My Life as an Arsenal Fan

 “To Charlie George, oh he can hit them”. That is probably my earliest Arsenal memory. It was said by the immortal Brian Moore in the dying embers of the 1971 Cup Final. I was six at the time and I know I was supporting Arsenal that day. Not sure when it began but it was probably in the playground of my primary school. Even though I grew up in Ireland, we had access to British TV and newspapers, and this meant that we could watch the Big Match on Sunday afternoons.  It was the only football on TV back then, apart from Match of the Day which started at an hour when six year olds were in the land of nod.

My parents reckoned I could read football results even before I started school. Apparently, as a three year old, I would grab the newspaper as soon as it was pushed through our front door and loudly call out the results to my Dad. Given that this contained some high scoring scrabble words like Yeovil and Exeter, I still knew all ninety two teams in the four English leagues before I was presented with my first Ladybird book at school.

Everyone in my primary school affiliated themselves to an English football team. Even the ones who refused to take part in our twenty a side games with a tennis ball each break time. Some were under parental or older sibling influence. Some were glory hunters and just picked the best team of the day (looking at you, Liverpool fans) and some, like me, just wanted to be different. Although, given that Arsenal won the double in 1971, my roots may also lie in picking the most recent winner.

I think the truth is that the Big Match was made by Thames TV and they focussed on London teams, of which Arsenal were the biggest and best. They also seemed to have more Irish players than other teams and my nationalist fervour was present even back then.

As a six year old though, I never imagined I’d have to wait another eighteen years before Arsenal would win the league again. I was working in London by then had made regular visits to Highbury. But I wouldn’t say I was a dyed in the wool fan. I had wavered a few times over the proceeding years, as one dreary season bled into another.

That night in 1989 when the drought was finally quelched has been documented by better writers than me. Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch is probably the Gold standard. I had an Irish colleague at work who was a Liverpool fan and live football on TV was becoming a new fangled offering. The game was on a Friday and the odds were stocked in Liverpool’s favour which is probably why my mate invited me to a pub to watch it. The rest, as they say, is history. Michael Thomas scored one of the most famous goals in Arsenal’s history and I remember spilling a lot of beer as I danced around the pub.

That probably sparked my interest for a few years, but life sometimes gets in the way. By 1993, I was living in Luxembourg and had travelled to Amsterdam to play a game of football. In the pub afterwards, somebody mentioned that the FA Cup final was on a TV down the back and that Arsenal were playing. I thought about going down to watch it but then somebody told a joke and I completely forget about the game.

I got back to Ireland in 1996 and the Premier League with it’s associated hype was in full swing. Sky TV showed several live games each week and football had become hip and cool. Arsenal also hired a quixotic French manager that year, who led the club to uncharted heights over the following ten years.

I bought into the whole football experience and lorded it over my friends when we won and accepted their banter when we didn’t. I was also single for most of that time and well paid. So, a Sky Sports subscription kept me company through the cold winters.

Then I moved to Australia and time zones and distractions tested my loyalties. I developed a fondness for AFL and also met the woman I would go on to marry. I watched less and less football and but would read about it and listen to podcasts. 

Living in New Zealand makes it even more difficult to watch English football. I could watch some games in the morning, but I realise now that my sport watching is closely associated with my alcohol consumption. I like beer, but I’m not going to start drinking it in my pyjamas at 8am. 

My lack of interest may also be down to the fact that Arsenal haven’t down anything of significance (aside from the occasional FA Cup) since I left Ireland in 2007.

That all changed last week when they won the league for the first time in twenty-two years. It triggered a spark I haven’t felt in many years. Brought back memories of the 1979 FA Cup when Arsenal threw away a 2-0 lead, just to snatch victory in the last minute, or 2004 when they went through the year unbeaten.

I realise now that one of the greatest costs I paid when I moved to the Southern Hemisphere  was the lack of easy access to Football and the camaraderie and social life it brings with it.

You can’t have everything I guess, I still wouldn’t swap the life I have now for it. Although it would be nice if I could teleport myself back to Europe next Saturday night when Arsenal take on PSG in the Champions League final. That’s a competition they have never won. If they succeed, there is every chance I’ll bounce around the living room with the same enthusiasm as that six year old back in 1971. Sport is a cruel mistress but sometimes she comes home.

Observations on my trip to work

Billy drives the 747 bus from Glen Innes to Panmure. He never tires of telling every new person he meets that that he’s in charge of a 747 and is hoping to work his way up to an Airbus A380.

His routes snakes around my suburb and I used to be the only morning passenger but that all changed when the Orange monster kicked off an oil crisis and the good people of East Auckland figured that they could swallow their pride and catch public transport with the plebs.

He greeted me like an old friend this morning when I boarded.

“How’s Conor McGregor today”, he asked in a broad Polynesian accent. To my great annoyance, McGregor is the only Irish person that a lot of people here can name.

“I’m sure he’s been an annoying prick, as normal” I answered and took my normal seat at the front.

“Why did you become a bus driver, Billy? You should be a standup comedian.”

He chuckled and caught my eye in the rear-view mirror.

“Bro, I got suckered by that job ad that promised a corner office, a $400k company vehicle and getting paid to travel. But it’s all good. I got a cruisey route and no hassle. Just white guys like you with your headphones on and buried in your phones. Beautiful world out their bro, if you look”.

I looked out the window at the half-built housing estate and container yard to my left and wondered where he saw his wonder.

I waved goodbye when we got to the train station. That is also busier since fuel prices went up. I’ve caught the train to work in five different cities, and the process is remarkably similar. The train is always late, unless you are running late yourself and people always try to get on when others are trying to get off.

I took Billy’s advise and left my phone and headset in my bag. Three young Indian students sat in front of me. Two guys and a girl and they danced around each other like peacocks in a mating ritual. One guy tried the jester approach. He talked endlessly, trying to make the girl laugh but trying not to embarrass himself in front of his mate at the same time.

The mate was quieter, he leaned back in the seat, with one foot on the floor and the other on the bar in front of him. He sported a beany and whispy beard and tried his best to adopt a James Dean pose.

The joker moved the subject to phones, and his intentions were clear to me. He was trying to source the girl’s phone number without asking for it. The only problem for him was that his intentions were also clear to the girl and she led him on a merry dance around.

Beany leaned forward and asked for the girl’s phone. He typed in his own number and his phone rang, and a garish Bollywood tune boomed out across the train carriage. They all laughed and beany threw a smile to his friend. Some things never change and finding a novel way to get a girl’s phone number is one of them.

My train ride runs along the coastline for the last couple kilometres. Ferries and sail boats raced across the bay and a large container ship edged its way toward the heads and the sea lanes towards Singapore.

I got off the train in the city and started to walk up Queen Street on my way to work. Queen St is supposed to be Auckland’s premier thoroughfare, but it has sadly seen better times. The city council have tried to plant trees and spruce the place up but it is like putting lipstick on a pig. Its best shops are at the bottom end. As you get further up, phone, vape and empty shops dominate the street scape.

It was 8.45am and the homeless population of Auckland was rousing themselves from a chilly slumber. The council have employed a bunch of rough security guards who would make Ice agents look like choir boys. Their job seems to focus on ensuring that the homeless keep moving and do not sit down, particularly in front of posh shops. Where they are supposed to move to is never discussed. It’s like watching a Samual Beckett play each morning.

Sometimes the homeless push back against the madness of it all. Then the cops are called and they do their bit in protecting capitalism. I passed three cops this morning pressing a guy against a car while they tried to get handcuffs on. Beside them a tour guy was explaining the 19^th century architecture to a group of tourists who were fascinated by the guy being arrested while trying desperately not to meet his eye.

Auckland has lots of social problems. Like most cities, it tries to present a glitzy front while trying to keep a blanket over its festering sores.

If you want a metaphor for the miserable world we’ve created, then a homeless guy sitting outside a Christian Dior shop will do it for you.

Beside my office, a blind busker is doing a marvellous version of an Elvis song. I notice that his collection tin is chained to his ankle, and I wonder what heartbreaking tale lies beneath that decision.  

I catch the lift to the 23^rd floor with its panoramic views of the bay and its cone shaped volcanic islands. I have lived in this city for 10 years and worked in this building for most of that time. It can be a grimy city, a twinkling jewel. A place of awe and desperation.

But I think that Billy might have a point. If you put away the headset and phones, there is a world of wonder out there and it can be seen in the small things and the mighty. We live in a crazy world, but beauty always has a way of breaking through.   

Pa and the visitor

Pa was sitting on the beach, enjoying the fruits of a coconut he had cracked open, when he saw the boat. He immediately shot to his feet. Visitors were rare to his island. It was well off the trade wind routes and well away from the path that anyone would take to get from one place to another.

There had been the occasional visitor in the past but they usually came armed with spears, ready to pillage whatever they could, including the island’s females.

He thought about going for help, but the only village on the island was on the other coast where the reef offered bountiful fish and shelter from the prevailing wind.

As the boat got closer, Pa noticed that there was only one occupant and he felt brave enough to greet him. He waved and when he saw that the sailor was unarmed, he helped him ashore.

They stared at each other for a few minutes until the visitor spoke. Pa didn’t understand all of it but picked up enough to know that coconuts were the target of his trip. His home island had suffered an ecological disaster which had wiped out their crop and he had been sent out across the waves to seek help.

Pa’s island had more coconuts than they could use and every year they would gather up all the rotting remains of unused husks and use them as fertilizer for the vegetables they grew.

Pa offered the visitor as many coconuts as he could fit into his boat, but the sailor shook his head and explained with a mixture of hand movements and broken vernacular that he was interested in a long-term relationship.

He reached into his pocket and took out a small bag filled with roughly crafted coins. Pa stared at them in wonder and asked what use they would be to him.

The sailor walked back to his boat and retrieved a box filled with chocolate and fizzy drinks. He explained to Pa that he would pay for the coconuts with coins and then Pa could use the coins to buy as much chocolate and fizzy drinks as he wanted.

Pa sampled some of the products and his taste buds exploded. He’d spent his like living on a diet of fish, vegetables and coconuts. Refined sugar was as alien to him as space travel.

The visitor sat on the beach and with the help of a stick drew out his plan. He would lend some coins to Pa who would then lend them to his island friends. They could then use the coins to buy the chocolate and fizzy drinks from Pa. To repay the coins they had borrowed and to earn more to satisfy their new found processed food addiction, they would work for Pa during the week to collect as many coconuts as possible. The visitor would return each week with new supplies of chocolate and return with a boat of freshly picked coconuts.

Pa sat down and stroked his chin. His island had never needed money. They had more than enough food to feed themselves, fresh water and if you needed a new house, the village would gather round to build it. They also had the advantage of not knowing what was going on in the rest of the world and therefore had no idea what they were missing.

He looked at the box filled with chocolate and fizzy drinks and realised that this was a window into the wider world that could change everything. He shook hands with the visitor and with the box under his arm, returned to the village, rehearsing the speech he would make as he went.

Six months later, most of the islanders were working for Pa and living on a diet of chocolate and fizzy drinks. They were having to go higher into the mountains to source coconuts and several of them had already been killed trying to desperately fill the weekly quota.

Pa quickly built up a large bounty of coins. It didn’t take him long to realise that he could pay the workers much less than he was receiving from the visitor and sell them the chocolate and fizzy drinks for more than he had paid for them. But he struggled to find anything to spend them on. He quickly lost interest in the chocolate after it rotted his teeth. And the islanders started to resent his wealth with meant he was excluded from most of their social events.

Then the visitor arrived for his weekly visit. As he unloaded that week’s cargo and refilled his boat with fresh coconuts, he explained to Pa that this would be his last trip. He had found another island that could supply coconuts at half the price that he was paying currently.

Pa was speechless. His fellow islanders mistrusted him already. How was he going to explain this? In the end, he took the coward’s option. One thing he had managed to do with his money was to convince the best carpenter on the island to build him a boat. He had planned to use it to travel but never built up the enthusiasm. It had sat on the beach outside his house for months, used only by a family of crabs that nestled in it’s hull.

He waited for darkness and then slipped back to his house. He gathered his belongings and collection of coins and loaded them into his boat. As he was pushing it towards the water he heard a noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the islanders marching towards him carrying torches that lit up their angry faces. They shouted at him to come back. To explain why he had ruined everybody’s life.

But Pa ignored their call and pushed his boat into the waves. He climbed in and started rowing as fast as he could. The islanders tore down his house and cast the nameplate with “Capitalism” written on it into the sea.

My quizzical life

Mary is an expert on soap operas and the lives of the Kardashians. Graham has an encyclopaedic knowledge of every sports result for the past forty years. John doesn’t know what day of the week it is but somehow knows every useless fact in creation. That covers most of the bases, but Margaret is included in the team because she watches about fifty hours of TV quiz shows a week.

Together they are known as “I thought this was speed dating” and they win my local pub quiz every week. They are so good, it makes it boring for the rest of us. It’s like being a decent tennis player in the era of Roger Federer.

But in fairness, we don’t go to win, the chance to catch up with a few mates once a week is a bigger driving force. That and the beer of course. We are all at an age that would also count as a decent score by a mid order cricketer. So, we tend to do well at history questions and mainstream sport. By mainstream, I mean team sports that are popular enough to have their results read out at the end of news.

It’s clear when you look at the successful teams that a mix of genders and ages is the key. I like to think I have good general knowledge, but each week I’m caught out by the fact that I’ve only watched one James Bond movie, never watched any of the Star War franchise, Star Trek or any movie based on a comic book. A question will come up each week on these subjects. I’m also unfamiliar with any popular music recorded after 1989.

The first quiz I took part in was when I was 16. I was in a youth club and through the benefit of two walkovers and a close match against a team that were so dumb they they couldn’t spell their own names properly, we were somehow crowned North East Ireland youth club quiz champions. This qualified us for the national finals, which were held in Leisureland in Galway.

We lived on the other side of the country and boarded a bus in the early hours of the morning for the trip across the island. There were no motorways in Ireland in those days and we had to pick up all the other qualifiers from our region on route. We got to Galway at 10am and were immediately ushered into a stuffy room and seated beside a team of intense looking teenagers in tweed jackets and horn rimmed glasses.

By 10.15am that morning we had lost by what I believe was a record score and were out of the competition. Luckily the organisers had planned for this and brought all the first round losers together for a repechage competition that was great fun.

That weekend is also notable for marking my first ever stay in a hotel. Having a TV in the same room that you slept in blew my mind back then, as was having a bathroom that wasn’t constantly occupied by my three sisters.

I don’t remember any quizzes after that until I got to Luxembourg at the age of 27. The Irish community there is employed either in helping Europeans avoid taxes by investing in offshore investment funds, or helping to set those tax rates by working for one of the administrative branches of the European Union. I was on the tax avoiding side but spent most of my socialising with Irish people working on the other side.

A group of them invited me to a table quiz in the great hall of the European Commission. It was teams of ten and we came up with ‘Tiocfaidh ár lá’ as our name, mainly to mess with the head of the quiz master who was an ex British Army officer who became an EU functionary in those days when the Brits still took it seriously.

We somehow ended up as joint winners and our smartest member (not me, I hasten to add) was invited up to the stage to take on a member from the other team in a tie break question. It’s worth pointing out for the benefit of the story that the other team was called “Court of Justice Jewish Lawyers Association”.

The quiz master smiled when he saw the question. After a night of mangling our team name, he could see that revenge was on the horizon.

“Ok, here goes. Name the twelve sons of Jacob”.

Our team member didn’t even bother writing anything down. He just muttered “I’ll get me coat” and walked off the stage.

When I moved back to Dublin, pub quizzes became a regular thing. I even organised a few myself at work.. These were in the pre smart phone days when the accuracy of answers couldn’t really be challenged on the spot. But I did experience a bit of abuse in the office the next day, when people had time to check and would send me screen prints high lighting that County Louth didn’t actually win the first All Ireland.

Here in New Zealand, most pubs run a quiz on a Tuesday night. It’s not as though the pubs are packed every other night, but on Tuesdays, they are particularly quiet. So, the quiz is a bonus to the publican as it pulls in a lot of punters.  A company in Christchurch saw an opening and they set an online quiz every Tuesday that each pub can run on it’s own.

So, if you are in Invercargill or my local in Auckland, you will face the same question and no doubt end up writing the answer down that one of your teammates was absolutely convinced of, despite the other three all agreeing on a different answer. And the three of you were correct. Maybe that’s actually the secret of a good team. Democracy rather than bullying is best, as it is in almost every other facet of life.