The North London derby is always a momentous occasion. It shapes your childhood, defines who you are and is more than just a game. Every time Spurs clash with them lot, somebody out there has an experience to remember. These are mine. What are yours?
Memories of the North London derby
I had been to Wembley once before. It was a freezing cold night for a friendly of England against Italy. I barely remember it, but my second time was a different matter. It was Tottenham v Arsenal in 1991. Unfortunately for me it wasn’t the famous 1991 clash at Wembley, it was the Charity Shield, but I didn’t care. It was my first derby. It was the most important match I had ever seen.
In 1991 Spurs was my happy place, the pain of seeing Gazza cry in Turin had melted away and even seeing him do a lap of honour at Wembley that summer afternoon on crutches didn’t dim my view.
Spurs were all about beating Arsenal, free kick pre-puberty orgasms and the Spurs dancing with the cup. It took me two years to realise that football happiness wasn’t on tap. Only when Spurs lost to Arsenal in 1993 at Wembley did it dawn on me that maybe this football lark wasn’t a bed of white roses.
As always with the derby looming certain memories come rushing back at you, memories that shaped you as a fan. This game may not be life or death, but it comes pretty close. Over the last three decades two North London derbies have stuck with me.
1991 FA Cup Semi
I had thrown a tantrum. I am not a tantrum person, but this was outrageous. FA Cup semi final day and I was being frogmarched to a chess tournament. The 5th Edgware Cubs had entered the tournament and my mum decided that earning my “Hobby” badge was more important than a football match.
Upon arriving at the venue I immediately spotted Alex a Cub friend who was also Spurs. He had turned up with his Spurs supporting dad. It was plainly obviously who wore the trousers in his household. As Alex and I stood kicking at lose stones by the entrance to the school hall, I overheard his dad talking to an organiser:
“So how does he get the badge?”
“He must complete his group matches.”
“Right son, all you have to do is lose three games quickly and we can get out of here. Make me proud.”
It was an ingenious plan, Alex’s dad was a genius. Earn the badge, make mum proud, get home and watch the game. Fool proof. My first game went like a dream, I was thrashed, life didn’t catch up with me until my second game:
“You can win this game. Look here you go.” I whispered to my opponent.
“No it’s ok, you can win.
“No, I’ll let you win. I’ve already lost once.”
“Me too.”
Disaster. Two Spurs fans in one group. It was a stand-off. One I ended up losing, or winning depending on your point of view.
What strikes me today is just how many Spurs and Arsenal Cubs and their families had actually turned up to this event. It was sweltering hot day and there we all were crammed into a dingy school hall, for a farce of a contest, it was like a Sunday afternoon Serie B fixture list, games were being thrown everywhere.
After all the results had been collected, it turned out my single victory was somehow enough to see me through to the next round. As I took my place with the elite, I spied my friend and his dad heading home, both gave me a mocking wave, whilst my mum stood proudly across the room. Her son had sacrificed Spurs for his duty. He had shown her where his loyalties were, I was the perfect son.
“Look. You can win this I don’t care, I just want to get home.”
“You Spurs?”
“Yep, you?”
“I don’t like football. I might win this thing.”
“Good luck.”
Finally it was over. It was now time to get home.
Charging through the front door straight into the sitting room, I found my dad sat on the sofa watching the game with a huge smile across his face. We were two up. I had missed the glory live, but he had recorded it.
My next door neighbour, a Spurs fan six years older than me came knocking at full time.
“Anthony, get your Spurs shirt on. Wembley traffic goes past the house (the A41) lets laugh at Gooners or cheer Spurs fans.”
For the next few hours or so as the cars streamed by flying Spurs flags or with passengers leaning out of the windows waving scarves we cheered them on. People who had been watching the game in pubs or somewhere else joined us before passing on. Cars continued to honk horns, and cheer “3-1, we beat the scum 3-1” although at the time I thought it was “3-1 we beat the scummy ones.”
For one afternoon my part of North London was like a Rome when Italy win the World Cup. I don’t think football will ever have that affect on Mill Hill again.
I got a plan. Trust me. 1995.
Daniel was a bad boy. There was no denying it. He had grown taller than all of us, attracted the interest of girls first and had pornographic magazines in his room. My mum warned me to steer clear but I couldn’t. He was Spurs, he had magazines with naked ladies. I took to him immediately and he didn’t seem to mind my presence.
“Anthony. You wanna watch the game on Saturday?”
“Of course!! You have tickets?”
“Kind of. Meet me at 11 by the bus stop. Don’t wear anything Spurs.”
Daniel and his dad had been season ticket holders for as long as I had known them and that night I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of the Lane refused to drift away, my first proper North London derby and at White Hart Lane. Every time sleep arrived, it was pushed away by excitement.
I arrived at the bus-stop the next morning a wreck, but full of nervous anxiety and questions, Daniel however, wasn’t playing ball and was proving rather elusive. Being fourteen and physically inferior and not as “street wise” as Daniel, I had no choice but to accept his elusiveness without comment.
To cover my tracks with my mum and dad who were at work, I had told my Nan, who only spoke Italian, I was going to watch football. I had however, deliberately messed up my verbs and spoken very quietly so I am sure she thought I was off to play football, I had set up my weak alibi.
By this time in my life I had only been to the Lane a handful of times, always with Daniel and his dad by car, therefore the route wasn’t too familiar, but as we started walking down a street something seemed off. Instead of shops, we were surrounded by terraced houses and quite a few people in red and white. Why wasn’t there more people milling around I asked myself? Eventually I questioned my leader.
“Daniel, this is wrong.”
“No it’s the right way.”
“Daniel, this isn’t the way to White Hart Lane.”
“I know. We are going to Highbury.”
Daniel had somehow got hold of two tickets to watch the derby sat in the North Bank on a giant screen. How he got these tickets pre-internet days remains a mystery, but he had them and we took our seats in the stand, it was a sickening experience.
I had never been so close to so many Gooners before, they looked like me, but they were different somehow. Fundamentally different. Daniel was a brave boy, I wasn’t, but bravery was no substitute for thousands of fists.
The game started terribly. We went one nil down. The stand erupted with pleasure the force of the roar pushing us forward. Everyone celebrated, it was sickening. I wished I could be somewhere else. As I looked at Daniel for the first time in 6 years of knowing him, I saw fear.
Then the change.
Teddy Sheringham equalised and stony silence swept across the stand. There was the odd swear or grunt, but in and around row 15 or 16 two 14 year old boys nearly burst blood vessels holding in a cheer. The game got even better though as ten minutes or so into the second half Chris Armstrong scored.
A yell of joy escaped from me, heads turned and the gentlemen in the row in front gave us a knowing look. We had been rumbled, but our age or the fact Spurs had scored so early into the second half worked in our favour. The rest of the game slowly dripped by, but we held on and no one sought us out for revenge. It was a double victory.
On the way home, as soon as we were back in what we thought was safety we started our Spurs songs and didn’t stop until we parted ways. On that mammoth two or three bus journey home we mingled with Spurs fans who had been at the game, it was glorious.On Monday at school when I recounted the story to my classmates at registration, I was a God to them. By lunch time though they had forgotten my story. I haven’t seen Daniel in well over a decade, I wonder if he still remembers, for me it’s a memory for life.
16-03-2014
Spurs v Arsenal, at White Hart Lane, on my birthday. It’s my first North London derby that has fallen on my birthday with me in attendance. It’s destined to be memorable.
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