Towering Over Rivals

What an afternoon.

I spent the match in the unfamiliar surroundings of Club Level, thanks to an acquaintance with a season ticket who couldn't make it. With my only previous knowledge of Hospitality essentially amounting to what I could make out through the steamed-up glass above while I froze my arse off queueing for the turnstiles (usually a dapper cereal-box family sharing an injoke over roast swan and seasoned asparagus tips, about to be interrupted by Charlie George checking that their meals are okay and would they care for another drink), it was enlightening to discover what goes on up there.

Plush, Woolwich carpets hug your feet as you leave the escalator; a long, well-stocked bar crawls the length of the room; its attractive, well-dressed employees smile and beckon you over for your first free drink of the day; numerous FIFA10 demos occupy the young 'uns across the room. It was spacious, luxurious and... perfect. I took a seat in front of the nearest TV screen, sipping my complimentary beer while watching the team news on SkySportsNews, feeling a mixed sense of pride and guilt now that there was no doubt in my mind that we have the finest football stadium in the country.

We were sat directly behind the Northern goal, with the noisy corner on our right. When the first went in, the celebrations were like nothing I had ever seen in the Emirates. When the second went in, it made Barack Obama's election victory look like John Howell taking the seat in the 2008 Henley by-election. Water sprayed down over us - someone on the tier above was jumping up and down, squeezing his water bottle and waving it over the giddy thousands below. We laughed and wiped off the three or four drops we had each accumulated on our foreheads.

Suddenly, a bald, hook-nosed hospitality manager marched out into the block, his beady eyes peering menacingly at the tier above. An outraged businessman was pointing upwards, demanding that the matter be dealt with. Throughout the rows below, men turned their heads in arriviste disgust; wives shrieked and held programmes over their heads. Throughout the block, people pointed in various directions, accusing the first beer-belly in an out-of-date replica shirt they could find.

Whether the hooligan was eventually brought to justice I will never know, but today was a momentous victory over the pretenders next door. Bentley made a tit of himself trying to repeat his jammy goal last year, and the only threat we had to contend with was our opponent's strategy of repeatedly pumping long balls somewhere in the vicinity of Peter Crouch, a tactic well dealt with by our defence, most notably Thomas Vermaelen. Robbie Keane made some busy runs in between his unintelligible tantrums, but Gallas handled him without any trouble. Alex Song was almost impeccable and stifled their midfield throughout.

Although Wilson Palacios shut him out as much as is humanly possible in the first forty minutes (I still regret missing out on him), Fabregas turned in another good performance, with the tables turning immediately from the 43rd minute restart. Palacios was visibly fazed by the opening goal, and while there is no doubt that it was his mistake that led to our goal, Cesc's run was unstoppable and he artfully wrong-footed Gomes.

Van Persie is clearly on the form of his life, making a great run past Ledley King for his opener. He's been clinical lately, and seems to be providing an answer to any criticisms that Arsenal lack a poacher. He's become a true all-round forward, with more flair than any striker in the Premiership this season, but with the strength and vision to fill the role of target man much better than Barndoor ever did.

A 100% home start in all competitions so far, Robbie Keane silenced for at least a few hours, and a few cheeky pints in the hospitality section of the greatest football ground in the UK... not a bad start to the weekend.

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