Thanks Dad, Can I Go To Chelsea Now?

I'm really indebted to my Dad for all manner of things. Foremost in my mind though is the fact that he saw fit to remain in Islington until after I was born. That, and the fact that he was Arsenal through and through, and would only take me to watch the Gunners as a fledgeling Goonerholic.

Goodness knows how much he spent on taking the two of us to the Arsenal, but I do recall entrance fees being the equivalent of forty pence, and programmes costing less than three pence in decimal currency.

He must have trained me well, for as the prices have risen down the years, and I have moved further and further away, there has still only been one club for me. Even after I discovered that alcohol was a necessary addition to the matchday experience, therefore reducing my disposable income even further, I have stayed loyal.

It's reached the stage now where every trip to the Grove is equivalent to ten times my first annual salary! I could take umbrage. People who started work at the same time as me now earn double, treble even, my current income. I accept they are the centre-forwards of the workforce, and I am a humble full-back.

Now here's the rub. I say to you Ashley Cole, don't you dare try and tell me that Arsenal attempted to kick you in the teeth over a poxy five grand a week. Don't even begin to try and explain, when you were mysteriously injured for most of last season, that you were able to come back and express an undying love for the club when a Champions League Final place was up for grabs.

If it has escaped your memory, with Matthieu Flamini at left-back, we created a record for the number of minutes played without conceding a goal in the Champions League. When it mattered in Paris you came in to 'strengthen' us. We lost.

Despite the hours (and pound notes!) that Arsenal had poured into your development you had kept a furtive appointment with your Chelsea suitors only a year earlier. Now you couldn't wait to renew your acquaintance with Kenyon and Mourinho. Despite the years of emotional investment that I and my peers had invested in you, off you scuttled. And for what?

I have often wondered what my Dad would have thought if, after all his careful nurturing, I had switched my support to another London club. I think only now am I beginning to get an idea of what an ungrateful little bastard he would have thought me to be.