“Come to see the Arsenal … you’ve only come to see the Arsenal …” The refrain continues, as it always will, repeated in the treasured memories of watching Arsène Wenger’s fabulous team with my father, Ray, in their glory years. But we’re not singing along. Ray is most likely succeeding in not showing his delight after another goal is rattled in, while sharing a knowing look with my brother, Adam, and I. Meanwhile our poker faces will have undoubtedly left a little to be desired. How we basked in the choir’s production, almost silent partners muddled in with hapless home supporters safe and smug in the simple truth that we had, indeed, only come to see the Arsenal.
Growing up as Arsenal fans in Telford made these clandestine trips a necessity. My brother and I fell in love with the club thanks to our dad’s passion and to an individuality built quickly through standing together in a playground crammed with Manchester United fans. Originally from Essex, Ray’s career dictated frequent moves before we settled in Shropshire, where our north London outpost felt like it would be forever stationed.
