Sammy Mooner
Once upon a time. When we reached our first League Cup Final the queue for Final tickets was about four to six Gooners wide and snaked all the way up Avenell Road, past the flats, along the top to Aubert Park then went right along Aubert Park travelling down hill again till it reached the corner of Highbury Hill. Here it turned right again and headed down the Road towards Arsenal tube station. This was a Sunday morning as I recall and so the streets were otherwise empty. It was the first Wembley final ticket queue for the vast majority. Very few were wise enough to head straight up Highbury Hill and most punters arriving at Highbury rushed towards Avenell Road and stood with mouth wide open when they arrived and saw the huge mass of bodies craning their necks to determine when the turnstiles would finally open. Some of us thought that by arriving half an hour early we'd be near the front of the queue. Wrong. Very wrong.
There were just a few coppers policing the queue which at the very front comprised a host of very local school kids paid to get up early and hold a place for the touts and other smart arses who were a whole lot wiser than vast majority of the fans when it came to acquiring tickets. The smartly uniformed Commissionaires who worked the Marble Halls were around but I don't recall loads of stewards or even barriers to contain the ever lengthening queue. Largely it was self-policed. Some would try and jump the queue by casually sidling up to a friend they'd spotted and holding a conversation with them until they either got kicked out by a baying mob of disgruntled fans who'd already stood for an hour or more. Or sometimes they got away with it, more so if those around about were confident they were close enough to the front of the queue to get their treasured ticket.
Eventually a huge cheer would travel like a wave down the queue indicating that the gates had finally opened. The banter in the queue was good natured, the jokes shouted out, questions asked about where you stood or sat at Highbury, had anyone ever been to Wembley before, who would be in the line-up. Normal football stuff and a bit like an away game. We all shuffled ever closer and either made it or didn't. This first come first served system was of course grossly unfair. You didn't even need to have attended a game to get a Final ticket, or even wait in the queue if you'd paid someone local to queue for you. When the tickets ran out the turnstiles were closed and the touts flouted their wares which comprised wads of tickets.
Having registered my interest, received the much coveted 'Successful' tag, I logged on and starred impatiently at a computer screen obeying the 'Please do not navigate away from this page' prompt and watching an irritating maroon line travel slowly across the screen. Very slowly. Far, far, far slower than Johnny Hartson on crutches. Snails are like Grand Prix cars in comparison to this line with its once in a blue moon twitch that edged it forward at a rate of about one pixel per week. When it got to the end some 40 minutes or so later the remaining white dot twitched and stuttered annoyingly before crossing the finishing line and eventually pitching up at the business end.
It's a much fairer system, quicker even despite the tedium, involves no travel to the stadium, no time standing around or shuffling along, no pushing and less anxiety. But only if you're a Gold Member of course and the banter is just not the same.
