Wow. Wow. Wow.

It was the fixture dreams are made of: Arsenal. We haven't seen the likes of this since we were in the Premier League, and in those days we were fighting a constant battle to stay up, with potential financial ruin soon knocking at our door. What followed is all too well-known to every City fan - relegation, then again, then again; the constant threat of crippling financial problems; wilderness years being beaten over and over by the likes of Accrington Stanley and Dagenham; in-fighting, ugly backroom battles and even an on-the-pitch brawl that could have cost us dearly.

And then we beat Wigan.

And then we drew Arsenal.

...

And then - We. Beat. Arsenal.

This hasn't sunk in, and I don't think it ever will. Several writers have given their take on this on the marvellous Width of a Post far better than I could, but I'll try, briefly, to give you my own. Firstly I would, of course, have loved to go up to Valley Parade, but living in London this proved too dfficult: evening matches mean at least a day off work - an afternoon to get there and a morning to get back - and at this time of year it just wasn't practical. Well, I told myself, there's something exciting about watching your team live on the telly. It doesn't happen too often to "teams like us". I persuaded my local, the King and Queen (a fabulous proper London boozer serving proper beer and that deserves a great big plug, not least for the pain I think I inflicted on the ears of its regulars on Tuesday night) to show it, and they were happy to, the landlord being a West Ham fan with no desire for the Gunners to do well. I called in a favour from my mate from Hull, who I've watched a couple of times recently, gathered together a Daggers mate and an Everton mate, a reluctant husband and a non-plussed brother-in-law and, lastly, my dad, who had been ordered in no uncertain terms to come and watch it with me rather than inflicting the experience on my mother (who has been known to go to matches, but tends to take her knitting along.)

That day I awoke and was immediately excited, the way kids are when they awake on Christmas morning and immediately reach for the stocking. We made it onto Radio 4 - a predictable little piece implying we were plucky underdogs, but wasn't it exciting for the club? Mark Lawn spoke briefly, and well, about our huge fanbase, commenting that our season tickets were cheap and showing the club (I thought) in a really good light. My excitement grew during the day until my boss finally suggested I just leave early, and we passed the time eating excellent burgers in Byron and comparing score predictions. We arrived at the pub in ebullient moods, convinced our team would put on a great show, that we would lose maybe 2-0, or even 2-1 if we were lucky; we would not be shown up, and it would be a great night.

And it was... because in the 16th minute, Thompson scored!

I can't quite describe the feeling at that moment, though it was quite unreal - I remember leaping up onto the seat and squealing, unaware that (as I was in a London pub) nobody except my assembled motley crew was really joining in. From that moment, my hands were shaking and I couldn't stop them. I simply couldn't believe this was happening. Nor could I believe that, for the rest of the first half, they failed even to equalize. I have seen City play very well on many occasions, but this was spectacular. Our defence was almost faultless; Duke was a star; at the other end Hanson and Wells made going 2-0 up look like a real possibility. We were beating Arsenal. And suddenly, from being a fun evening where I could feel proud and patriotic about my club, it most definitely became about winning - as time ticked away and we got further and further into the second half, we all realised that losing now would be devastating. Losing now would actually hurt. The equalizer, when it came, nearly made me weep - with only two minutes left, a part of me thought they just didn't deserve it! I think my hands were clasped in prayer throughout the entirety of extra time, assuming a heart-breaking, last-minute defeat was inevitable. But it didn't happen.

Then penalties.

We're good at penalties, but they are without a doubt the most stressful thing for a football fan to watch. I still remember Gareth Southgate missing in 1996. I remember feeling totally dejected, utterly bereft.

COME ON CITY!!!

I have no idea if I wound up the rest of the pub, because I shut out everything around me. I remember holding my friend's hand very tightly (sorry, Adam!) and being glad I didn't have a heart condition as I went through unadulterated joy followed by crushing disappointment, then heart-leaping joy again as both teams made those last few moments as agonising as possible. My dad asked later if I'd noticed that at this point most of the pub seemed to be on my side, but I could hear nothing but my own heart beating, see nothing but the screen. And then...

We beat Arsenal.

We. Beat. Arsenal.

For a moment I almost couldn't breathe. All the pent-up tension fell away and I was almost light-headed. I leapt at my friend (um, sorry again), throwing my arms and legs around him so he lifted me into the air. The one bloke in the pub with an Arsenal shirt on glared at me. I thought I was going to burst into tears. My dad, a Yorkshireman not easily parted from his money, was already at the bar buying champagne.

Because we. Beat. Arsenal.

I barely slept that night. I awoke at 3am and actually checked the BBC website to make sure it had really happened. The next day, to my irritation, most headlines and reams of twitter feeds berated Wenger and focussed on how shameful it was to lose to Bradford City, you know, that League 2 team? God bless Wenger for not saying that, but praising our defence in particular. We played well. Arsenal put out a good team - their combined wage bill that night was around £1m; ours was just £7,000. Even better, we'd drawn the biggest crowd in over 50 years, and the upcoming fixtures are set to settle our debts. We also set a new record for penalty shoot-outs - we have won the last nine, the longest uninterrupted run in the history of English football. The following day, buying a pizza in ICCO, a young man who it turned out was an Arsenal fan pointed to my scarf and said "Well done. You guys were just really good."

I've supported Bradford through good times and occasional terrific times, and more recently through very, very bad times. Words cannot sum up my emotions on Tuesday night, so prone to hyperbole are we over lesser things. But I watched my dad as he grinned and poured champagne for everyone around him - the dad who introduced me to this beautiful game, who has stood with me in pouring rain, in icy winds, on cold stone terraces and in shiny new stands in the north, south, east and west of England, cheering on my lovely, lovely Bantams even when all seemed lost, sometimes leaping with delight, sometimes crying with disappointment. He looked deliriously happy, and so was I. My beloved team, and with it my beloved city, could hold its head up high, and for once everyone knew who we were for all the right reasons. Bradford City are back on the map, and, I hope, this is the start of great, great things.

Because we. Beat. Arsenal.

Cities Til I Die

There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, more enjoyable than live football. Sure, there's the short-lived thrill-cum-body-jolting terror that you get from riding the latest implausibly high/sheer-dropping rollercoaster, the fuzzy pleasure of chilled out, chatty night with close friends, the shivers down your spine brought on by watching your favourite band at a live gig or a great film at the IMAX. But for the perfect combination of cameraderie, of hopes raised then dashed, of joy, pain and suspense, live football has it all.

I've tried and failed to put this across to an old friend, who is more of a rugby man who has recently developed a mild obession with American football (a sport which another of my friends described as "a truly American sport, where grown men dress up as cars and crash into each other") but for whom the appeal of "soccer" remains a mystery. He thinks it's too slow, that the frequency of goals is too limited to create excitement. I think he probably thinks football fans are all yobs, too, but is too polite (or wise, perhaps) to suggest this to me.

I think he's missing out, but the law of sod would ensure that, were I ever to take him along, it would be to a dour 0-0 draw in some mouth-watering fixture against team from a town he'd never heard of. It would no doubt rain, and they'd probably run out of pies.

In fact, the infrequency of goals is one of the very reasons a match can be so tantalising. A small mistake can make or break a match: just ask Robert Green. 1-0 is a notoriously dangerous position for a team to be in - I've seen many a team lose from being 1-0 up. A single goal can mean 3 points. A single goal against Liverpool kept us in the Premier League all those years ago. And it may seem hard to believe, but one of the best displays of football I've ever seen was watching Bradford City hold Swindon to a goal-less draw - Swindon went up at the end of that season. 0-0 was an achievement.

Yesterday was a little surreal for me. I went to Watford to support City - very much mirroring my last trip there almost a year ago, not least because it was freezing cold. But this time it wasn't Bradford City, but Hull City, in a trip that formed Part 2 of a mate's birthday - a mate who is an avid Hull fan, fellow ale drinker and all round ace bloke. The outing proved something of a headf***. There I was standing amidst a crowd of Northerners swathed in amber singing "I'm City Til I Die" having to remind myself that it was a different City, whilst still dearly willing them to do well. Much like Bradford, Hull's supporters filled the stands and made a heck of a lot more noise than the Watford fans, who for the most part sat sedately looking, at best, non-plussed, rarely rising to their feet and only showing a hint of emotion in the form of mild annoyance in the second half - I can't even remember why now. Even when Watford finally scored - and scored unexpectedly - they exhibited merely satisfaction and - as my companion put it - applauded politely. It was as if they'd intended to go to the theatre for a spot of Beckett, or something equally uneventful, and taken a wrong turning somewhere around Vicarage Road. I remember this from last year, when I thought perhaps they were just being respectful to their flailing League 2 opponents as they scored their fourth goal and kept largely quiet, while a hoard of Bradford fans regaled them with a tuneful rendition of "Four- Oooooone and you still don't sing..." But today was no different. The uninspiring surroundings doing nothing to lift their mood Watford's mascot - a hornet that looked more like an emaciated panda - started banging a drum, presumably to stir up some sort of passion, or at the very least interest. Rather than having the desired effect, this was a gift to the Hull fans, now 1-0 up, who led a rousing chorus of "If you can't bang a woman bang a drum" (the tune has been in my head ever since.)

Concerned at the ease with which I was shouting "Come on City" and meaning it (after all, I've done it all my life) I turned to the BBC website to see that not only were the Other City drawing against ten men, we had had 20 - yes, 20 - shots at goal and not netted a single one. Consequently, I missed Hull's second, brilliant goal as I was too busy ogling in disbelief at my iphone screen. It was therefore a great relief when Bradford finally won, after several more futile attempts, at the eleventh hour, not least because I would have felt pangs of disloyalty had they lost while I cheered on someone else's team with a genuine intensity and desire that they win.

And this, to me, is what live football was all about. For the fairly long period in which Hull were a shaky 1-0 up and victory was by no means certain I found myself clasping my hands every time the ball went anywhere near the vicinity of either goal, saying a sort of reflex-action prayer (Hello, Catholic roots) that it would/wouldn't go in. My friend's unadulterated joy when it did - twice - was worth every penny of the (somewhat overpriced) ticket. In the second half when I was willing on two Cities at once I actually jumped in my seat when I saw we'd finally beaten Torquay (a club about which I have mixed feelings as a result of past experiences.)
Football is a shared experience. It brings people together. I regret that I don't go more often (though a trip to watch Scunthorpe at Leighton Orient is on the cards for next week - I know how to live.) I had an awesome day on Saturday, and my friend's constant thanks for my accompanying him were unnecessary. Well done, Hull, and thank you for a lovely day. And Bradford... Tuesday is looming...

Watford's uninspiring stadium