The mounds of detritus pile up outside Finsbury Park station, like an offering to a vengeful deity. A deity gone rogue for the evening, demanding tribute specifically in the form of empty food cartons and abandoned Lime bikes. A deity that has finally decided to break the habit of 22 years.
They approach via the familiar sidestreets, Gillespie Road, Benwell Road, Hornsey Road, the little shortcut past The Plimsoll pub. The night is cool and calm and still, the air rumbling with adoration and freedom, the sensation of chains being broken. As they reach the stadium, perfect strangers grip each other by the shoulders, bound by shared memory, shared trauma, a shared hymnbook. What do you think of shit? Tottenham! Thank you. That’s all right! A firework is let off, and then another. People are FaceTiming their relatives. People are getting selfies with Ian Wright. The crowd is hundreds, and then thousands, a lawless melee that in classic Arteta-ball tradition features plenty of jostling but no free-kicks awarded. Meanwhile, in the digital wilds beyond, the celebration police have laid down their truncheons and riot shields.
