I have worked in film and television for a quarter of a century now, unimportant positions, but through the connections I'd made a client of mine contacted me one day. He explained that a friend of his was involved in selling season-tickets for Club Level at the new stadium. He believed I might be interested in purchasing a couple of seats for a four-year period. At the rates talked about, I wasn't interested, yet I thanked him for his considerations and for furnishing the salesman's contact number.

A plot was not yet being hatched in my brain, but a germ of an idea was fermenting there. I so wanted to see the embryonic new stadium, I decided that I just might try a long shot. I contacted the chap, and introduced myself. Seemingly he had been informed of my interest and that I was a 'player'! I assure you I wasn't, but apart from a mild embarrassment on my part, which didn't have to be disguised as it was a phone conversation after all, I played the part. Twenty five years wasn't entirely wasted. I ended up with an open invitation for a special guided tour.

I put off contacting the chap out of common decency. Salesmen get a bad press and I understand why, but this was a lad who was just doing his job. I didn't have the heart to lead him on. All things Arsenal have a voodoo influence over me though, and soon my mind strayed back to the cunning little plot I'd entertained in that first phone call. He pursued me. He rang and left messages, finally trapping me on one occasion. I promised that though work had kept me busy, I was entertaining the prospect of a tiny window of opportunity in the not too distant future. Finally I plucked up the courage to ring. It went smoothly and the seminal date was Arsenal vs West Ham United, that infamous evening game in February 2006.

I'd arranged to meet him early at Highbury, around five o'clock, accompanied by a friend. My friend was under orders to leave the talking to me. If he was nervous, I was faced with a great deal of trepidation. Still, the new stadium had a magnetic pull on my heartstrings, so in this instance, using common parlance, Arsenal won.

We assembled outside the main entrance, looking at each other, feeling lost. My friend just looked at me and shrugged. His was a supporting role anyway. I rode the roller coaster of uncertainty. Fancy being rumbled in an embarrassing situation surrounded by whomsoever, and any ramifications that might befall me in my real life. Arsenal, you do this to me; it's your fault. We waited, he was late. I rang him, he apologised then said, 'Go in and wait in the marble halls'. He may not have used those actual words, but that's what I heard.

Now we all contain within us many facets of our character. I am not talking seriously challenged schizophrenia, and am not about to explain how I put on the black high-heeled sling backs, and became Alison Steine; that's a story for another day, but we wear different hats on separate occasions, and our personality undergoes an alteration, (please say you understand what I mean, and that I am not alone in this!). The more serious side of my character began to take control, leaving the flaky, childlike, Arsenal-loving Alex to go into sleep/irresponsible mode - to just gaze at the stucco walls and enter the magic castle as a two-year-old might.

Rather less like a high roller than anything I've ever witnessed, I walked up the steps, with my friend chuckling behind me. It was just a hoot to him. Wearing my Clint Eastwood look, I pushed open the door and strode in. I explained to the lady there, who seemed to be minding the shop, that I had an appointment. She welcomed us courteously, too courteously. I was just Alex 'mister no-one', with all said and done. I stood savouring the moment. Oddly enough, the minute I'd stepped through the door, my attitude had changed. I was at home. This was my Arsenal, and no matter what, I would manage this one. It was a golden moment, and tonight so was I.

I wandered over to the bust of the great man, Herbert Chapman, and winked, Cool Daddy that I was. I turned to my left and then I saw it. The FA Cup. It was just on show through a serving-hatch-type glass window. It didn't seem real. I turned and asked why it was displayed there. The lady told me it was about to be collected and returned to FA Headquarters. In February! Hang on a minute we won it in May, we keep it for a year. In that time it's ours. My distrust and dislike of those people increased in a heartbeat. Thieves and robbers.

Within a moment a chap appeared from somewhere; he nodded politely and scooped up our cup. He then made his way to the staircase and did what at least one person has done with alarming regularity for around a hundred years - he allowed the lid to slide off. No one has ever addressed the problem. Better to let it just fall to the floor whenever; why break that tradition when we can break so many other more important ones? It clattered down a few steps to the marbled floor. I was there in a flash. A younger me might have dived and caught it in mid-fall. I had the lid! There was no real temptation to scarper with it, but, well... just but! I placed it back on the cup. Charlie George had worn it proudly that 'Double Day'. I'd held it. It was enough.

A few minutes later, my man arrived. The next part was a dream. I was led through the doors, down, out through the players’ tunnel and around the track to his car, which was parked in the staff car park at the Clock End. I scooped and snatched fingers of Highbury grass. It has long since died and been mislaid, but at the time it was a token for me. We were instantly transported to the new stadium in his sleek black Lexus. Then the guided tour began. Donning passes, hard hats and fluorescent jackets, we trailed after him.

All the while, my pal was sniggering at my dilemma. The chap was giving his pitch and asking probing questions about the film industry; I was giving my pitch right back at him, and asking pretend but pertinent AFC season-ticket questions. The operation went brilliantly. It was a wonderfully heightened experience, I suppose a bit like being a bank robber. Should I ever decide to be one I expect I would recognise the sensations quite quickly, and perhaps would deal with it well enough; no, I'll leave that profession to the experts, like my football club. Then, with the KO looming we terminated the tour, and handed in our clobber. I declined the lift back, saying I wanted time to walk and weigh up the things I'd learned from him. Actually I wanted to soak up the atmosphere. That has always been a buzz for me on match days, and its beauty will never diminish.

My friend and I were like two children just getting out of school the moment we bade our farewells. The sensible, business-like Alex was put away in the cupboard for the night, and the all-singing, all-dancing, twit Alex was resurrected. My friend complimented me on my acting prowess, relaying odd occasions during the evening when he thought our ploy was about to be discovered. "What about when he said that! I thought you'd be stuck then", "I genuinely thought we'd be rumbled when he asked how many seats you had in mind, and you came out with the nonsense of both your wife and girlfriend wanting seats, but you had to keep them apart somehow! How did you keep a straight face?" (I love my wife dearly, even more than Arsenal, just!).

We chuckled at the near slip-ups. I was blasé now; it had been such a great visit - I'd seen the new stadium as few others had, all down to my own brand of ingenuity. We were in a great mood. We just needed a nice Arsenal victory to end the night in the correct fashion. We laughed our way back into our seats at my beloved Highbury. It wasn't to be, of course. Sol went walkabout, and Arsenal lost the match. That put everything into perspective. The sham visit and guided tour didn't even get on the radar. So many things count for nothing for a while when Arsenal lose, it's only after the grieving period that reality takes shape again. The next day, and since, it's been a great story to put alongside the many others I've had concerning the club. Tales to tell in the future perhaps. That night Arsenal had been beaten and I was down, as usual. I decided to claim my Oscar another time.