At 23.49 last night, my sister sent me a picture of my nephew – an Arsenal season ticket holder – and his wife at the Emirates, celebrating the Gooners’ title win.
What was I supposed to do? Smile? Say congratulations? Delete it? I’m a Spurs fan – also a season ticket holder – and let me put it this way: I wish only good things to the Solomons family – to my nephews (both of them have a season ticket), to my brother in law (also a season ticket holder) and to my sister (no season ticket but a Gooner). Good things in life, in health, in love, in work, financially. In every imaginable way except, obviously, football, in which I wish them nothing but disappointment.
So last night was not one of my better nights. Not least because of the parallel story that has run alongside the Gooners’ ascent towards the title: Spurs’ descent towards the Championship. I’m not one to make predictions but you didn’t have to be Nostradamus to conclude that our chances of getting a draw (and thus the point that would have secured our Premier League status) at Stamford Bridge, where Chelsea have lost just once to us in the past 41 matches, was about as likely as me being selected to play in next month’s World Cup for Iran.
To be honest, I blame my sister for all of this. A couple of weeks ago we agreed a deal: I’d let Arsenal win at West Ham if she’d let Spurs win at home to Leeds. I delivered on my part of the bargain. She did not – we drew 1-1. Once bitten, twice shy. I agreed to let the Gooners beat Burnley on Monday if she would let us get a point at Stamford Bridge. Again, I kept my side of the deal, she didn’t. Trust has to be earned. After 60 years, I thought I could trust you, Jo, but I won’t be making that mistake again.
I don’t hate Arsenal. My father taught me that we don’t hate our closest rival. Hate is the wrong word (that’s reserved for Chelsea). We loathe their smugness. We despise how they cheated their way into the league all those years ago when they upped sticks from Woolwich and have pretended ever since that they have any business being in north London (and as for that dirge of a fake anthem, North London Forever…). And we wish them eternal misery. But there is, alongside that, a grudging form of respect. The kind of respect you have for your most worthy adversary.
And while we might keep on about the awful brand of non-football the wretched Gooners now play, and say how we can’t imagine anything worse than winning the league with such dross, we all know that’s drivel. Because it would be delusional for any Spurs fan to lay claim to any of the footballing style that we like to think our club is associated with, after a season (more than one, if we are being honest) where our performances have shamed everything Tottenham Hotspur stands for.
And so miserable as I now am – that the Gooners will take their smugness to a new, epic level, and that we have to endure the hell of this Sunday’s relegation dogfight with West Ham (COME ON LEEDS!) – I also have to give credit to…
Oh hold on. I was trying to come over all generous-spirited there, but I just can’t do it. Not going to happen.
All I can actually do is turn to Saturday week’s Champions League final. And say I hope that the Gooners’ defeat isn’t just embarrassing but, yes, epic.
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