“We could get off here and walk?” says my wife.
“Too late, the doors are closing,” I reply.
Our Northern line carriage is packed, and the air clammy when two teenage girls connect a speaker to the Old Street station Wi-Fi and crank up the volume.
The opening bars of “Freed From Desire” are released into the wild.
There’s a smile from the dad of the Asian family next to me. He’s sporting a 97/98 replica shirt with LEGEND 8 on the back.
People all around us start to hum. Some mouth the words, not yet confident enough to sing. One guy in sunglasses is trying desperately to play it cool, but he’s clearly on the verge of joining in.
Want more and more
People just want more and more
Freedom and love
What he’s looking for
And then the girls go for it.
FREED FROM DESIRE
MIND AND SENSES PURIFIED
FREED FROM DESIRE
“Come on you lot, this is supposed to be a vibe,” they yell.
And everyone joins in. Of course they do.
NA-NA-NA-NA-NA, NA-NA, NA-NA-NA, NA-NA-NA
For thirty glorious seconds, our carriage becomes a festival.
Then the Wi-Fi drops, the speaker dies, and the moment disappears.
It doesn’t matter.
The parade has already started.
Not officially. Not according to Arsenal. Not according to the Metropolitan Police. But somewhere between Old Street and Camden Town, north London has already become one giant celebration.
Somewhat ambitiously, my wife and I are aiming for Angel Station even though it’s already 1.45 pm.
Soon enough, the driver announces it’s closed because of overcrowding.
Fine.
King’s Cross then.
Nope.
Closed too.
Euston?
Also closed.
By the time Camden Town becomes our involuntary destination, we’ve made peace with the fact that actually seeing the parade might be optimistic.
Hundreds of Gooners pour off the train in unison, the platform heaving as bodies shuffle towards more bodies and eventually the exit.
“What do we think of Tottnum?”
“Shit.”
“What do we think of shit?”
“Tottnum.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s alright.”
Then someone attempts Gabriel’s song, and his voice breaks at exactly the wrong moment. “You’ll fall in love” becomes an unexpected falsetto. The whole platform erupts in laughter.
As we ride the escalators, three German tourists standing next to me look completely bewildered.
Then “Freed From Desire” starts up again, and they begin dancing on the spot too.
At the station entrance, Arsenal are everywhere.
Budapest has been replaced by the parade.
How do we get there?
We don’t know.
How do we get there?
We don’t care.
Someone on the phone tells a mate, dejectedly, “I’m like an hour away, fam.”
Maybe he does care.
__
As we spill out onto the streets of Camden, I think of my mum, my uncle, my aunt and my grandparents, who lived a few hundred metres away at Mornington Crescent.
An impromptu tour of an area I lived in as a student from 2002 to 2004 feels strangely fitting. We were quite good back then, you might remember.
I decide we’ll tackle the rest of the journey on foot. If we see the players and the buses, it’ll be a bonus.
The girls on the tube were right. The parade is “supposed to be a vibe”, and it’s already spread well beyond the designated route.
We walk past pubs where I watched Wenger’s team in their pomp. The Irish place with the dodgy satellite feed for 3pm kick-offs has gone. I think I watched Henry score a free-kick against Charlton in there. Or maybe it was the place on Parkway. Yeah, it was Parkway. I should check, but even if I’m right and tell Anna, I know she’ll look at me like I’m a complete oddball.
The hand car wash at St Pancras Way is still going strong. Blimey.
I keep thinking it must be hell supporting another club today.
Mik Arteta’s Red Army is everywhere.
Every other car seems to contain someone wearing an Arsenal shirt. Bus stops are packed. Everyone sponsored by Emirates Airlines.
We turn up Agar Grove. A group of kids wobbling along on Lime bikes are working their way through the Arsenal songbook. On closer inspection, they are definitely not youngsters. One of them is clutching a bottle of whiskey.
I awkwardly raise a celebratory fist in their direction. I look like a fucking dork.
A little further on, we pass my old basement flat, 21A.
I stop to take a picture for my former flatmate, now living in Los Angeles. It takes me back to mornings sitting at a tiny desk reading the Arsenal musings of some Irish bloke living in Barcelona. Whatever happened to him?
As Agar Grove becomes Brewery Road, we adjust our route. The parade has already started, and the helicopters overhead suggest the buses are making their way down Holloway Road. We’ll head towards Liverpool Road via Caledonian Road and the side streets.
A giant “Arsenal Champions League Final” flag hangs from a nearby window and, for a moment, the events of the previous night come rushing back.
__
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in a Budapest pub with my dad and brother – our first trip, just the three of us, since Paris in 2006 – soaking up every second of the build-up to Arsenal’s biggest game in two decades.
It feels impossible that it was only yesterday.
We’d popped in to say hello to Arsenal fan Anna (another Anna!), a Budapest local these days, who I probably hadn’t seen for the best part of a decade. Over the course of the week, she’d become a minor celebrity among travelling Gooners, patiently sharing advice about the city and helping thousands of people navigate their way around the Hungarian capital.
As tends to happen at Arsenal away games, one familiar face quickly became several. Jon Ray, Chorley and Sean appeared. Oscar from Sweden was posting photos of his flag in the Arsenal Gothenburg WhatsApp group. Messages flew around. Had Aaran and Luke landed yet? Where were Nigel and Ben? I felt for Baz missing out on all of it. A quick hello to David.
Meanwhile, Mike and James were waiting for us with the phones we needed to access tickets, and everybody seemed to be wrestling with some fresh UEFA-induced administrative headache. I spent the day touching my pocket to check my passport was still there.
God, the whole ticket process had been stressful.
Fuck you, UEFA.
Yet standing in north London less than a day later, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of Arsenal supporters, it struck me that this is what following the club is about. Not just the matches, but the people you collect along the way.
At one point, I seriously considered skipping the parade altogether. The 5am start. The Wizz Air flight home. The wrong train from Gatwick. The failed attempt to board another train at East Croydon because it was already packed with Arsenal supporters.
But here we are.
Showered, exhausted, wearing yet another Arsenal shirt, battery almost empty, but not quite done yet.
__
You know you’re getting close when the bootleg merchandise appears.
Geezers and geezettes alike have set up trestle tables laden with Champions 2026 t-shirts, scarves and bucket hats.
I buy two shirts for £30. The one from 2004 has earned its retirement.
Wafts of barbecued meat compete with the acrid smell of pyro. Older residents sit outside their homes on garden chairs, smiling as thousands stream past.
Then we hit Liverpool Road and the scale of the day finally reveals itself.
Wow.
There are a lot of people here. How many? Nobody knows. Reports say up to a million.
I wonder what Pete, Anu and Ahmed make of it all, having flown in from the States, India and Australia, respectively.
I ask Anna if she still wants to proceed.
She’s game.
I’ve lent her a knock-off Anfield ’89 away shirt, and she wears it proudly.
Everywhere I look there is red and white. Durags. Hijabs. Thobes. Vintage shirts. Brand-new shirts. Kids on shoulders. Grandparents leaning on walking sticks. Even wheelchairs moving gamely despite the carnage underfoot.
A multi-million-pound house on one side of the road has Arsenal shirts in every window. The estate opposite, likewise.
This is London.
The real London.
Chants of “Campeones, Campeones” ripple through the crowd every few metres. Speakers blast music. People huddle around route maps trying to work out what is open and what isn’t.
This is definitely bigger than 2014.
By the time we reach Highbury Corner, the evidence is everywhere.
Plastic cups. Beer cans. Lost items of clothing. Fresh piss running towards drains.
Inevitable, really.
__
We’re deep in the crowd now, and I tighten my grip on Anna’s hand.
When we met eight years ago, her football knowledge extended roughly as far as knowing who Alan Shearer was.
Now she has the Arsenal fixtures saved on her phone, if only to prepare herself for the regular “Sorry, I’ve got Arsenal that day” responses she receives from me.
She listened to the penalty shootout on the radio the night before.
She’s standing in the middle of a million-strong Arsenal party wearing a shirt I’ve lent her.
I love that she wanted to be here.
The crowd thickens. Progress becomes impossible.
Eventually, we settle outside the Starbucks on the edge of Highbury Corner and decide to wait.
It’s as good a spot as any. Above us, legs dangle from a first-floor ledge.
Do they live there?
Who knows.
Then a huge bloke decides he wants to join them.
The crowd tries to help him climb up.
He loses his grip.
Falls backwards.
The sound when he hits the pavement is horrific.
For a split second, the entire mood changes.
Nobody moves.
Then everybody does.
“Medic! Medic! Medic!”
A forest of arms shoots into the air.
No one has any phone signal.
No one can call anyone.
So the crowd takes over.
He’s out cold.
What’s your name, mate?
Where does it hurt?
Get him some water.
Get some ice.
Is he moving?
Thank God, he’s moving.
Slowly but surely, strangers organise themselves into a rescue operation.
After a few horrible minutes, he’s sitting upright, dazed but talking.
He’s got a massive lump on the back of his head.
But his shoulder appears to have taken most of the impact.
Eventually, he disappears into the crowd.
Ego bruised. Shoulders more so.
Hopefully nothing worse.
It’s a reminder that when this many people gather, things can go wrong.
Thankfully, this one didn’t end as badly as it might have.
__
Then it’s back to waiting. A red and white beach ball bounces off random heads to big cheers.
Tim Stillman messages from Budapest asking if I can double-check he’s scheduled his Katie McCabe exclusive for 5pm. The time difference is confusing him.
Where are these bloody buses? Surely that drone is going to run out of battery.
A message arrives from my mate James on the Essex Road.
My six-year-old godson has apparently spent much of the afternoon leading renditions of the Gyokeres chant through a megaphone.
I’m not entirely sure whether to be proud or concerned.
Eventually another message arrives.
The buses are coming.
You can feel the anticipation spread through the crowd.
The little lad perched on his dad’s aching shoulders looks relieved.
The guys balanced in trees must be relieved.
The ones clinging to traffic lights and road signs probably feel the same.
The next few minutes are spent peering at strangers’ phones as they zoom in on blurry shapes somewhere down Upper Street.
Still time for another rendition of “North London Forever”, its six-line chorus occasionally mangled by those who clearly know fewer words than they’re letting on.
Or maybe it’s just the beer.
“Is that an Arseblog sticker on that lamppost?” asks my wife.
“No comment,” I reply.
I’ve put quite a few around north London this season.
Then the noise begins to build.
A ripple.
A roar.
A wall of sound moving towards us.
The bass from the lead bus hits first.
Then come the phones.
Thousands of them.
Raised skyward in pursuit of the perfect shot.
Players point, wave, shout, fist-pump and grin from the top decks. Saka is at the front.
Has someone just sprayed Champagne at them from the rooftop? Photographer Stuart MacFarlane opens his mouth, attempting to catch the remnants.
Josh Kroenke looks like he’s having the time of his life.
Is that Nico Jover wearing a scarf around his head like the Karate Kid?
The smoke flares ignite almost simultaneously.
The sky turns red.
The smell lodges itself in the back of your throat.
There go Arsenal Women.
Leah Williamson roaring like Boudica.
Then the final bus rolls through. I spot Emmanuel from the Selhurst Park medal ceremony.
Gunnersaurus is dancing. Of course he is.
I try to take a photo, but can barely see him through the haze.
It’s all over in seconds.
And then the barriers come down.
Cue the Sack of Rome.
Thousands stream down Upper Street after the buses. Flares in hand. Phones raised. Flags flying. Scarves waving.
“ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!”
Red smoke hangs over everything like a London fog.
For a moment, it feels as though the parade might simply continue forever, sweeping the whole borough along with it.
__
This time, we don’t follow.
Instead, Anna and I turn the other way.
The players are gone. The trophy has passed.
But the streets are still full.
Liverpool Road remains a sea of red and white. Music spills from pub doors. Complete strangers chat on street corners as though they’ve known each other for years.
Nobody seems in much of a hurry to get home.
That’s what I’ll remember most.
Not the buses.
Not the trophy.
Not even the players.
The people.
The feeling.
The vibe.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been in Budapest watching Arsenal fall agonisingly short of the biggest prize in club football.
The hurt was real.
It will linger for a while.
It should.
But standing in north London among what felt like most of the city, it was impossible not to feel optimistic about what comes next.
For years, Arsenal supporters dreamed about days like this.
A title parade.
Packed streets.
A team worth believing in again.
Now that it’s happened, the overwhelming feeling isn’t relief.
It’s excitement.
Because if this is where the journey has taken us, imagine where it might go next.
