Let the words of Rocky echo.
Let them reverberate through the corridors of your Arsenal soul:
“Remember who you are, what you are, and who you represent.”
Because in the days to come, the noise will rise.
And it will rise like a tide.
From down the Seven Sisters Road and beyond,
The stones—oh, the stones—are already being cast.
They will jeer. They will prod.
They will bait and spew nonsense,
Not for belief,
But for likes, for retweets, for algorithmic applause.
It will come—not as a trickle, but in waves.
And I implore you—
Stand tall. Stay dignified.
Do not descend.
Because we… we are Arsenal.
And yes, tonight we are uneasy.
We are agitated, unsettled,
We are nursing the dull ache of disappointment.
But envy?
Never.
Not for a heartbeat.
Not for all the silver nor all the noise.
I would not trade our club—its heart, its soul, its scars—for whatever momentary gleam they claim to possess.
Because I know what we are.
And more importantly—I know who we are.
And I will love this club through the thickest triumphs
and the thinnest hope.
A result between two inconsistent, incoherent sides
cannot shake my foundation.
So now—
I retreat.
Not in bitterness,
But in preservation.
Not in defeat,
But in defiance.
I will step away from the timelines,
from the punditry,
from the cacophony of tribal mockery.
Because rivalry is real.
Tribalism is fierce.
And tonight, my peace is priceless.
You do not need to clap back.
You do not need to win the argument.
You do not need to meet the low bar others set for themselves.
Sometimes, the strongest act…
is to walk past the chaos.
To leave their noise unanswered,
And let your chin speak where your words need not.
So until the red and white reappear, I sign off.
Because while others sing and scream,
I remain—anchored, unwavering—
In the only place I’ve ever truly belonged:
With Arsenal.
Do not mistake this measured tone for calmness.
Do not confuse restraint with acceptance.
Because tonight… there is anger.
Not the soft simmer of frustration.
But a burning, bitter fury—shared by Arsenal hearts the world over.
Yes, they have won.
And yes, it stings.
Not because they triumphed—they so rarely matter.
Because of what might have been.
And Manchester United…
On the rare occasion I reached for you—grasped for a sliver of hope from bitter rivals—
you slipped through my fingers like ash.
So well done.
Just when I thought I couldn’t despise you any more,
you plunged yourselves to new depths.
A performance to forget, will be forgotten never.
As the clock struck 97 and my phone lit up with finality,
I heard it.
The cheer from across the street.
The drunken chorus from the pub.
The song of confirmation.
They knew. And I knew.
The nightmare was no longer abstract.
It had taken form. It had a scoreline. It had a consequence.
And as for my poor neighbours…
What must they have thought?
Listening through the wall as I let out that guttural cry—
half rage, half disbelief. A curious cocktail of “those ducking James Blunts.”
And then—silence.
A moment in the cold night air.
A moment to gather what little composure remained.
And so I did what any broken-hearted father might do:
I cleaned the playroom.
Yes, I chose the slow torture of navigating a carpet of upturned Lego
far less painful than that of television fallout and radio autopsies.
So you’ll forgive me if this dispatch is brief.
Tonight, there is nothing left to say.
No prose. No power in my pen.
I’ll tuck myself into bed.
I’ll drift, unwillingly, into sleep.
And come morning, I will choose again to love Arsenal.
But tonight?
Tonight, I write no more of this.
Let it be done.
Let it never be spoken of again.
Good night. And God bless.
Victoria Concordia Crescit.