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.