Fever pitch at Highbury

We came, we watched it on the telly, we conquered. For the Arsenal fans without a ticket for Old Trafford, there was only one place to be - a pub in Highbury. The euphoria of Saturday's Cup Final triumph had barely abated as we gathered 200 miles from the game itself but reassuringly close to home.

Replica shirts and scarves were worn with pride, red stripes were sprayed in hair in tribute to Swedish superstar Freddie Ljungberg, and the refrain was a hopeful one: "We'll win the league in Manchester."

An hour and a half before kick-off they bolted the doors at the 12 Pins at Finsbury Park, a great barn of an Irish pub where the faithful gather weekly before and after home games.

This time we had to make do with the big screens, the Guinness and Sky Sports but you couldn't fault the atmosphere - it was just like the good old days on the terraces when you stood watching the game with a pint in your hand.

As the coverage began, the tension grew. Every appearance by Arsene Wenger, the Arsenal manager, was greeted with religious fervour; each close-up of Sir Alex Ferguson, his Manchester United counterpart, subjected to boos and jeers.

The singing was at fever pitch - to coin a phrase familiar to all Gooners - as the game kicked off. Within 90 seconds we had almost scored as Sylvain Wiltord's goalbound shot was deflected wide.

Things were looking good. Then we spent the next hour defending stoutly It was tense stuff. The goalless scoreline at half time meant we were still on course to complete the double, albeit by losing our record of scoring in every game this season.

Midway through the second half, the moment arrived. Freddie Ljungberg, the hero of Cardiff and the title runin, had a shot parried and Wiltord swept the loose ball into the net. The whole pub erupted in a cheer they might have heard at Old Trafford. Several hundred pints of beer flew in the air and cascaded on to our heads. But we didn't care. We hugged total strangers in our excitement. We jumped for joy and danced jigs of delight.

The singing got louder and louder: the old favourite "One-nil to the Arsenal", the refrain of "We love you Freddie" and the chant that would take us through to glory: "We'll win the league in Manchester." And several others it would be impolite to print.

Before we knew it, the final whistle had blown. We had won the Double at the home of our biggest rivals.

The players leapt for joy; we leapt with them. And then it was out on to the streets for the start of the party.

Within minutes there were thousands thronging the streets, waving, cheering, dancing, singing and spraying champagne at each other. Every passing car seemed to contain Arsenal fans, dangling flags out of the windows and honking their horns in celebration. One man had an inflatable replica of the Premiership trophy.

A flotilla of souvenir sellers appeared, as if by magic, with vast numbers of flags and T-shirts proclaiming the Double. They sold like hot cakes.

Then it was down the Blackstock Road, past the mayhem of the Gunners pub and the Arsenal Tavern, where the celebrations caused a total roadblock, and on to the ground itself.

The Arsenal stadium - soon to be knocked down and moved down the road - was dark and empty. But soon there were thousands of us massed on the steps and all along Avenall Road, singing the songs we love to sing, especially the ones that taunt Tottenham. It's been four years since we had this much fun over football - and four decades for them.

And Manchester United, our conquerors for the last three seasons, finished with nothing.