They played for trophies and won us Joy

There descended a strange and unfamiliar feeling on London the day the Premier League champions hosted their open-top bus parade. It wasn't simply because Arsenal had won their first league title in 22 years but something deeper and more important than that.

Wherever you looked you saw gleeful Arsenal fans pouring out of buses or walking hopefully, trotting northwards. For a brief moment, a city that can often feel fractured by politics, class, culture and economics found itself united by joy (most of it anyway). Not the manufactured joy of a marketing campaign or a carefully curated civic event, but a genuine outpouring of collective happiness. The kind that only comes when people feel connected to something bigger than themselves.

Perhaps it speaks to what happens when ownership invests not only in players and trophies, but in a club's identity, culture and relationship with its supporters. Arsenal's title wasn't celebrated as a corporate achievement. It felt shared. It belonged to grandparents and parents who remembered the glory years, children experiencing their first title win, lifelong season ticket holders and fans watching from cafés, barbershops and living rooms across the city. It belonged to fans, like me.

“At its best, football remains one of the last public rituals capable of bringing together people who would otherwise never meet.”

What struck me most was the sheer diversity of the crowd. More women wearing football shirts than I have ever seen in my life. Families spanning three and four generations. Friends embracing strangers. And, as Arsenal remains perhaps the closest thing English football has to a truly diverse club, a crowd that reflected modern London itself: Man, woman, non-binary, Black, white, Asian, mixed heritage, LGBTQIA+,  all packed shoulder to shoulder, united by the same chant.

"Arseeeenal. Arseeeenal."

There was beauty everywhere you looked. Legs dangled from bus shelters and traffic lights as supporters searched for a better view. Elderly men proudly wore full Arsenal kits, shirts tucked into shorts, socks pulled high, and for once there were no cries of "full kit wanker". On a day like this, football's usual rules of cool were suspended. Nobody cared. The point wasn't fashion or irony. It was way more than that, it was belonging. Dare I say it, it was collective optimism. Whether you were eight or eighty, whether this was your first title or your fourth, everyone had permission to wear their love for the club as openly as possible.

The scenes felt almost anthropological. If politicians are serious about understanding social cohesion, community and belonging, they should spend less time in focus groups and more time studying moments like this. There were no culture wars. No manufactured divisions. No algorithms feeding outrage, just happy people celebrating together.

The most remarkable statistic from the day perhaps said it all. More people were rescued from trees, lamp posts and rooftops than were arrested. In a city of nearly nine million people, almost 2 million gathered in one place and overwhelmingly chose celebration over conflict.

Football is often criticised for its excesses, and rightly so. Yet on days like this it reminds us of its greatest strength. At its best, football remains one of the last public rituals capable of bringing together people who would otherwise never meet. For a few hours in North London, difference became irrelevant. The city was connected by hope, pride and joy.

You saw old friends bumping into one another on crowded pavements and strangers stopping for a hug. People sharing cans and swapping stories. New friendships formed in the shadow of bus shelters and train stations. The parade itself was almost secondary. What mattered was the feeling of togetherness that surrounded it. The reminder that despite everything, people still crave connection, community and moments of shared celebration.

And in 2026, that felt like something worth celebrating in itself.