Tottenham Hostpur: My Inspiration

By JAMES CURTIS Tuesday night the gut tightened. Things that could only get better got worse. I muted the television and stared at the wall for an hour without moving, without thinking, without sense of time or place. Ask people what they got up to at the weekend and they might say: “I didn’t do anything”. This was the true meaning of doing nothing though; staring blankly at a small crack in the wall, then coming round, contemplating what Pink Floyd were really talking about when they wrote Comfortably Numb. It wasn’t about drugs, no, but an Orwellian style vision of what being an Arsenal fan would be like in 2010. 

Arsenal had driven me to eat like a swine at the weekend. It had started with a king size chicken burger from a kebab shop on the corner of Blackstock and Gillespie, and ended with a lamb pathia on keema rice before late night repeats of Eastbound and Down, where Kenny Powers shared my forlorn soreness.  I found myself falling deeper into the gluttonous world of some middle-aged single woman, scoffing down all sorts of delightful foods to ease the pain of loneliness, my own seclusion the feeling of defeat to our ASBO neighbours.  

If that wasn’t bad enough, I tried hard to saddle the rest of Saturday night with my misery. Why should I be the only one despondent for something I had no control over, especially with West Ham and Chelsea fans for company? They had to suffer. Leaving behind the riot vans aboard the silence of a number 4 bus, I planned my night of being a total arsehole. I answered questions in muffled grunts with the intention of whoever it was asking having to repeat themselves, at which point I could snap back. I treated my relatives like medieval peasants and forced the family friends staying for the weekend to bury their heads in their phones whenever they were left alone with me. I excelled at being a tosser.  

The last six days have thrown up many questions, the big one: what does the future hold for Arsene Wenger and Arsenal? His tactics and team selection have become confusing. When Walcott looked completely terrible he was a guaranteed starter, yet when he is in scoring form he sits on the bench. In Marouane Chamakh it looks like we have a striker who is scared to miss. Is he just another of the manager’s quick deals? Why couldn’t Henri Lansbury make the squad to face Spurs? It’s clear the guy loved netting against them in the Carling Cup. He obviously knows a thing or two about the importance of derby days. Instead, he leaves for a loan spell at Norwich. Will Robert Pires stick the knife in deeper and score against his former club at the weekend? Will stories of Cesc Fabregas moving to Barcelona re-emerge by January?  

Wenger is an infuriating manager to support. The only way he would have won me over on Saturday is if he had taken a match, some gasoline, and sent that Spurs flag up in flames. Why did we allow that to hang in our stadium? Why do we put on replays of the goals at the final whistle knowing Arsenal have just lost, meaning the away fans have their fun as the home faithful leave hearing their cheers? I wouldn’t permit it. Little things like this tie a club together, although it shouldn’t affect the way players engage themselves. Yet maybe it does. I see it working at Stoke. How a stupid little towel can be so useful, whether we like it or not. It certainly seems to bring The Potters together through a deliberate plan to annoy everybody else. “TO DO IS TO DARE” though, that’s just some cringe-worthy crap. 

Watching Dagenham & Redbridge over the years, I’ve come to realise that the lower down the Football League you go, the uglier the fans get, in a sort of natural socio-economic slide. Spurs are an exception to the rule however, what mathematicians would call the ‘outlier’. At Seven Sisters it takes a dramatic dip from the line of best fit; Arsenal being at the peak of the graph with all the good lookers, Barnet being the tragic cousin, and Spurs being the unsightly outlier of the English supporter’s catwalk. They are a weird sort at White Hart Lane, perversely scouring Gunner blogs. Football’s outcasts! And you just know a Spurs fan when you meet one, the type of face you’d like to punch being their official criteria. No doubt they think the same about us and I’ve met some dysfunctional Gooners in my time, but never somebody who wears a half home, half away kit, with ‘Berbagod’ embossed on the back. Only at Spurs! 

Blocking out the last two games has been impossible. My mind wandered from Wenger’s team selections to smaller things like why we show match highlights following a derby defeat? Consequently from this mini nightmare there is some light, even if it doesn’t change the fact that I’d rather Arsenal won some games.  All the reasons for the haggard manifestation of your typical Spurs fan became clear. Dauntingly, I was going through the experience of being somebody from The Lane, plaguing myself with questions, running down the quality of player at the club, offloading on the manager and our lack of success. Worst of all I had taken home my woes and forced them upon my friends and family. Is this how they’ve lived for the past 17 years? Was I becoming one of them? A dose of the 49 Unbeaten DVD (a proper DVD) quickly ensured my safety. 

Of what little consequence it might be, as Arsenal fans we’ve been educated since Saturday, learning all about the history of being a Spud. Arsenal are poor and have been for five years. How you might feel right now is how they’ve felt for most of their existence. Yes, they’re doing well at the moment and don’t be afraid to say it, it’s true. But really, their joy is nothing more than surprise, just like candidates on The Apprentice when they secure a deal.. You squirm when they can’t hide their delight at doing something good for once, a happiness that isn’t because they’ve been a decent businessman, but because they can’t actually believe what’s happening. Because they can’t believe what’s happening their judgement has become clouded. I know it will all fall short, so it’s just a matter of gritting my teeth for the time being. 

“FUCK OFF TO STRATFORD, NORTH LONDON IS OURS” sang the Arsenal fans at the weekend. No, please, stay in North London because it will still be ours. Since we stepped foot there it has been, and always will be. Anyway, we need Tottenham, because they are an inspiration and a free lesson, my new tutor and educator, albeit a very tragic one, the insignificant crack in the wall I was staring at all along, one that will be plastered over and forgotten about. 

THE ARSENAL

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JimC

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