Watching Arsenal win the Champions League with my friends

Sunday March 5^th 2023 was a day that changed my life. No, not because Arsenal lifted the Conti Cup that day, but because that cold, windy afternoon at Selhurst Park, brought me into the orbit of some of the best people in the world. Funnily enough, on my end, this was a meeting borne out of pretentious writing reasons. I'd gone to a pre-match fan meetup in a pub by the stadium to interview a supporter on the fan culture that had been created. In the end, the pub was loud, busy and not a suitable spot for an interview, so we rearranged to do the interview remotely (if you're interested, you can find the article here) and I simply hung out for some pre-match pints instead, and made some new friends.

Two years and two months on, I met up with the majority of those very same people in Lisbon, to watch Arsenal win the Champions League.

Due to the extortionate cost of flying direct to Lisbon, I briefly became a football fan-come-backpacking traveller; making my way there solo, going via Faro, staying in hostels, and getting a three-and-a-half-hour coach. At least my "Cooney-Cross 32" Arsenal shirt served a dual benefit, as it meant I could fit in with the inevitable population of Australians in my dorm. With my friends going direct, we met at a resturant situated upon one many high vantage points in the city (traversing Lisbon's many mosaic-tiled hills is hard work, but the views are a worthy reward). Greeting my friends one by one upon arrival was one of many moments from the trip that will stick with me for a long time.

The view was to die for… and the uphill walk in the heat did almost kill me in fairness

After this came the first of a many moments that still hasn't properly sunk in. Having lunch (and an especially strong mojito) on holiday with my friends due to the fact that our team had reached a European final was special in its own right, but being joined at the table by Arsenal royalty felt surreal. Being sat at the opposite end of the table, myself and my friends sat nearest to me could at least confirm to eachother that we in fact weren't dreaming. I won't say too much here because I don't want to broadcast our conversations over lunch to the internet, but I can assure you that the Wrighty you see online, in the media, is 100% authentic and genuine, as is his support and enthusiasm for women's football.

Hanging out with some dear and legendary people to – Ian Wright was also there!

I'll be honest with you, reader, at this point I was thinking two things. (1) What if this weekend has peaked too soon? (2) Fuck me, they don’t mess around with the strength of their cocktails out here. After enough food to fuel me for the day (seriously, I had a pack of Jamon Ruffles for dinner that night), it was time to check in at my hostel, quickly charge my phone, and head off to the fanpark on Praça do Comérciao.

The fanzone was largely what you would expect, a little naff, but functional as a means of providing a centralised location in a massive square so that fans who had spent the day dotted around Lisbon could come together in one place. One of the many enjoyable aspects of this trip was seeing recognisable faces; not necessarily people I personally knew, but faces I recognised from numerous trips to the Tollington and the Good Companion over the last few years. A good number of them would have been in Borehamwood back in September when Arsenal started out in the competition in the qualifying rounds. Now, we were preparing to watch our team play the biggest game in women's club football.

Having reconvened with my friends, we decided to forgoe the opportunity to queue for an hour to meet Jen Beattie (we'd our fix of meeting Arsenal legends for one day) and instead opted to drink some six euro pints of Heineken in what UEFA had designated the "shaded rest area". Then it was off to the big screen watch Alex Scott and Emma Byrne give a Q&A in which both, particularly Emma Byrne, were effusive about Arsenal's chances. What did she know? We spotted pop singer and partner of Alex Scott Jess Glynne amid rumours of a secret set. There was no secret set. We did however get a DJ who wasn't very good but seemed to be having a nice time all the same.

Enjoying the fanpark

After the Q&A and a hearty rendition of "The Angel" (North London Forever), we took our que to leave the fanzone, and sampled some of Lisbon's many bars. For the rest of the night, I couldn't get the famous Neil Warnock mantra of "Enjoy it, but enjoy it responsibly" out of my head, well aware that being hungover for the club's biggest game in 18 years would be… not ideal. As it turned out, pints at €3.50 a pop and one of my friends ordering a round of tequila shots was enough to put the best laid plans astray. In the end, I stumbled back into by hostel at half past midnight, which was about an hour later than I'd intended, but a slight headache was nothing that a cold shower, black coffee and the adrenaline running through my veins at the prospect of the day ahead couldn't fix.

Red and White Street

Over the last few years I've witnessed a fair few "women's football has arrived" moments. These include: England winning the Euros at a sold out Wembley, Arsenal selling out the Emirates on numerous occasions, travelling in big numbers for away games and domestic cup finals. Seeing Pink Street (which could have been renamed Red and White Street) choc-a-block with Arsenal fans was another such occasion. With one pint swiftly down me, and lingering effects of a hangover gone, it was time to properly soak up the vibes. The first familiar face we spotted was legendary awfc journalist Tim Stillman, who had done well to secure a shaded spot outside the bar opposite to us (it was actually bookstore that served beer, we're a cultured lot here at The Arsenal). We had a brief chat in which I learned that there was such a thing as "green wine".

Meanwhile, the crowds and general levels of excitement continued to build. Flags were waved, songs were sung, people looked down from the bridge which provides a vantage point of the street wondering what on earth was going on. I heard chants that had been concocted by friends over Twitter and others that I hadn't heard before but still haven't been able to get out of my head some five days on – namely "we came to Lisbon, from North London, and we'll win the Champions League" to the tune of Bella Ciao.

Turning Pink St red and white

The drinks and singing continued to flow, the odd Barcelona fan would walk through the gauntlet, barely visible in a sea of red and white, but their presence unmistakable due to intermittent choruses of "who are ya?". I saw more people I knew, in some cases the streets were so busy that an exuberant wave had to suffice, in other cases there handshakes and hugs were given. I caught up with a friend of mine called Sam, who I often hang out with after men's games. This was, if you like, Arsenal's one club mantra realised through consuming pints, and certainly a far cry from having a £7 pint of Neck Oil stood on the sticky floors of the Twelve Pins. The vibes on the street were so good that I almost didn’t want to leave, but of course, we had a Champions League to win, so we did.

Making it happen

I don't know how many can count a trip on the "Green Line" of Lisbon Metro as borderline spiritual experience, but that's how I would describe my journey from the centre of Lisbon to the Estadio Jose Alvalade. Initially, our carriage was mostly comprised of Gooners/Goonerettes, but the a few stops later, we became substantially outnumbered, and an impromptu sing off begun. This provided a nice reminder of a subject I started writing about two years ago following that Conti Cup final that changed everything. It isn't just the numbers that AWFC fans bring to games, it is the culture that they have created.

For every Barca chant (and to be honest with you, they only had about two different songs), Arsenal fans sang back ten times louder. At one point, both fanbases' versions of the "allez allez" chant synced up, the two sets of supporters opposing but together at once. Locals looked on with confusion as the real world collided with the football world. Barca fans shook our hands, took photos with us, even wished us luck! Touching as that was, it didn't stop us bursting into to a hearty chant of "Mariona, she left 'cos you're shit!"

Having squeezed every last drop of the pre-match vibes, we approached the stadium, and it was eventually time to LOCK IN. UEFA, in classic UEFA fashion, did their best to ruin the people's good spirits by reminding everyone in the ground that they couldn't arrange a pissup in a brewery. The fact that there was no alcohol on sale in the stadium proved to be a blessing in disguise, the queues for food and water were long enough, due to the total lack of water fountains in the stadium on a scorching hot day.

I'll keep this brief as I don't want to tarnish a magical day, but my friend Izzie and I missed the first 15 minutes of the second half having queued for over half an hour just to get some water. At various points during the halftime break, we were slumped against a wall in the concourse to avoid fainting from heat exhaustion. Before the game meanwhile, my pre-match nerves were somewhat replaced by anxiety of whether or not I would get food poisoning, having purchased and eaten a chicken sandwich which it would not be an exaggeration to describe as unfit for human consumption.

I'm over 1500 words into this piece, so I probably should briefly touch on the match. Like others who have reflected on the game since, I only became somewhat nervous once we reached the 30 minute mark and were not only competing in the game but arguably having been the better side to that point. By halftime, my overriding feeling, besides "fucking hell I need some water", was one of pride in our performance. Whatever happened from here on in, we made the first half an even contest, and that far exceeded my pre-match expectations coming into a game against a side regarded as one of the greatest of all time.

Over land and sea (and Lisbon!)

I actually missed Barcelona's most dominant stage of the game due to the aforementioned water queue, returning to my seat just in time to see Arsenal regain a foothold in the game before the introduction of Beth Mead and Stina Blackstenius. My mind immediately went to a text I'd sent to my friend Alex a few weeks prior. It simply read: "what if Stina scores the winner in the final? Is there a plan in place for this?". The plan, as it turned out, was absolute pandemonium which ended on the bars and streets of Lisbon. The limbs for the goal were calmed slightly by a nervous wait for a replay to make absolutely sure that VAR wouldn't swipe this moment away from us (modern football, eh?), but celebrations, hugs, and ending up a good few metres away from my actual designated seat ensued. The remaining fifteen minutes of regulation time were actually a blur. We looked so comfortable and untroubled by Barcelona that, personally speaking, nerves didn't really kick in until injury time.

We joked about how we hoped that UEFA's far generous policy on added time could come to our benefit, only to see seven minutes added. Shoutout to the person in the seat in front of me who had the presence of mind to start the stopwatch on her phone as soon as the board went up. Not all heroes wear capes. Some Barcelona corners came and went. The magical Mariona won a freekick to eat up some time when seemingly going down a blind alley. Beth Mead ran the ball to the corner. Kim Little dribbled the ball out of danger until her legs had nothing left to give. The referee sounded what we thought was the final whistle, only for it to be a false alarm. Seconds later, it was really was over, and Arsenal were champions of Europe for the second time.

Before this, I'd been in stadiums to witness Arsenal men win the FA Cup, Arsenal women win the League Cup and England's Lionesses win the Euros, but I'd never seen scenes like this. I'd immediately went to embrace my friends in a giant group hug, almost falling back on to the row behind me.

Taking it all in (Credit: Lauren Coffman)

Then I looked up to see people all around me in floods of tears. I immediately took my phone out to take a picture and capture the moment. To my left, three of my friends – Alex, Lara and Eve were sobbing unbridled tears of joy. Of all the photos I took over my three days in Lisbon this one was my favourite – a snapshot of the raw, joyous emotions that only football can evoke. Emotional videocalls were made to absent friends – who have been on this journey every step of the way and deserved to be in Lisbon.

Fulltime tears

The trophy lift was all a bit of a blur in all honesty, with UEFA deciding in their infinite wisdom to place the podium facing the media, but facing away from the Arsenal fans housed in the south-east corner of the stadium, which meant that the real celebrations took place in earnest after the podium lift. Those celebrations begun with childhood Arsenal fans Leah Williamson and Lotte-Wubben Moy running over to the Arsenal end, and ended with Jess Glynne being serenaded to one of her own songs.

The only in the land (x2)

Club legends, academy players, friends and families of the players all had their moment in the sun. We spotted Wrighty who waved back to us. Eventually, nearly 90 minutes after the final whistle sounded, we were eventually ushered out of the stadium. Overjoyed Arsenal fans flooded out onto the outer stadium concourse. I spotted and made a beeline for podcast-mate Liberty Simons to share a big hug, before taking a selfie to send to members of the Pot Shot Crew who weren't in Lisbon. A big group photo was taken out of the stadium as the sunset behind and us and the fact that Arsenal were Champions of Europe slowly began to sink in. Via a quick stop for some much needed sustenance and hydration, we made our merry way back to Pink Street.

Unreal. But also real.

While the Metro journey to the stadium was a wall of noise, the journey back was beautifully subdued, with everyone taking a moment to text friends and family, take in the moment, and catch their breath before the Pink Street party recommenced.

And what a party it was.

We initially returned to the same bar we had visited before the match, once again finding a quiet spot that didn't stay quiet for long. We toasted many people from, Stina Blackstenius, to, for some reason, Everton's Homlgaard twins. We bumped into Tim again and more hugs ensued. I had a long conversation with Arseblog News's videographer, Jason. We all enjoyed the spectacle of a man wearing speedos and lobster claws having a jolly old time while the DJ played The Angel.

The plan in place

Emotionally and physically drained from the day, I didn't quite have the energy spent the night on the dancefloor, so I instead ventured outside to simply take in some of the scenes around me. My understanding is that Pink Street on a Saturday night is a constant hive of activity at, but tonight it had mostly (bar a pocket of Sheffield United fans on a stag-do) been taken over by Arsenal fans. Chants filled the air. The song to the tune of Bella Ciao I mentioned earlier had been amended so that the final verse now proudly proclaimed "and we WON the Champions League".

We came to Lisbon…

The celebrations continued, I met more people who until then I knew only from Twitter (thank you to Roos from the Netherlands who brought me a drink), before our night ended the way all good nights do, by eating food from a kebab shop with a questionable hygiene rating and letting the repercussions of that be tomorrow's problem.

Munching on my just-about-edible falafel wrap, I thought about the friends I'd made on the journey towards seeing Arsenal crowned European champions. I thought about the people I'd been in the company of across the day: Alex, Eve, Lauren, Maisie, Izzie, Lara, Hannah, Mel and Ed who accepted me as the token straight male ally in the in a friendship group mostly comprised of Lesbians (I've basically been able to learn about Coronation Street's "Swarla" storyline by osmosis at this point).

Champions of Europe!

I thought about Akram who couldn't make it to the game, but who would fly all the way from Lebanon to London for Monday's trophy lift and made a post-match comp that reduced everyone on Arsenal twitter to tears.

I thought about other absent friends who couldn't make the trip to Lisbon – Dalia, Janna, Scar, and Robyn, friends of the Goonerettes Sarah and Louise – both of whom would have no doubt cooked up some excellent had they been present.

The whole experience of supporting AWFC in the last couple of years, crowned by last Saturday in Lisbon, has – to borrow a line from one Renee Slegers, been unreal… but also real. In many ways the real trophy was the friends made along the way, from that cold afternoon in Croydon all the way to a baking hot day in Lisbon.

(But in many other ways the real trophy was also the Champions League, because we won the bloody Champions League)