That moment in the calendar when hope and dread waltz hand-in-hand — when a spreadsheet, conceived behind locked doors, dictates the next nine months of our very lives. The Premier League, with all its majestic mayhem, has unveiled its scroll of scripture. A sacred script penned by schedulers who, armed with spreadsheets and sorcery, have once again performed the impossible arithmetic. A ballet of variables, from broadcaster diktats to geographical diplomacy, ensuring neighbours like City and United, or Everton and Liverpool, never clash on home soil. How many games at home in a row? Who must travel at Christmas? When is too soon, and where is too far? They have spoken.
And thus, the fixture list is born.
It is, by definition, impartial. You play each adversary twice — once under your roof, and once beneath theirs. But football is not a game of cold logic. It is drama. It is rhythm. And the rhythm of this season’s opening stanza plays to a discordant beat — particularly if you bleed red and white.
Storm Before the Calm: August’s Ruthless Opening Act
Because Arsenal, proud and potent, find themselves summoned to the Theatre of Dreams on opening day. Old Trafford — a place whose ghosts of so many have been silenced in recent seasons, yes, but a place being rebuilt now with Ruben Amorim handed the gift of time, the canvas of summer, and a fresh cast of characters. That fixture no longer carries the limp uncertainty it once did. It brims with unknowns. And that is just the overture.
For after the echoes of Manchester subside, the North Bank shall rise again to greet a new adversary — Leeds United, crowned kings of the Championship, swaggering back into the top flight with northern defiance and that unmistakable roar. They will bring the din, the defiance, the devilment — they always do. And then, as August draws its final breath, the path leads us once more into the tempest — to Anfield. That old cathedral of chaos. A crucible of cruelty for Arsenal hearts. A ground where hope has so often been silenced by red thunder. And yet… perhaps, just perhaps, this is the year the script is rewritten. That early ordeal might forge something sterner, something scarlet and steeled. Or — whisper it — they too may glance at our crest, our cannon, and wonder if their reckoning waits in red and white.
September? A mirage of mercy.
We welcome Nottingham Forest — no longer plucky upstarts, but aspiring contenders with Europe in their eyeline. Theirs is a journey just beginning, their legs still fresh, unburdened by the fatigue that comes with continental crusades. But beware the ones with something to prove.
And then, as though the gods of scheduling saw our resolve and scoffed, comes the onslaught: Manchester City — reigning royalty. Relentless. Resplendent. Rejuvenated. The side we humbled once, yes, but they are not to be fooled twice. They are still the bar. Then Newcastle United, ever-rising, ever-roaring, armed with ambition and menace in equal measure.
Six games. Two trips to footballing fortresses. Three adversaries bound for the Champions League. One gauntlet hurled at our feet.
In truth, it is hard to scan the opening chapters of any other contender and find a script quite so punishing. Perhaps Manchester United fans may mutter similar grievances. But for us, comfort waits not until the leaves begin to turn.
October — a month that finally offers a flicker of reprieve. Not because the opposition are meek, but because the road bends homeward. Three London derbies — two of them at the Emirates. The only away venture? A relatively tame trek within the capital. The calendar, at last, exhales.
Derby Days and Winter Dread: The Path Through November and Christmas
And then comes November’s end, and with it, the first true punctuation mark — the North London Derby. A firebrand fixture, a tribal rite, hosted this time in our coliseum. And scarcely a breath later, we cross the city to the Bridge. Stamford. Stubborn. Sullen. What a week that will be.
Over the festive period, the pendulum swings again. Everton away — a bogey battleground. Brighton and Villa at home — stern but fair. Fulham away — familiar turf. A blend of bite and benevolence. Manageable, but not merciful.
And then, into the new year — and again, the old enemies await. Liverpool. Manchester United. January will not thaw. It will bite.
But — and this may yet be the poet’s gift — May, the month of truth, offers a final kindness. The final furlong, if nothing else, stays close to home. Fulham. West Ham. Burnley. Crystal Palace. All four in London. Two of them in N5. Should we be in the mix, should there be anything to dream for, we will not be dreaming alone.
Of course, all of this — all of it — is provisional. Television’s talons will pluck and peck at this pristine sheet. Games will move. Kickoffs will scatter. But this is the shape, the skeleton. The scaffolding of another campaign.
And that’s before we even consider the European overture. The great juggle. Champions League midweeks followed by Premier League weekends. Already, statisticians scurry through spreadsheets, charting away days after flights from foreign lands. And early glances suggest that fortune, for once, might favour us — fewer away trips after Europe than many of our rivals. But until the draw, all of that remains stardust.
Smoke, Mirrors, and Market Whispers
As for transfers — that great summer opera — the curtain has barely lifted. There are whispers, yes. Kepa, for a song. Zubimendi, forever a bridegroom left waiting at the altar. And Thomas Partey, perhaps preparing a quiet exit stage left. If Zubimendi is to arrive, one suspects it may be timed to soften the blow.
The striker saga rolls on. Benjamin Šeško — the boy with the name of a future headline. Leipzig, of course, hold the keys. And Šeško, ever the professional, will not agitate. We admire that. But admiration doesn’t write cheques.
Out wide, the flirtation with Nico Williams appears to be just that — a flirtation. Barcelona, ever the seducer, have seemingly drawn him home. One suspects we were merely the bait, the red herring to stir the Catalan seas.
And so, we wait.
Wait for clarity. Wait for signatures. Wait for the drumbeat to begin.
And as we wait, we black out our weekends. We paint the calendar with hope. Saturdays, Sundays — ringed in red. The feast is coming. The famine has an end date.
Yes, there is football. There is the World Club Cup. But tell me, truly — has it stirred your soul? Has it quickened your pulse? Ten-goal romps in half-empty arenas do not quicken the blood. They do not sing the old songs.
But this? This sacred scroll of thirty-eight dates?
This is life. This is the gospel.
Victoria Concordia Crescit