I apologise to fans of Will Shakespeare for rewriting his words, but there's something about the English invading France that stirs the blood. He which hath no stomach to this game, Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not drink in that man's company That fears his fellowship to drink with us. This day is called the Champions League Final: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Arsenal. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Champions League Day:' Then will he get out his album and show his photos. And say 'These I took on Champions League Day.' Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words Rick, The Grimster and Dave M, Jeff and Idiparker, MilesBasher and Singer, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son; And May 17th shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that drinks a beer with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gooners around the world now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That came with us to the Champions League Final.