Let's face it; we were lucky. The golden opportunities Ruud van Nistelrooy missed. The sheer number of times they hit the post. The at-first-glance perfectly good goal that the ref ruled out for offside. Freddy Ljungberg heading a van Nistelrooy shot onto the crossbar and back into the middle of a frenzied penalty area, to be gleefully hacked to safety. The gloriously unpredictable Jens Lehmann, despite spending all day with a thousand-yard stare, against all odds playing out of his skin and all but winning the cup single handed. But in the end, who cares? If it was any team other than United, I might feel a slight pang of guilt, or at least sympathy, but, hell, they had it coming. I'm afraid that when They are concerned, any residual sportsmanship that I carry around gets completely forgotten.
As it happens, even seeing the match was a minor logistical miracle for me. A couple of weeks ago, not realising it was cup final day, I'd agreed to go and watch one of the boys from church dancing in a London Children's Ballet production. It was only a few days before that it dawned on me that this would present me with a problem. Now, let's make something clear: it's not that I don't like ballet. I flatter myself that I'm broad-minded enough to appreciate a wide range of artisitic disciplines. In fact, I enjoyed the performance. It was very professional. Nor was I reluctant to support Jacob in his endeavours. He's clearly very talented, and deserves to be encouraged. The issue is this: I'm an unreconstructed (undeconstructed?) postmodern male. I like football. I'm not ashamed to say so. So, the only course of action open to me was as follows:
1. Watch the first half of the match on TV.
2. Rush into central London to see the ballet.
3. Make my way home, desperately trying to avoid TV screens, fellow Arsenal fans, radios, pubs where the game had been shown - really anyone or anything that could possibly give me any indication of the result. The upshot of this was me, running through central London, with my eyes shut and my hands over my ears. I hope the bruises heal soon. And I must say, those Japanese tourists were very understanding.
4. Spend the evening studiously avoiding TV news reports.
5. At 11.40pm, worn out by nerves and paranoia, slump in front of the TV in my pyjamas, to watch the highlights.
6. At approximately 12.25pm, stuff a cushion into my mouth, so as not to wake my wife with my yells of "Have some of that, you manky Scots git!!"
To my amazement, it worked. But just recalling the day's progress wears me out. Who'd be an Arsenal fan?