Not The Boys of Summer

Definitely not North London

It is odd how quickly the absence is felt. The matches--some watched, some read about--provide a constant ebb and flow, a framework to the week. As another season ends it is met with mixed feelings of relief and regret. That team, those players will never exist in the same way again. You hope that it will be better after a period apart, but worry that some of the magic might be lost. You wonder if love is everlasting.

The odd years are harder, lacking the respite of the even years' tournaments. These events confuse as well as console. To see Song do all he can to stop Bendtner and Van Persie, watch Gallas bundle Vela off the ball, chinks the mythic unity bestowed upon the team. The transfer rumours and gossip fuel this idea of disunification.

Not quite wanting to let go of this season just yet I have gone in search of a mistress; to squint a little and pretend it was someone else. I stumbled upon the Blackpool game that John excellently reported on, and wanted this plucky little team to win. Blackpool are not Arsenal: theirs are rough brush strokes compared to silky smooth lines. Charlie Adam, their talismanic Fabregas-a-like, is Scottish not Spanish (it shows). Yet as I hear the roar of the crowd, the shared hope, I hear the echoes of friends' cries of joy and frustration, and I cannot wait to join them again next season.

Follow our Nottingham Forest vs. Blackpool liveblog below: