Nik picks the Ipswich lock

In the version of the story that I’m about to tell you, Craddock having been sent safely on his way home and my ageing muscles worked out in the gym, a few things will have to be altered. But I’m not going to tell you what. I don’t know, I just feel like doing things a little differently today and why not? As you all know, we’ve made our first final since 2007 and our first Wembley final since 1998’s FA Cup win against Newcastle. Wessam or the Brummies- bring them on because we’re going to Wembley. Or, in my case and most of the guys I know, a pub in north London where we will stand in front of a big screen, sweating our, ahem, bits off, shouting and screaming at players who can’t hear us. And paying for the privilege. Lest you be in any doubt about the tone of that particular sentence, let me clarify it for you; I can’t wait.

How did we get there? Well, I guess in the end it was fairly routine stuff. At least compared to getting into the ground last night. James and I met outside the ground, him having come down with Todd "Sick Dude" Styman, an Ipswich supporter and their mate Aider. Aider was a neutral just along as a bit of company for Sick Dude. If you’re wondering, Sick Dude is so named because of his hotel room antics before the Blackpool game in the summer and… I’ll leave you to fill in the rest. But, I digress. By the time James and I found our seats, we’d missed about three and a half minutes of the match- late again but it didn’t seem like we’d missed much.

It was a frustrating half of football, exemplified by the early loss of Bac Sagna, concussed in a collision with Szczesny. He departed, now recovering in hospital, to be replaced by Eboue. One of the more mystifying cults in Arsenal history, serenaded with song after song from block 5. I know that he is one of the few Arsenal players who seem to realise the importance of keeping the fans onside- more of which later- but he can’t do it with his general play, so he has to give his shirt away at each game. Vic Akers must love him. By the way, I’m not advocating barracking him, but it amazes me that his attempts at playing football are met with such love (ironic though it may be), whilst players like Arshavin and Bendtner are greeted with- let’s call it what it is- hostility. Such hostility that I ended up getting into a heated first half exchange with someone behind me. We sorted it out amicably, after all we all wanted the same thing, at half-time and shared a high five when Bendtner slammed in that crucial opener from right in front of us. And then another one when Koscielny nodded in the second goal, from Arshavin’s corner.

That was all ahead of us as we watched the Perse head against the bar, a future career in carpentry is surely his for the taking. Fabregas missed what looked like a very presentable chance and then we were treated to the slightly bizarre sight of van Persie and Bendtner hitting the ball across the penalty area at each other without ever appearing to get close to the goal. The best thing about the first half, in fact, was the news that Blackpool were leading Manchester United 2-0.

How things changed in the next hour. Things were getting a bit grumpy as Nasri and Walcott came out to warm up in front of us. It was almost like Arsène was taking the mick, saying "Here’s who you could be watching" and the clamour for Nasri, in particular was getting deafening. And then. And then… Wilshere put Bendtner away down our left, with a great ball. Having taken a great first touch, he cut inside Edwards, took a moment and then curled a shot past Fulop in the Ipswich goal. Ipswich’s bus had just taken a big hit. One Arshavin corner had been greeted with derision by, well, by everyone, minutes later he made amends and put a corner right onto Koscielny’s head for what was effectively the winning goal. To bastardise a wry comment from Mr Styman after the game, you can’t decide to park the bus and then take the conductor from his post. The bus was smashed to bits and all that remained was for Arshavin to drive to the edge of the penalty area and tee up Cesc to tuck away the final goal of the night with just under quarter of an hour left.

Even news of Manchester United’s comeback at Blackpool couldn’t really spoil the mood and as with the Chelsea game last month, the majority of the crowd stayed with the team, a team that had backed up the captain’s words at the end of the first leg, to the end. I thought it was interesting that Bendtner, who has had a lot of abuse thrown his way of late, was the only one who thought of coming over in the direction of the North Bank to acknowledge the support there. And he didn’t come that close. Anyway, Djourou treated those of us who had stayed to the end, most of us, to a spot of slightly wayward dancing- and what a rise he’s had this season, by the way. He will start the final next month as the main man in our central defence, not bad for someone who was fourth choice at the start of the season. The fact that everyone had stayed made for a bit of a nightmare for anyone trying to get to a tube station- like Todd and Aider, sweating on an 11:15 train. Luckily for me and James, we were heading for the Pins, more beer and a photo with a trophy that looked suspiciously like the one Cesc would love to lift at Wembley in May. Providing we can get past his home town club first.

I said after the first game that things had to change a lot in the fortnight leading up to last night and I think it’s fair to say that the players have responded brilliantly since then. I congratulate them for that, with the obvious rider that they have to keep this up when faced with the, no disrespect to Ipswich, greater challenges ahead. Wembley, here we come.