The ledge was impossibly high. He could never conceivably have known how far they’d climbed. The ascent had been made in breathless staggering bounds, week after week for nearly ten months and yet despite all the investment of hope that he and his fellow clamberers, crawlers, strugglers and stragglers had put into scaling the height still they were amazed. And then they fell. The sudden free falling tumble into the apparently bottomless abyss took the breath from their lungs and whipped the understanding from their minds.
It was always going to be like this, he tried telling himself. The fall is as much part of the journey as the climb, the rushing wind which ripped the screams from their throats as they’d stepped into the limitless nothing like a breaking wave crashing from the edge of a flat earth into the howling silence of space was as much a part of this life and this boundless adventure as the pain or joy filled days of their upward march. As he slowly became accustomed to the falling the never ending falling, he tried to find a peaceful place inside himself, a stillness at the heart of the maelstrom. The sheer empty terror of the irresistible momentum that had sent them all over into the void was slowly settling. He began to take stock, to examine the path they’d followed which had led them to this inevitable plummet. The sense of falling sometimes left him and he felt more as if he were floating, buoyed up by some huge turbine many miles below which pushed just enough air up the face of the monolith to keep him in this rushing stasis.
In these moments he wondered at the apparent futility of their shared adventure and he took the time to consider the plight of those who hadn’t been able to maintain the pace, whose bleeding feet had betrayed them when the surface of the mountain turned unexpectedly into a jagged razored nightmare. He had been staggered by the betrayal of some, especially those who had made the journey many, many times before. Men who had previously earned a reputation for helping others less certain of the route, daunted by the apparently Quixotic idea of even attempting such an ascent. Men who had lifted the weak over boulder strewn paths and sheltered them from storms which threatened to pluck them from narrow vertiginous ledges. He had seen even men like this falter and fail. But that hadn’t been the worst of it. It wasn’t that they had turned themselves inside out and questioned the folly of the climb. It wasn’t even the ones who allowed their fingers to release their tenuous hold, their feet to stop taking each difficult step. It was the men who, merely weary of the journey, had plucked out their own eyes so rendering themselves blind to the mountain itself. As they simply refused to see and in so doing denied those very many parts of the journey which were radiant in their beauty. The gentle sweet verdant meadows, criss crossed with dancing ice clear streams where the weather was always benign and the views simply took people’s breath away. What was beyond the pale, beyond understanding and acceptance was that these men, in agonies at their self mutilation, had turned on other pilgrims and tried to convince them that the path was not worth treading.
He could understand if anyone chose not to go on. Life was nothing if it wasn’t about choices but he could never understand nor forgive the kind of man who would insist on dragging others down with him. Deaf to the music, blind to the beauty, these once great men had grovelled in the dirt at the side of the track and begged those who passed them not continue but rather to join them in self flagellation as if in some masochistic penance for ever believing the mountain was worth climbing in the first place. He and his closest companions had left these tormented souls behind and continued the journey, the fire that burned within them undiminished by passing squalls and blazing ever brighter for the attempts of lost pilgrims to douse the flames. They basked together during the long sun drenched days when the path was truly a joy to walk upon and they drew together for comfort and warmth on the rare occasions when the cold winds of winter blew. But no savage storm could daunt them and through their mutual strength they faced down the pitfalls and venomous reptiles which sometimes barred their way.
Two weeks he thought. It has only been two weeks since they’d achieved the summit and plunged into the silent screaming void together. Conversation was barely possible in the onrushing wind and no matter how much he told himself that they would surely gather together soon and set out on the foothills of another climb, he was aware that their fellowship was dissipating. Each man and woman was spiralling downwards as if encased in their own intangible field of memory and distant hope. He caught the odd shouted word before it was snatched away but much of it was speculation about the end of the fall and what would follow. How would they land? Hard or easy? How would the impact affect their ability to face the next mountain, and what could they expect from their next journey together? What lay in store for the pilgrims? What indeed. But he found himself unable to concentrate on their conjecture, their words, insubstantial and without the mass to withstand the force of the savage gale, were snatched away like dry leaves before a hurricane.
And so he found himself alone. Separated from his companions until their descent ended, which he knew it must, as abruptly as it had began. How many times in his life would he make the climb, just to endure the fall, he wondered. And how could such a repetitive experience so surprise him each and every time? Despite these musings he knew in his heart that nothing would stop him rejoining his fellow travellers as the long days began to draw in once more, as Summer turned to Autumn and as, with equal inevitability, their fellowship would be reborn. What had he once told them? ‘Hobgoblin nor foul fiend can daunt his spirit’ for when they walked upon the lush grass in the meadows at the foot of the mountain they would contemplate the climb with renewed relish, with hope in their hearts and a glad song on their tongues.
But that was for the future. Now it was just the endless falling, falling with nothing to do but fall and fall some more. And yet like a burgeoning seed nurtured in that still and silent place he was already beginning to dream of the distant day when they would link arms and stand together on the summit and savour that longed for moment when they could gaze down upon the lesser peaks all around them.
Positively Arsenal 
Jesus fuck, that was beautiful. Once again stew you impress me you talented bastard.
But what about football. Hah.
I enjoy the end of the fall once we see the old climbers readying themselves for another ascent.
LikeLike
Our equipment is second rate and we need a better quality Sherpa.What is the point of all this climbing if you are not first to the top?
LikeLike
You’re such a brilliant writer Stew. You take my breath away. Is it better to travel hopefully than arrive? Now where did I put those crampons?
LikeLike
Fucking brilliant Stew – Who gets to be the one who cuts the rope?
LikeLike
Surely AW is a grade A sherpa that has had to carry other lesser climbers bags for too long but is now finally unburdened and ready for the good climb once again.
LikeLike
Ah, that explains this feeling. Marvellous.
LikeLike
Allegory…absolutely superb Steww…..
I finally managed to watch Arsene’s interview with Al Jazeera …..the man is so consistent, genuine and sincere….How certain nasty malcontents can call him a “Phrench snob”, “dictator”, “spin doctor selling us the future” etc., is beyond me….
LikeLike
And today’s post is thanks to Mel who tweeted ‘Is this how non football fans feel all the time’ which gave me the idea.
Thanks for the kind words everyone.
LikeLike
Beautiful number 10, I read it then read it again, fantastic. I’m not having it that a throw away line from a numnut gave you the idea though!
LikeLike
Stupendous, glorious, breath-taking, real; and that’s as a stand-alone piece outside of this Arsenal world we inhabit. As a football allegory, it’s even better. And if I might say Steww, the mark of great writing is almost always that the reader may make of it “what they will”, interpret it in their own sense and so each reader becomes participant in a creative process, and not a mere onlooker. That’s why the best writers tend to say something like “I have no absolute and indivisible idea what it’s really about – just a few ideas I was exploring, part of life I suppose – but I’m hoping readers will”. If ever I was creating an anthology of great football or even sports writing, this piece would be in it. Man you’ve just raised the bar on PosA to another level completely. Congratulations.
LikeLike
Good stuff Steww. Actually, no that’s deliberately damning it with faint praise, it was actually f*cking brilliant. I’m just a tad jealous ‘cos I could never have written it.
LikeLike
Mel – tis true, I thought how does close season feel for us after reading your tweet. And as ZP so eloquently says I then got the vague idea of suddenly falling after a long toiling climb often enjoyable sometimes difficult, because at first that’s just how it feels. Massive gut wrenching excitement followed instantly by ….. nothing.
I believe it’s why otherwise sane people join in the summer sport of transfer bullshit. Like playing noughts and crosses as you fall from a skyscraper in my opinion.
You’re too kind Harry, but why not write a piece, you may be surprised…
LikeLike
By the way folks my reign at Arsenal.com is over, they’ve bumped me for Anna the mad Russian,you can all go back to treating me normally,now that my 15 minutes is up has anyone got Chesney Hawkes phone number, I’m not sure I can handle being a one hit wonder……
LikeLike
My wife expressed extreme disquiet at any remote possibility that Rooney “might” don the red and white. I tried to comfort her with “low centre of gravity”, “exceptional positioning”, “he might have outgrown United” or “master-stroke, Arsenal will be the core of England”. To no avail. Which made me think that as much as male (sensible) Arsenal fans detest the idea, most could live with it; but why, I asked, is Rooney such a cockroach to female Arsenalistas. Her response was instant. “Giroud” she sighed here “has class, Santi is fun with a glint in his eye, Theo is a nice young man, Kos is ..you know”, (I think she meant “manly” or “wow” here). “Our guys have likeable human qualities, Arteta is so, um, Spanish, um composed, yes dignified” she decided, “Jack has passion. Gervinho is eccentric. But Rooney! …is … is …”.
Her sentence tapered off, but the look in her eye said “one of them”.
Whatever could that mean, I wondered?
LikeLike
ZimPaul
At least your battle n’ strife acknowledges football……
LikeLike
I was a big fan of that actor Harry, what’s his name again? Oliver Reed, yes that’s it. One of his roles, the one I liked best, was about a deserter or draft dodger during one of great wars, first I would guess. He hid with his girlfriend somewhere in rural England. A vicious military policeman (Reed) was on his trail, the type who would first hurt him, badly, and often, and again, and then do something so horrendously cruel he would never recover. Anyhow, our deserter anti-hero needed to get out of the claustrophobia of hiding; so he convinced his girl he might attend a dance, dressed up as a female, and get away with it. Mistake! The police guy was there, at the dance. He became interested in her(him). Sensed he knew her(him) from “somewhere”. He wanted his way with her(him). He would damn well get his way too, after a few brandies. The menace was like a knife as he closed in lustfully, drunkenly on his this quarry, not knowing it was his real quarry. Now, I forget what happened really, but I do remember a knee into “the spot” of policeman (Reed) of such terrific, instant force the whole cinema winced as one and looked away, as Reed sank to the floor, groaning in pain. I think our (anti)hero was in caught in the end. If you can imagine the nastiest fellow you’ve seen, a large, hard, evil, misogynist, bully played by Oliver Reed in that role, the sheer sense of terror and bigotry he brought, the post-knee-groin finale, when he discovered … the unthinkable.
And that I suppose is, weirdly but not, what thinking about Rooney at Arsenal conjures up from the dim and distant recesses of my mind. I better just get back to work.
LikeLike
My word, Steww. What a staggeringly beautiful piece of writing this is. Not just as an Arsenal/football piece either. An English professor friend of mine, who cares f**k all about football, will be getting a nudge from me today to read this. And I will be reading it many times this summer, I’m sure. Bookmarked.
ZP, your wife and I would get along perfectly. She exactly described, or was unable to describe, my problem with Rooney. In one word, yuck.
LikeLike
Absolutely wonderful piece of writing there Steww. i was a little afraid of the free-fall metaphor until you likened it to the post-season. The doomers tend to exaggerate the past 8 years if you know what I mean. As Zim Paul observed I had my own interpretation of your metaphors and allegories. I can’t help but cast my eyes backwards at those once brave men who have blinded themselves to the glories we seek despite the difficulties, deprivations and sacrifices under the wise leadership of Wenger. Inspiring. .
LikeLike
I occasionally give it some thought Steww, but you’ve gone and set the bar too high..it’s like attacking football at Arsenal since the arrival of AW, there are standards to uphold from now on.,..
Mel, so the limelight has faded huh. They build ’em up and they tear ’em down. I await your appearance on “I used to be a Celebrity, kill me” or whatever the fudge it’s called.
Rooney squeezed into an Arsenal shirt, is just…intrinsically wrong. On every level. If it ever did materialize though (and no it won’t), could we ever learn, to, umm, “love” him as one of our own? Y’know, just asking like…
I’ll take that mass retching as a resounding “no” then.
LikeLike
My wife, incidentally, is a Chicagoan, Alabama. We spent many hours in Chicago, last time, looking for the “Arsenal bar” we decided must exist there to see whatever match it was. We won. Beer, breakfast and football, such a nice way to start the day!
LikeLike
Harry – I know it’s Oliver Reed, but there’s something about it that reminds me irresistably of “A Short History of Tractors in Ukainian”.
Could it perhaps be the moustache?
Oh, PS, pretty good piece that Steww.
LikeLike
Harry, I might do what the blonde one out of ABBA did and go and live on an island for 30 years,like her,it all got a bit much for me to be honest, I mean even The Krankies have stopped taking my calls…..
LikeLike
well what i can say about that…shit as usual. better up your game steww. try sipping a bit of ouzo see how that works….haha…
love the analogies though
” Hey we climbed the mountain together just yesterday”
” Fark off you twat…wheres the end?”
” But there is no end, we will go for another mountain, we will just sit here a while, enjoy the view and recharge”
” Piss off mate i want to go mate…alex took us all the way to fkn china …walking….im done with mountains i want to go home”
” where did i find such pussy followers i wonder”
🙂
LikeLike
Heh. You are right actually Merlot, there is a hint. That can only be a good thing though!
I like to hope that some folk, the young and those overseas, whom are unaware of the sadly departed Ollie, think it’s actually pic of yours truly. Sturdy, somewhat demented looking age middle aged man with a dead eye stare and ridiculous ‘tache.
LikeLike
Bloody typical Mel. They only love when you are at the top. Bastards.
LikeLike
Rooney squeezed into an Arsenal shirt, is just…intrinsically wrong.
hahaaaaaaaa …puma is for renowned for slick lines and sizes….very italian design and all….
LikeLike
Ivan speaks on the contract;
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/arsenal/10103323/Arsenal-expect-Arsene-Wenger-to-sign-new-deal-and-snub-Paris-Saint-Germain-claims-chief-executive-Ivan-Gazidis.html
LikeLike
Harry,None of us write as well as Stew.But just look at the wonderful articles Sensational Arsenal gave us,
Please have a go.
I mean ,if Mel can do it ? Farkin ell
LikeLike
hey anicol, when he signs take the picture and rub in bills and bobs face then ask them what theyd do as owners if they had a manager like wenger running their business. would they listen to the fans in various media outlets ? ha…..
LikeLike
george does it piss you off that even when the doom brigade is proved wrong they still insist in their doom?
i ask because it drives me crazy. like catching a thief and him denying he stole anything, tyring to wiggle his way out of it.
what do the jedis of japan do in such occasions? ( or was it china ?) do they not chop heads on the spot with their katanas ?
LikeLike
Anicoll,thanks for that .I am on my way out and will have a skip in my step now.
That is the best signing we could possibility make.
What will the “fells like the end of an era”brigade over at ACLF make of that?
Fuck them and everyone else ,ungrateful disloyal bastards.
LikeLike
Fuck them and everyone else ,ungrateful disloyal bastards.
dman fucking straight! i agree s omuch i cnat even type propeoplry from the adrenaline!!!
LikeLike
Cheers ‘Coll. Great news. Here’s hoping he does. I’d love nothing more than to see him sign a new contract at Arsenal, and end his career with us, where he belongs. It’s only fitting that he should, if he still has the desire, and hopefully have time to get the last laugh on the naysayers by lifting some trophies once again.
LikeLike
I am here you know George….
LikeLike
I am inspired to write a blog
LikeLike
I’ll certainly give it some thought then George.
LikeLike
“Positively Arsenal @Blackburngeorge 2m
I am inspired to write a blog .I shall call it “HA HA,Now Fuck Off And Support Someone Else,We Have Some Enjoying To Do ” Out tomorrow”
I can hardly contain myself.
LikeLike
Just keeping your ego in check Mel.Its for your own good and done from love and friendship.
LikeLike
@hunter
Oh so true! It has happened to me so often on that old blog. I think I’ve disproven anything Bill has said about our defence about a million times and he would still keep banging on about it.
LikeLike
ha evil i know and the best part..he probably cant even kick a football straight yet he wants to judge arsene wenger and his performances…comical comical..i wonder how yogi ,an otherwise intelligent man, can accept such idiocy pollutting his webspace.
LikeLike
sports is ALL about winning….isnt that the shit he tells you?
so its either champion or mug/loser…yet in pro sports with leagues and 20 participants do you call the rest 19 losers and mugs ?
its all about levels….but i suppose chumpions like bill and bob will always strive for the top…like they do in everything in their lives ..not just for the football team they support
ayayayay ouch !
LikeLike
Tis one American way H (but by no means the only way, a mistake people often make about America): history by victors, there are winners, and “losers”, a world divided thus in opening up the prairies to the West coast, annihilating indigenous inhabitants, abusing larger numbers of poor, indentured labour than official history records, and taking a sweet chunk of Mexico. Those were the losers. They had the wrong attitude.
LikeLike
“Sturdy, somewhat demented looking age middle aged man with a dead eye stare and ridiculous ‘tache”
Actually, it’s 8am, he didn’t sleep, several bottles lie scattered about, he’s supposed to be interviewed by some twit of a journalist, he’s got to be on set in 2 hours, he can’t think of a single thing worth saying, he can’t remember his lines, but he’s managed a coffee, a smoke and a shower, but damn if anyone is going to know the difference.
LikeLike
there will be blood
LikeLike
i guess its part of american culture to call yourself a winner even when you have to kill in order to protect your “victory” huh…. no wonder half theplanet laughs at them and their shock and awe wars of liberation …puhihihhihi…..
you see…this winning attitude was cultivated in brokeback mountains with them winners tossing their lassos to eachother…
LikeLike
Is that a resemblance (it’s in the “look”), if you inspect, between PG’s meerkat and Oliver Reed. At very least they are related. I suspect they are same person. The meerkat is Oliver Reed around sundowner time; moustache-less (good move).
LikeLike
dukey !!! your cannon is firing blanks mate !! hahaha….id rather be a posidiva than a retard with a limb …cultured left foot my arse…ahahah ..lets see you kick a football straight first or will you do it like diana ross?
sit on it dukey…you and the rest..sit right here…!… bill has kept it warm for you .. 🙂 with cherries on top !!!
there will be blood i say …daniel show em!!!!
LikeLike
Imagine if the great man does it and signs on for a few more years…I love it!
LikeLike
news come out of wenger ready to sign new contract and half the arse fans are throwing up……spill out your guts you bastards …die even..hehehe.. arsene 4 life in wenger we trust ..the rest can find a bin or a coffin and throw themselves in it. they wont be missed.
LikeLike
Even if he doesnt mel , we will still use it to scare them true fans of ours ….
LikeLike