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The final day of fashion month is usually cause for quiet celebration. Four weeks of travelling, polite conversation, persistent blisters, rockets taking off (see Chanel), glamazons processing in purple-hued tubes around a pyramid (Gucci), and the inescapable sense that at all times, in all places, you are positively desperate for the loo – all finally over.

But while my colleagues unpacked, and enjoyed their first night back at home, I took a trip to the Emirates. Here, I witnessed Arsenal entirely implode with a 5-1 loss to Bayern Munich. Let me put this in perspective. This constitutes Arsenal’s biggest home defeat for 19 years. It is, in fact, the second worst defeat by an English club in the European Champion’s League’s history. It’s the miserable cherry on an ever-expanding trifle of mediocrity that has seen Arsenal go thirteen years without a Premier League trophy.

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“Arsène Wenger, you’re killing this club,” sang 200 people in a so-called “protest” against the manager prior to the Bayern game. But many more made their feelings known by not showing up at all. As I took my regular seat in the North Bank (lower tier, row 16) I have never seen this 60,000-seat stadium so empty. Supporters streamed out as the goals banged in. At the fifth, my eyes began streaming as the Arsenal players collapsed a final time – and what’s more, didn’t even look surprised. All around me, grown men were crying. How could Wenger, a man of so many extraordinary talents, not least the ability to make quilted jackets look chic long before Balenciaga did, have been reduced to this?

Ellie Pithers with her sister, Lydia, celebrating Arsenal beating Reading 2-1 in 2015 to take their place in the FA Cup Final.

People often express surprise about my love of football. My colleagues at work, though sympathetic, observe my current heartbreak with amusement. The North Bank is not a Vogue editor’s natural habitat. Still, I have enjoyed bringing a string of male friends to games in the past, to be regaled with, “Oooh! A new boyfriend!,” by Alan and Andy in row 15, with whom I am on kissing terms. (Unfortunately my actual boyfriend thinks football is “silly”, and has yet to attend.)

"The realisation that Arsène Wenger might be past it is as devastating as discovering that your entire wardrobe of vintage Yves Saint Laurent has been eaten by moths"

And as heartbreaks go, the realisation that Arsène Wenger might be past it is as devastating as discovering that your entire wardrobe of vintage Yves Saint Laurent has been eaten by moths. Since he arrived at Arsenal in 1996, when I was six, I have held the French sophisticate in godlike regard. I attended my first game, at Highbury, Arsenal’s old ground, in 2003, when my family became season ticket holders. As one of three, at first I saw games as an opportunity to have my Dad, affectionately known as Big Si, all to myself. That soon became displaced with a genuine love of the game – not hard when you have Dennis Bergkamp, Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira and Robert Pirès playing some of the most breath-takingly fluid football anyone has ever seen on hyper-groomed green grass just metres from your eyes. The 2003-2004 season cemented Wenger as my idol. That was the season when he assembled “The Invincibles”, arguably the best team in English football ever, who became Premier League champions without losing a single game. Going to Highbury week in, week out was an utter joy: with Henry on our team, we just couldn’t lose. I was smitten.

Ellie Pithers with her dad at Wembley in May 2014, when Arsenal beat Hull 3-2 in extra time

Since then everything has gone wrong. And what my colleagues can’t understand is that this is not one bad season. Or even five bad seasons. Arsenal has been more constant in my life than some of my best friendships. I check the scores multiple times a week. I attend the games sometimes multiple times a month. As a teenager, every game (particularly versus United) became a valuable opportunity for trying out as many foul words as I could muster – not one word of rebuke from Big Si. As a twenty-something it provides much the same function. Having grown up in Metroland, north-west London, at the earliest opportunity I moved to Holloway, and can now see the Emirates glowing from my living room window. My sister lives two minutes away, my brother down the road, and we often attend games together. Sometimes I go with my best friend Jess – we met on the first day of university, and immediately discovered we both owned matching Arsenal dressing gowns.

It’s a sign of the times when you find yourself looking to Arsenal for constancy – even more so now that failure is Arsenal’s specialty

Where other fashion editors save up for Céline, I have an Arsenal Seventies kit addiction. I am also inexplicably attached to my Arsenal oven gloves. My prized jersey is a pink goalie strip, which I continue to wear, eagerly and illogically awaiting the return of on-loan keeper Wojciech Szczesny. When I book holidays, I like to consider locations where Arsenal players might also be relaxing. Just kidding – but the evening when I bumped into Santi Cazorla in Marbella was one of the happiest of my life. Put another way: In a news cycle dominated by unpredictability (Trump, Brexit means Brexit), it’s a sign of the times when you find yourself looking to Arsenal for constancy – even more so now that failure is Arsenal’s speciality.

Ellie Pithers with Santi Cazorla in Marbella

On Tuesday evening, after witnessing the total capitulation of my team, tears pouring down my face, I sang loudly, along with Jess, “There’s Only One Arsène Wenger” as the stadium emptied out. The manager, elegant to the last, paced his chalky box, looking more sparrow-thin and Lear-like than ever. My heart went out to him. I am Arsène ‘til I die – though I know it’s time for him to go. And when he finally does, let’s hope Arsenal’s board can do a Gucci.