I know I touted this as the seminal guide to understanding the Arsenal fan — as that’s how it’s long been sold to me — but after actually reading the book, I unhesitatingly recant my endorsement. This was the most excruciating nonsense I’ve read in a long time. And here’s the thing, as someone who’s been in love with the Arsenal since 1997 — admittedly, some years after this book is set — Fever Pitch should have been right up my alley. I, too, over-identify with my beloved team and treat them like a pillar of my personality. I have suffered through many lean years in which non-Arsenal fans greeted my declaration of allegiance with either polite bafflement or outright mockery. I have gotten up at nonsense hours countless times to watch games live via satellite TV, either alone on my parents’ living room couch in Malaysia or here with my friends in the Washington DC area, well before our sports bar’s regular opening hours. I’ve traveled absurd distances both up and down the East Coast of the USA and across the Atlantic to watch my lads (and lately my ladies) play. My work and social schedules are entirely and unapologetically at the mercy of the Arsenal fixture list. So I understand the devotion that drives the often miserable conditions of being a Gooner, as we Arsenal supporters have been called long before more recent usages of the term.
Imagine then my dismay when I had to endure this absolute bollocks of a book that I was entirely predisposed to liking! The experience of reading it felt like eagerly attending a family reunion only to have to grit my teeth when an obnoxious uncle loudly insists that everyone else present — and especially the women; the misogyny in this book is through the stadium roof while also oblivious as to how it contradicts itself — can’t be real fans because we’ve never had to tough it out like he did.
Guys like this, for real, are the reason no one likes football fans or wants to be one of them.









