Dispatches from Norf Landan
“It’s going to be an emotional old day,” admits Gareth Parker wistfully in the carefully distressed coffee house on Holloway Road. He puffs his cheeks and pushes out a hard breath…although this may have more to do with his young daughter Grace clambering all over him, rather than the heavy sentiment of the day.
“Bob is doing the speech after the game,” he explains. Bob is Arsenal legend Bob Wilson, whom Gareth happens to know as a friend. “I just hope we don’t fucking lose,” he adds, before remembering that Grace is sat on his lap. It’s fine though, as she’s busy watching CBBC on his phone. Something about building dens.
He pours what looks like a bottle of whisky into his cup. It’s not dutch courage though, rather artisan iced coffee – it’s that kind of place. Fucking London. I order an omelette and it comes with spinach (very nice) but yoke-less (what the fuck). It’s a ‘white’ omelette apparently. Fucking London. Still, when in Rome.
We relocate to Il Comandante pub, known locally as the Ché, for obvious reasons. An iconic man of the people who was integral to revolution, but spent his later years toiling in failed campaigns? No symbolism there then. Everyone is in cheery spirits, although there is a palpable melancholia abound.
Gareth’s pal Joe joins us, and is annoyed that Manchester City’s current record-breaking season is being compared to that of Arsenal’s Invincibles. I have to remind him twice that I’m not a City fan. Like Gareth, he is concerned that a defeat to Sean Dyche’s Burnley could take the shine off Arsene Wenger’s grand farewell.
Therein lies the problem, to a certain extent. Arsenal fans now expect fuckups, and readily preempt disappointment. If it’s the hope that kills you, then this lot will live to a ripe old age because they are resigned to things going wrong and brace themselves for it. Today is a day of unadulterated gratitude, but change is right and for the best.
Having wished everyone well and headed to the ground, I am greeted with ‘Merci Arsene’ writ large on the side of the stadium; it is an unambiguous reminder of the poignance of the day. The scene is bathed in sunshine with not a cloud in the sky, and everyone looks like they’re on holiday – merry, mirthful and mildly sunburnt.
I meet with Matt Stylianou and his son Dylan outside Gate A. They are season ticket holders and do not hide the fact that they admore Wenger with every fibre of their beings. “He loves Arsene,” Matt explains, gesturing towards Dylan, “All this anger and resentment towards the manager is totally alien to him.”
Matt is eloquent, softly spoken and nuanced in his views about the recent ennui at the Emirates – the polar opposite of how Arsenal fans are often portrayed in the media. He gives a wry smile when I mention Arsenal Fan TV, preferring to talk up the likes of Arseblog’s Andrew Mangan and Tim Stillman. Credible voices rather than shouty clowns.
“I think even the most ardent fans of Wenger would admit that it’s a chapter in the club’s history that needed to come to an end,” admits Matt, before adding “but that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate his achievements or revere him as a club legend. Today is a day that we’ll all remember – that he’ll remember – forever.”
I find my place in the stands and instantly feel like a gatecrasher at a North London barbecue. Everyone is welcoming each other as old friends, and reaching across rows to embrace. It is reassuring to hear that the accents are as common as mine, if far more local. I make a mental note not to blurt out my nasally Manc twang.
Before the game, the PA wishes Sir Alex Ferguson warm wishes and all the best with his recovery from emergency surgery. The swell of applause is full of warmth, and far longer than politeness would demand, and I am at once consumed with a strange sense of personal gratitude. I forget for a moment that I’m not meant to like this lot.
The game begins and there’s an immediate sense of trepidation around me. For once, it’s not about where Arsenal will finish or the resulting fallout and recrimination. People aren’t in the mood to blame Wenger for anything today – they just want it to be perfect for him, and that makes them more nervous than usual.
You get the sense that were they to lose, the fans would turn all frustration onto players one to eleven, for not gifting their manager the last hurrah he deserves. It is an occasion that demands style, panache, and above all victory. But everyone exudes the same sentiments that Gareth and Joe voiced before kickoff – please don’t fuck this up.
They needn’t have worried. For once, Arsenal are not Arsenal, and this most nostalgic of days is marked with the kind of stellar performance of which the likes of Pires, Bergkamp, Vieira and Henry would have been proud. It is a 5-0 procession, with Aubameyang and Lacazette hinting that they may be two of Wenger’s very last gifts to the club.
Unsurprisingly, no one leaves at the final whistle.
Matt pops over to ask how I’m doing and whether I’m enjoying my day, like the perfect host eager to please a visiting guest. “I didn’t think I’d get this emotional, but it’s really starting to hit me now,” he admits, “After today, no more Arsene at the Emirates.” I’m feeling a little sad myself, so God knows how Matt and his fellow Gooners are coping.
Big inflated blimp things are pulled onto the vacated playing field, and individual letters spelling ‘Merci Arsene’ are marched on in front of them. Someone beside me is incredibly tickled by the fact it reads ‘Merci Arse’, until N and E get a jog on. It’s a moment of schoolboy humour that punctures the happy-sadness.
It is a day of acknowledgements and farewells in more ways than one. Coaching stalwart Vic Akers, ladies’ captain Alex Scott, and big fucking German Per Mertesacker accept applause one by one. The club captain in particular is given a memorable (and uncensored) ovation to mark his very last home appearance.
And then, it’s time.
Bob Wilson gets the tone just right with his reverential intro, and accompanied by Pat Rice, he welcomes the elegant, spindly figure of Wenger into the arena. The place erupts. Arsene looks half embarrassed and half amused, but every bit overwhelmed by the sea of love enveloping him. His apparent unease speaks of his modesty.
Instead of a gold watch, he is gifted a golden Premier League trophy, to mark his Invincibles achievement. He accepts it graciously, but quickly offers it back to Rice, as if holding onto it for too long will imbue him with a hubris he cannot indulge. It’s a bad move, because it only frees his hands for a microphone.
The first words he offers to the dewy-eyed congregation are for Sir Alex. Again, the Emirates extend the kind of generous acclaim that cannot be faked. It is quickly followed by Arsene’s mic conking out mid-sentence. Typical Arsenal that – from classy to comical in a beat. For such a behemoth of a club, there’s always a hint of Acorn Antiques about them.
Regardless of the hiccup, the day has gone just swell. As the stadium empties, everyone is praising a job well done on all fronts. Well done to the club, well done to the players, well done to the boss. Even the weather gets a congratulatory namecheck. Everything and everyone shined today. And now it’s over and some things won’t ever be the same.
Outside the ground there are more hugs and incidental meetings. Gooners may be caricatured as shouty knobheads on YouTube, or latte drinking nu-footie fans with internet poll addictions, but they feel like a real community today. Or at least an extended family that may often bicker but are getting along for once.
I get talking to a lad called Immi who asks where I’m from. I explain I’m a United fan from Manchester, and that I’m observing Arsenal supporters in their natural habitat. “Well you’ve picked a good day for it. It’s not always like this!” he laughs, before adding, “Did you have a good day? Make sure you write something nice.”
I feel proper lucky. I was there when Sir Alex bowed out at Old Trafford back in 2013, and I got to experience another legend’s farewell today. The sad news of Ferguson’s emergency surgery this weekend only adds an extra level of poignancy. Everything must eventually pass, we know that, but sometime we forget.
We grow up with these giants in our lives, and we take them granted. They seem so indestructible and permanent. But they’re not. They come along once in a few lifetimes, make their indelible mark in history, and then they’re gone. What remains for future generations are statues, record books, and tall tales of what they achieved.
Like Fergie before him, Wenger is finally letting go, and bringing to an end a professional obsession and personal love affair. I hope that they are both around for many years to come, but an era in modern football history is now over. It is consigned to remember-whens and boring old bastards going on about the good old days.
Arsenal will go on without Wenger, and their fans should be excited about the future. But it is no exaggeration to say that everything we now know, think and feel about Arsenal Football Club is down to that man. Others may follow him and create great teams – they may even win more trophies – but none of that will compare to what Wenger achieved.
Farewell Arsene, you absolute legend. And fuckety-bye London. I’m off back to Manchester for a Greggs.
