North London Forever: A Love Story
by Amanda Curry Brown
August 2026
As Arsenal begins its defence of the Premier League crown, Gooner-for-life Amanda Curry Brown traces the unlikely origins of her absurd devotion to the club.
In early 2001, upon discovering the existence of the Premier League, my brother Brian and I decided we would support Arsenal based on the solitary-but-critical condition that they were the best club that wasn’t Man Utd.
Our choice inadvertently proved to be sensible, as I lived in North London at the time and liked a boy who I would soon learn was also ‘a Gooner’. (I have occasionally cited these two facts to explain my Arsenal fandom in an effort to at least seem like a semi-serious person; but, as much as I might wish it were otherwise, that is entirely revisionist history.) But the level of commitment that would grow from this dubious beginning is something I remain wholly incapable of explaining.
Brian visited me during the summer of 2002, coincidentally at the same time the club offered the opportunity to pose for a photo with the FA Cup and Premier League Trophy. We of course did this, hilariously and un-ironically dressed in coordinated T-shirts celebrating the FA Cup victory. It is one of my favorite pictures of us together because we look so very happy. It also documents the first of what would become many slightly madcap adventures we would undertake in support of Arsenal.
Unlike my dear friend Becky — for whom not watching sport forms a core part of the identity — I am irrationally excited about anything that involves someone throwing, hitting or kicking a ball. Over the years I’ve managed to acquire a favorite Aussie Rules football team (Hawthorn), golf tournament (the Open Championship, but only at St Andrews) and cricket format (One Day International); but I really pay little attention to any of them beyond the occasional opportunity to watch live or on TV. In fact, I’ve formed very few lasting allegiances beyond the ones I was born into which — as might be expected for a kid from Indiana – almost entirely involve basketball.
And yet, somehow, I’ve remained absurdly devoted to Arsenal Football Club for more than a quarter of a century.
*
So when the provisional application to the Islington Borough Council first appeared on social media near the end of last season, I immediately thought, “I cannot tell anyone.”
If all went to plan, it appeared I would be landing in London for the start of my summer holiday one day before a parade celebrating Arsenal as champions of England for the first time in two decades, champions of Europe for the first time in more than three, or — unbelievably — potentially both. However, all going to plan relied on a notoriously unreliable flight and a notoriously unreliable football club both doing their part. Following the loss to Manchester City just a few weeks before, I had texted a friend insisting I would never believe in them again…! “at least until next season.” I was not going jinx this by saying it out loud.
Against all odds, a few weeks later, I found myself outside Angel tube station, surrounded by jubilant Arsenal supporters soaking up the early summer sunshine and radiating joy. As we made our way toward the parade route, the first notes of Louis Dunford’s ‘The Angel’ drifted out of a nearby pub, and I revelled in a generation of replica shirts representing the full roster of my heroes old and new: Adams and Dixon, Henry and Viera, Aubameyang and Lacazette, Saka and Rice. The music was only quiet still, occasionally drowned out by sirens or cheers – but everyone else must have noticed it too, because when the chorus came there was the briefest pause in the commotion before all assembled belted out “NORTH LONDON FOREVER” at the top of our collective lungs.
And, at that moment, I did what any reasonable person would do. I burst into tears.
*
I could write an essay philosophizing about how sport provides a touchstone against which we measure our lives, and the bittersweet way these moments reflect back to us the unrelenting passage of time. Or how we cling more tightly to the rituals and uncomplicated joy of sport as we try to navigate difficult seasons of our own lives. And each of these would probably explain in some way how I found myself on the streets of North London that Sunday morning, weeping over the Emirates Stadium anthem.
Or, perhaps more significantly, I had just been awake for best part of the previous two days, and was very, very tired.
The 18-hour flight to the UK from my home in the South Atlantic is a marathon under the best of circumstances. And the vagaries of weather and operational requirements of the military bases that serve as the Falkland Islands’ link to the outside world mean you could arrive at your intended destination hours, days or weeks after you intended to. But once the final whistle blew, ending Manchester City’s title chase, and the parade itself became a certainty, I did relax a bit about not speaking of the possibility that I might be there.
This all but guaranteed there would be some chaos.
Strong northerly winds meant we didn’t depart on Friday morning as planned, but the forecast at least looked promising later in the evening. Much, much later in the evening, as it turned out. While an 0400 Saturday departure essentially obliterated two full nights of sleep, it did mean I could land at RAF Brize Norton around 0230 Sunday, watch the sun rise from a taxi somewhere on the M40, and arrive in London in time to crawl into bed for a few hours before the big event.
*
I woke before my alarm, and struggled for several minutes to remember where I was and how I got there. Stumbling out into the world fuelled by ibuprofen, a mediocre supermarket pastry, and an enormous amount of Coca-Cola, I was unsure exactly what my plan was. As I approached Paddington station, it very quickly became apparent that my plan was simple: follow the sea of red.
I’d attended the 2002 Double Winners parade, and remember turning up not long before the start, watching the team go by on some buses, then going back home without much trouble. The most unruly thing I recall was a lone shirtless man standing on a wall outside Highbury, loudly singing tribute to Freddie Ljungberg over and over and over again. (For the uninitiated, ‘We Love You Freddie’ is set to the tune of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ and is a fine specimen of the sort of delightfully bonkers football song I have come to adore.)
That was a subdued affair by comparison. Before noon, this year — more than two hours in advance of the scheduled start — and blocks away from the actual parade route, it seemed like every structure that could be climbed had been climbed. (My favorite statistic from the London Fire Brigade’s after-action report is that 75 people had to be rescued from ‘incidents at height’ that day.) Red smoke from flares permeated the air, held aloft by everyone from a teenager perched on top of a traffic light to a father carrying his young daughter. It was a scene that might have felt menacing had it not been so utterly and completely joyful. Even the police looked happy.
Having pulled myself together — at least for the moment — I continued toward the parade route, where the crowd proved impenetrable. I retreated back to Upper Street where there was room to roam and a festival-like atmosphere prevailed. Much has been made of the diversity of Arsenal’s fanbase, and this was absolutely on full display that afternoon. But more remarkable than the patchwork of supporters who had turned up to celebrate was the extent to which we were all celebrating together. I’m not sure I’ve ever happily spoken to so many strangers: old men joking about Tottenham in the queue for takeaway from the pub; groups of women conspiratorially offering advice about where to find the cleanest public toilets; children in Henry shirts who had not even been born the last time Titi scored a goal for Arsenal expounding on his greatness, and others who saw themselves in the London-born Saka and Eze.
From Upper Street, I thought there was a slight chance I might see the buses as they rounded the tip of Islington Green, albeit at some distance. This proved overly optimistic because, when the time came, the combination of flares and children on shoulders (with almost certainly some of them holding flares too) meant no-one beyond the first few rows saw very much at all. And still, everyone was elated — singing, shouting, cheering and clapping as if we all had a perfect unobstructed view. Eventually enough time went by that the crowd seemed to collectively decide it must be over, even though it was still impossible to see where the parade had passed, and we all began to make our journeys home.
I walked all the way to Baker Street before braving the Tube and, while the crowd grew smaller as people went their separate ways, the joyous mood refused to dissipate. Even later that evening, when I wandered Hyde Park to try to stay awake just a little while longer, cheers would ring out as supporters encountered one another on the street.
I’d like to say I went to bed that night with some profound reflection on what Arsenal has meant to me rather than falling asleep before dark with my contact lenses in and all the lights on — but this too would be revisionist history. In the days that followed, Islington Council would confirm that more than 1 million people had attended the parade. It’s been said that football is the most important of the least important things in life, and I will never cease to wonder at how something that matters so little can still make so many people so happy.
This particular team has been so much fun to watch, and the perfect answer to why we continue to come back season after season: because nothing can match the feeling when it all actually works.
Maybe let’s not wait so long to do it again next time.
