Fozzy 
I suppose that it had to happen one day. Having attended every single Champions League home game in modern times at Highbury, Wembley and now Ashburton Grove, one day I was going to miss out.
It just happened that an autumn holiday to a remote part of southern Crete coincided with the home game against Olympiacos and that was the game to end my run. The outward flight took me directly over Athens and if I had craned my neck out of a Ryanair pothole a bit more I could have glimpsed their ground. Then came a bit of sea and almost immediately the plane landed at Chania airport. They were that close. I therefore assumed that Crete must be full of Olympiacos supporters.
One of my first jobs on arrival was to find a local taverna where the game was being shown on the box. As luck would have it, one such establishment had two TVs, except the bloody Germans had already grabbed the main bar to watch the Bayern game, so I was banished to a seaside shed where I sat quietly. I watched the proud “home” team supporters arrive in their pickup trucks and found seats where they were able to use the eternal pre-match adverts to sharpen their knives and fish hooks. That was I then made a note to self not to cheer too loudly when every one of our expected many goals went in. Should have I been concerned about my personal safety? The people of Crete have always been so welcoming and generous. However, put them behind the wheel of a car and they change into a totally different form of life, hell bent on overtaking anything in sight, especially on the brows of hills or around tight corners. If they can be like that in a motor, could they change again whilst watching footie on the box?
I have no intention to dwell too much on what happened on the pitch and what I saw on the box as we were second best in every department. I didn't really stir after Theo's equaliser as the camera angle appeared to show the shot missing the post and I put it down to yet another Walnutt miss from a promising position.
I must say that I enjoyed the Greek commentator who I reckoned must have been Ozil's love child. Every time Ozil was on the ball there was a squeak of "Oh Zeal!" along with an expectation that he was actually going to do something useful as opposed to gifting the ball to somebody not wearing a red shirt. I must say that I am yet to be convinced that Ozil is another in the category of highly overrated lazy luxury players who has done next to nothing for the team. What's more, this chap is looking more like that 1960s comedian Marty Feldman every day and on this occasion Ozil played like him too.
By the time that our only decent player on the night, Sanchez, had strained every muscle in his body to head us back into the game, the damage had been done after Ospina had chucked the ball into his own net and I felt that the locals were starting to feel a bit sorry for me being a Gooner on holiday. The icing on their cake came a minute later when we presented them with the winner. I wandered back to my apartment as cars and trucks zoomed past me with the horns tooting all the way up the gorges and hills.
As soon as I arrived back on British soil at the weekend I started scanning my diary for Thursday evening slots as I feared the worst for this season’s sortie into Europe. (If you fancy a punt on Arsenal’s chances of progressing in Europe, check out www.gamblingsites.com.) I wasn’t even tingling with usual apprehension and excitement prior to the ManUre game. I sat waiting for the match to start with a cloud hanging over my head, thinking about how this category A game had hit me hard in the pocket and expecting the compulsory Rooney dive in the box for yet another dodgy penalty. And then, as if by magic, we were served up a treat with the best ever first 30 minutes of football. It’s a funny old game.
