Deb Bunt
I fell in love with you in 1971, when I was just ten years old. You were local and you'd been around for a while. Yes, you were a bit rough and had a reputation as being craggy, uncompromising, perhaps even lucky. But for some reason I fell totally and utterly in love with you, absorbing and accepting your faults until they became virtues. You came to me with twins and, young as I was, I took them on, too.
Our relationship was cemented in the '70s. What fun we had. From Southampton to Sunderland, we sauntered up and down the country; we sang; we danced; we cried. But we stayed together, an instinctive realisation that the fit was perfect.
Yes, of course, you were stubborn and dined for too long on those past glories, but I was dazzled by you. There was a tacit understanding that you would be there for me. My expectations were low, but I was happy just to be with you. In 1979 you gave me my first child.
It was dour in the early eighties, and we tiptoed around the rocky patches, occasionally stumbling, but rising together, shackled by a love which endured. I knew that, whatever your faults, I would always get commitment, character and fidelity. No one could ever accuse you of being spineless.
In 1987, our next child was born, conceived from toil and love and, to be brutally frank, something of a surprise to everyone around us.
The climatic thrill in 1989 and the memory of that day in Liverpool will always bring tears to my eyes. I cut myself off from friends and family, preferring to be with you because you were unpredictable, moody, impetuous, exciting and frustrating. Sometimes you were simply the best.
1991 saw us romp through the year, wallowing wonderfully in all but perfection. I thought things would never get better; we had another child and, although the early nineties were dull - perhaps you were going through your own crises; I should have asked - I was still infatuated. We had created something special and 1993 and 1994 were a reminder of the great things we could still achieve together.
And so to our peak years. First the twins (1998 and 2002); then, sadly some miscarriages, and then the little one in 2003. Passion and fidelity rewarded amply. Of course, in 2004 you were brilliant. Strong, determined, some would say invincible. Others tried to come between us but you remained untouchable, showing the rest how it could be done. With style and class, with finesse and joy.
Although you started to change in 2005, there was still a flame burning brightly because I accepted that you were going through your own transitional phase, and I stood by you because, whatever your faults, you were never gutless and true love cannot be allowed to burn out meekly. You owned up to your weaknesses and they became mildly endearing (although, it must be said, somewhat predictable).
But now we've drifted apart. It had been coming. I stayed with you for the sake of the children. My friends urged me to dump you; they could see that you'd changed beyond recognition, that I was never going to get the old you back. Overwhelmed by a blind, gnawing and needy love for you, I ignored them. Of course, you still gave me some good times, I can't deny it, but these were one-off moments, fleeting pleasures which flickered and then died when the old you sauntered back.
And now? My, how you changed. You started to sell your soul, to pimp yourself to the highest bidder, to be flattered by expensive suitors who pandered to your failing ego. Piece by piece, you left me and the shell I am left with is simply not enough. I don't expect perfection - of course not. After all, we are neither of us in the first flush of youth. But I can't cope with your cavalier attitude. Your laissez-faire approach. I can't cope with your old ways when the world has moved on. You cannot do the things you used to do, so don’t even try. It’s embarrassing and pathetic. Everyone is laughing at you. Don’t you see it? Your old rivals have adapted to life in 2012, so why can’t you?
Do you know what? I was going to ditch you in September, 2012. Truly I was. And in November, 2012, when I thought my resolve was firm, you lured me back with a wild party against our noisy neighbours. You promised me you had changed, that I would see the real you again. Ahhhh, you promised me so much. You lured me to Birmingham and I went up to meet you; I stood for 90 minutes in the rain and wind waiting for you. But you never came. I am aching inside. November 24th is the day that I shed tears for you - they prickled and blistered my raw cheeks as they fell.
I will always love you; I will hoard those special memories. But I can't be with you any more. It's for my own sanity and health. Emotional abuse begins to take its toll. The children are old and don’t need us. And I don't need you. I just don't like the whimpering, jellied, placid, amoeba-like blob you've become. You blame everyone else for your failings. Now I realise that it's not me. It’s you. Arsenal, I am leaving you. I just don't like what you've become.
