Four football-mad writers swap their beloved teams for their hated rivals. Lifelong Spurs fan Jeff Maysh pulls on an Arsenal shirt, and heads to the Emirates on a certain suicide mission!
For the full story, click below…
“Get your foreskins out for the Yids!” sing five Arsenal slags, as I hitch up my red replica shirt and silently urinate. Inside the khazis at The Gunners pub in Highbury, I’m praying for my life as the song continues, and the Gooners start waving their cocks around. I try to conceal my circumcised precious, which is enough to betray me as an infidel, for under this bastard shirt is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Cut me and my blood will run not red, but lillywhite and blue: I am a Spurs fan in disguise.
“Gas ’em all, gas ’em all, gas ’em all!” sings a man on a mic, as the Sky Sports coverage of the north London derby dances on a giant telly.
What the merry fuck am I doing here? Today I’m part of an important loaded experiment: for one week, myself and three other writers will switch allegiance to their hated rivals. In the name of journalism, I’ve swapped my beloved Spurs for Arsenal. But as the game kicks off I realise this might be the most difficult 90 minutes of my life. Spurs fans are predominantly Jewish, you see, and today this Arsenal boozer feels more like a BNP rally than a screening of a Premier League match.
Ordinarily, I’d never drink in The Gunners, not just because the sign outside reads: ‘Home fans only’, but because inside, the joint is decorated with decades of Spurs-hating memorabilia. Funny, I couldn’t spot one single print of Gazza’s 1991 FA Cup free kick sailing over Seaman’s head. I looked everywhere.
But this ‘local’ rivalry goes back much further than 1991. South London outfit Woolwich Arsenal moved north onto Tottenham’s patch in 1913, when the stench from an open sewer in their midfield got too strong. In 1919, Arsenal ensured Spurs were relegated due to some high-level corruption, and later, match-fixing, ensuring a bitter hatred ever since. Back in 2009, and the reek from the Arsenal midfield
is still suffocating the ’Whites. The south Londoners are bearing down on goal. I feign interest so as not to blow my cover. Shitsticks…
One- Nil
Two- Nil
Three-Nil
Gunner go crazy!
As Van Persie’s opening goal (42mins) cruelly exposes Spurs’ defensive frailty, all hell breaks loose. Frozen to the spot, I get a full pint of ale in the face as 50 fans punch the air. “Come on!” screams a man in my face, hugging me. I want to ‘accidentally’ glass him, but my pot is plastic. People are falling over and screaming with delight, even as the match restarts. But my eyes are fixed on the screen as Cesc Fabregas picks up the ball and weaves through our entire team again. “It’s two!” is the cry, as another goal in just 11 seconds crashes in and The Scum are left delirious. I want to sob.
This gut-wrenching feeling began earlier as I entered the official club store, at the £460 million corporate cauldron that is the Emirates Stadium. This is what hell must be like: a red dungeon full of idiots, queuing to buy £58 replica shirts, Arsenal chocolate, and even a cuddly fucking Arsenal monkey. Their mascot is a giant cartoon dinosaur: the Gunnersaurus Rex, which is as inspiring as a collapsed sphincter. I reluctantly buy my shirt, and realise even the bottle of water I paid for is ‘pure, Arsenal water’. It burns my lips like holy water does old Dracula. I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window, wearing red for the first time, and feel a cardinal shame. I told the editor of loaded I’d rather go gay than wear the kit, but he made me. And I was right, it’s more painful than buggery.
I’m Gunning to hell…
Back in the boozer, Arsenal PLC are surging forward again. On the pub’s speakers, they’re playing an Arsenal bootleg of a Killers record. “Are we human? Or are we Arsenal?” goes the tune, as I ponder whether anything could be more appropriate: The shit, boring-boring sell-outs have found their official band. “Goooooal!” It’s 3-0 to the Woolwich Wanderers.
“Sit down, if you hate Tottenham!” comes the rallying cry, a moment that tests every fibre of my body. I’m the last man in the pub on his feet, but by refusing to sit down I’d face certain death. Arsene Wenger’s face fills the giant screen, but I cannot bring myself to kneel before their god. “We beat the scum 3-0!” the pub begins to chant, as I storm out the door.
They’re still singing this four days later, as I slip inside the Emirates for ‘our’ Champions League clash with AZ Alkmaar. Because this is a serious experiment, I’ve had to fully support the Gooners and sever my ties with Spurs. That includes visiting the website. I’ve been on the Arsenal one, which is better. They’ve got an iPhone app, which Spurs don’t, and looking at it objectively, I’m a little jealous of Arsenal. Against the Dutch, their football is, at worst, silky, and in two games I’ve seen seven goals, which, it pains me to say, is value for money.
It’s been a valuable experiment. But as I chuck my red shirt in an Arsenal-sponsored bin, I realise I’ll never understand the hypocritical racism of the Arsenal, a team with as many Frenchmen as Paris St Germain. Instead, I stick on my iPod, and drown out their cheers with Chas and Dave’s Spurs anthems, proud of my circumcised cockerel and thankful I’m not an Arsenal bell-end. For what a great team they are, ruined only by their fans.
Read this story, and four other accounts of undercover supporting, in this month’s new look Loaded, out now.
Tags: Arsenal, Spurs, supporting the scum, undercover