As far as my dad is concerned, it remains his single proudest parenting achievement: that all three of his children grew up not to be resilient, compassionate or even doctors, but mascots for Arsenal.
Now, I cannot stress this enough, people — I do not mean that any of us climbed inside a big green suit. Gunnersaurus is a professional, replete with cruel corporate backstory.1 Rather, we were each the youngsters who ran onto the pitch alongside the players before the game.
[Side note: are you aware of the Instagram page, Mascot Silence? Essentially, it’s photos of various 8ft furry animals in professional football shirts, heads bowed, observing minutes’ silences next to the players and/or members of the armed services. Pure Web 2.0 joyousness.]
This was the late 1990s when Premier League clubs were big but not yet an asset class or geopolitical football. Still, getting your son or daughter on the field required showing flexibility and strategic patience. So, I was on the away fixtures waiting list, on the basis that the line was far shorter than for games at Highbury. And this is how I found myself in Coventry for the first and, thus far, only time.
On Halloween 1998, we layered up and I gazed out the window in amazement as our Ford Galaxy ignored the habit of a lifetime and sped past the exit for Brent Cross and made its way to, as the sign says, The NORTH.
Sat next to me was my friend, Nick. If memory serves me, he was one of those who started off life as a Spurs supporter before my Dad signed him up as a Junior Gunner. Which, in retrospect, qualifies as a lucky break for Nick but an astonishing level of chutzpah even for my father.
Nick was both annoyingly sporty and a fair weather Scot. By which I mean he rooted for the England cricket team but would unfurl his invisible Saltire whenever Alec Stewart made runs. Nick rode along for moral support, though the opportunity of bumping into Coventry City captain and Scottish international Gary McAllister may have played a part.
I have flashes of memory: posing in front of the Match of the Day backdrop where the players get interviewed and crying when a spare ball couldn’t be found for me to take penalties against David Seaman. (I had a happy childhood, but you couldn’t pay me enough to be nine years old again).
But the standout moment arrived in the tunnel just before kickoff. I was looking up at Steve Bould, stand-in captain that afternoon in the absence of Tony Adams — Arsenal were having one of their many mid-season injury crises, with Dennis Bergkamp also unavailable.
Anyway, when Bould looked down at me and asked who my favourite players were, I cheerfully replied: “Tony Adams, Dennis Bergkamp, Marc Overmars… and Steve Bould, of course!” To which all 6ft 4in of grizzled centre-back erupted in laughter. “I made Steve Bould laugh!” I crowed afterwards to my Dad. I’m not sure any single thing I’ve said or done since has made him prouder.
As Pet Shop Boys sang and the Torah prophesied, Arsenal won the game by a single goal thanks to a Nicolas Anelka tap-in and a late Nigel Winterburn goal line clearance. And we drove back down to London with all three points. Laughter, tears and 1-0 to the Arsenal. Just another day of being a kid in the 1990s.
A lifelong Arsenal fan, Jerry Quy had donned the costume for 27 years before he was made redundant during the Covid-19 pandemic
I remember Frank McClintock 😀✅
I guess only you could make the most boring and tedious road in Britain kind of make sense in this context.
Am a bit disappointed that you didn’t claim you donned the Gunnersaurus outfit at least once, which now lies somewhere in a storeroom. It would somehow be so fitting, without being overly obsessive.