(Ed’s note, with a new design and your editor struggling to learn completely new layout software – hey, I’m an editor, not a trained designer – there have been a few teething problems. One such has resulted in the concluding section of Bernard Azulay’s trip report on the match in Udinese in late August being lost in error at the printing stage – my fault rather than the printers – well sort of. Anyway, my profuse apologies to Bernard, whose blog can be read here. For those who buy the issue and are curious to read the trip report as it should have appeared on pages 30 & 31, we are running it here. We’ll get it right next time…)

In light of the Gunners’ Murphy’s Law malaise, where almost everything that can go wrong has gone wrong in recent weeks, I must admit that I vacillated about stumping up over 300 quid for an overnight trip to Trieste, when Udinese were revealed as our qualifying round oppo. However, on discovering that Udine was only an hour and a half’s drive from Venice, I simply couldn’t resist a first opportunity to wallow in the shimmering splendour of that pearl of the Adriatic (albeit a little whiffy in 38˚ heat).

I assumed that like me, there’d be plenty of Gooners who wouldn’t want to risk missing out on what might have proved to be our last Champions League jolly for some time. The odd obscure outing might have proved a novelty, but I can’t imagine too many of us would’ve fancied schlepping around the unglamorous graveyards of the Europa Cup. So imagine my surprise when we discovered that with the exception of those under the ubiquitous “Maidstone Gooners” banner, almost every other Arsenal fan amongst the few hundred of us present in Udinese, hailed from Eastern Europe. With the ground being only 30 minutes drive from the Slovenian border, large groups of gregarious Slovenian, Croat and Serbian Gooners had apparently jumped at a rare chance of seeing the Gunners play live.

I should’ve guessed UK Gooners would be thin on the ground, as usually there’d be a large smattering of red and white on flights to all points within a few hundred miles of the match. Not only was our plane to Venice somewhat bereft of Arsenal shirts but there was little evidence of beer-bellies bursting out of replica shirts and seriously-reddened flesh as we spent the afternoon melting in the scorching heat, absorbing the stunning vistas around every corner, in what has to rank as one of the most unique cities on the planet.

Having driven the 80-odd miles to Udine, wondering if we were going to get fined at the toll booth by an average speed calculation as we couldn’t fathom what was keeping aggressive Eytie drivers all plodding along at 50kph, we pulled up at the Stadio Fruili just as the sun dropped out of a crimson sky. Even then, without the slightest breeze, it remained so stiflingly humid that I would’ve gladly settled for the customary kack on offer at the kiosk outside the ground rather than to set out on a strength-sapping goose chase for a more salubrious hostelry whilst being followed by a herd of Serbians who mistakenly assumed we were on the scent of more beer.

Strolling around Udine in search of pasta and a pint was hard enough, never mind sprinting up and down a football pitch. Obviously Arsène’s squad should have the strength in depth to cope with such demands, but you had to experience the intense climate to be able to appreciate why those who played in both matches might’ve been more than a little jaded at Old Trafford the following Sunday.

Having lacked sufficient nous to avoid being relieved of my lighter on our way into the ground, I spent an extremely neurotic first-half, constantly pestering my East European neighbour for a light. The calming effect of nicotine was vital as both sides traded blows in what was, much like the first leg, an astonishingly open, end-to-end, encounter, considering the extremely precious prize at stake. If I was suffering from my nerves, the Arsenal’s bean counters must’ve been positively bricking it! Even with the running track and the open-air feel of two-thirds of the stadium (apart from the posh seats in the roofed main stand), not to mention the expanses of deserted concrete, the 25,000 home crowd kicked up an atmospheric rumpus, unfurling impressive banners and setting off the flares that are de rigeur in Calcio.

Perhaps a little too deflated after being dismissed on his debut, Manny Frimpong played with the handbrake on, doubtless having been forewarned about the European officials’ preference for a non-contact variation of the sport. However, it would appear that if you take the physicality out of Frimpong’s game, it’s tantamount to castration. Sadly, Manny was as ineffective in the holding role as Alex Song was disorientated with his more advanced roving remit. Nevertheless, the Gunners gave as good as they got. The game remained on a knife-edge because our strikes on target (even Theo’s!) only found Handanovic. I guess it’s their propensity for lunacy that’s responsible for such a large preponderance of East European goalies but it was our own nutty net-minder who literally proved to be the man of the hour, with the subsequent penalty save on which this entire contest turned.

Mercifully, my heart had remained in its correct cavity as, even though it was at the opposite end of the pitch, I saw the offside flag go up before Di Natale volleyed home early on. The Neapolitan striker had served plenty of notice at The Grove of the skills that have made him such a prolific goal poacher in Serie A, so Djourou had absolutely no excuse for allowing their main man to rise unchallenged for the looping header that dipped under the crossbar not long before the break.

With the aggregate contest all square, and the pile of butts before me mounting ever more rapidly, I began to panic about running out of fags long before the terrifying prospect of extra-time and penalties. To our great relief, this possibility was ruled out when Gervinho’s probing finally paid off, as he put the ball on a plate for RvP ten minutes after the break. Rosicky always seems to run out of steam whenever he starts a match, but in replacing Frimpong at half-time (thereby proving that you can teach our old dog new tricks, as it’s always infuriated me in the past that le Prof’s refused to tinker prior to the last 20), Thomas had an immediate impact. As Alex reverted to his customary holding role, Rosicky began to orchestrate matters in the middle of the park, thereby reminding us how much more suited he and this entire Arsenal team is to European football. Instead of waiting in expectation of domestic opposition eventually flagging, we’re afforded more composure to our passing game in a Continental environment because teams have a greater tendency to drop off when they lose possession. On the flip side, I fancy that if we’re forced to count on Jenkinson, conniving foreign opponents will continue to target the lad’s naivety!

RvP’s equalizer also served to highlight quite how crucial it was that we’d been fortunate enough to keep a clean sheet at home. Thus, when the Portuguese ref pointed to the spot, in keeping with our recent “ if it wasn’t for bad luck there’d be no luck” run, the anxiety level wasn’t quite up to 90, knowing that the Eyties needed to score twice. The East European Gooners were well versed in all our traditional chants but there was the odd instance when we were unable to join in, as they reverted to their mother tongue, and this was one of them. It was most bizarre being sat in the Arsenal end, not having a clue what we were singing about. However, it was probably the first time our Polish goalie has heard his tongue-twister of a moniker reverberating from the terraces, as the chant of “Wojciech Szczesny” went up just prior to the penalty.

Although “Shez” is hardly the shy retiring type, I’m sure I saw his chest puff out with pride and I’m convinced we played our own minor part in his spectacular save. Theo might’ve sealed the deal soon after, but we were relaxing in our seats and if I’d had a fat cigar, I’d have lit it the moment Shez palmed away the spot-kick, as everyone in that stadium knew then that it was our night.

I was grateful we weren’t heading straight home after the game, as it would’ve been criminal to have departed without spending at least another day, drinking in the intoxicating sights of Venice. As much as we moaned about the heat, as we sat at a restaurant the following afternoon, soaking up the last rays, whilst huddled around my iPhone watching the draw and fantasizing about European glory, I couldn’t help ponder on stopping there for a few more days. After spending much of Friday struggling through the traffic, in depressingly dreary weather, only for this agony to be multiplied a millionfold by Sunday’s humiliation, I really wish I had! But sadly, after paying the bill, the sun set on one last view of Venice via the water bus to the airport.

Unbelievably, by the time we were queuing up to board the plane home, courtesy of the wonders of modern technology my pal had already booked our trips to Dortmund and Marseille. I guess “we’re on our way”.