In 1912 one of the best players to ever grace the beautiful game was born. That man is my great-granddad, Ted Drake.

While I was always aware of the fact I was related to the striker - a holder of multiple scoring records at Arsenal and beyond - it wasn’t until I properly got into football, around the age of 10, that I realised just how impressive his achievements were.  

In the 1934/35 campaign, Drake hit 44 goals in all competitions, to help the club to a third consecutive league title. His haul, which remains a record that no Arsenal player has come close to matching, included three hat-tricks and four four-goal hauls. 

In the following season, on 14th December 1935, he famously ran riot at Villa Park. Sporting the world’s biggest bandage on his left leg, he scored all seven goals as Arsenal beat Villa 4-1. It became and remains, the most goals scored in a single English top-flight match and, 90 years later, it’s hard to imagine the record being beaten. 

By the time World War Two interrupted the football calendar in 1939, Drake had become the quickest player in Arsenal history to reach the 100-goal milestone.

A back injury sustained on a PT course during the war years forced him to hang up his boots in 1945, but within a decade, Drake had his hands on another title medal; this time as manager of Chelsea. In so doing, he became the first person to win the First Division Championship as both a player and manager. Having arrived at Stamford Bridge in 1952, he’d declared he would need three seasons to win the league. He wasn’t wrong with his prediction, leading the Blues to success in their Jubilee year. They wouldn’t win another title until Jose Mourinho took over. 

I became an Arsenal fan in 2013. It wasn’t a tricky decision considering the club runs deep in my blood and pretty much everyone in the family, aside from my uncle, supports them. He likes Spurs, a decision he made to wind up his dad and one he’s stuck with! 

Within days of declaring myself a Gunner, I begged my granddad Graham, an Arsenal member and regular at the Emirates, to take me to a match. He is the youngest of Ted’s three sons and was born 10 years to the day his dad destroyed VIlla. 

My dream came true in August 2013 when Grandad bought us tickets to watch the Gunners play Galatasaray in the Emirates Cup. I remember the anticipation to this day, I’d never been so excited about anything in my life before! 

We travelled from Basingstoke to London Waterloo then changed at Leicester Square for the Picadilly Line to Arsenal station, just around the corner from Emirates Stadium. It was a truly tranquil experience, my heart melted when I saw the sheer class of Arsenal’s home and the huge mural of my great-granddad on the stadium banner. From that moment onwards, I was hooked!

We sat up top in the North Bank where most of the atmosphere. It was where my granddad preferred sitting which is probably the real reason we ended up sitting there! If Arsenal won the match, they’d lift the Emirates Cup. All eyes were on the Gunners. Despite being sat next to a young lad in a Galatasaray shirt, I didn’t hesitate to leap into the air when Theo Walcott edged Arsenal into the lead not long before the break. Everyone was chanting, “Arsenal, Arsenal” and “One-nil to the Arsenal” - it was superb!

Despite the near pant-wetting excitement of the opening 45 minutes, the visitors broke my heart into a thousand pieces after the break. Galatasaray equalised before Didier Drogba bagged the winner to secure the cup for the visitors. It took us ages to get out of a jam-packed Emirates and into Arsenal tube station and I remember feeling scared after witnessing some Galatasaray ultras letting off flares. Thankfully, they were contained. 

Over the next three years, I did a tour of the stadium and attended a couple more games in the Emirates Cup before my granddad bought me a club membership. At last! This meant I could start going to competitive matches. My first was a game at home to Southampton, the club where my great-granddad started his career. In total, he scored 47 goals in 74 appearances for the Saints between 1931-34 and was hailed “the best centre forward in the world” by Arsenal manager George Allison. 

As you can imagine, I couldn’t wait for the match and spent Friday at school just clock-watching desperate for the bell to go. When the time came, Arsenal just about escaped the jaws of defeat. Having gone 1-0 down to the Saints early on, they recovered with Santi Cazorla’s late penalty clinching a 2-1 win that shook the Emirates as if an earthquake had struck. Two friends of mine were at the game too, however, we were unable to meet at half time as I failed to check my phone and have the ringer turned on (typical me!). 

After going to a handful of games with my dad and granddad for a couple of seasons I started going with my non-related brother George whose dad is an Arsenal season ticket holder. His dad always used to visit the supporters club for a pre-game drink and we would join him. I remember being shocked by the small ball and goal in the  urinals that used to help me with my ‘shooting’ accuracy. It was a great place, I loved visiting and connecting with other fans and having the opportunity to ask them about their experiences as an Arsenal fan. I also loved performing the old party trick, revealing my connection to Ted Drake. 

A match against Chelsea in 2019 brought with it another surprise. I was featured at the back of the Arsenal programme having completed a Q&A. It was unbelievable, I was so over the moon and kept telling anyone who’d listed. A friend at the match was flabbergasted when he spotted me while casually flicking through his copy. 

Since that 2018/19 season, when I managed to get to 10 Arsenal games - the last a dull 1-0 win over Bournemouth - I’ve not been to the Emirates. Covid disrupted football for two years and I’ve spent the last couple working weekends to support my time at university.

Despite my prolonged absence, I was pleasantly surprised when the club emailed me in mid-2022 asking if me and granddad would like to take part in the fan consultation for the new Emirates Stadium artwork. Naturally, it was impossible for someone with Arsenal blood to turn down, so we helped give our input on the designs which were unveiled a year later at Camden Art Centre. We were invited to the opening night along with a number of former legends who’d also adorned the stadium’s previous artwork that had featured Ted Drake. These included Ian Wright, Bob Wilson and Charlie George. 

I managed to speak to them all, but the one meeting that stands out was with George Graham. I said to him “I know a lot about Arsenal history, in fact, I know the club's biggest win was 9-1 against Grimsby Town at Highbury in 1931” and he responded amusingly with, “Oh, I wasn’t in the team that day, I’m not that old”. 

Being related to one of Arsenal’s greatest legends has led to so many good experiences for me and my granddad Graham. Unfortunately, I never got to meet Ted, he died in 1995, seven years before I was born. That said, I feel as if I know him having sniffed out every piece of information about him on the internet. I’ve even gone through old match reports and articles from the 1930s having subscribed to the British Newspaper Archive last year. 

It was through playground chatter, and much to the chagrin of my parents, that I found out that the Champions League final would soon be played no more than 30 minutes from where I lived. I was 9 years old and from a football-agnostic (really football-skeptical) family. That may explain how on May 17th 2006, I showed up to the Stade De France wearing a Ronaldinho kit, thinking nothing of it, and leaving heartbroken.

There wasn't any doubt in my mind, despite not quite having grasped the concept of partisanship yet, that the team in yellow that evening was my favourite. I just showed up in the wrong kit. I also happened to be sitting in the middle of thousands of inebriated Arsenal fans, whose reactions to my presence and wardrobe seemed to include both mortifying stare-downs and pitying smiles.

When Sol Campbell's header landed in the top left corner and my half of the stadium exploded, a kind elderly gentleman turned to me, understandably mistaking my paralysis for grief, and interrupted his own celebrations to gently place his hand on my shoulder and say "Don't worry mate, there's plenty of time left." I never forgot that show of goodwill. Of course, I didn't have it in me as a shy 9-year-old to correct him: "No no. I'm actually really happy, just a bit overwhelmed, that's why I'm not screaming. And also I was gifted this Ronaldinho shirt and I'm 9 and the entire concept of tribalism is foreign to me."

All I can remember of the next half hour or so are the chants of "One Nil To The Arsenal" and "You're not singing anymore" directed towards the Barcelona faithful. The man's kind words turned out to be tragically prophetic. There was indeed, plenty of time left.

The more I reflected on that moment in the years that followed, as I came of age as a fan and my radicalisation into Arsenal-dom hardened, the more bewildered and touched I became. I would start to imagine what I would have done in his shoes. If my team, that I had followed through thick and thin, had seen at its worst and now finally at its best, had with 10 men taken the lead against Barcelona in a European Cup final, compassion would've been my last instinct.

If at that pinnacle of my Arsenal supporting journey, I was sat near a kid wearing a rival's kit, I would've privately revelled in their misery, and given the clueless parent sitting next to them a stare.

That tenderness, in what felt at the time like a heated (if not hostile) environment, probably had a profound effect on my life as an Arsenal supporter. When you're raised in a family that cares very little about football and knows very little about its culture, in which games are tuned into every four years but true fandom is so foreign, immersing yourself in the stadium experience can be intimidating.

My parents never actually warned against attending games or being a fan, and they knew that tropes of hooliganism and violence were exaggerated, but they also didn't think that football stadiums were the healthiest places for their young son to be. Instead, they encouraged me to play football and watch whichever first halves I wanted to on TV (the 9pm kick-offs of Champions League and international games always led to lively negotiations about bedtimes).

"But the second half is the most important one!!!"

"No, you have school tomorrow."

"Then let me sleep during the first half, so that

I can at least watch the second half?"

"Just record the match and watch it tomorrow."

"BUT ITS NOT THE SAME IF I ALREADY KNOW THE

OUTCOME!!!"

"Why not? Just avoid the result and watch it when you have time."

"ITS. NOT. THE. SAME."

Those exact words were probably spoken about a hundred times during my childhood. Hours were spent trying to explain that a sporting event is not like the season finale of Lost, or the latest round of X Factor, where if you could just stay away from spoilers for long enough your experience would be intact. Immediacy, living something in the moment, and knowing that millions around the world are living it with you; that's what makes sport and fandom special.

Being the lone football fan in a family can cause some pretty confusing feelings. It's both a lonely and exhilarating thing. You're constantly misunderstood, but you feel lucky to have something that they don't. Like you've discovered something groundbreaking. It's what I imagine geniuses feel like. Enlightened, and incredibly alone.

The remainder of the final feels like a blur. When Barcelona scored their first, I remember the silence all around me, and the intense noise coming from far away. That contrast stayed with me.

I remember a few glances my way. "Would the kid in the Ronaldinho shirt be jumping up and down?" Nope, still paralysed.

When the second Barcelona goal went in, I remember noticing Arsene Wenger standing with crossed arms. The same Arsene Wenger whose distinctive baritone voice on French TV commentary of French national team games first introduced me to Arsenal.

"Wait, our best national team players play for this commentator's club? And the club is... named after him?"

I left the stadium upset, but quickly that sadness was replaced by the excitement of being able to tell my friends about my experience at school the next day. At 9, I couldn't grasp what it really meant. It was only in the years later, in the midst of the hardship that the following decade and a half would bring as an Arsenal fan, that I started to really feel the heartbreak of 2006. What if...?

My experience in Paris ensured that I was under no risk of absorbing any of the football-indifference of my family. On the contrary, it made me crave the next moment.

And we're starting to get some pretty remarkable ones on a regular basis.

After years of travelling to London to make the odd game, I moved to London and had the privilege of becoming a season ticket holder in 2021 (great timing, I know). I now live 30 minutes from the Emirates, and as Martinelli's strike bounced off Aké's face a few days ago, absolute chaos ensued all around me and "One Nil to The Arsenal" rang around the ground. I thought about that kind man in St. Denis. I hope he's still with us, and I hope he celebrated as much as I did.

COYG.

There’s only one, Dennis Bergkamp. 

Reminiscing about one of the greatest players ever to grace our football club, and hearing his famous song play through my mind, there is an inescapable sadness that the truth behind the lyrics, of course, means that we will never get another Dennis Bergkamp.

On reflection, I believe him to be the most influential player to wear the famous red and white in the club’s modern era. There are other legends who could stake a claim, however, when you consider everything he did for the Gunners, I think you’ll start to see my point.

The arrival of the Iceman

“If Dennis Bergkamp played in the snow, he wouldn’t leave any footprints. That’s how good he was”

John Hartson

Given the impact he went on to make, you could be forgiven for assuming that Bergkamp hit the ground running at Arsenal following his £7.5 million move from Inter Milan in the summer of 1995. In truth, while there was excitement on the terraces, it took a few weeks for him to truly win over the Gunners faithful. It took the Dutchman six games to get off the mark for his new side and by the point certain elements of the national press had already dubbed him a waste of money. However, by late September, everyone in world football would start to see what a shrewd piece of business Bruce Rioch and David Dein had completed. 

I recently found myself re-watching Bergkamp’s Arsenal goals and what struck me is that from 1995 to 2006, it was like a one-man goal of the season competition. His first against Southampton was no exception, a right-footed volley that he picked out of the sky and thundered into the bottom left-hand corner. That proved to be his platform, and after a swift education in English Football, he took it by the scuff of the neck.

Europe, here we come!

It was in 1996 that Arsenal fans started to truly understand what their dynamic Dutch wizard was capable of. A decisive goal against Bolton Wanderers on the final day of the campaign helped the Gunners to qualify for the UEFA Cup. Having said he’d chosen Arsenal over offers from more prestigious clubs across Europe because he felt he could promote positive change and drive the club forward, this was an early indication of his ability to move the needle.

After that crucial goal at the end of the 1996 season, club legend Ian Wright said: “It was scripted, so I don’t know what all the fuss is, that is what Dennis was going to do anyway.”

The belief that his fellow players had in him, even after a short period at the club, is a testament to his class and quality. A player they labelled ‘The Messiah’, Bergkamp had not only integrated himself into an experienced and intimidating group of professionals, but more than that, he was becoming someone they trusted and relied upon.

The start of the Arsene Wenger era

“Dennis Bergkamp killed the boring, boring Arsenal tag”

Bob Wilson

While Rioch started the process of rebooting Arsenal after George Graham’s exit, following his own surprise sacking in 1996, CEO David Dein turned to Arsene Wenger; a coach who would reshape the club in his own image and help propel Bergkamp’s game to the next level.

It was Wenger’s tactical genius that unlocked the best of Bergkamp. He took on a deeper role, becoming more of a facilitator, and helped others to fill their boots with goals-a-plenty. The Dutchman’s relationship with a succession of strike partners, from Ian Wright and Nicolas Anelka to Marc Overmars and Thierry Henry, turned the “boring, boring Arsenal chants” on their head. His creative genius was central to Arsenal’s rebrand as entertainers.

Even as his powers wained, his winning mentality was infectious and helped the Gunners cement their place in English football history. Alongside Wenger, Bergkamp transformed the perspective others had when they saw the cannon crest. Indeed, for a period of nine years, we were one of the most feared and respected clubs in Europe.

The silverware, the memories and the greatest of all achievements 

“I’m not exaggerating. First-team training sessions were often a daily convention of the Bergkamp Appreciation Society”

Adrian Clarke

It’s impossible to summarise every magical moment Bergkamp provided the club, but certain highlights will stick with me forever. These were the moments that made me fall in love with football. His famous hat trick against Leicester City oozed class, blending a clinical and tenacious eye for goal with an innate flair on a scale I had never before witnessed.

The good times rolled on for Arsenal in the Bergkamp years, winning the Premier League and FA Cup ‘Double’ in 1998 and again in 2002. Prior to the Iceman’s arrival, such achievements appeared impossible given Manchester United’s dominance of the English football landscape. But, there we were, going toe-to-toe with Ferguson’s giants and growing ever more confident.

Of course, it wasn’t all highs. It would probably be right to mention a certain penalty in an FA Cup semi-final, but I think we will leave that one for today. I’d rather focus on 2003/04 - one of my fondest memories of supporting the club - when we went ‘invincible’. It’s a word that will forever be associated with Arsenal, and one my friends and Tottenham-supporting relatives find me revelling in at every possible opportunity.

Reflecting on that achievement, Bergkamp said his teammates “knew they were going to win, it was just a case of how many”. That level of domination, control and confidence demonstrated to me that the players in the squad were almost superhuman. While Bergkamp was edging towards the twilight of his career, so much of the progress towards that achievement was driven by him. He remained the conductor; the director; the example. 

Oh, and to win the title at White Hart Lane was also pretty cool.

The inevitability of time

"When you start supporting a football club, you don't support it because of the trophies, or a player, or history, you support it because you found yourself somewhere there; found a place where you belong."

Dennis Bergkamp

Sadly, nobody can play forever. Despite several short-term deals, the time came to bow out gracefully and consign himself to legend. It was fitting that his final competitive appearance came on the day the club bid farewell to our beloved Highbury Stadium. He took to the pitch with rapturous applause ringing around the terraces. His importance to everybody was obvious. The disappointment of the Champions League final defeat to Barcelona would follow a week later, something Bergkamp will surely remember with regret after the early red card to Lehmann ended any hopes of him getting onto the pitch to help with one last trophy push.

For all his phenomenal achievements in an Arsenal shirt, one of my most poignant memories of Bergkamp is from his testimonial. Having kickstarted one new era on his arrival at the club, he raised the curtain on another by hosting the first game at the Emirates Stadium. It was a poetic nod of thanks to the role he played in transforming the club, handing over the responsibility to the next generation. Still to this day, I can picture him being carried aloft by his legendary teammates, like a warrior of battle in front of a sea of red and white emotion. Accents of the famous Dutch orange and a deafening melody rang in unison…

There’s only one Dennis Bergkamp.

A season ticket holder for nearly 70 years, there are few who have experienced so many of Arsenal’s highs and lows at such close quarters.

We were eager to learn more about the influence football has had on Jeffrey’s life, so we sat down with him for a chinwag about life on the terraces of N5, the players he loved, the parties he went to and how the game has changed over the decades.

You’ve mentioned to us before that your birth was presided over by the Arsenal doctor. You must have felt like you were destined to become a Gooner...

I was indeed, by a Doctor Pepper. My late father was a very keen Arsenal supporter and I was born just before the Second World War started and we lived during the war in Finsbury Park. It was destiny.

Can you tell us anything more about this Doctor Pepper character?

I was reading about the death of Herbert Chapman recently. He took ill with a cold in January 1934. The medical advisor to the club, Dr Guy Pepper, advised him not to go to a third team game but he did so. His condition deteriorated rapidly and he died a few days later.

My father made a point of telling me about this name and that he had attended my mother during her pregnancy with me. I was born in 1937, so it’s reasonable to assume that it was the same Doctor Pepper who attended to my late mother during her pregnancy with me.

It was just after the war that your father bought you your first season ticket, talk us through your memories of that occasion…

The war ended in 1945 and we were living in Finsbury Park, my father and I walked up to the ground and he said he’d like two season tickets. I suspect they were about £5 a season, because I know in 1960 they were £20 a season. “Of course, Mr Freeman,” was the reply from the ticket office. “Walk round the ground and choose any two seats.” We picked seats in the West Stand, Block W, Row F and I sat there until the last game at Highbury against Wigan.

And obviously a lot has changed since…

I don’t want to go on too long about this, but it’s all changed. Those days you could just roll up to a football match and get in without having obtained a ticket beforehand. There were tickets for everybody so consequently a lot of young boys, and girls for that matter, could go o football matches. It played a very important part in my life, influenced me at school – I was captain of the first XI because I knew a bit more about soccer - and in my own career. I even met my wife as a result of the club.

It had an enormous impact on my life. I do worry about the way football is run nowadays with the accent on commercialism – as opposed to being a sport. The availability of tickets, the way supporters are treated, the way shareholders are treated – like the Arsenal Fanshare scheme – I do worry that all that happened to me that was so beneficial won’t be at hand for youngsters.

You spent nearly 60-years sitting in the same seat at Highbury. It must have been a heart-wrenching moment saying goodbye to the stadium when we moved to the Emirates?

It really upset me. We had to move, I accept that. But Highbury had an atmosphere of its own that I don’t think the Emirates has got yet. I think it will have eventually, but Highbury was unique. During those 60-odd years we sat more or less with the same people. At the Emirates there’s a man who sits in front of me and he sat in front of me at Highbury. Now he’s very old and he’s got a great grandchild. I’ve seen all those people grow up and grow old, but the interesting thing is that we all became very close in terms of supporting the Arsenal.

Did you ever have arguments with your fellow supporters? Tensions obviously rise in the terraces…

Very much so. The person I have mentioned above - Fred - was, to say the least, excitable. He had strong views which were often different from those around him. He hated certain players and was forceful and loud in giving his views. He brought gesticulation to an art form. Emotions ran high and there were many occasions when fists nearly flew. 

However, the key is that we all had a tremendous bond. I remember that, for years, besides Fred and family, I was always surrounded by people I knew; John Greene, Terry Sparkes, the Flesch family, Phillip Steen and many others. In particular, I remember a Mr. Ryan. He sat next to my father and looking back on it, I'm sure he was a batchelor. He lived for the Arsenal Football Club. He told us that before a match he would go to church to pray for victory. He and my father became so close and it was suggested he come on a family holiday with us. He would not have anything to do with it. Arsenal was his life and although the friendship was strong and continued for many years it was only within the stadium; outside we all went our separate ways. I believe this closeness has now gone.

At the Burnley game this season the person sitting immediately to my left was a young man I'd never seen before; it was obvious from his attitude that he was a truly supportive fan. In front of me were some of the 'usual suspects'...members of Fred's family. There was also another young man seated nearby who spent the entire game looking at his iPhone. Behind me there were two sets of men - one to my left and the other my right - who throughout the match talked about their social life, the state of their finances...all sorts really. They didn't seem to be watching the match at all. 

When Arsenal finally scored in the 70th minute the young man next to me along with Fred's team all celebrated joyously, exchanging high-fives and hugs. The guy on his phone and the guys behind showed no emotion at all, it was as if nothing had happened. Perhaps that's how it is these days. I feel like I have lost the camaraderie. 

What was your matchday routine like when you first started going to games with your dad in the late 40s and early 50s?

We used to travel by public transport initially, as it was difficult to get petrol after the war. When petrol rationing stopped we used to travel by car and dad would give a man two shillings who alwats had a parking space for us…I think that’s about 20 pence these days. We always got to the stadium early as we liked to soak up the atmosphere.

We used to watch the Metropolitan Police band who would march around the pitch and the guy at the front had this huge baton which he’d throw up in the air and catch. Of course, every so often he’d drop it and the crowd would go berserk! There were games at Highbury where there must have been 70,000 people; there were no crowd restrictions. If there was a problem with overcrowding, and I actually saw this, young boys would be passed down from the top of the crowd to the front.

The thing that is most different now is the foul language. There was none of that. It was more of a family outing. The conditions though were appalling and you certainly couldn’t get a decent sandwich. When I started to take my daughter she told me that in the West Stand there were only three cubicles in the ladies loos. These poor women would always have to leave ten minutes before half time to make sure they’d be all right! It was a much more relaxed, family occasion…unless of course I’m looking at it through rose tinted spectacles. You saw the occasional fight, but generally speaking it was a family occasion and you could just roll up to the match and get in.

Touching a little more on the atmosphere back then, were there chants or was it more polite applause?

There was no chanting per se back then. The crowd seemed to get much more vocal when it mattered, when there was action. I had two maiden aunts who used to live with us in Finsbury Park and whenever we came home they could always tell us how many goals Arsenal had scored because of the roar when we hit the back of the net. 

Tell us about your surroundings in Highbury’s West Stand.

There was nothing [in terms of facilities]. We sat next to what was known as the enclosure, which was, even by today’s standards, expensive. It was the top people in there and they had a bar and later on a restaurant. The stand was built in the 1930s so it had stones steps, about 75 as far as I can recollect. You used to walk up and then you were faced with this corridor that was far too narrow for the amount of people. You could get a drink there but you couldn’t get much by way of food. In the later years there was a small place you could get bagels.

The offices were in the East Stand by the famous Marble Halls. I didn’t in those days have any opportunity to go in there. I did in later years, but that was just before we moved. The toilets, even for men, were no better than that of Victorian standard. I used to hate going in there. It was primitive. This is where the Emirates does score – it’s much more civilised and user friendly. That being said, we were still one of the better clubs. Some grounds were even worse!

Between 1953 and 1970 Arsenal didn’t win any trophies. We’ve just come out of a nine-year drought and that tested the patience of a lot of fans. Did you ever stop going during that period?

Oh no…on the contrary. Attendances did drop, but I wouldn’t say significantly. It was different in those days and this will sound somewhat old fashioned, but people went to see a good game of football. Obviously it mattered if you lost, but it didn’t matter as much as it does today unless of course it was Spurs. People were more interested in the quality of the footballers and their ability to play. Today, everything is about success now. That didn’t exist then.

I’m on record as saying that those 17-years in the wilderness didn’t upset me at all because I was not brought up to believe you played sport to win. I was brought up to believe you played for the sake of the game and for sportsmanship. What really upset me was the standard of the football for a club of Arsenal’s stature. It was unbelievably bad and boring.

I wrote a letter to Denis Hill-Wood saying I just want Arsenal to play good football. There was not discontent about a lack of success, but a lot about the football. There were a lot people of a certain age who had seen Alex James, Cliff Bastin, Joe Hulme and other players of that calibre. They were then being served up dross.

Did you venture to many away games in your younger years?

Yes, quite often. I didn’t always have a ticket; I’d just turn up and get in. When I went up North and I saw what it was like it used to worry me. I won’t name the places…but I knew when they came back down South, these hard Northerners would always be thinking ‘We’re going to teach these soft Southern bastards a lesson or two!’ And they tried to, believe me…especially the Leeds team of Billy Bremner and Norman Hunter.

Did you sense much of a generation gap on the terraces?

I remember seeing Alex James sitting behind me once and everybody saying to him, ‘Oh, we don’t have players like you now.’ When you’re young you can’t stand that type of thing…you know, being reminded about the good old days when you weren’t there. But they did have a point. There was a generation gap, but I think that continues today maybe...

Let’s talk about some of the players you watched. Who in your mind is the greatest man – as opposed to player – who ever pulled on an Arsenal shirt?

The greatest man? It’s not an easy choice. It would lie between Tony Adams and Joe Mercer [pictured above]. When you get older you tend to look back more favourably on your younger days. If I had to make the decision, I’d go with Mercer. To me Tony Adams is The Arsenal. But Joe was a much more rounded character. He was very focused, and like Adams captained England. He was inspirational. Joe was more slight than Tony and bow-legged, more spindly. Physically they weren’t the same, but they were great leaders. It’s very difficult to choose.

I saw Joe’s last game playing against Liverpool in 1954. He had a collision with our left-back called Joe Wade and you could hear his leg crack right around the ground. Everybody knew there and then it was the end. As he was being carried off he just waved to the crowd and they responded. It seemed to be farewell. It was quite emotional. I was very upset. My father said to me, ‘Don’t be upset. It’s better he go out in a blaze of glory than as an old man people don't think well of.’

I think that’s very relevant today. There are people in football today who do hang on too long. I think Joe did try and make an [unsuccessful] comeback, but I have a vivid recollection when that injury occurred that that was it. And it proved to be. He was 39.

Do you have any favourite recollections about Joe?

We were lucky to get him in the first place actually. Everton treated him appallingly after the war and he was going to give up football. He only agreed to sign for Arsenal if he could continue to train in Liverpool. He only came for the games and never trained with the team. Before the FA Cup final in 1950 against Liverpool he trained at Anfield! Another unusual point is that Joe ran a successful grocery business at the same time as being a professional footballer. Can you imagine that today?

A couple of years later we were playing Newcastle in the FA Cup final, but we had a host of injury problems. Centre-half Ray Daniel broke his arm and was playing in a cast, Jimmy Logie – the best player of all time – was in hospital days before. In the first half Wally Barnes twisted his ankle or knee and was carried off. There were no substitutes back then so we played with ten men. Then Don Roper got injured, Cliff Holton got injured and then Daniel couldn’t continue. We were effectively playing with half a team!

With six minutes left George Robledo scored for Newcastle and they won. But we were all so proud in defeat. At a function after the game, Joe Mercer made a speech in which he said, “I thought that the proudest moment of my career was captaining England, but it was captaining Arsenal today.” That’s my favourite story about Joe.

Joe went on to manage Sheffield United, Aston Villa, Manchester City and Coventry. He was caretaker manager of the England team for a while and they were relatively successful. There was some talk of him being appointed permanently but the FA, in their wisdom, chose Don Revie. That resulted in its own long story...

Do you think that generation of Arsenal players have been overlooked recently? Obviously modern greats like Adams, Bergkamp and Henry have their own statues outside the Emirates…

A question for you. Why is there no statue of Joe at the Emirates; or for that matter, of Bertie Mee or George Graham? They all deserve one. It’s difficult choosing others, there are so many options. Personally, I’d have a statue of Jimmy Logie but that’s because I think he was the best player I ever saw. He only played once for Scotland but he was like Lionel Messi with the skills he had. Obviously you can’t have statues everywhere. That team of the 1930s with Ted Drake had unbelievable players…Charlie Buchan, Cliff Bastin, David Jack, Wilf Copping, Herbie Roberts, George Male.

What’s the greatest goal you’ve ever seen?

The greatest, not necessarily the best, is when Tony Adams scored the fourth goal against Everton to wrap up the league title in 1997. It wasn’t a goal, it was a statement.

As the story went he and Steve Bould couldn’t ‘play’ football and there they were combining with a deft ball over the top and Adams running through and the way he hit that ball…he was making a statement.

To me it summed up how good they were at the time. The way Tony reacted afterwards. No taking off his shirt, no somersaults. He just stood there saying, ‘We are The Arsenal. We are The Champions.’ It was a statement.

I haven’t given much thought to the greatest goal. Obviously I’ve seen the Bergkamp goal against Newcastle and Liam Brady’s goal at the Lane.

Are their any opposition players who stood out for you?

Oh I don’t think about the opposition. I don’t! Okay, there was a guy called Wilf Mannion at Middlesbrough who reminds me of Tomas Rosicky at his best. There was Reg Carter at Derby County. George Best was a flawed genius. He’s probably one of the best, if not the best. He was more skilful than [Real Madrid’s] Ronaldo, who relies more on his physique. Honestly though, I’m so blinkered on the Arsenal that I don’t really watch the other team. I never have.

What was it like watching Arsenal win the Double in 1971?

The emotional release after the game at Spurs was overwhelming. I couldn’t sleep for days. Then it was Liverpool [in the FA Cup final] and I thought, ‘We’re never going to do this.’ I was so drained after we won. I had no emotions. What are those headaches? A migraine, I had a migraine. I guess I was so much more emotionally involved then, than I am now. We were only the second team to do the Double, Spurs were the other, so to celebrate I threw a party. You know, I had to! I had a lovely Boxer dog and I dressed him up in the Arsenal kit and it was as a result of that party that I met my wife. 

And the players used to turn up at parties with supporters back then?

The players were readily accessible back then. I had a very good friend, who has since passed away, who was close with George Graham and Frank McLintock and after a cup final we inevitably ended up a party with the players somewhere or other. It just wouldn’t happen today. I’m pleased to say the amount I drank means that I cannot remember a lot of what took place. They were at Grosvenor House, that type of place.

You used to get really great characters around the game back then who used to sell match tickets on the black market. It’s not [illegal] like it is today, they were acknowledged people. The first one I met was Johnny ‘The Stick’ Goldstein and his mantle was taken by Stan Flashman or ‘Fat Stan’ as he was known. What a character! He used to hire trains to take us to away games, just the Arsenal fans, and he’d also arrange these parties.

You crossed his hand with silver, metaphorically speaking, and everything was done for you. You got a seat on the train, a fantastic meal, a ticket to the game. There was a different culture, footballers didn’t earn the money they do now. And Stan used to look after them and us. I better not say too much, but there was a different culture. If you read up on Stan you’ll see he used to claim he could get you a ticket to the Royal garden party at Buckingham Palace. He wasn’t much liked by a lot of people because of the business he was in, but I thought he was fantastic. In the end he got in trouble with the FA when he owned Barnet football club.

Did you ever find your dedication to Arsenal ever getting in the way of the rest of your life?

That’s the easiest question to answer. Never! It was never an issue. I’ve got an accommodating wife who never said anything about me going to games. If it’s in your blood, it’s in your blood. Even now, I shouldn’t get upset by things when they don’t win a game, but I do. It’s only in recent years that I’ve stopped going quite as regularly as I used to. 

Of all the trophies Arsenal have won during your lifetime, which brought you the most satisfaction?

It’s a difficult choice, but I can’t look past the two games in a week to win the Double in 1971. There was the FA Cup final in 1950 when Reg Lewis scored twice and we beat Liverpool and although I wasn’t at the game, Michael Thomas’ last minute goal at Anfield was also special. And beating Manchester United 3-2 in the cup final in 1979.

I feel terribly privileged to have been an Arsenal supporter. It’s had an enormous influence on my life. It’s helped mould me as a person, taught me a lot about sport, it helped me when I was at school and it’s been my social life. Unless you’re a real supporter, you just don’t get all that…

Last year I went to watch Bournemouth play and there were about three hundred Rochdale fans in the away end and they were going berserk. It was great to see. If they’d drawn a Championship side in the FA Cup and won, that would have been their moment; they’d take as much from that moment as a Manchester United supporter winning the Champions League.

That’s what’s so wonderful about football and it’s given me so many different highlights like that. It’s made my life much fuller and more colourful. 

Saturday 14 March 1998. A day that changed me forever. It was the day every football fan in England knew Arsenal were in the title race, but also the day of my first Arsenal away game. By the final whistle I finally understood importance of football and our club, Arsenal. 

Under the guidance of a certain French manager, Arsenal were nine points behind Manchester United with three games in hand. If we could manage to get our first ever win in the Premier League at Old Trafford, the momentum would shift and the destiny of the title would be in our hands.

Arsenal had never scored a goal at Old Trafford in the Premier League era - let alone won! - but Marc Overmars changed all that and put Arsene's Arsenal on the way to an unbelievable title comeback. Just a few weeks earlier a bookmaker had even paid punters who'd backed United to win the league! Now we were on the brink of overhauling them.

For me personally, this was a massive season. Just 10 years old, I was starting to love football and starting to love Arsenal. I think I took the double of 1998 for granted a little bit, but I remember being totally written off when I said we were going to do it and I couldn't understand other people's lack of faith. They said Manchester United were a far better team but I always believed Arsenal could do it. 

At that time there was no social media and no real internet as we know it, so football coverage and other opinions were relatively scarce - it was all newspapers and good old Ceefax! I'm not sure I even had my own opinion; I knew I liked Arsenal and knew I loved Ian Wright but that was it. 

Of course I'd been to Highbury and it was a special place, it felt like home, but I was curious to see the difference between home and away games. When I was told that there were 3,000 Arsenal fans going to Old Trafford, I thought that was loads - I thought that would be a quarter of the ground. Having 75,000 people in a football stadium just did not seem real or realistic to me, I was ten after all! 

Back then football was about enjoyment, of course I wanted Arsenal to win, but after a day I would get over the disappointment of a loss. I learned how to ignore all the glory hunters at school, who despite living in London, all supported Manchester United. It was a happy life.

The win at Old Trafford changed all of that - I could go back into school, look the glory hunters in the eye and tell them that we won in their backyard and now we were going to win the League (I only knew we were going to win the League, because it was written in the newspaper). Even better than that - I was there!

I started to understand the passion of football and the enjoyment of winning. Suddenly, every game become more important. Thankfully, I didn't have to experience losing much for the rest of the season as we went on to win the League and Cup double. 

...But if we did suffer a loss, it hurt a lot more then it did pre-Old Trafford, it stayed in the system for a good few days and only a win in the next game made it better. The stakes were higher now. The bar had been set.

That was the moment I was hooked - I then started to study the history of the club, understand formations, positions and my interest and passion has grown from there. It's amazing how much of an effect one game can have!

The rain was lashing against the windows as the train pulled into Liverpool Street. The smoke from the engine drifted past, the station lights twinkled and the screech from the brakes as we slowed to a standstill all added to the excitement.

I had absolutely no regrets leaving the wastelands of Norfolk. Being away from my sister and not being able to take off my socks was obviously going to be difficult, but I was an 18-year-old ready for the next chapter in his life.

Then there was the football. My dad wasn't interested in football when I was growing up but then when your local team is plying its trade in Division 3 South I guess the 50-mile round trip isn't that appealing. He did join me in front of our flickery black and white TV to watch the World Cup final and even my Mum let out a little yelp when England won. It was the loudest I'd ever heard her scream and my bedroom was right next to my parents'.

I had managed the previous season and a half on the terraces of Carrow Road having abandoned posh school in the West Country for college in Norwich. By then Norwich had made it into Division 2 so the football was at a reasonable level but the most important thing was that it gave me my first insight into the whole camaraderie involved in following a football team and I loved it. 

But now I was in London and this was Division 1 in every aspect.

I reached for my rucksack, stepped off the train and breathed it all in. Not the country air I had been bought up on; one hundred times better. 

I knew I had to get to Paddington to find the hostel I'd booked and went in search of something called 'the Tube'.

I dropped off my rucksack and said hello to my new room mate.  It was nine o'clock on a wet wintery night but London was alive and I wanted to be part of it. There and then. 'The Tube' took me to Piccadilly Circus. Oh. My. God! The people, the lights, the buildings, the traffic, the noise, the hustle and bustle. This was Paradise.

Then I saw it; across the road from Eros, under the flashing neon lights of the Coca Cola advertisement, beckoning me towards it. I couldn't resist and weaved my way through the traffic and pushed through the throbbing crowd, I was getting the hang of London life already. 

"Large hot dog please"

"Onions?"

"Yes please"

"Two bob guv"

"Ketchup?"

"Over there mate"

"Ta mate"

I knew my public school education would prove worthwhile.

The rain was getting harder and harder and me and my hot dog took refuge under the Arches at the bottom of Regent Street and my thoughts turned to football.

London. Division One. Arsenal, Chelsea, Tottenham, West Ham, Crystal Palace. Visiting teams; Leeds Liverpool, Manchester United. Where to start? 

I decided to sleep on it. Well, when I say sleep it was more a question of how many trips to the loo I could get away with. I've never had a hot dog from a street vendor ever since...

Over the next few days I spent my time going through the fixture list and putting a football plan together. It was late 1970 and given I had grown up deprived of live football I was determined to make up for lost time. I had no real allegiance to anyone so all the first division London clubs were on the agenda and priority was given based on who the visiting team was.

First up, Chelsea. Even from the depths of Norfolk I'd heard about Chelsea; the King's Road, mini skirts, swinging London and all that so imagine my surprise when I discovered that Chelsea FC isn't actually in Chelsea but Fulham! So off to Fulham Broadway I went. You could smell the hatred in the air. It was like entering a war zone but worse. Bodies everywhere. I eventually found my way into the Shed. Whoever called it that was obviously having a happy day; what a dump.

Next up West Ham. The first thing I had to learn is that the nearest 'tube' station is not West Ham but Upton Park. This was becoming very confusing for a country boy - Chelsea is in Fulham, West Ham is at Upton Park! Now I know it's all a bit ooh aah in Norfolk but nothing had prepared me for the East End of London! OK the words sounded English but they didn't make any sense. I rather liked the ground and the atmosphere but it seemed a long way out and I certainly didn't fancy re-learning the meaning of English. Father had spent a fortune on my education.

I then decide to go to Tottenham. Even to this day the only explanation I can give is that I'll try most things once. I thought West Ham was a bit of a slap but Tottenham; I couldn't even find it on the map. I was told by a work colleague that I had to go to Seven Sisters. That actually bought a tear to my eye as I wondered how my sister was coping without me. I digress, and I wish I had on that fateful day. My father was in the army and I had seen some pretty depressing places around the world but nothing had prepared me for Tottenham. What. A. Shithole. In the last few years I have been back as an away fan and I can assure you nothing has changed. 

Three down two to go. Finally a London football ground that was where it said it was. It even had its own 'Tube' station. How brilliant was that. Not only that, but when I got off the underground there was the stdadium. There. Right in front of me. Not in a different borough, not at a different station not a 20-minute walk up a street the devil wouldn't dare set foot in. Right there.  And what a ground; it just oozed class. I'd never seen anything quite so beautiful. Inside was just the same and it was becoming quite clear in my mind where I'd be spending the rest of my football supporting life.

Having been West, East, North and somewhere so disgusting the locals eventually burnt it down I felt I should go South and try the last London Division 1 club. I'd been in London long enough to have learnt about the North/South London divide and I was definitely North London, but in the name of fairness I went south. Never again.

During the rest of the 70/71 season I did pay a few more visits West and East but that was more to do with the visiting teams than anything else.

Then it happened.

A work colleague of mine ran his local FA affiliated club and got a ticket to the FA Cup final. For some reason he offered it to me. I wasn't going to say no. Arsenal v Liverpool. Whisper it but I'd always had a bit of a soft spot for Liverpool having grown up with the Beatles and the Mersey sound so here was a chance to see their football team play the London team that stood head and shoulders above the rest following my hands on research!

On Monday 3rd May Arsenal went to the 'dark side' and won the League. On Saturday 8th May I went to Wembley but while I was queuing to get in I noticed I was surrounded by really bizarre accents. Everyone seemed to have a problem getting the words out of the back of their throat. It was only when I got inside that I realised I was in the Liverpool end albeit in a so called 'neutral' section.

I was far too excited at being there to care what the football was like and was really happy when the game went to extra time as it was prolonging the experience. Then it all kicked off. Liverpool scored and my soft spot for them wasn't complaining. Then Arsenal equalised and I was happy about that because over the previous months they'd become my favourite London team, they'd won the league and here was a chance for them to win the Double. 

Time was ticking by and I was thinking "replay, I wonder if my work colleague could get me a ticket?" Then Charlie George picked the ball up in the middle of the pitch and flicked it to his left. He took the return ball and let fly. There was a collective intake of breath and everything fell silent around me. The clock that had been ticking seemed to stop. The ball hit the net. Charlie hit the turf, arms outstretched. How special was that?! The far end went mental. Red, white, blue, yellow everywhere.

All around me there was nothing but despair. The 'neutral' section was full of disconsolate Scousers and one very happy country boy. I'd found my team. I'd found The Arsenal.

Later that evening I headed to the West End and was surrounded by celebrating Gooners. A group of lads staggered past me and I heard one of them mutter, "our rivals have done the Double and now we have...."

I knew this was the start of a love affair that would never be broken.

Arsenal v Aston Villa. Sunday 9th December 2001. After West Ham's victory over Manchester United at Old Trafford on Saturday, the North Bank was bristling with unspoken optimism as kick-off approached. Titles are never won before Christmas, but after three years of dominance United seemed to be creaking and we were a team on the rise. This was a chance to be grasped with both hands.

However as half-time approached the only thing in my hands was my head.

Goals from Steve Stone and Paul Merson meant we were two-nil down and after succumbing 4-2 to Charlton at Highbury a month before, it looked like we were about to piss in the mouth of yet another gift horse. 

Wenger obviously agreed because we were treated to a lesser-spotted half-time substitution. Ljungberg off, Sylvain Wiltord on, it was time to go for broke. And this was a time when Arsenal really did go for broke...

Watching the Gunners chase down a deficit in those days was often a frustrating experience that left me with several self-inflicted injuries, but in sepia-tinted hindsight the intensity of such occasions was genuinely thrilling. Kanu, Bergkamp, Wiltord and Henry often formed a four-pronged attack and in a compact Highbury they used to kettle opponents like G8 protesters, squeezing and pounding them relentlessly. 

Within a minute Wiltord had rammed a loose ball into the net and changed the game's momentum entirely. 

The goal laid the foundation for a glorious comeback, but it was Thierry Henry who grabbed the headlines with an injury time winner. It was quite fitting, because for my money, Wiltord - along with Ray Parlour - was one of the most underrated players in that vintage early noughties Arsenal team. 

Maybe if he hadn't been in a squad with Henry and Bergkamp we might have appreciated him a little more?

He might not have possessed the exuberance of his fellow strikers but his knack for simplicity often meant Wiltord could unlock doors when they were struggling. In a team that often tried to walk the ball into the net, his instinctive one-touch finishing was a valuable alternative. 

Indeed he scored 49 times during his Arsenal career, despite spending much of it behind Bergkamp and Kanu in the queue to partner Henry, or shunted out to the right-wing. Yet many of his goals were crucial.

The one that secured the title at Old Trafford has become a part of Arsenal folklore, but he would go on to score another as we dumped United out of the cup at their place nine months later. A vital goal at a rain-lashed Goodison Park in February 2002, a last-minute equaliser at West Ham later that year are also good examples of his ability to deliver when the team had been backed into corner.

He also loved scoring against Chelsea, coming off the bench to score two against them in the fifth round of the FA Cup in 2001 and grabbing a winner against them on Boxing Day 2001 - but his goal at Stamford Bridge in a 2003 FA Cup replay is one of the most satisfying I have seen as an Arsenal fan. 

Vieira surged down the pitch leaving Lampard and Petit trailing in his wake before Wiltord dispatched the ball with an almost disinterested plomb. In that moment you almost believed we would have Chelsea under our thumb forever...

When I was asked if I'd like to contribute an anecdote to this site I said, what, like the time I used the referee's toilet at Highbury? That'll do nicely, I was told. Now, when I think about it, there isn't very much to that story. But it sparks off a chain of reminiscences connecting Arsenal with toilets. And no, I don't mean our form since we moved to the Emirates - I'm a glass half full kind of person, which is probably why I have bladder issues.

In the very early years of this century, before online booking had really caught on, I used to take the morning off (or throw a sickie) to queue up at the old box office in Avenell Road to buy tickets for certain key fixtures, instead of risking the phone. These included the last home match of each season - a trick I learned in 1998 in just our second season of attending, when we only went to the matches my young son was confident we could win.

That year, I randomly bought tickets for the match against Everton, which turned out to be the first of three times I've seen the Premier League trophy lifted in the flesh. Adams! Would you believe it! That sums it all up!

So two or three years later, there I was in a queue of hundreds of people stretching up the hill, past the poky little club shop up some steps we used to have, and the way into the sports centre round by the Clock End where my son would attend Soccer School in his new home kit every July.

I must have asked someone to hold my place as I told one of the stewards marshalling the queue I was desperate for the loo. You can use the referee's toilet, she said, and I was escorted straight into the legendary marble halls, shuffling embarrassed past the other queuers, pushing out the front of my coat with my hands in my pockets in a vague attempt to appear pregnant.

Past reception and the bust of Herbert Chapman, turn right and there it was. There was a spartan anteroom, with - I think - a teacup and saucer and a rather shrivelled orange on a small table. The loo was nothing special and no, I didn't do a Robbie Savage. (If you're unaware of this incident, Google 'Robbie Savage' and 'referee's toilet'. I accept no responsibility for your inevitable feeling of revulsion.

So much for that, but as - being a woman of a certain age with two children, an anxious disposition and a tea and coffee habit - I have a toilet dependency almost as strong as my Arsenal dependency, of course there's more to tell. To my son's despair (now mellowed to acceptance tinged with contempt) at every match I go to the loo before kick-off, at half-time and at the end.

The half-time loo break, especially, is my chance to take stock, to reflect on the performance and scoreline and assess where it could all go from here. Attending every home match already breaks the bank, so we go to very few away matches, but I remember a freezing, rainsoaked March day at the Reebok in 2008, trailing two-nil and down to 10 men at half-time, staring at the graffitied door of a scuzzy toilet and screaming silently, 'I want to go home!'

A Gallas strike (I don't mean the kind he performed sitting down on the pitch at Birmingham), a Van Persie penalty and a stoppage time own-goal later, it was Bolton 2-3 Arsenal, and one of my best-ever match experiences. That's football.

Before each game, I've always nicked a handful of bogroll and stuffed it in my handbag. In my early days at Highbury, this was because I always had a bottle of Coke with me (Diet Coke these days) and had a propensity, on unscrewing the top, to spray it all over the new home shirt of whoever was sitting in front. The tissue paper was to mop myself and (if I dared to own up) my victim.

But after a while, busy collecting a shedload of matchday superstitions, I calculated that there was a correlation between the length of loo roll I snatched from the dispenser and the eventual scoreline. A modest length might secure an equally modest two-nil, but if I wanted to stick six past Blackburn I had to tear off something more substantial without it ripping too near the end. All right, I know this is cuckoo. But no crazier, I'll wager, than thousands of other fans' superstitions. How many of us genuinely believe the outcome is dependent on our wearing our lucky pants?

I would slowly use up my collected toilet paper, of course, but on the day we left Highbury forever I still had several squares stashed in the inside pocket of my shoulder bag. A week and a half later, having been defrauded to the tune of £1,350 by an online ticket tout, my son (then 16) and I were wandering the boulevards of Paris looking in vain for a good, honest, old-fashioned street tout to get us into the Champions League final. (We later got our money back, but that's another story.)

Toilets in bars and cafes in Paris are, not to put too fine a point on it, shit, and often locked. Ending up in a pub near the Gare du Nord watching the match on a small overhead TV screen, I shared all I had left of Highbury, my loo roll, with another female Gooner as we queued for the sordid and paperless convenience.

Later that night, after meeting up with friends in a bar that stayed open till 2am, then talking to a mad Moroccan on a traffic island in French for half an hour to pass the time, and having no hotel, we trudged back to the Gare du Nord. But the station was now locked until 4.30am and hundreds of homeless Gooners were sleeping on the pavement. Having no access to toilets, they'd been pissing on the station walls (goodness knows how the women coped) and rivulets of urine were running across the paving stones.

After the station reopened, we found some café chairs stacked up inside, pulled them out and slept on them for a couple of hours. Once the departure lounge was open, we headed in there - civilised loos! - and settled down on some seats, where my friend from work Steve, a season ticket holder, came across us and gave my son the grey commemorative teeshirt that had been on his seat at the Stade de France.

And then we caught the early Eurostar and made the weary trek back to Waterloo, where my son headed home and I went straight to work, 10 minutes' walk along the South Bank. Half an hour before I was due at my desk, I was in my office building's showers, but they didn't work, so hoping nobody came in I washed myself at a hand basin with a spare teeshirt. And so, in a way, my adventures began and ended in a bathroom.

How long have you been collecting Arsenal programmes and memorabilia?

I started 35 years ago when I was a schoolboy and then it grew from there. I started doing it seriously in 1987. Arsenal did a programme fair as they used to do after the last home game of the season and a mate invited me along. And that was it – I got the bug! I still sit with the guy who got me started now! We laugh about that story sometimes. My dad used to print Chelsea and Wembley programmes during the 1940s so maybe I got the bug from him as well!

Six decades of Arsenal programmes must take up a fair bit of space?

They do and you can’t store them in the garage in case they get damp! I was living at my mum’s when I started but I had my own place by the time the collection started getting big. I think she’d have thrown them all away if I’d carried on storing them at hers!

What do your friends and family have to say about it?

My wife has always been supportive. She used to take the piss in the early days but once it started getting bigger she didn’t mind at all because it was an investment. I sold the collection to pay for the extension on my house a couple of years back. I still have stuff left but I think I sold at the right time.

How much did you sell your collection for?

I sold it all as individual lots. It would probably have been too much money for someone to take the whole lot together but if I had to value it I’d say the complete collection – including tickets – was worth £80,000 easy. A mate of mine is stockbroker and he bought a programme from the opening day of the football league in 1888 and paid £20,000 for it. It was a single piece of A5 paper.

So what was the earliest Arsenal programme you had in your collection? 

My earliest one is 1904. Sheffield United v Arsenal at Bramall Lane. The earliest home game I have is 1906, Arsenal v Hull in the FA Cup first round. That was when they were playing at Plumstead. I’ve got the first league meeting between Arsenal and Chelsea at Stamford Bridge in Oct 1907. Chelsea formed in 1905. I’ve also got every FA Cup Final programme that Arsenal have been in; 1927, 1930, 1932, 1936 and so on.

Do you have a favourite programme?

It would be Arsenal v Leicester Fosse – the first game at Highbury – if I had it! But my favourite from my collection would have to be an away friendly against Feyenoord from 1938. Arsenal were the first European club to travel abroad and it caught on. I’m pretty sure their first trip was in 1923 where they went to Sweden…

Is a programme’s value determined by how old it is?

Not always. My earliest is from 1904 but it’s not the most valuable because Sheffield United programmes are very common. Even going back to those days. I wouldn’t swear to this but the earliest Arsenal programme I’ve heard of is from 1891 against Scots Guards. It was just a piece of A5 paper and it had the teams on one side and few adverts…

Don Roper was an ex-Arsenal player and he kept several copies of programmes from every game including away European friendlies. His son sold a lot on eBay years later and there were some very rare issues which no one knew existed. They went for a lot of money!

Do you know collectors from other clubs?

Yeah loads. I know Man United collectors, Chelsea collectors and so on. The most sought after programmes will always be Man United although Spurs come in a close second for some reason. For example a 1938/1939 Man United programme fetches about £300. An Arsenal one from the same season will set you back about £50. Man United’s record home attendance was against Arsenal in 1948. There were 83,000 people at Maine Road that day and I’ve got that programme. I know a Man United collector who had pretty much everything and he sold his collection for £300,000.

…and what about fellow Arsenal programme collectors?

There were three Arsenal fans that had an even better collection than me. There is a bit of rivalry in it but at the end of the day it’s about money. Whoever can afford to pay for it will get a bigger collection. I used to collect loads of miscellaneous stuff from other matches played at Highbury including, Catering cup finals – The Ritz v The Hilton, international games are highly sought after, boxing matches, schoolboy games & railway cup finals played at Highbury I used to go mad for stuff like that.

What’s the greatest length you’ve gone to for a programme?

A collector in Sheffield phoned me he had a few Arsenal programmes from the 1920s for sale once, so I got the train up from Dartford to pick them up that day. My wife asked me where I was going, I told her I was going to Sheffield to buy some programmes and I departed with £500. I was over the moon when I got my hands on them – the best £500 I’ve ever spent! Haha

Did your wife not mind?

No. I’ve travelled all over Europe watching Arsenal. Dawn my wife came to a programme fair at Bournemouth with me once. She decided to come along because she thought it was a nice place. I took her to Dean Court and she soon changed her mind. As a load of saddos going through buckets of football programmes!

Are fairs the best place to find programmes?

Back then definitely. Ebay has taken the fun out of it a bit and also brought the prices down. You used to find loads of little gems not priced correctly that no one else had noticed at the fairs. One of the best things I found was an AFC handbook from 1922 – very rare. Inside it was a letter to someone from ex-Arsenal captain Charlie Buchan, saying he couldn’t get the fan a cup final ticket in 1927 because they’d only given the players three tickets. The fan had obviously kept it and put it in the handbook! I later sold that letter for £250. It was a piece of Arsenal history.

Of your 60 year collection, which was the most difficult to track down?

Cologne away in the Fairs Cup 1970 was an absolute nightmare to get hold of. There were two issues, one was quite common but the other was extremely rare. Postponed games could always be quite tricky. There was one came to light in the last few years – a postponed game in the late 50s. That put people in a panic!

What’s the most you’ve ever paid for a programme?

Twenty years ago I offered a £1,000 for Arsenal’s first game at Highbury, but I didn’t get it. The most I paid for one was probably the semi-final at Blackburn in 1928. That cost me £2,000. It’s never going down in value though so it wasn’t such a gamble. My biggest earner was Arsenal v Preston FA Cup Final where the replay was at Blackburn. The one at Blackburn I bought for £200 and sold for £1,000.

Did Arsenal know about your collection?

I wrote to them a couple of times but they weren’t really interested. The only person I got a response from was George Graham, who also collects Arsenal memorabilia. I met him at a programme fair and he was a nice guy. I’ve been told he had a very good programme collection. John Motson’s a Chelsea fan and apparently he has a good one as well.

Did you feel a sense of anti-climax once you’d completed your 1946 - 2006 collection?

I stopped because I was the only one looking at them and my interest waned a bit, but it was a fantastic achievement getting them. It’s less pressure now because I don’t have to worry about a programme.

Back in the day I used to have to make sure the ticket wasn’t creased and the programme wasn’t bent! Whereas now I don’t care. Also I started collecting Champions League press packs that were issued to the press. What that meant was going to European away grounds and blagging our way into the press area and getting press packs…

Is getting into the press area difficult?

It is and it isn’t. You’ve got to be sensible and have your wits about you. The hardest press rooms to get into were those in France, they were really difficult to get into, but I met Anelka after our first ever Champions League game in Lens and that’s really where it started. Sometimes it’s easy getting in though. After the semi-final against Villarreal in 2006 we only had one pass but the security guard just waved all four of us through!

Have you met any other Arsenal players on your travels?

I met Vieira and Henry after we played Werder Bremen in 2000. They were very polite and we chatted about football for a bit. Lovely blokes. Vieira looked fresh as a daisy, I couldn’t believe he’d just played 90 minutes! Back in the early 1990s we met Ian Wright after the first leg of the 1994 European Cup Winners Cup semi-final against Paris Saint-Germain. He came round the corner in this floor length cashmere coat and said ‘Aaaaaaa’s it gahn boys!' 

Which other European press rooms have you infiltrated?

We bumped into Giovanni Trapattoni after Arsenal played Fiorentina in Florence in 1999. He was a nice bloke. We also sneaked into the press room at the Nou Camp the same season. We were sat there next to Patrick Kluivert and one of the De Boer brothers!

In late 2008, my daughters Sian and Evie had part time waitressing jobs at a bar and restaurant called the Maze Inn in North London, where some of the Arsenal players sometimes went to eat. As Arsenal fans (encouraged by my wife, Teresa and I – both of us lifelong Gooners) they were delighted to meet the likes of Cesc Fabregas, Abou Diaby and Philippe Senderos. They also met and spoke to regulars Bacary Sagna and his wife, Ludivine.

In January 2009, Sian held a birthday celebration at the Maze Inn and Teresa and I went along after dinner. Bacary and Ludivine were there for a meal that night and the girls introduced us. We had a lovely chat with this delightful couple, telling them that we were all going to the upcoming away leg of the Champions League tie with Roma in March and, to my delight, Bacary told me he would give me his shirt (unprompted!)

The Roma match was typically fraught as our slender 1-0 advantage from the home leg was cancelled out early in normal time and extra time brought no further goals. So it went to penalties, which we edged 7-6 with Sagna scoring his. The away end went wild with joy and relief, the players came over to us and I saw Sagna throw his shirt into the fans down at the front. In the mayhem, I turned to Teresa and the girls and said, only half jokingly, “But that’s my shirt!”

A few days later, after the league match at Newcastle, Sagna arrived at the Maze Inn, fresh off the plane, and handed Evie a signed shirt, saying “This is for your father”. When I was given it, I couldn’t believe that he had remembered his vague promise and had made a special visit to keep it. I was truly touched.

Of course, when you see how he plays football and handles himself, this should not have been a surprise to me. He always gives 100% and has performed magnificently since his first match without any fuss whatsoever - so much so that us fans have come to expect it.

Truly a class act, he has got dodgy hair and I don’t care, but I did most definitely want him to stay. 

In the early years of my life the German nation were causing me and the team certain inconveniences.

If memory serves me correctly it was about 1943 when my father decided to introduce me to the wonders of supporting Arsenal Football Club.

I lived a short walk from Highbury in Finsbury Park but the Germans had bombed our state-of-the-art stadium during one of the Luftwaffe's many air raids. This piece of aggression was bad enough but it meant I had to catch a bus to watch my first Arsenal game at the home of another enemy - Tottenham Hotspur.

Fortunately, I remember nothing about the match so have no memory of the boys in red and white playing home games at White Hart Lane but I do remember standing at the bus stop with my father as he explained the game to me.

At the time I thought it all sounded quite complicated but I was excited at the thought of being a fully committed lifelong supporter of the club; just as he was.

When hostilities ceased I accompanied him to the Highbury box office where he asked for two season tickets. "Certainly Mr Freeman," came the response. "Walk around the ground and chose any two you like." 

My father did so and I sat in Row F of Block W in the West Stand from 1945 until the final game at Highbury against Wigan in 2006. They were the best of seats and although I don't remember how much they cost back then I do know that in 1965 I paid £20 for each season ticket.

In 1948 we won the 1st Division championship (the equivalent of the Premiership today) and even at that tender age I understood what it meant to support the best club in the world.

We claimed the title again in 1953 but then things started to go downhill and the club entered what some of my generation called 'the wilderness years'. To some the pain was not winning a trophy for 17 seasons but this didn't really concern me. 

Sport, and particularly football, has played a vital part in my life and I was brought up to believe the game was a sport - not a form of entertainment. So taking part was what was important, not winning. However I did object to the poor football the team was playing. 

When I was young my father told me about the giants of the 1930s Arsenal side: Alex James, Cliff Bastin, Charlie Buchan and countless others. They were all excellent footballers and I became mightily fed up watching second or even third-rate players wearing the red and white shirt.

This dissatisfaction would go on to play an important part in my relationship with the club.

Meanwhile - and somewhat to my surprise - I had qualified as a solicitor and found employment at £15 per week (perhaps footballers earning £20 per week was not so unfair back then!).

I was pretty skint but this didn't prevent me from discovering and becoming riveted by the stock exchange. When a stockbroker friend who was aware of my passion for Arsenal told me I could buy shares in the club, I was intrigued. This was VERY unusual in those days but the idea filled me with excitement. Owning a part of the club, no matter how small! I was totally captivated by the idea.

The market was thin so I had to wait but the magic moment came on January 8 1964 when I bought five shares.

Some time later my attention was drawn to an advertisement in the Evening Standard asking Arsenal shareholders to come forward. I did so and met Leslie Wise, a fellow Arsenal supporter who was also unhappy about the quality of the football and lack of trophies for so many years. He blamed the board of directors for being out of touch and reactionary (sounds familiar!) and manager Billy Wright who he felt wasn't up to the job. 

Leslie felt nothing was ever going to change unless there was a 'revolt' from shareholders and he was looking for one who would spearhead the rebellion. I agreed to do so because I felt it was a just cause.

For reasons I never really understood, Leslie was happy for me to carry on alone. He was extremely helpful and I both enjoyed and learned from my discussions with him - however action was down to me.

Where was I to start?

The media as we know it today didn't exist and communication was more difficult so I decided to obtain a list of shareholders. This was an interesting document that showed how steeped in history the club was. There was a striking lack of activity, many accounts went back decades and there was a very 'Victorian' feel about it all; a point that became relevant in due course.

My next step was to draft a questionnaire to be sent to all shareholders, but it wasn't long until the newspapers got hold of the story. They hounded me for some time and I soon learned they weren't to be trusted (and this was in 1965!) a lesson that became invaluable in my legal career.

I also learned there was no such thing as bad publicity. I say this because I believe the influence of the press - whatever I thought of it - eventually assisted me in attaining my objectives, which were the dismissal of the manager and an energising of the board.

In the mean time, I received a good response to the questionnaire and most shareholders agreed with me - but not all.

The quality of the opposition surprised me and I received a hostile riposte someone I believe represented The Arsenal Supporters Club (AISA today). I believe the chairman was one C.R.B. Joyce and his reply to my request dated 24/04/65 stated: "I shall be glad to answer this if I knew something about YOU, Mr Freeman. Would you kindly oblige?" 

I took this as an implication that I was an ignorant upstart who was up to no good and I had to prove my credentials before he would respond to me. 

To me these people only wanted to retain the status quo in all walks of life and I thought their attitude was very Victorian: You must know your place in society and keep to it!

This only served to encourage me and confirm my view that things at Arsenal needed to be shaken up.

I was also fascinated to get responses from people telling me they'd been supporting the club since the 19th century. People who were still alive in the 1960s!

Some had known the club in the early years and I heard from Nora McKelburg, whose father George Newman had played for Arsenal as an amateur in the Plumstead days. 

Another reply was from M Millstone who'd supported the club since 1915 and I always remembered what he wrote:

"In the early days at Highbury, Arsenal were on the verge of relegation several times, but things improved when we had a few lucky buys like Charlie Buchan, David Jack and later Ronnie Rooke. These things take time and one must have a little patience and consideration. So cheer up and do not be downhearted."

Actually Mr Millstone did not support me but his words gave me great encouragement and still uplift me to this day. Furthermore, the wise words of Mr Millstone proved correct. Where has his type of wisdom gone today?

I learned from the replies that although some people were no longer supporters the roots ran long and deep and didn't easily die off. Other replies were touching and nostalgic.

At the time there was little market for shares and although some shareholders offered me theirs at a knockdown price I was not interested. 

My next course of action would be to hold a shareholder meeting at Alexandra Palace.

The meeting was reasonably well attended and I opened by calling for questions. I believe the first was from Mr C.R.B. Joyce who launched into the same response he'd given in his questionnaire. This time I was prepared and I proceeded to begin giving him my Arsenal credentials until a rather bored member of the audience stood up and said he'd heard enough!

There were mixed views expressed at the meeting and when it concluded I wasn't satisfied there was a consensus of opinion. As minority shareholders we were in a weak position and I had to consider my tactics carefully.

I believed Dennis Hill-Wood (father of our previous chairman Peter Hill-Wood) was a shrewd and intelligent man. There were some interesting comments and exchanges with him in the national press and he knew how things worked. He realised I couldn't take on the club but I could cause damage. 

Yet I strongly believed his stonewalling would eventually prove unsuccessful and that matters at Arsenal would only get worse, so I decided to play the long game and wait for the situation to change.

However I still did the following:

1. Let it be known that the minority shareholders would, if necessary, call on fans to boycott games. There was no Sky Sports in those days so gate receipts accounted for nearly all of the club's revenue.

2. I wrote to Hill-Wood confirming that I had no wish to be a member of the board or interfere with playing policy. I hoped this would convince him my only concern was to see good football plus, hopefully, some glory. If I was right, I hoped this might plant seeds of doubt in his mind.

As a lawyer, I have always believed tactics and strategy are more important than the law itself when fighting a legal battle. This applies to all walks of life but you need luck as well.

I was lucky.

In 1965/1966 we finished 14th, our lowest league position in three decades. Towards the end of the season Arsenal were playing Leeds - a prominent team in those days - in a midweek game. There was a European Cup game between Liverpool and Borussia Dortmund on TV the very same evening and the gate for the Leeds match was around 4,500. A shocking attendance for an important league fixture and the lowest ever at Highbury! 

Some claimed it was because of the match on TV but I disagreed. I was convinced fans didn't attend because they'd had enough of the lack of quality football and weren't prepared to spend money when nothing was being done about the problem. Additionally, I found it difficult to accept that any Gooner would rather watch Liverpool than Arsenal!

It would seem Dennis Hill-Wood came round to my views and sacked Billy Wright soon after that fateful game. In March he was strongly supporting Wright and had said: "I am 100% behind Billy Wright ... Those shareholders are wasting their time if they're trying to get at him!"

A few months later he was gone - a situation with which many modern football managers will sympathise with!

The power of the fans was much stronger in those days. It shouldn't be ignored today but with Sky and many others companies pouring money into football their influence has been diluted somewhat.

We awaited a great leader who would return us to our proper place in the league and an unknown called Bertie Mee appeared. He was a physiotherapist who had never managed a football team before but his influence was immediate:

1966 - 1967: 9th in the league.

1967 - 1968: 4th in the league and league cup runners-up.

1968 - 1969: 4th in the league and league cup runners-up.

1969 - 1970: European Fairs Cup winners.

After the Fairs Cup victory, I was left with the overwhelming feeling that I was looking at a new dawn of success. It was an emotional time.

This was Mee's preparation for the big stage and we all know what happened in 1971. The next 35 years were glorious maybe more so than at any time in the club's history. 

After the double I threw a party to celebrate, at which the star attraction would be my dog who had been kitted out in Arsenal colours. However as a result of the party, the star attraction turned out to be the woman I later married. We are still married to this day despite the fact I converted her into a Gooner!

The Freeman family has supported Arsenal for the best part of a century and if my story proves one thing it's that club's should never underestimate the value of their fanbase.

I believe in later years Billy Wright admitted he was not up to the job.

You certainly won’t need me to tell you that if Arsenal finish this season empty-handed it will be nine years since we last won a trophy.

But believe me, things have been worse.

In 1970 I was 18 years old and yet to taste glory as a Gooner. Our last piece of silverware had come 17 long years before when we pipped Preston to the title on goal average in 1953. I was only a year old at the time so I think I can be forgiven for allowing it to pass me by somewhat.

The sixties had not been a great time to be an Arsenal fan, but things began to pick up as the decade came to a close and we made the League Cup Final in 1968 and 1969.

I managed to get tickets to both finals and was absolutely heartbroken when we lost both to Swindon and Leeds respectively. In my darkest moments, I began to wonder if I would ever experience the elation of watching the boys lift some silverware…

The following year, Arsenal qualified for the Fairs Cup and when we made it through to the two-legged final against Belgian outfit Anderlecht, I approached the game with the trepidation of someone who'd been waiting for over a decade to see us win something. I had learned the hard way that hope was a dangerous thing, yet as the match drew close, visions of what might swamped my thoughts.

My trepidation proved well placed when Arsenal quickly raced into a three-goal deficit in the first leg, but a Ray Kennedy goal in the closing stages was just the lifeline we needed. If we could just win by two clear goals at Highbury the following week the club would win its first ever European honour. But it would be a tall order. Anderlecht had knocked out a very strong Inter Milan side in the semi-finals and looked well worth their lead from the first leg.

One oft-forgotten fact is that after intense pressure from Arsenal, UEFA had accepted that if we won the second leg 2-0, we would win the tie due to our away goal, a law which had not been in the rules at the start of the competition. For six days, every single possibility ran through my mind.

At the time I was working in Spitalfields Market in my family’s West Indian import business (during my time there I also met David Dein who was a fellow importer before he joined the club!) and on the day of the game my working hours were 3:30am to 2pm. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep the night before. 

When I got to work, everyone was talking about the game as the market was full of Gooners and as soon as my shift was over I went home to my place in the West End, changed and got the tube to the stadium at about 5pm. You had to be early or you didn’t get in back then as there were no advance tickets and I wasn't taking any chances! Once on the North Bank, I soon found my mates (I always stood with the same group of lads in the middle of the terrace) and realised that like myself, they were shitting themselves.

I had never seen the North Bank so tense and we all just sort of nodded at each other rather than actually speaking, but as kick-off approached the atmosphere became electric. I spent several decades watching the boys from the North Bank but I can't remember an atmosphere to rival that. All that anxiety, energy and hope was being transformed into a wall of noise which I'll never forget. I remember not being able speak for a couple of days afterwards!

Arsenal were clearly as up for it as we were and when Eddie Kelly blasted us in front from the edge of the area after half an hour you could feel the stadium willing the boys forward. Belief had replaced hope. One more goal.

The second half was all Arsenal. Wave after wave of attack pounded against a resolute Anderlecht defence yet with 18 minutes left the moment arrived. A fine cross from Bob McNab was met John Radford and his header found the corner of the net. The North Bank surged but before we had a chance to catch our breath Arsenal were on the attack again. Charlie George’s cross field ball found John Sammels and he rammed the ball past the Belgian keeper. Cue delerium. 

After waiting for 17 years, Arsenal had turned it all around in less than two minutes. I remember thinking my heart was going to explode amid the euphoria as people went crazy, jumping and hugging each other, perfect strangers brought together in one marvellous moment.

I don’t mind admitting it was one of the finest memories of my life but the realisation that there was still over 10 minutes to go soon hit us. An Anderlecht goal would take us into extra-time and the last five minutes felt like five hours.

When the whistle finally went the crowd invaded the pitch but I just sat on the terrace and cried with happiness. I was not alone.

They say your first is always the best and in 56 seasons of watching Arsenal, for me that was the most overwhelming. It was magical. 

Watching Arsenal defend a lead can be stressful at the best of times, but when a Champions League spot and the club's future are hanging by a thread, the whole experience descends towards the sheer agony suffered by those unfortunate enough to be hungover on the morning of their root canal procedure.

We've all lived through a couple of these inglorious struggles in recent years, but if you cast your mind back to the one before last, you might remember a stomach-churning moment in injury time when some West Brom attacker breached our ramshackle defence (for at this time they still played in the figurative and literal shadow of Andre Santos) and looked like scuppering us as we shambled our way towards fourth place.*

A bleak future flashed before our eyes. Meaningless Thursday nights spent playing Romanian pub teams. The shame of being forced to shop in the Darren Bent aisle during transfer windows. The prospect of having yet more players prised away by the league's petro-fuelled bastard clubs.

After the nadir of that afternoon at Old Trafford nine months before, had we battled like badgers to drag ourselves out of the mire, only to be usurped by Sp*rs as the finishing line beckoned? Would Henry's last-gasp winner at Sunderland have been in vain? Had Gervinho fought Joey Barton for nothing?

Enter Kieran James Ricardo Gibbs.

Cynics may say he was out of position in the first place, but such people return from tropical holidays and moan about the food on the plane. In any case, the way he leapt to action to prevent a goal which would have plunged us into the Europa League abyss was Herculean.

Here's to you Mr Gibbs. If you have a finer moment in an Arsenal shirt, then it will be a very fine moment indeed.

*In a far cry from last year's pell-mell charge for the line, we secured a solitary point from home fixtures against Wigan and Norwich in the closing weeks of the season.

I met God 14 years ago. We sat alone in a hotel conference room and he told me about his work. Being God, he was quite humble about his achievements. Gently clasping his long fingers together on the table between us, he spoke so impassively about The Miracle Of Marseille that his description dulled the otherworldly magic of his deeds.

Fifteen months earlier, on a warm Saturday evening in the south of France, God was sprinting along the grass inside Stade Vélodrome, watching a football drop from the sky towards him. What happened next was an incredible display of skill and nerve. Although the way God described it, it wasn’t anything special. “On the last moment before the ball reached my foot, I decided to take it inside,” he told me. “After that I just hit it.”

He hadn’t “just hit it”. After taming the dropping ball with one touch, he’d brushed it past panicked Argentinian defender Roberto Ayala with his next before calmly arcing a precise volley into the top corner with the outside of his right foot. Three beautiful, daring touches made all the more thrilling because they’d come in the final seconds of a deadlocked World Cup quarter-final.

If God was typically modest about the moment, Dutch radio commmentator Jack van Gelder captured the wide-eyed disbelief within the stadium at the time. Breathlessly commentating like a man whose fingertips were slipping from a cliff’s edge, van Gelder repeatedly screamed God’s birth name until his vocal chords twisted into a strangled cry: “Dennis Bergkamp! Dennis Bergkamp! Dennis Bergkamp! Dennis Bergkamp! Dennis Bergkamp! Ayyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaachhhhh!”

It was goals like this that had prompted Arsenal fans to proclaim Dennis Bergkamp as “God”. By the time of that 2-1 win over Argentina, memories of the Dutchman’s sluggish start to English football – and the sneering hyperbole blown up around it by some of the national press – had been obliterated by his keystone role in Arsenal’s 97-98 Double season. The North Bank had seen some brilliant footballers in the preceding 20 years – Liam Brady, Vladimir Petrovic, Charlie Nicholas, David Rocastle, Ian Wright – but none had the supernatural aura of the Dutchman. According to Wright, Bergkamp’s Arsenal team-mates would often greet him at training with, “The Messiah! Lead us, Dennis!” during that Double season.

Bergkamp, a religious man, seemed uneasy with the comparison. I reminded him that in 1991 he’d told a Dutch journalist that he sometimes felt like his god, the Christian God, was controlling his boots. Bergkmap’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Normally, I wouldn’t say that sort of thing,” he said. “But sometimes everything just goes so easily and if it is form or more than that I don’t know. Sometimes you just don’t know why you are in that position on the pitch, why you are scoring a goal or why you are there in the first place. Then, you think, ‘Yeah, maybe it’s something else’, you know?”

Dennis Bergkamp is not the Messiah, he’s a very ordinary man. In the hour I spent with him, it became clear that, aside from a breathtaking natural talent for moving a ball with his feet, his humility is the key to his genius.

It was late 1999, and I’d been commissioned to write about Bergkamp for Total Sport magazine. Arsenal’s Number 10 didn’t do much press but, urged by his boot sponsor Rebook, he’d agreed to give us an hour of his time for a photoshoot and interview.

At Sopwell House, the stately St Albans hotel Arsenal were using as their post-training base, I was lead into a conference room where the magazine’s photographer set up his lights and backdrop. Eventually, the door opened and Reebok’s publicist walked in, smiling and busily waving her diary at us in greeting. Behind her a tall, blond man stepped in quietly. His hands were jammed into the pockets of a grey hoodie and he silently scanned the room before introducing himself. Dennis Bergkamp’s handshake was not much firmer than the gentle “Hello” and mild smile that accompanied it, and he carried none of the Olympian swagger the afflicted the Premiership’s other great footballers. He did without Eric Cantona’s posturing or Ruud Gullit’s self-importance. He looked more like an oversized teenager reluctantly following his mum around the shops. It was easy to see why some of the coaching staff at Ajax had initially worried that the teenage Bergkamp was too shy to ever make it as a professional before Johann Cruyff spotted something in his modesty and gave him a first-team debut at 17 “because he was such a pleasant boy”.

Putting on a Reebok-branded bodywarmer for the pictures, Bergkamp caught sight of himself in the mirror. “I look ridiculous,” he said. “You look fine!” lied the photographer. Bergkamp looked down at the postbox-red piping running across the chest of the navy blue jacket. “No,” he chuckled. “I look like a mailman.” Nevertheless, he happily zipped up his Royal Mail-inspired leisurewear and stepped in front of the lights. Patiently and quietly, he followed the photographer’s every instruction.

With the shoot done, he sat down to consider my chief question: how does he do it? If that goal against Argentina had underlined his skill for the spectacular, his selfless instinct for unbuttoning back-fours with a precise pass had been equally important to the evolution of Arsene Wenger’s Arsenal. Bergkamp’s through-balls had revitalized Ian Wright, helped make Nicolas Anelka a £23.5million player and, by then, were prompting Thierry Henry towards becoming the club’s greatest goalscorer. Bergkamp did things few other men could and, more importantly, saw things no-one else did. The Dutchman stared down at the table, stirring this idea around his head for a few seconds.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he said softly, holding my attention with blue eyes opponents found so difficult to read. “I think I always see a lot, a lot of opportunities. But it is always very difficult for the defender. They have to make a decision sometimes and they might say to themselves, ‘OK, I know he is going to pass it there but if I go there, the other side is open.’ It’s easier for the player in possession. He can decide at the last moment where he is going to put it. It looks unexpected – even though the defender has seen it coming.”

Bergkamp didn’t revel in being Arsenal’s almighty. He was driven by a modesty that wouldn’t let him admire his own work. He never stopped in quiet moments to replay his best strikes in his head because he was too busy stewing about his misses.

“I think more about that than the great goals,” he said. “Missed chances stay in mind for days. Hopefully, the next game will come very, very quickly so I can play again and try to forget about it.”
At this point, a few months after Arsenal had relinquished their Premiership and FA Cup titles to Man United, one miss had been haunting him more than most. At Villa Park in April, Arsenal’s FA Cup semi-final replay with Sir Alex Ferguson’s side had reached injury time with the score at 1-1 when Phil Neville cut down Ray Parlour in the box. Had the resultant penalty gone in, British football history would be very different. United would not have won the treble and who knows what the psychological effects of that defeat would have done to their Premiership and Champions League challenges. It was a moot point though: Bergkamp’s kick was comfortably pushed away by Peter Schmeichel and half-forgotten in the wake of Ryan Giggs’ remarkable extra-time winner.

“I was very critical of myself over that penalty miss,” said Bergkamp looking back. “But in the end I don’t think I did a lot wrong. It was a good save. But, yeah, you should score a penalty. “I don’t know how misses happen. It’s maybe a matter of confidence. At some stage of the game, when you’re physically not right, you start thinking of that. Maybe you’re just missing the slight strength to put it in.”

Despite the abundance of Arsenal shirts bearing the legend “God 10” on their backs that passed through Highbury’s turnstiles every matchday, Bergkamp believed forwards were more easily exposed as mere mortals than other players. “I think everyone realizes that you can’t be in form for 10 months a season,” he said, perhaps underestimating the hopes of the average Gooner. “But it’s very difficult for strikers because a lot of what we do is based on all or nothing. When you are not in form, you are nothing. When you are in form you know where the goal is, where the goalie is, where the defenders are. But when you are not in form, you have to look up and it takes longer to control the ball. It’s only one or two seconds but it can decide a game.

“You look at such a player and think, ‘Jesus, he is terrible today.’ But a midfield player or a defender, even when they are not in form, can still work, still do their jobs and have a good game.”

If we're going to accept that Bergkamp is actually mortal, it helps to remember he was not always without sin on the pitch. “What people miss is Dennis’ aggression,” his Arsenal team-mate Matthew Upson later told me. “He’s a very aggressive player, passionate about winning.” Occasionally that aggression boiled over into petulance – a stray elbow here, a foot left in there. Bergkamp learnt his trade alongside Marco van Basten, a master of using dark arts to unsettle his markers: treading on toes and dishing out sly kicks and ankle taps. Had some of that rubbed off?

“No, not in England. I think you would do that easier and quicker in Italy because it would happen to you,” Bergkamp said, recalling his two seasons with Inter Milan. “It is just the little things with corners and free-kicks. Over there, a defender will pinch you or stand on your toes. You learn that, you pick it up and start doing that yourself. In England there is no need, there is more space just to try your own game.”

Bergkamp did bring some lessons from his Dutch elders to England though. Recalling his Ajax debut he said, “After the game Frank Rijkaard said to me, ‘You’ve got a big future ahead of you.’ Coming from that type of player, that sort of thing really helps. I try to do the same for the players who are coming through at Arsenal.

“You realise what sort of players they are though. If they are full of themselves, really like, ‘Yeah, I’m going to make it’ then you’re not going to give them a compliment that easily. But if they’re really up for it and they really want to succeed or achieve something, you’ll support them all the way.

“You must have talent but it takes a lot of work as well. And every other thing like motivation, concentration and the will to win. You put those sort of things together in your whole game. The talent starts at a young age, and from there you can develop yourself. Somehow, at some stage, you can become a good player.”

It’s stirring to read those words again. They’re a reminder of Bergkamp’s insight into coaching young players just a few months after Liam Brady stepped down as Arsenal’s Head Of Youth Development. With five seasons of coaching accrued at Ajax, Bergkamp, now assistant manger of the Amsterdam side, has already talked of returning to English football. “I would, yes,” he told FATV in January. “If I could fulfill a similar role [to his position at Ajax] abroad, especially at Arsenal, that would be one of the things I would like to achieve in the future. But not in the near future because we just started [at Ajax].” The smile that accompanied that final sentence will have done nothing to dampen hope that a return to N5 could happen sooner rather than later.

Seven years earlier, in 2006, it seemed appropriate that Bergkamp was retiring from playing at the same time Highbury was locking its turnstiles for good. It was here, off the Gillespie Road, that he found a spiritual home after failing to settle in Milan. Highbury was a place where he could perform his alchemy on the grandest of stages, against top-level opponents, playing for by the far the greatest team the world has ever seen. And it really did feel like home to him. “It didn’t come off for him with Inter Milan,” Don Howe told me in 1999. “Sometimes a player’s got to have his chemistry right at a team, he’s got to have a good feeling about it. He enjoys playing for The Arsenal and I think he enjoys living here. I think it suits him.

“Outside of football, he’s a very down-to-earth sort of person. He likes to do ordinary things. Over here people don’t pester you. You can go out in the afternoon to Sainsbury’s with your wife and people will take no notice of you.”

In many senses Bergkamp was the perfect Arsenal player: he combined skill and passion with evident pride at wearing the cannon on his chest. Discovering that he was polite, modest and grounded only confirmed that he was a footballer who upheld The Arsenal Way. He hadn’t jumped straight from the North Bank and into the first team like Charlie George, but the Dutch boy who grew up idolizing Glenn Hoddle came to love and understand Arsenal like a local.

Even if he doesn’t return in person, the club has announced a statue of Bergkamp will be erected outside the Emirates before the new season starts. There’s no doubt he’ll accept the honour with humility. When our interview came to an end, I asked him the one thing I’d wanted to know since I was six: What’s it like to hear the North Bank singing your name? “It’s amazing”, he said, his eyes widening. “Even if you don’t have a good period, they’re still shouting your name and singing the song. I really appreciate that, it gives you something inside, extra motivation. It’s tradition at the start of every game now, it’s part of the ritual as you prepare for the match.”

He paused and laughed. “Without it, I feel like, ‘Is there something wrong?’”

Injuries, dips in form and the quality of competition kept Bergkamp from ever being anointed by official channels like the FIFA Ballon D’Or, but in brilliant moments – the goal against Argentina, the hat-trick at Filbert Street, the spin and finish against Newcastle – Dennis Bergkamp was The Best Player In The World. And he was ours. When football’s cycles and tides inevitably bring disappointment and defeat upon the Emirates, that statue will be a reminder of a staggering privilege afforded to us: for 11 seasons we were able to chant, “We’ve got Dennis Bergkamp! We’ve got Dennis Bergkamp! We’ve got Dennis Bergkamp!” Like the Miracle In Marseille, it doesn’t get any better than that.

My interest in football sparked quite late compared to some other fans. The rest of my family absolutely hates the game, but at the age of 15 I made a conscientious decision to plunge myself head first into the world of Arsenal. 

Every week I found myself counting down until the next game knowing I’d be in my own little world. That mix of fear, excitement, bewilderment and bliss luring me in despite the fact I had to watch every game through dodgy Eastern European streams.

Then I finally did it, I booked tickets to watch my first game at the Emirates. 3pm on Saturday, 18 June was to be my first true Arsenal experience, the opening day of the 2012/13 season against Sunderland. I was over the moon.

In the two weeks leading up to the game I passed the time indulging in transfer rumours although all I could really think about was how the day would pan out. It was all just so exciting;  the thought of the players being within touching distance, the roar of the crowd, all the wonderful, crazy camaraderie.

To my horror as the day grew closer I realised that I didn’t have anything to wear to the game. I had this awful fear that if I wasn’t clad in the red and white everyone would think that I wasn’t a true Gooner! Eager to rectify the situation I went down to the Armoury to get myself a scarf, given no one else in my family was really willing to fund my football ventures the shirt was off limits!

While there, I simply had to have a look around. I originally expected I’d be there for half an hour, but I spent more than an hour inquisitively strolling the circumference of the stadium, desperately reading every single word of the ‘Legends’ and marvelling at all the greats from throughout the club’s 125 years. From Cliff Bastin to Thierry Henry, Charlie George to Bob Wilson I was desperate to memorise the quotes and facts so I could later show off my Arsenal knowledge.

Finally the big day arrived and as you’d expect I woke up stupidly early. At the time my mum had a flat just off Holloway Road meaning the glorious sight of the Emirates Stadium was less than 20 minutes away on foot. It was a stunningly hot and sunny day and the beautiful weather only served to further fuel my insatiable excitement.  

I was sitting around for hours, eagerly awaiting the time when I could go. Then about 12.30, with scarf proudly wrapped around my neck (I didn’t care less about the stifling 25 degree hear), I set off to one of the nearby cafes for a Gozleme (middle Eastern wrap thingy). Already I could feel the atmosphere buzzing with the number of people walking about in Arsenal shirts growing by the minute. I have to admit I was a little jealous that I wasn’t sporting a shirt so I too could fully show off my love for the club.

My excitement was at breaking point. I gobbled down the food, and briskly walked down the road to the stadium. Feeling it was the done thing I gave the evil eye to any Sunderland I saw!

As I walked past the Herbert Chapman pub, where everyone spilled on to the pavement merrily drinking, I thought how great it is that hundreds of thousands of people put their lives on hold for a few hours every Saturday purely for the love of Arsenal.

Given I had no distance to go, I arrived at the stadium horrendously early, about half past one. It was absolutely boiling in the sun, but I still refused to take the scarf off, and set about buying a programme. I was so worried about not getting in I’d geekily packed a plastic folder with every possible printed document I could be asked for. Getting turned away and having my day ruined was not an option. I even memorised my seat and area. ‘Turnstile N, area 26, row 3, seat 815,’ I chanted in my mind hundreds of times over. After fumbling for my Junior Gunners card and then sliding it under the fascinating turnstile device, I was in. I was home.

I scampered through to find area 26, then feeling almost majestic, strolled out into the stadium. Nearly dumbfounded by its beauty all that came out of my mouth was a crackled ‘Wow’. It was beautiful, more amazing than I could ever have imagined. Given the time it was virtually empty, but I couldn’t have cared less. I walked down the steps, mouth jarred half-open just taking in what was around me, and I settled down into my seat, I was so close it was incredible!

I sat down, read my programme, cover to cover, and gradually the stadium began to fill up. I raucously cheered as the Arsenal goalies came to warm up, although unfortunately, given their location at the other side of the pitch I had to settle for watching the Sunderland ‘keepers close up.

Then it came, 3 o’ clock, the players warmed up and ready, spine-tinglingly ushered onto the pitch by the cheers of the fans, and we were off. The whole ambience made my hair stand on end, the roars of ‘We love you Arsenal’ and other such chants mesmerised me and I was so happy to be able to get stuck in, copying the shouts of those next to me - wanting to be part of it all.

In all honestly, looking back on the match it was a god-awful 0-0 draw that we really should have won, I remember my head in my hands when Giroud - the new boy, like me - missed ‘that chance’ to become an instant hero. But I absolutely adored every moment of it, it was absolutely magnificent, even the stuffy, sweaty air couldn't put me off.

One line in particular sticks with me as we filed out of our seats - the guy who had been sitting next to me said to his friend irritably, “that was the worst opening game I’ve ever watched.”

I thought to myself - not for me, and I wouldn't have changed my experience for the world.

Living in Moscow my relationship with live Arsenal performances has been complicated (by which I mean non-existent) for years. Despite barely missing a game on television during the 14 years I’ve been a Gooner, I’d never actually watched a match in the flesh. That changed though on one overcast April afternoon in 2012.

I’d come extremely close to watching Arsene’s men once before, back in 2006 when we drew CSKA Moscow in the Champions League group stage. Watching the draw I let out a scream so loud that my family looked at me as if I’d gone nuts. I went through hell trying to find tickets for that game and after paying a small fortune I finally got my hands on them.

They sat on my work desk for days staring at me seductively. I could barely think of anything else, the excitement was overwhelming. Then, three days prior to the game my boss called me into his office and instructed me to fly to Budapest at the break of dawn. There was a work emergency and I had to sort it.

I remember standing in his office trying to listen to what he was telling me but feeling numb. I returned to my desk and broke down in tears to the astonishment of my colleagues. Even seven years later, and well aware that it wasn’t really his fault, I still hold a bit of a grudge against him for what happened. 

By spring 2012 I’d decided enough was enough. And while the whole family made a real big deal about my upcoming 35th birthday I made it a clear that I wanted nothing other than a trip to London to watch The Arsenal. I begged them for it and thankfully found no resistance. It was really about to happen. The closest game to my birthday was our home game against Manchester City, which sounded like a perfect option.

Arsenal’s burgeoning social media savvy fans made trip arrangements so much easier. A good Twitter pal, Wendy, took care of my match ticket and all my other Gooner acquaintances on social media made clear their excitement at the prospect of finally meet face-to-face, watching the game together and sharing a few pints while chatting about the one thing we all had in common. Spirits were high, anxiety was building up. Little did I know…

As a Russian citizen I’m unfortunately subjected to the relentlessly humiliating process of applying for an entry visa wherever I travel in the world. The UK is no exception. Not wanting to take any chances I filed all the necessary paperwork more than a month before I was due to fly to London.

By the time of my birthday six weeks later I was overcome with stress. I was due to fly the next morning but I had no visa nor had my passport been returned to me. I think it must have been the gloomiest birthday out of all the 35 I’d had. I remember thinking I was cursed.

Two days after the Manchester City game my visa was finally issued. After little hesitation (about 5 seconds or so) I decided I was still going to take the trip. Arsenal were due to host Chelsea so it seemed worth making another effort.

Again Twitter came to my rescue. It took just five minutes before someone offered me their season ticket. Bizarrely, the reason why he couldn’t make the match was that he had a business trip…to Moscow! A few days later I found myself in the centre of my home city borrowing an Arsenal season ticket from its owner. Surreal but true. Thank you Christopher, you’ll be part of my personal Arsenal history forever.

The game was a 12.45pm Saturday kick-off so I arranged with a few London based Gooners and to start the day in style with a full English breakfast. Meeting fellow Arsenal supporters for the first time had never felt more natural, it felt like we’d all known each other forever (well, theoretically we had thanks to social media, but still). Conversation flowed, there were laughs and giggles everywhere; it was absolutely brilliant.

I was then taken to the heart of North London where I passed the stals selling merchandise, soaked up the matchday smells and gazed at everyone walking with their scarves and kits. My heart skipped a beat when I passed Highbury and although I never had the honour of being inside the ground my awe for its legend knows no boundaries.

The Gunners Pub was the next stop and what a venue it is. From the crowd to the décor it gives you no other choice but to start dancing and singing along. The Away Boyz were keeping the atmosphere pumped and I met more familiar faces. The day just kept getting better by the moment.

My phone kept buzzing constantly as another gang of supporters awaited my arrival at The Tollington pub. On my arrival I was greeted with more hugs, introductions and smiles and I remember as I stood with a beer in my hand and scarf around my neck that: “This doesn’t feel like the first time at all, it’s like I’ve been here before”. It was special. And it was also time for something absolutely new and unique: a live Arsenal game.

I had barely slept the night before such was my excitement and when the time came to walk to the stadium, I was in a total daze. I barely remember buying a programme or trying to locate the entrance and figure out how the season ticket worked. The only thing I recall is a constant, ‘this is actually happening’ thought circling in my head.

I had imagined it many times like many of you have I am sure. How monumental and beautiful the whole stadium is, how green the grass is, how loud the crowd is. Now that I have experienced it let me tell you. You are never ready for it.

All my expectations were exceeded the moment I walked through the turnstile. I think I walked to my seat on auto-pilot and then just froze when I looked out on what was before me. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever witnessed (and I have seen the Taj Mahal, Red Square, the Sagrada Famiglia and many more worldwide famous wonders of the world). I remember being afraid to breathe. I looked around at this massive state-of-the-art arena, the greenest grass I have ever seen and I felt tears burning my eyes. It had finally happened. I was finally home. In any other situation a 35-year-old woman bawling her eyes out in public might have been a call for help. I think the guys in the nearby seats were extremely amused. 

“Hey, are you okay?” they asked.

“Yes, thanks. It’s my first time here,” I replied.

“Oooooh. Bless you. Hope it’s a great match for you.”

It wasn’t. It was one of the most boring 0-0 draws of that season. Did I care? Absolutely not. As I said to someone that day even if it was 2-8 that day I wouldn’t be pulling my hair out. I’d finally made it to the Emirates.

I spent the entire 90 minutes singing, cursing at the ref and despairingly throwing my hands in the air at missed chances. I talked to people I had never met or known before and we all spoke the same language. The language of love. Football love. Arsenal love.

After the match it was back to the Tollington for more beer, more introductions, smiles and hugs. I was particularly amused when people approached me directly asking: “Hey, are you Anna? MadRuskiGunner? I follow you on Twitter, it’s so great that you finally made it to the game!”

There were cheers for the players as they pulled up at the traffic lights outside the pub on their way home, a chance to play fangirl, and the chatting lasted for hours. It was strange and yet so real. I truly belonged despite it being my very first time. And I thank each and every person who made me feel welcome and loved throughout that whole trip.

I am writing this a year later (better late than never, right?) with a huge grin on my face and memories still fresh in my head and my heart. They will stay there forever, just like some of the people I met through supporting The Arsenal. It’s an honour and privilege I’ll carry with me throughout the years.

Despite yet another visa fiasco and a failed trip this season one thing I know for sure. I’ll definitely be back!

I still remember finding out about Arsenal for the very first time. Growing up in the U.S. in the late 1970s and early ‘80s meant that I lived in a soccer, football wasteland. Come to think of it, the only sports that really attracted anyone’s attention were baseball and American “football.”

I had been playing the real kind for a few years, but at that point, it felt like a hobby more than a sport. We had no professional league, just an abortive indoor one, and we had no knowledge of or access to international football. I only knew Pele, for example, as a guy who must have been pretty good at one point. I only heard about Maradona’s “hand of God” in a story buried in our newspaper’s sports section days later. Like I said, a wasteland.

At any rate, it was somewhere around 1982 and we had just gotten cable . To that point in my admittedly young life, I had subsisted on the thin gruel known as Duran Duran, not yet knowing that actual music existed. I would stay up into the wee hours to watch Friday Night Video Fights, The Young Ones, and Headbangers' Ball.

During one of these late night fests, I was scrolling through channels in a daze when I stumbled across actual football. The idea that professional football existed blew my mind, and the fact that it was on TV blew me away even further. At any rate, the picture was pretty grainy, and I could barely make out the players, nor could I understand the broadcasters very well due to their accents. Still, I awoke from my stupor.

When the table flashed on-screen, I snapped to full attention. Amid a sea of unfamiliar or downright irritating names, at least to these Yankee ears, standing out in that hodgepodge of cities and -hams and -wiches and and -tons, one name seemed to shine forth like a beacon: Arsenal. Even at my tender age, I knew the definition of the word, and it floored me to learn that teams could have any other name besides the city in which they play their home games. What a perfect, perfect name for a team.

Even now, when my pacifism and generally liberal political bent might otherwise agitate for a more politically correct name, "Arsenal Gunners" wins, hands down. I was hooked. Further helping matters was that they were not in first place, appealing to my early preference for underdogs. Had I known then that Arsenal is hardly some pluckly little underdog, thinks might have turned out differently, and I might have ended up rooting for Sheffield Wednesday or something. There but for the grace of God…

When the highlights came back on, I was drawn in more deeply in the Gunners' embrace through the uniforms, that pitch-perfect shade of vivid red and high-contrast white not only just works for my vision (I have mild red-green color blindness), it’s bold and stylish. Put it all together, and the romance flowered and has bloomed ever since.

Each night, still too young to realize that the Premier League was more of a weekly thing, not a daily one, I'd turn to ESPN hoping to see more Arsenal action. I figured it out after a week or two when I finally saw that highlights only came out on the weekends, and in a five-minute installment at the end of the broadcast. Think of that—I subsisted for years on little more than a minute or two of Arsenal-specific news a week. I could get no names, no statistics, no information of any kind about Arsenal’s players, not to mention anyone else, except whom Arsenal played, how they did, and where they stood.

Ever since then, I have followed this club through thick and thin, surviving on a meager trickle of ESPN highlights in the days before the internet and the growing popularity of football in America prompted newspapers, magazines, and television finally saw fit to cover European soccer. I’m sad to say, therefore, that I missed almost all of the drama and glory of the Invincibles, except in those little bits and chunks, filtered through a flimsy coverage that didn’t do the team’s style or achievements justice.

Now, instead of hoping to get to ESPN in time to catch a 30-second rundown of the best Prem League games, as I did in the 1980s and early 1990s, I can actually watch complete games. The difference has been not unlike going from flirting with someone through text messages to actually embracing and kissing. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I hope to some day soon make it to the Emirates to see a game. I love history and roots and origins, so it breaks my heart that I’ll never get a chance to see one at Highbury.

I see fit to consort with fans from other clubs, like Man City, Chelsea, or Man U. It's like high school community service—I listen patiently to their stories and ask polite questions, making sure to say mm-hmmm and "oh really?" from time to time to give off the appearance that I'm listening. Inside, I feel sorry for the poor saps who learned about football only recently and who cast their lot in with whoever happened to be in first place or whoever had won the FA Cup at the time. For the most part, these fans have never had their loyalties tested and have know little else but salad days (except City, for example). Do I envy them, even ever so slightly for having experienced their successes while we wonder why our club has faltered? I guess I do, but, still, I would never trade what I've had and will continue to have for what they have. Am I crazy? Yeah, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Diaby tore his ACL in March, when Wilshere came back from injury to score against Montpelier in November, or when Henry came back last year to score against Leeds last January, each of these moments brought a tear to my eye, each for very different reasons. Diaby’s injury saddened me because, like the team itself, it seemed that he had finally rediscovered himself and was seizing his moment. I hope—no, strike that—I know that part of our late-season charge is dedicated to him, may he return when the time is right. I look forward to his come-back goal. Henry’s goal was an encore, a poignant curtain-call on a glorious career and a wondrous reminder of those heady days. Wilshere’s goal was a resurrection, an announcement that he had returned,  and so would the team.

These moments, triumphant though they were, did not launch me from my seat the way that other goals have. Instead, I stayed rooted to my seat, palms over my nose and mouth, as I quietly absorbed every detail available. I’ve never known the delirious glory of celebrating a moment like that jostling with fellow Gunners as the Emirates crowd registers itself on the Richter scale. Someday, someday soon, I will.

Losing to Bayern this week reminded me that better Arsenal teams than this one have had the capacity to be even more outclassed at home by European opposition.

Back in the long distant past when we were a genuine European force and regularly threatened to win any competition we entered (yeah, I am older then you think), we were paired with Internationale of Milan in the group stages of the Champions League.

The season was 2003/4, the season in which we became ‘Invincibles’, a season like no other in the glorious history of the club. But the Champions league campaign had got off to a far from invincible start with 1 point from the first 3 matches which included a 3-0 home drubbing to Inter.

That game, played on the evening of my son’s 11th birthday, saw us played off the park. Not a great birthday present, that one. It was already 0-2 when TH14 missed a penalty and I seem to remember a young Obefemi Martins running us ragged before scoring their third goal before half-time (we must rank pretty highly in his list of career highlights?).

So we entered the second round of group games needing to win every game to stay in the competition. Home against Dynamo Kiev, that nice Ashley Cole scored a late winner that not only kept us alive but provided one of those pivotal footballing moments when everyone suddenly realises  ‘hang on – we can do this!’

And of course, in the league we were still unbeaten and not looking like losing anytime soon. So it was off to Milan to play Inter at the San Siro, and to anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of visiting the Giuseppe Meazza Stadium then you really need to go – it’s one of those special football places.

My mate Steve and I flew into Milan mid-morning on match day. We hit the city centre and desperate not to succumb to the big McDonalds near the Duomo, found ourselves a typically Italian hostelry where we spent an afternoon on pasta washed down with beer, vino, and grappa. As with any good Euro away trip, when we rolled out several hours later to hit the subway and make our way to the stadium with the 5,000 or so Gooners in Milan that night, I seemed to have someone else’s legs on and was incapable of repeating my own name.  Damn that grappa.

But arriving at the San Siro and seeing that stadium all lit up in the middle of the park was sobering enough. There had been a few scuffles along the way too, and with kick-off time approaching things were starting to get serious.

The first thing you notice inside San Siro is the height and steepness of the stands. That, and the fencing that makes it feel like a detention centre for violent offenders. The teams came out and Patrick Vieira wasn’t playing (suspended I think) and we had Pascal Cygan at the back up against Christian Vieri and Martins, so not exactly full strength and the rain was bucketing down too which didn’t help.

We started a bit wobbly but took the lead when TH14 was on the end of a well worked goal, before Vieri scored with a horribly deflected shot, but 1-1 at the break seemed about right and we were well in it.

But the second half was very different. Through my grappa induced headache from hell, even I could see that we were taking charge. Freddie put us ahead just after the break and a few chances followed as the game opened up – Inter had to chase it now.

We couldn’t get a third to kill them off though. That was until TH14 scored a TH14 special, beating a couple of players on the run and hitting a shot into the corner to make it 1-3. Then it all got a bit silly to be honest. Edu scored a fourth and Pires a fifth in the last few minutes, and the score board said

Inter 1-5 Arsenal

Most people were laughing at the end. You don’t score 5 against Inter on their turf; it just doesn’t happen and it all seemed very surreal.  I had got split up from Steve as we’d entered the ground and we’d ended up in different blocks, so our reunion after the game was a wide eyed ‘can you believe what you’ve just seen?’ moment.

And there, right outside the stadium as if sent by God, was a McDonalds and there was no mucking about this time. It was straight in to celebrate, and in some style I might tell you.

Anyway, why regurgitate this old tale now? Maybe because it shows that losing badly at home in the Champions League this week doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an irretrievable situation, despite what it looks like right now. Bayern away? We only need 3.

(OK, so we don’t have TH14, Pires, Ljungberg, Campbell,  Edu, Kanu, Cole, Parlour etc.... I know, I know. But there’s always hope - and Gervinho. C’mon the Arse!)

Mum was still fast asleep when I woke up, washed my face and put on my uniform. There were still several hours until I was due at school as I turned on my freakishly small television and tuned in to watch Arsenal take on Barcelona in the 2006 Champions League final. 

I was wary of the occasion having been reminded time and again in the build-up of our failures in Europe. This time though, surely things would change? This time, no matter what, we were going to become the first London club to win the continent’s top honour.

The line-up looked strong and our main man Thierry Henry was at the peak of his powers. He’d conquered the Bernabeu, helped himself to another domestic golden boot and was back on his old stomping ground. Having had a patchwork defence throughout the knockout stages even Ashley Cole and Sol Campbell were back in the starting eleven while semi-final hero Jens Lehmann retained his place between the sticks. Things were looking good.

It didn’t take long for things to change. A mistimed goalkeeping tackle by Jens took down Samuel Eto’o. We all knew it, he was off. No wasting time, no begging the referee. Our German had made his bed and we all had to lie in it. Robert Pires was sacrificed and Manuel ‘fumbles’ Almunia entered the fray. I was scared, what was going to happen?

GOAL! Unbelievably, Sol Campbell scored from a Thierry Henry free-kick following a ‘foul’ on Emmanuel Eboue. The time ticked on, but slowly, so, so slowly. It was like being in class and desperately staring at the bell to ring. I wholeheartedly believed we’d hold on. I needed to believe, losing just wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to go to school and face a whole heap of abuse from Miss Nermin’s class. No sir, that wasn’t going to happen today!

The tide was turning though, Barcelona came out in the second half with purpose. I kept biting my finger nails all the while wondering when and even if the 90 minutes would ever end. Then we conceded. Almunia beaten at his near post. His near post for god sake, his near post!

The clock was at 76 minutes; Eto’o had scored from an Henrik Larsson assist. Minutes later the Swede set up Juliano Belletti to bag what was the winner. My heart wasn’t just broken, it was crushed, shattered into a million pieces. We’d been 15 minutes from lifting the most coveted trophy in European football and then had history snatched from our grasp.  

We weren’t to become the first London side to lift the trophy. But six/seven years after that traumatic defeat in the Parisian rain, I wonder could we have another go. We weren’t world beaters back then, so who’s to say we can’t make the final again.

My primary school classmates may have tortured me on that faithful day, but it was an experience I survived and a moment as a fan I won’t forget. The euphoria, passion and heartbreak only strengthened my love for this club. We might not have been the champions of Europe, but we were the team with the greater heart and soul on the night. Ten men Arsenal on the cusp of beating one of the best teams in Europe at the time; it would’ve been some headline. I guess it was just not meant to be.

Ask any football fan about the Arsenal side that went 49 Premier League Games Unbeaten, or the Invincibles as they are better known, and they will talk about the likes of Thierry Henry, Robert Pires, Dennis Bergkamp and Patrick Vieira, which is fair given that these four players each performed excellently during this remarkable run. 

One member of this squad who is a huge fan favorite with all Gooners, but is surprisingly underrated by fans of many other teams, is Swedish Midfielder Freddie Ljungberg. My evidence for this statement is based on a conversation with a Liverpool supporting cousin of mine, who stated that Freddie “wasn't actually that good” as we discussed our respective teams all time Premier League XI’s.

For me though, Freddie has and always will be my favorite Arsenal player. As a kid who didn't become interested in football until the age of eight, my first experience of Arsenal on the television was in a match against Manchester City, at Maine Road in April 2001.

Arsenal ran out 4-0 winners on that occasion with Freddie scoring a couple of goals, and upon seeing both his individual performance and that of the team as a whole, I knew I had to be an Arsenal fan. A few weeks later I thought my new hero had won us the FA Cup against Liverpool at the Millennium Stadium, only for Michael Owen to break my heart and those of all Arsenal fans across the world with two goals in the last ten minutes.

The following season was Freddie’s best, and probably my favorite (Just shading the unbelievable 2003-04 campaign) as it was my first full season as an Arsenal fan. A few weeks into the season my Dad gave me my first ever Arsenal jersey, the gold ‘SEGA’ away top, with ‘LJUNGBERG’ and the number eight on the back (A jersey I still proudly own) and I wore this every time I played football with my friends, in the hope of emulating something Freddie would do.

The one day that sticks out in my mind more so than any other as an Arsenal fan is May the 4th 2002, the day we played Chelsea in the FA Cup Final. I can still remember having butterflies in my stomach in the hours leading up to the match, hoping that history wouldn't repeat itself from the year before.

As Freddie had been in such a rich vein of form in the weeks leading up to the Final, much of the pre-match coverage was based on his performances, as well as the fact that a number of fans had adopted his trademark red-streak in their hair. I had recently bought a can of reddy-orange hair spray and persuaded my Mum to spray a red-streak in my hair, given the circumstances of the day. Unfortunately it turned out to be much more orange than red, but this didn't deter me and obviously we all know that two absolutely cracking goals, first from Ray Parlour and secondly from the ‘man-of-the-moment’ Freddie, won the Cup for Arsenal. As soon as the match was over and Tony Adams and Patrick lifted the Cup, I ran outside trying to emulate Freddie’s unbelievable finish against my cousins.

Alas, the 2001-02 campaign, in which he scored an incredible 17 goals in all competitions, proved to be the high-point in Freddie’s career, as injuries slowly began to take their toll. With that being said, he was a hugely important part of the Invincibles squad and remained a crucial first team player (Vital goals against Tottenham and Inter Milan in November 2003, and his last Arsenal goal against Bolton in February 2007 spring to mind) until his departure to West Ham in the summer of 2007 (a day on which I am not ashamed to admit I shed a tear), and thankfully he has been afforded a brilliant reception every time he has returned to the Emirates, showing that if a player shows loyalty and love for the club and fans, they will definitely get it back.

So back to the point I made in the opening, maybe my cousin was right, and maybe Freddie wasn't as good as the likes of Thierry, Robert and Dennis, but what he did have was unbelievable character and fight, as well as a knack for always being in the right place at the right time, and for that reason he will always be a legend for Arsenal Football Club and my hero.