Highbury. 15th April, 1996.

There is a chill in the air on a clear spring night in the wrong part of North London. A small blond boy, in a full replica Spurs kit, is casually slotting a football into the corner of the goal in front of the Clock End. Ian Walker can only look on in awe at such fine finishing. The young boy moves nonchalantly toward the centre circle before effortlessly playing some precise one-twos with Club Captain Gary Mabbutt and, finally, he lets Teddy Sheringham (who is styling it out with a purple and blue ‘Pony’ bandana) have his photo taken with the young superstar. The lad hears the whistle, grabs his pennant, makes his way to the middle to stand by the ref as he flips the coin… the crowd getting more and more restless…decibels rising to the levels of thunder clattering into iron… there will be blood.

That kid was my brother, having the time of his little life. I was only one digit away from being the random member chosen by a computer generated lottery to be Spurs’ mascot for that match and to lead the the team out at Highbury. One fucking digit. I still hate him to this day for being so spawny, the second-born spanner. Still, on the back of my brother’s good fortune, I got to meet Sol Campbell before he became an unspeakable chunterer (or was he always?) and I also got to shake hands with the Arsenal mascot – the twat-dragon. Fuck. Livin’ the dream. I was in the tunnel sheepishly collecting autographs before the game when something terrible, something dream-shattering happened; Teddy Sheringham refused to give me his autograph. At the time I thought it was that his headgear was restricting the blood flow to his brain so significantly that he could not muster the wherewithal to hold the pen: I now suspect it was because he can’t read or write. I nabbed the signatures of Clive Wilson and Jason Dozzell so whatevs, Edward.

Anyway, there I was, eleven years old in the home of the enemy, taking my seat in amongst the away fans just before kick off when I noticed that the atmosphere was a little tense. Well… it was more than a little tense.. it was a boiling cauldron filled with rapidly rotating scissor-spears. I was seated next to the scum, a thin fluorescent line of Po-Po, one metre of concrete concourse and a very flimsy looking guardrail between me and the Displaced of South London. You could taste the vitriol in the air. Behaviour was questionable from both sets of fans, I’ll admit, but when you’re having seats and toilet roll thrown at you you can be forgiven for taking offence. I wasn’t scared as much as enthralled as to why everyone seemed to hate each other so much…

And then it clicked. I hated everything red and white. I’d grown up disliking the Woolwich but during those ninety minutes something concrete, something life long and burning was ignited within me. It took a while to take hold properly but it started that day. Hatred. Pure hatred had started reeling through my veins. I grew up in an era when Spurs teams were borderline embarrassing at times and Arsenal were on the ascendancy – secondary school in the late nineties was a tough time if you were a Yid surrounded by spotty adolescent Woolwich idolisers. Kids were defecting from Blackburn Rovers and Liverpool in droves circa 2000 to join the ranks of fashionista Arsenal pricks (you know who you are). I thought it would never end. It was like having a bad trip on magic mushrooms and thinking you were stuck in a permanent cycle of ridicule and helplessness. I shudder to think of those times. We are far, far better off now – it’s ok to say Spurs have a good side at the moment, it’s ok to say we’re doing well! Don’t be shy about it! We’re not shit! But some things never change. I still hate the Arse.

I hate their rubbish old stadium. I hate their boring new stadium. I hate the smug way they celebrate victories over poor sides. I hate the way they whine when they lose. I hate the way they whine when they win. I hate the Wenger in/Wenger out bollocks. I hate their faces. I hate the way they can’t take defeat because of their over-weaning sense of entitlement. I hate the way they think they have a solid chance of winning the league every year (how?! please tell me why you think this?!). I hate the colour red. I hate the mix of red and white in any layout or design. I hate their goalkeeper (so do they). I really don’t like Cazorla because he has a waxy, arrogant spam-face. I hate the sub-human ex-Arsenal pundits on sky who cannot string a sentence together. I hate Alan Smith commentating on Spurs games. I fucking hate the Woolwich.

So the match. The squatters are in form and I don’t much fancy our chances of cantering to a victory but I’m sure the game won’t disappoint in terms of drama. I haven’t been to a NLD since Rose scored that goal – I’m hoping for something similarly special from Messrs Eriksen and Kane tomorrow. Please. For the love of football, please. Don’t make me re-live the nineties.

Blood. Iron. Thunder.

Bring it.

COYS.

Oh, and may the best team win.