Nice weather? No, it’s no good trying to change the subject. I’ve got to get it off my chest.

Letters to the editor of a famous national newspaper sent in by clergymen, colonels and accountants, long retired to the country, will often begin by asking: Am I alone in thinking that...

Well, I am certainly none of those fine gentlemen and very far from it, but I can still wonder if I am the only one who considers that the life of a thoroughly bitten Arsenal supporter these days can feel tantamount to being sentenced to a living torture in hell.

Worried and apprehensive, after witnessing too many rubbishy performances to be able to count them up, I got the train to a pub this afternoon which had advertised on the net that it would be showing the Arsenal v Stoke match. I arrived late at the pub. I had to order my pint first, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, now would I? The barman confirmed: “Yes, it’s on downstairs, mate.” I took a few quick sips so as not to spill the nectar while negotiating the steep staircase. No Arsenal. Only Liverpool.

The downstairs bar was open too and behind it was the manager. I protested loudly, handed over my well started glass of beer and demanded a refund. I got the full price! That temporarily restored my faith in human nature, but only temporarily. Back on the street, I ran to two other pubs that in the past had been known to show Arsenal matches. Again, no Arsenal. More Liverpool — and rugby.

By now it was well into half time. My nerves were even more on edge, but I had to make one last effort. I had to get the train again. The pub near the station was packed. I’ve been there a few times before. They’ve got any number of screens and usually have an extensive choice of different sports on view. Today more than half the screens were showing — wait for it — ice hockey! All the others had the ManU game on. Arsenal? Can’t get it today, sir.

Seething inside, I knew I had to do something to calm down, so I ordered another Guinness. The woman slapped the change down on the bar while looking over her shoulder, not at anything in particular, I thought, just to avoid eye contact. I yelled at her: “Just because you think I’m bald, fat and ugly, it doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to be treated at the very least as an ordinary sub-human paying-customer!” Well that got her to stare at me anyway. Before she could think of a clever reply or call over security, I quickly nipped off, pocketing the cash.

Somebody said with a grin that Arsenal had been one up at half time but I couldn’t make out whether he was having a laugh. I forced myself to watch two great ManU goals before I just had to leave in disgust. Why can’t we do that, Arsène? Eh? Arsène, you’re driving me crazy!

I wrote this as soon as I got home. That’s better. I am beginning to feel a little easier now. But I still don’t know the score. I daren’t look!