a half-Brazilian Gooner mate of mine from university, whose relentless positivity – “It’ll be fine! It’s only Birmingham! They’re awful!” – only made us more panicky. Next we stopped to listlessly eat burgers and say hi to TheSquidboyLike, a fellow worrier I’d become friends with through Twitter, but never actually met previously. “This is no time for a man-date, ye fanny.” Secretly, both Dave and I wished we could be with the old boys we’d got to know from the North Bank. Big Chris, Bald Steve and Toothless Dave. They’d all made us incredibly welcome over the course of the season, with their bleak humour and seen-it-all attitude. I felt less inclined to shit the bed with them around, but at that point they were somewhere in a proper boozer with tickets that had holograms on.

But it wasn’t until we actually reached the stadium that the sense of impending doom really kicked in. Following the instructions on the tickets, we found ourselves funnelled up Wembley Way and into a sea of blue shirts. “This disnae feel reet,” whispered Dave. But it was reet. We made our way to the Club Wembley entrance, flashed the homebrew tickets, and to our amazement were ushered inside into Wembley’s yawning, soulless cavern of seemingly unfinished corridors and stairwells. I sat down to watch the remainder of West Ham unbuttoning Liverpool while Dave wandered off to buy two lagers that were as weak as they were expensive.

By the time he made it back I’d seen the team sheet and immediately relayed the bad news. “Whit?!” asked Dave, incredulous. “Knack’s starting?!” That was our name for Tomas Rosicky, on account of his perma-banjaxed hamstrings. Nonetheless, even his presence hadn’t entirely eradicated the flicker of hope we had. The likes of RVP, The Russian and Nasri were also starting, as was ‘saucy’ Jack. Surely we’d have enough. And so we made our way out of the guts of the stadium and into the light.

“Oh my god,” hissed Dave.

“I know,” I replied, scanning the blue and white all around us.

“But we’re...”

“I fucking know, let’s just get to the seats.”

And so we stepped over seemingly endless Brummie legs, nodding and smiling sadly as we went, until we sat down with the enemy on either side. As far as I can tell Club Wembley is unsegregated due to the unlikelihood of anything worse than a few prawn sandwiches being thrown. But although there was the isolated pocket of Arsenal support, our side of Club Level was almost entirely blue-nosed. And the tiers above and below us were, of course, rammed with them. Some stripped to the waist, others bouncing beachballs; all making a right old racket. If we still had any doubts, they were gone now: this was going to be excruciating.

“I cannae dae it,” whined Dave. “Think whit it’ll be like if they score.”

I sat there, eyes fixed forward, silently watching Arsenal’s players warm up in a manner that couldn’t have said ‘casual’ more without smooth jazz being played on Pat Rice’s phone. As it was, we only had to wait 28 minutes to see exactly what a Birmingham goal was like. Always the entertainers, Arsenal had decided to run through a repertoire of the most hilarious moments from their travelling comedy revue. From a corner the ball was headed back into the box where Zigic – who’s more a mobile gallows than an actual footballer – nodded the ball easily over Wojciech Szceszny. Zigic. We’d always said it would be him. Our half of the stadium erupted. Dave looked at me in the way I imagine cows do when they finally realise what they’ve been queuing for. “Plenty of time,” I said, trying to sound reassuring as my stomach dissolved whatever was left of lunch instantly.

“Whit the fuck is wrong with Brum?” asked Dave, a few minutes later. “Why are they trying so hard?” And they were. Playing better than I can ever remember them doing before or after. Working hard all over the pitch, attacking with pace on the wings, limited players raising their game and fighting for each other. Every now and then Brum fans would turn to glance at us and smile. “They’ve been in turbo shat form and now they play like this. It’s a pisstake.”

Meanwhile, Arsenal shuffled and probed in the way we’ve come to know and not entirely love. Despite Birmingham’s efforts, we we’re still the better side, and the breakthrough came just before half-time – a neat, flowing move saw Wilshere crash a shot against the bar. The Russian collected the rebound, jinked his way to the byline and cut a chipped ball back to Robin Van Persie who hammered the volley in. We we’re out of our seats bouncing, hugging. “RAAAAAAAAAAAAB!” shouted Dave. “GET IN!” But when we finally looked back at the pitch we realised another quintessentially Arsenalish moment was occurring. The skipper had hurt himself while scoring.

Half time arrived and we didn’t move. I tried to check Twitter for news of the injury but couldn’t get a signal. When RVP returned it was soon clear he wasn’t quite right. The rest of the game passed in a blur, and although Birmingham seemed to be tiring, as the clock ticked down the realisation grew that one goal for either side would be enough. It came, inevitably, with a minute to go. Djourou missed his header, Koscielny shanked a clearance that should’ve been Szceszny’s to scoop up, and Obafemi Martins, 46-years young, slotted home unchallenged. Cue somersaults on the pitch and bedlam all around us in the stands. It was the apotheosis, the crowning glory, of Arsenalish fuck-ups. Dave was immediately on his feet. “I’m off.” I blocked his path with my leg. “Sit the fuck back down. There’s still injury time.” For a microsecond he cocked his fist back. I looked at him astonished. “You can leave if you want,” I said quietly. “I’m seeing it out.”

In Dave’s defence I should point out this isn’t the first time we’ve almost come to blows. When Sagna scored against Leeds I grabbed him so robustly that I jammed my thumb in his eye, slightly blacking it. In any case he relented and went back to his seat. For what that was worth. In the remaining minutes Martins almost scored again as we we’re caught pressing for an equaliser. The final whistle blew and the Arsenal fans scattered in classic fire drill style. Outside, something strange happened. Obviously we weren’t happy, but neither was the despair quite as deep as expected. In amongst the pain there was a sliver of relief. We lost. It was undoubtedly an embarrassing shambles. And we knew we’d be hearing about it for a while to come. But at least it was over.

“I definitely felt worse after Spurs,” I said, trying to seem chirpy.

“Which one?” replies Dave.

“The 3-2 this year. That was awful. We were 2-0 up and I had to walk right past their fans at the end. Singing. Jesus. That was way worse.”

“Nah, the 4-4 with them in ’08 was the worst. We were two up with two minutes to go! I threw my program onto the pitch and got so drunk on the train I ended up in Cardiff.”

And so it went all the way back to Bath, on the bloody rattlebus from bastard Wembley, swapping calamitous stories, and laughing about how it was only the Carling Cup anyway. The Mickey Mouse, none-of-the-big-boys-care Cup. Plus, we still had the Premier League, FA Cup and, whisper it, even the Champions League to go for. We’d already beaten Barcelona once for Bergkamp’s sake!

Everything was going to be just fine.

***

Tim Clark is a professional videogames writer, part-time panicker and founder of Arse2Mouse.com, which is usually written on train journeys back to Bath from his seat in the North lower. Careful when you type the URL.

16 – BEHIND THE 8-BALL - Tim Barkwill

Back when football was still football, before the world came to watch, before we started to consume every single match from here, and then – because enough is never enough – every match from there, there was a time characterized by dwindling crowds, crumbling stadia, the threat of crowd violence and shorts that were so ridiculously short you wonder now how any of those gallant souls ever had children. The good old days? No: not even remotely.

For God’s sake, Graham Taylor was lauded as a genius. And for our Club, for the great, the mighty Gunners, A to the F to the C, we, oh we were… well, our glory days came and went in the 1930’s. We still remembered them. Not literally for most of us, but our dads remembered.

Back in the ’30’s, Arsenal were England. The unprecedented success brought to us by Herbert Chapman’s five league titles in a decade (two of which came to the team Chapman had built after pneumonia had taken him from us) guaranteed our place among the pantheon of footballing greats. This is not to say that success entirely eluded AFC after the Chapman years. We won something in the 1940’s, in the ’50’s and again in the ’60’s. We were the masters of the intermittent blip on the radar.

Then, out of the blue, we did the Double in the 1970’s (probably just to proffer a slap in the face to our local rivals who’d done the same thing in the decade prior), before embarking on our magnificent FA Cup final three-peat (’78-’80). Quite an achievement, even if glory managed to elude us on all but one of those occasions. The years following were lean. Did the disappointment of Trevor Brooking’s header psychologically scar us? Perhaps: but probably not as deeply as Willie Young’s studs scarred Paul Allen.

No; the truth of it was Brady left for the continent, Rixy never quite lived up to his promise, Stapleton moved on and since Clive Allen looked too much like a goal scorer we immediately swapped him for a left-back. Admittedly the left-back we picked up proved to be the best in the country, but he wasn’t about to enliven the “goals for” column. Of course, our history had never been remarkable for achievements in that column. Yet we remained consistently threatening, always likely to prove a contender thanks to our parsimony rather than any flair. The mirror opposite of our neighbours, the enemy in white and blue which is, of course, where Allen ended up, possibly seeking revenge for young Willie’s timeless scything down of his cousin. And it was galling to have to have to sit back and watch that lot from the wrong end of the Seven Sisters road trundle off to F.A. Cup glory with Chas ’n’ Dave two years in a row while we worked hard to achieve mid-table mediocrity.