A competitive junior sprinter in his native north-east, Geoff was signed from non-league club Stanley United, aged just twenty, in 1957. He turned professional a year later and scored on his first-team debut, a 5-0 beating of Newcastle United, alongside David Herd in 1960. He didn’t complete his national service (ask your grandad!) until a year later. In those two seasons he played approximately half of the fixtures and racked up an impressive 22 goals from 39 games.

Strong in the air and on the ground, with a powerful shot in both feet, he was clearly destined for better things.

In 1962-63 he established himself as the preferred partner to record new signing Joe Baker, hitting the target 21 times in 39 league and cup appearances compared to Joe’s 31 goals from 42 starts. The following season would see the partnership peak, with both strikers grabbing an astonishing 31 goals in a season that witnessed Arsenal’s first campaign in European football.

The first match of the 1964/65 season saw Arsenal at Anfield in the first ever Match of the Day broadcast. The visitors came from 0-2 down to level with the lethal strike duo scoring impressively. Of course Arsenal, as they were prone to doing in those days, allowed Liverpool a winner. That was Geoff’s second goal for Arsenal in matches in front of the Kop and just three months later he was a Liverpool player when the Gunners accepted a bid of £40,000 for his services.

He went on to make 201 appearances for the Scousers between 1964 and 1970, scoring 33 goals. He was part of the team that clinched the club’s first ever FA Cup win under Bill Shankly in 1965 and won a League championship medal the following season. He spent a final season at Coventry as his first professional club landed the double in 1970-71.

I would like to think that in another place tonight Geoff and Joe have been reunited for a beer and a chat with George Armstrong about that first Match of the Day, and the enormous pleasure they gave to Arsenal supporters with precious little else to cheer about in those barren years.

Thanks for the memories, Geoff.

I have found myself raising a glass this evening to Peter Hill-Wood after the announcement that he was stepping down from his role of Arsenal chairman. For over half a century he has been a part of the Arsenal board, succeeding his father Dennis in the chair in 1982. He continued a family connection with the club that stretches back over eighty years to his grandfather Sir Samuel who took over the chairmanship from Sir Henry Norris in 1929.

I know on occasion he would be quoted, more often than not in the Daily Star (no, I haven’t a clue either!), and would provoke a mixed response. I prefer to remember the steady hand on the tiller provided by his family, and his contribution to the move to Ashburton Grove. As other Premiership clubs, one of them not far away, contemplate the funding of future developments we are sitting pretty having utilised Peter’s banking contacts to secure the necessary on very favourable terms. How fitting that a man brought on to the board at that time, Sir Chips Keswick, succeeds his old Hambros colleague as chairman.

Removed from the human shield that the board has become in recent years, I hope Peter enjoys a long and healthy retirement. It is just a little sad for some of us old boys that another name that has been associated with the club since before even we were around is no longer. A good chunk of what made Arsenal the club it has been for so long has moved on.

Thank you Peter.

All of his customers were a relatively short drive from Highbury, including the firm that took over the Arsenal catering contract in the late sixties. Invariably we would end up in the club shop for a chat with the legendary Jack Kelsey. There were not too many customers competing for his attention during the close season, so we could chat things Arsenal for ages, and I usually ended up with one of the signed photographs of the players he sold in those days.

One very lucky day skipper of the time Terry Neill wandered in after pre-season training and signed one for me personally. I still remember reading it and thanking him. “Lots of Irish luck, Terry Neill”. Simpler times, but little things like that helped to build the unbreakable bond between football club and little lad.

So I smiled again this week when hearing of the adventure awaiting eighty lucky Junior Gunners on Friday night as they camp on the Arsenal training complex. I’m not sure many will know how fortunate they are to breach the tight security that normally surrounds the place. The youngsters will receive a behind the scenes tour, play a game of football and eat dinner in the players’ restaurant before camping out. Check out Arsenal Player for a little camping challenge featuring Wojciech Szczesny and Francis Coquelin to promote the event.

Image courtesy of Arsenal Football Club

In a week when so much talk has surrounded the business end of the club it is great to see them acknowledging the need to seriously hook the future supporters. Can you imagine the fun they will have on the evening. I suspect the bulk of the eighty will be watching us land European glory for the umpteenth time forty and fifty years from now.

I’m just a little jealous.

The atmosphere and setting adds to the context, as indeed does the composition of the front row. If ever proof were needed that the old board are now little more than a human shield it was apparent in the expensively-assembled, sharp-suited executive talent staring back at Ivan from the nearest vantage points.

Ivan’s eyes looked out at a sea of faces. It was as if he were addressing the Afghan military. There were a handful of snipers out there among the loyal, but where were they? To be fair the event is now so well managed that excessive disagreement is kept bubbling under the surface.

I doubt there are many out there who haven’t caught the excellent transcript from Tim Stillman on Arseblog News. What is fascinating is the interpretation, or should I say interpretations, of those words.

Such is the quality of  the responses to the pre-submitted questions there is sufficient room for a number of people of different viewpoints to have made them suit their own arguments very nicely, thank you very much.

Where others saw Ivan’s insistence that it is his job to provide Arsene with the money to invest in the team as proof that this happened in the past couple of years, I also saw his frank assessment that we had not generated the sort of money to make us competitive with our super-rich rivals.

I did however pick up on the feeling that this has all changed this summer, and Ivan was very clear that we are involved in a number of negotiations and he personally is fully aware of where we stand in each one. This is a long way from ‘hanging the manager out to dry’ as I have seen elsewhere.

Anyway, the pre-selected questions covered most of the gripes the various groups have. Ivan sidestepped a question about the perceived quality of the squad very skillfully, then had to address the issue of Robin van Stapleton’s departure.

The wage structure was covered and Ivan emphasised we are in a position to pay world class money for world class talent. I would have liked to have seen him pressed further at this point. Clearly there is a balancing act to be done if you sign a player on £200k a week then that denies you the opportunity to perhaps get two players at half that. There is still a budget figure, surely, even if it is now much bigger than we have had in recent seasons?

The delay in recruiting new talent was pretty much laid at the door of the clubs with whom we want to trade not having managers in place. I immediately thought this must rule out any move for Cesc so far then?

FFP obviously loomed large. Now it appears it is either enforced or it isn’t and we are prepared for any eventuality. I thought this the least convincing explanation of the evening, but in all honesty would anybody give a flying fig about FFP if we were winning things on the pitch. It is a net filler in a sea of reaction to disappointment.

If I left the meeting with one concern running around my relatively empty head it was this continued reference to the £300 million figure that puts us on an equal footing with Bayern Munich. It felt as though this was a ceiling, a target beyond which we did not need to aspire, or certainly not yet anyway. The huddle, nay almost crush, around Ivan at the end dissuaded me from attempting to discuss it with him.

Instead I trudged out with the rest of the thirsty horde to grab a pint of London Pride for the journey back west. Ivan, I really wouldn’t have minded paying for the glass of wine denied me because my voucher had already been used to buy a quickly evaporated pint of Tetleys dishwater.

The event will be broadcast on Arsenal Player shortly I understand, so do watch, if that is your bag. Make your own minds up about what was or wasn’t ‘inferred’.

A final thanks too to all of you who came up to offer kind words about the blog. Those Google hangouts with SWOL and Arseblog are obviously watched by more people than I realised. Thanks again. I’ll have to go and buy a larger trappers hat for the winter now to fit my swollen skull.

I thought at first I could make the Australians feel better about the squad they have sent over for what looks like being a tough Ashes summer. Perhaps a piece about their least accomplished sporting export, one John Kosmina, would put into context the struggle their cricketers are currently experiencing. Truth is though that Kosmina was so bad (and yes, I saw him in the flesh) during his year and a bit at Arsenal from 1978-79 that he was sighted just four times, and three of those were as substitute. It wouldn’t make much of a story.

I am fortunate enough to have wangled an invite to the Ivan Gazidis Q&A session on Monday evening so I could have put together something CEO-related, but he has done that far better than I could have managed by his own pronouncements during the week. That interview has prompted much debate since appearing. He says all the right things, but the fact remains that before we start celebrating the summer of plenty let us start seeing some hard evidence.

The number of players who have been announced as departing in the week is encouraging, and it would appear there are yet more to come off the wage bill. (Yes, Nick, please do seal one of those six deals you are working on.) Now we need to start filling the vacancies that have been created. I don’t mind admitting I have harboured the thought, albeit very briefly indeed, that when we get there on Monday a fresh, exciting, and expensive new player will be unveiled before our eyes. I know. Dream on.

I suppose I could adopt an ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em‘ attitude and publish my own wish list, but what good would that do? My own belief is that we are probably looking at four or even five players coming in to make us truly competitive squad-wise. Whilst we may have more money available than at any stage since the stadium move that means decisions will need to be made about the composition of those new signings.

I might suggest two eight-figure signings with the balance being more frugal acquisitions. Those responsible might plump for one marquee signing, two at seven figures plus a couple of inexpensive punts. It is easy for us to sit here and buy dream targets with imaginary money and no complicated conditions to negotiate. We don’t have to juggle the fee versus salary conundrum.

Actually I think the fees are not so much of an issue given the ability to structure purchases now we have got better income guaranteed in future seasons. The salaries are paid out in real time from day one so if we are to pick up, let’s say, Gonzalo Higuain ‘s £120k a week (Yes please Arsene, whoops, sorry I don’t do wish lists) then I would suggest you can forget fanciful notions of, for example, Wayne Rooney’s £200k for the same shift pattern.

Added to all that is the issue that now everybody knows we have money available we will be quoted top dollar by all and sundry for any target. Some have already mentioned the deal that Fulham pulled off in the week for Dutch international goalkeeper, Maarten Stekelenburg, for an undisclosed fee reported to be in the region of £3.5m to £4m (4 to 5m euros). Hypothetically, obviously, does anybody think we would have been quoted the same price?

Anyway, that is as close as I want to get to joining in the speculation I so often bemoan. I’m off to sleep, perchance to dream….of Ivan introducing us to Gonzalo Higuain on Monday

One of those fortunate enough to get a place was our very own Lars, holder of the most generous credit card, and a fully paid up member of the Swedish Supporters Club. I’m delighted he is sharing his thoughts and recollections with us. Thanks Lars

“We are looking at some very big targets. I know who a few of them are and I am VERY optimistic about next season. I for one can’t wait!”

The man uttering those words is not a self-proclaimed ITK on Twitter. Nor is it an over-zealous supporter claiming to have psychically tuned in to Arsene’s brain. No, they are instead the words of an actual ITK, a man who knows Arsene Wenger very well and works with him pretty much on a daily basis.

His name is Sean O’Connor, and he is the manager of the Arsenal training centre. The words are said to me and about 25 others who are at the training centre as part of a guided tour arranged by the club for representatives of various supporters’ clubs from around the world. At first I am slightly sceptical when he mentions chasing big targets, but as the tour goes on and he returns to the topic I am increasingly convinced that he is honest and that we really are chasing some big targets.

The first-team changing room, boot room, pool area and various other rooms are opened up to us. We are given a rather rare insight into what everyday life is like for the players. Everywhere on the walls are pictures of past glories, reminding the current players of the where the clubs aims to get back to.

We are told that the small devices that the players wear for every training session and that have been used for about two years have really started to pay off. They collect loads of data and were instrumental in keeping Robin van Persie fit in his last 18 months with us. And of course the ungrateful so and so took all that knowledge with him to Man Utd so they too could keep him fit. Not that O’Connor says that last sentence in so many words, though.

Injury prevention has improved massively in particularly the last year. O’Connor is refreshingly honest and admits that not only Arsenal but football clubs in general had become too complacent and thought they knew it all about injuries and didn’t keep up with the latest scientific findings and were left behind by both rugby and cricket. This has now been well and truly addressed, and Arsenal are once more getting ahead of the game in this aspect.

Very little seems to be kept secret from us. We are of course not allowed into Arsene’s office where the real secrets are kept, but other than that it all feels very open and honest. “We felt we wanted to show you, the people who run the supporters clubs, what we are doing here because we really do appreciate the work you do”, he says and I for one feel that it is sincerely meant. He takes his time to talk to anyone who has questions and he himself is also an Arsenal man through and through who knows what it is like to be a fan.

He often returns to a particular topic: the unity in the team and how ambitious this group of players is. “I haven’t seen a team since the Invincibles with such spirit and togetherness, they really work hard for each other and care about the team”, are his words. I tell him that this is interesting to hear, since the unity and hard work bit is exactly the impression many of us in the stands have got. It wasn’t just wishful thinking and confirmation bias. “It’s so great to see this, unlike in some previous teams where you had someone like Adebayor who just didn’t care about anything”, he replies.

O’Connor seems really bullish all along. But it wasn’t always thus: “the team was really struggling for confidence for a long time. Around Christmas I felt even a Europa League place could be out of reach, but Arsene worked hard on lifting the players and talked a lot to them individually and it all turned around when we beat Bayern. And whatever people are saying about that game and their attitude, Bayern were NOT expecting to lose 2-0. We really were that good on the night.”

Near the end of the tour the words mentioned at the top of this piece are said. It is not only him, he says, the optimism permeates the whole club. There is a sense that there might be something brewing, this group of players is one that can be built upon to create something really good. It is impossible not to be swept along in his optimism, and I really hope that this summer and the upcoming season turns out to justify this.

I also feel that the club is moving in the right direction in their relation to us fans. For example, Ivan Gazidis has in the last year met with several fans’ groups, we were invited to this tour, and then there is the new scheme with really cheap tickets for kids which is something fans have asked for for a while. O’Connor also said that he would love to do more tours of the facility for supporters, but that for various reasons this is difficult. And while talk is indeed cheap, I really feel he means it.

The tour, or rather the fiery optimism of Sean, gave me a real boost. I really think that there are things afoot and that changes in our fortunes could be coming quite soon. Optimism is not in any way the same as a guarantee of course, but I for one have no doubts that if Arsene Wenger has his way we will be seeing a vastly improved Arsenal side come the start of the season. Moreover, it did convince me once and for all that this is not in any way a club that is happy to finish fourth. On the contrary, they do without a doubt want to compete for the top prizes.

And that in itself is cause for optimism for me.

It is turning into not so much the night of the long knives, but more the month of the long knives.

Last Thursday came the confirmation that James Shea, Reice Charles-Cook, Sead Hajrovic, Jernade Meade, Samir Bihmoutine, Nigel Neita, Josh Rees, Conor Henderson, Philip Roberts, and Sanchez Watt were not having their contracts renewed and this followed the previously announced departures of Martin Angha, Kyle Ebecilio,  Jordan Wynter, Elton Monteiro and Craig Eastmond. That is a healthy chunk of senior potential academy graduates.

The announcements are set to turn to their peers. Although yet to be confirmed by the club Sky Sports broke the not entirely surprising news that Denilson and the club have agreed he can cancel his contract with a year to go. Clearly he has a club willing to take him on a reasonable salary but unable to meet a fee. It makes sense for him to come to an agreement that suits all parties. Hopefully he will be the starter for around another three or four senior players to make room for fresh blood in the first team squad.

The trimming of the squad and some of those with dreams of promotion leaves plenty of room for Arsene Wenger to manoeuvre this summer. There are still youngsters knocking on the door but who may be lined up to gain experience elsewhere. Still to be announced are the plans for those who have spent parts of this season, or longer, on loan to gain the aforementioned experience. It is unlikely the exit door has been slammed shut quite yet.

All of which suggests there may well be some real fire behind the billowing smoke of rumour filling the news aggregators and social media sites. As usual I would suggest the usual advice. Wait until it is on .com before getting too excited. New commercial income, the creation of vacancies, the clear need for strategic strengthening of the squad. All of the planets are aligning.

I’m almost looking forward to it, in a strange way.

While I am here can I just thank everybody for the kind words about last nights live Arsecast/Google Hangout. I hope most of you enjoyed it as much as we did making it. 

Without further ado, I give you the story of a man I am proud to have met just by following this great club of ours.

If it seems like a lifetime ago, then that is because it was.

It was a simpler time when you could get from A to B with little more than a thumb and a flair for conversation.  Back then, I would take a lift from anybody, truckers, gypsies, wired-to-the moon crazy fuckers, as long as they got me further up or down the road.  So it was that this unemployed wide-eyed boy from Scotland found his way to the big city, deposited in a daze outside London Victoria by an amused lorry driver, choking amidst the diesel fumes and buffeted by everyone who was so-in-a hurry. I must have looked every bit like the hick from Midnight Cowboy.

It had never crossed my mind that football would be on the agenda that weekend.  The lure of the city for me had been music, beer and girls, and not necessarily in that order.   Summoned by an unexpected call from a good friend who had taken Tebbit at his word and “got on his bike”, and wound up in the Borough of Islington, working for the Local Authority,  “Come on down”, he said.

Having travelled hundreds of miles by road without fear, my venture onto the tube was an exercise in paranoia, convincing myself I was headed in the wrong direction and would end up somewhere on the wrong side of bottle-wielding bandits.  When I had looked at that psychedelic map,  it was like a two-dimensional Rubik’s Cube, and about as easy to master.  It was with relief then that I stumbled not into the dystopian world of A Clockwork Orange, but instead into daylight at the Angel.  There, Pat was waiting for me, with a fire in his eyes which I knew could only be doused by a night on the tiles and the inevitable mayhem that would surely follow.

But he surprised me.  His first words to me were “you’re going to love it here, I live about 10 minutes walk from The Arsenal and…..they’re at home tomorrow.”  Intrigued, I was about to ask a series of questions when he cut me short, and reverted to type with a “let’s get a scoop, there’s a boozer just round the corner…..”.

Later that night proceedings were eased in gently in a pub on the corner of his street – I think it was called the Red Lion (but then, every second pub in England appeared to me to be named in deference to the Monarchy so it could just as easily have been the Queen’s Head or the King’s Bollocks).  A couple of beers sunk, we readily ignored the occasional strange look as Pat and I caught up on months of gossip in loud and excited “foreign” accents.

We walked up Upper Street.  We approached a Victorian-looking pub and outside, a large group of young locals were hanging around, rendering me slightly nervous (again).  This was the Seventies.  At home, groups of animated young people congregating outside a pub usually meant it was ready to kick off.  I couldn’t have been further from the truth.  We had arrived at the Hope and Anchor and the restless natives (admittedly many clad in outlandish gear) were all simply waiting patiently to descend to the cellar where, over the course of the next 12 months, I would spend money I didn’t have and time (which I had bags of), getting a (new) musical education.

Over the years, bands that were up and coming and bands that were never to be, from The Stranglers to the Feelgoods, Graham Parker, the Cure, Eater, The Makers, Madness, – even the Skids!  - found their way to the Hope and Anchor, some on the way to world domination and some, spectators like me, on the way to hell and damnation.

But what does any of that have to do with football?

Well, those Fridays were followed frequently by Saturdays at Highbury.

That first time, I would have had a hangover.  Friday nights merged seamlessly into Saturday mornings as Pat always seemed to know where the after-hours parties were.  They say your hangovers get worse with age but I’m not so sure – a lot of those days at Highbury I remember as much for the revenge of the hops as the quality of the football.  But that day,  if I WAS hungover, I was too eager to get to Highbury to notice.  The Home of Football had been on my checklist for some time, having previously made it to Wembley, Anfield, Villa Park and Old Trafford, I felt sure I knew what to expect.

And yet.

It was a bright sunny day and we approached the ground from Highbury Hill.  At virtually every football ground in those days, there was a lingering maleveolence in the air, and you always had to keep your wits about you.  It took years for the police to learn how to effectively control the snarling tribes but I remember being pleasantly surprised by the gentle calm that surrounded Highbury and its apparent absence of malice.

Once we got into the ground I was hooked.  The Clock End.  We had found our spot.

There was just something so right that brought me to that place, at that time that I immediately felt a sense of belonging that has stayed with me ever since.  It was more than the effects of whatever dubious medicines Pat dispensed that weekend that made those red and white strips so compelling, but whatever the strange chemistry was, I discovered there was no antidote.  No substitute.  No contest.

Memories of the game itself have long since faded but occasionally I get flashbacks of the day – of course these could have been from any of a number of games that season :  a one-handed catch of a cross ball by Jennings (his hands appeared to be like gigantic claws) plucked from the sky whilst an opposition forward lunged head first at fresh air.  The ungainly Willie Young whose every touch of the ball was almost painful to witness – the antithesis of a Beckenbauer or, whisper it, a Hansen.  Of course,  we too had some stand-out footballers  -  Stapleton, Rix, Sunderland.  And of course, Chippy.  Everything we did went through him and his cultured left foot.  I was (still am) mesmerised.

On the Monday morning I was back to scrounging lifts home to Edinburgh.  I made this unorthodox return trip every other week for the best part of a season before my wanderlust took me next to Dublin (where I watched and celebrated the 5 minute final).   But thereafter, apart from the occasional match in the early 80s, my attendance at The Arsenal was put on hold as I pursued an education, a proper job, marriage, children – wrestling with all the standard conventions of life that quickly creep up on you and get in the way of a good time.

In the intervening period,  George brought Arsenal back to winning ways before Arsene oversaw the step-change that transformed us into a so-called superclub.  As success followed success, (and terracing became seats) I, like many others, peered from a distance at the Clock End with pangs of nostalgia,  mindful of simpler days and wondering what it would be like to go back…….

This was a little different though. Ireland provided the opposition for one of my best nights at Wembley following the national side back in 1976. I got locked in a small bar at Baker Street post-match, and if memory serves me right I was the only Englishman in a sea of green. The craic was most definitely had.

I am of a generation of Arsenal supporters enriched by watching a selection of some of Ireland’s best (and worst!) players in the red and white from the sixties to the eighties, so surprisingly found myself looking forward to the match this evening. I should have known better really, shouldn’t I?

As in 1976, or indeed as in most meetings between the two countries it seems, the match ended 1-1. Both sides tried to play with a tempo that gave the lie to the friendly tag, but the lack of real creativity on both sides made the experience a tad tedious. Theo and the Ox had the best chances to win it for England, and both flickered brightly on occasion but fell short in the end product department. Before anyone says it yes, Walcott and Rooney did combine well on the night but please don’t waste your time making any more of it than that.

Elsewhere there was quite a contribution from Lukas Podolski to Germany’s 4-2 win against Ecuador. In seven seconds, then sixteen minutes he was gifted goals by dreadful defending. Good. The boost to his confidence is welcome. Those who belittle his contribution in his first full season in England have missed the similar travails that befell some players that went on to become legends in this country, at Arsenal and elsewhere.

No doubt on Sunday I will tune in to watch the 2013 version of the greatest national team I ever saw (of course it was Brazil 1970!) play England. Thankfully thereafter we can concentrate on a summer of cricket, golf, music, beer, the occasional bit of nostalgia, and a veritable feast of transfer speculation…

…and guest posts?

Again, huge thanks to Take a Bow Son for his superb recollection of that night in May 1989. The response in the drinks and on Twitter has been amazing. How can we top that, I thought. Then I arrived home tonight to find another contribution from one of our number in my mailbox. It is a great read, and it will be published on Friday evening. Who wrote it? You will have to wait and see, for that may give away the nature of the post.

All I will say at this stage is that TaBS and Bergkamp the Man have competition.

Thanks TaBS, it is a fabulous piece.

It was a question designed to engender panic. It worked. The trap had been set and I had walked straight into it.

It was the Monday after the Saturday. Monday 16^th January 1989 to be a little more precise. Lunchtime beers with colleagues and we were, as usual, dissecting the weekend’s football. Among them was my mate Jim, a huge Football fan, a passionate Evertonian, and an inveterate gambler. On the Saturday  I had travelled up with Jim to his  beloved Goodison Park and watched a developing, yet still largely fledgling  Arsenal side at first subdue and then destroy an Everton side that had been crowned Champions only 20 months previously.

Ah The Championship. We were in the 18^th Season since I had danced around my bedroom in 1971. An excited six year old who had just been told by his father  that he had been at White Lane the night before and had seen my favourite, Ray Kennedy, score the goal to win us the League. In the years subsequent to that momentous occasion, we had threatened to repeat the trick in ’73, but thereafter had considered it rather a good year if our title challenge managed to limp into the New Year.

Nick Hornby wrote in Fever Pitch that by 1989 Arsenal fans had begun to see the Championship in religious terms. You were, he said, either a believer or a non-believer. Well, I wasn’t quite an atheist, (I still allowed for the possibility), but I was strongly agnostic. One could never discount the possibility of course, but as for actually winning it, well, that was something for other clubs, most usually the thoroughly detestable Liverpool.

But with that win at Everton, a 3-0 second half mauling, I had at last recovered my faith and like all born again converts I couldn’t wait to proselytise. On and on I went in the Pub that day. How the defence, led by the superb Tony Adams, was strong enough to repel even the most imaginative attacks. How the new signing Brian Marwood dazzled on the wing. How the elegant Alan Smith was so intelligent up front. How the young Michael Thomas combined such raw energy and silky skill, and how David Rocastle was the brightest star in the English firmament for many a year. I should have stopped there of course. I didn’t. Prompted by a few provocative mutterings of “Arsenal will blow up, they always do”, I found myself offering 10-1 against any other Club of their choice  winning the League.

“What size does that work in mate?”

A mention of odds  had woken Jim up. Sensing value, he  zoomed in on his prey with the stealth of a well-trained Cobra. How strong is your new found faith now eh? Hold firm, or back down and lose face? There was only one choice. I was not to be found out as an heretic so soon after conversion.

“Any size Jimbo.” was my reply, affecting an insouciance that I wasn’t feeling.

“Excellent mate. I’ll have two hundred quid on Liverpool please”

Liverpool?!  Bugger! I wasn’t expecting that. He hated Liverpool more than I did. Thought he’d have a punt on his clearly over the hill Toffees. Two grand if I lose! Having only just recently got mortgaged up for the first time it was money I didn’t have. Still, we were 10 points clear at the top of the table and Liverpool, though they had dominated English football for the best part of a decade and a half, were languishing just above mid table. Nothing to worry about. Right?

Wrong!  No sooner had we shaken hands on the deal, and Arsenal immediately began to show signs of reaching for the finishing line like a blind drunk on Diazepam. The Liverpool machine meanwhile finally kicked in. Win followed win followed win, and with each Liverpool victory, my angst that Arsenal were blowing it was heightened by the knowledge that I was personally responsible for our implosion. Jim was a kind man, he had a soft spot for Arsenal, he knew my pain, and as stated above, local rivalry dictated that he hated Liverpool as much as I did, but I couldn’t help noticing, as the weeks passed, that his grin was getting wider and wider. One afternoon I even found him perusing a luxury Summer holidays brochure. This was not good. Not good at all.

By Friday 26^th May 1989, an unusual date as a result of the horrors of Hillsborough, the top two would play the final game of the Season. A Championship decider, a League game with all the drama of a one off Cup Final. The arithmetic was clear. Anything less than a two goal win for The Arsenal and it was Liverpool as Champions, business as usual, normal service resumed. As for me, my sense of fatalism that Arsenal would never again win the title in my lifetime had long since replaced my January evangelism. Arsenal hadn’t won up at Anfield in goodness knows how many years, let alone by two, and it was time to shop around for short-term loans at what were, at the time, frighteningly extortionate interest rates in order to pay Jim.

The day dawned. A beautifully hot Spring day. I didn’t want it to arrive but it had to be faced. The day when any last semblance of hope would finally disappear, the day that would lead to a long summer of (at least as far as Arsenal were concerned) despair. I went through the motions at work, longing for the time when I could give my full attention to what really mattered. At lunchtime I wandered into the Bookies. Like the Las Vegas chancer playing his last chip, I surveyed the odds. Way too late to lay off Jim’s bet with anything other than a huge loss. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Twenty pounds on a 2-0 Arsenal win at 16-1 please. It was, however, merely a last gesture of defiance. Did I truly believe? Nah, life is never that good.

5 0’ clock and out of work. Valedictory messages were mixed, from sympathetic good lucks to crowing predictions of impending embarrassment. Five of us met up and tried to make ourselves feel better. A few beers, a sense of solidarity, and then back to my recently acquired small flat on the borders of Stroud Green and Crouch End, approximately 2 miles from Highbury, to watch the game.

Memories of the evening are jarred, like a dream that you know you’ve had, but the precise details of which, are just out of reach. Are one’s memories actual or have they been pierced together from  the countless viewings of the subsequent highlights reel, or maybe just an echo of the scene in the film of Fever Pitch which so closely resembled my experience of that night as to be uncanny?

I remember Elton Welsby’s silly jacket and guffawing at his fatuous comparison of Arsenal with Wimbledon. I remember George Graham’s pre-match confidence and the contrasting tension, so thick that you could taste it, amongst us as the game kicked off. I remember our players delivering flowers to all sides of the ground (So classy! So Arsenal!), and I remember both Tony Adams and Steve Bould flying into early tackles to disabuse anyone of the notion that we would be willing bridesmaids at somebody else’s party.

HT 0-0. We had given as good as we had got, but there had been no early goal that we had so craved. Our one clear cut chance, an early Steve Bould header that had been cleared off the line, had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. There had been no chance to savour the moment, no split second where expectation had soared. Mostly the game had been watched in studied silence by us all, only the odd exhortation or foul-mouthed anti Liverpool diatribe breaking the palpable and taut mental strain that gripped us all like a vice. At half time though, we were still in it, there was still hope. Did we believe? Nah, life is never that good.

Into the second half, and we took the game to Liverpool, I mean really took it. I remember the surge of pride that coursed through me. These boys were taking it to Liverpool in their own backyard. They hadn’t given it up. I at last allowed myself to hope. Foul on Rocky. He reacted, his eyes flashed, he clenched his fist, and he exhorted his friends and teammates to greater efforts. Suddenly the room was abuzz, Rocky still clearly believed, why shouldn’t we?

The ball is swung over, the eye is drawn to Tony Adams flying in like a pyrotechnic helicopter before Brian Moore yells “AND SMITH”, the ball is in the back of the net and we are all on our feet, hugging and shaking, glad at last to finally escape the yolk of suffocating tension. It didn’t last. Liverpool players surrounded the Linesman. GIVE IT, GIVE IT, GIVE IT. The minute seemed to last forever, but Whelan’s scowl at the end of it all told you all you needed to know. The Referee had not succumbed to brazen intimidation. 1-0 Arsenal. We were on our way. COME ON ARSENAL!

For the next twenty minutes I believed. I believed with all my heart. Come on Arsenal, just one chance, one chance is all we need. Ten minutes to go and the moment arrived. Mickey Thomas was found in acres of space inside the Liverpool box with just Grobelaar to beat. We rose as one. This was it, this was it. A toe poke. Straight into the arms of the grateful keeper. NOOOOOO. Desolation  spread through the room like an infectious  disease. That’s it. Game over. We won’t get another chance. I slumped. We all slumped.

The last ten minutes were played out, at least at my place, against a backdrop of stoic fatalism. It simply wasn’t meant to be. Arsenal looked to have already given it their best and had shot their bolt. In truth, a Liverpool equalizer now looked far more likely than a second Arsenal goal. How much longer do we have to endure this torture? One minute. Who needs a clock when you’ve got Steve Mcmahon? Good tackle Richo, come on Lukic, just lump it up there. Instead he rolls it out to Lee Dixon. What on earth is he doing?

“Arsenal come streaming forward in what surely must be their last attack, a good ball by Dixon finding Smith for  Thomas charging through the midfield …”  I simply don’t have the words to adequately convey the cavalcade of emotions that ripped through the room as Michael Thomas made his last lung-bursting run and enjoyed a fortuitous bounce of the ball off Steve Nichol. Think long drawn out and badly mangled expletive and you’re halfway there. Hope, fear, excitement, amazement and disbelief all jostled for position. The moment lasted an eternity. Just hit it Mickey, just hit it. HIT IT!

IT’S UP FOR GRABS NOOOOOOW …

The ball hit the back of the net. To say the moment was one of transcendent bliss would be to understate it. I had watched the goal go in but still did not believe it. When I came to, I found that I had slithered to the floor and was under a mound of bodies undergoing a communal epileptic fit.

Did I believe? You bet I believed. One terrifying last minute was seen out, and the Referee blew his whistle to signal that Arsenal, my Arsenal, were Champions. The rest of the evening was a blur. Excited phone calls were made and taken, Champagne was bought on the short walk down to Highbury (I was quids in after all), car horns blared on a balmy spring evening to turn our part of London into Rio for a night and strangers were embraced like long lost brothers as  we drank and danced outside the Stadium.

24 years ago today. Half a lifetime for me. I’ve never known a football moment like it, before or since. Our time had come.

It will come again.