#JUMPCUT TORRENT TORRENT#
As I was temporarily released from a horde of arms and distorted faces the sobbing began, an uncontrollable torrent of emotion of which I never thought myself capable as an adult. It began almost immediately, in the midst of the insane frenzy that erupted from Aguero’s clinical burying of a 44 year old ghost. I would never however have predicted the bawling. Having seen the awful yet strangely enjoyable Fever Pitch that climaxed with Arsenal’s last-gasp triumph at Anfield in ’89 I would also probably have foreseen the impromptu street party standing in front of a friend as he sprayed me head to foot in champagne, singing Blue Moon so spent that it came only from my throat and heart, dancing with the women, kissing the men, and respectfully shaking the hand of a old blue and telling him what a privilege it was to share this day – this once-in-a-lifetime day – in his company. If I’d dared to imagine beforehand how it would be winning the league in such ridiculous, far-fetched of circumstances I would have pictured the screaming of a banshee, the clinging to mates and strangers with an intensity of a man being dragged from quicksand, the indescribable ecstasy that no class A has ever come close to touching, and the clothes soaked from flying beer.
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