Wow. Wow. Wow.

It was the fixture dreams are made of: Arsenal. We haven't seen the likes of this since we were in the Premier League, and in those days we were fighting a constant battle to stay up, with potential financial ruin soon knocking at our door. What followed is all too well-known to every City fan - relegation, then again, then again; the constant threat of crippling financial problems; wilderness years being beaten over and over by the likes of Accrington Stanley and Dagenham; in-fighting, ugly backroom battles and even an on-the-pitch brawl that could have cost us dearly.

And then we beat Wigan.

And then we drew Arsenal.

...

And then - We. Beat. Arsenal.

This hasn't sunk in, and I don't think it ever will. Several writers have given their take on this on the marvellous Width of a Post far better than I could, but I'll try, briefly, to give you my own. Firstly I would, of course, have loved to go up to Valley Parade, but living in London this proved too dfficult: evening matches mean at least a day off work - an afternoon to get there and a morning to get back - and at this time of year it just wasn't practical. Well, I told myself, there's something exciting about watching your team live on the telly. It doesn't happen too often to "teams like us". I persuaded my local, the King and Queen (a fabulous proper London boozer serving proper beer and that deserves a great big plug, not least for the pain I think I inflicted on the ears of its regulars on Tuesday night) to show it, and they were happy to, the landlord being a West Ham fan with no desire for the Gunners to do well. I called in a favour from my mate from Hull, who I've watched a couple of times recently, gathered together a Daggers mate and an Everton mate, a reluctant husband and a non-plussed brother-in-law and, lastly, my dad, who had been ordered in no uncertain terms to come and watch it with me rather than inflicting the experience on my mother (who has been known to go to matches, but tends to take her knitting along.)

That day I awoke and was immediately excited, the way kids are when they awake on Christmas morning and immediately reach for the stocking. We made it onto Radio 4 - a predictable little piece implying we were plucky underdogs, but wasn't it exciting for the club? Mark Lawn spoke briefly, and well, about our huge fanbase, commenting that our season tickets were cheap and showing the club (I thought) in a really good light. My excitement grew during the day until my boss finally suggested I just leave early, and we passed the time eating excellent burgers in Byron and comparing score predictions. We arrived at the pub in ebullient moods, convinced our team would put on a great show, that we would lose maybe 2-0, or even 2-1 if we were lucky; we would not be shown up, and it would be a great night.

And it was... because in the 16th minute, Thompson scored!

I can't quite describe the feeling at that moment, though it was quite unreal - I remember leaping up onto the seat and squealing, unaware that (as I was in a London pub) nobody except my assembled motley crew was really joining in. From that moment, my hands were shaking and I couldn't stop them. I simply couldn't believe this was happening. Nor could I believe that, for the rest of the first half, they failed even to equalize. I have seen City play very well on many occasions, but this was spectacular. Our defence was almost faultless; Duke was a star; at the other end Hanson and Wells made going 2-0 up look like a real possibility. We were beating Arsenal. And suddenly, from being a fun evening where I could feel proud and patriotic about my club, it most definitely became about winning - as time ticked away and we got further and further into the second half, we all realised that losing now would be devastating. Losing now would actually hurt. The equalizer, when it came, nearly made me weep - with only two minutes left, a part of me thought they just didn't deserve it! I think my hands were clasped in prayer throughout the entirety of extra time, assuming a heart-breaking, last-minute defeat was inevitable. But it didn't happen.

Then penalties.

We're good at penalties, but they are without a doubt the most stressful thing for a football fan to watch. I still remember Gareth Southgate missing in 1996. I remember feeling totally dejected, utterly bereft.

COME ON CITY!!!

I have no idea if I wound up the rest of the pub, because I shut out everything around me. I remember holding my friend's hand very tightly (sorry, Adam!) and being glad I didn't have a heart condition as I went through unadulterated joy followed by crushing disappointment, then heart-leaping joy again as both teams made those last few moments as agonising as possible. My dad asked later if I'd noticed that at this point most of the pub seemed to be on my side, but I could hear nothing but my own heart beating, see nothing but the screen. And then...

We beat Arsenal.

We. Beat. Arsenal.

For a moment I almost couldn't breathe. All the pent-up tension fell away and I was almost light-headed. I leapt at my friend (um, sorry again), throwing my arms and legs around him so he lifted me into the air. The one bloke in the pub with an Arsenal shirt on glared at me. I thought I was going to burst into tears. My dad, a Yorkshireman not easily parted from his money, was already at the bar buying champagne.

Because we. Beat. Arsenal.

I barely slept that night. I awoke at 3am and actually checked the BBC website to make sure it had really happened. The next day, to my irritation, most headlines and reams of twitter feeds berated Wenger and focussed on how shameful it was to lose to Bradford City, you know, that League 2 team? God bless Wenger for not saying that, but praising our defence in particular. We played well. Arsenal put out a good team - their combined wage bill that night was around £1m; ours was just £7,000. Even better, we'd drawn the biggest crowd in over 50 years, and the upcoming fixtures are set to settle our debts. We also set a new record for penalty shoot-outs - we have won the last nine, the longest uninterrupted run in the history of English football. The following day, buying a pizza in ICCO, a young man who it turned out was an Arsenal fan pointed to my scarf and said "Well done. You guys were just really good."

I've supported Bradford through good times and occasional terrific times, and more recently through very, very bad times. Words cannot sum up my emotions on Tuesday night, so prone to hyperbole are we over lesser things. But I watched my dad as he grinned and poured champagne for everyone around him - the dad who introduced me to this beautiful game, who has stood with me in pouring rain, in icy winds, on cold stone terraces and in shiny new stands in the north, south, east and west of England, cheering on my lovely, lovely Bantams even when all seemed lost, sometimes leaping with delight, sometimes crying with disappointment. He looked deliriously happy, and so was I. My beloved team, and with it my beloved city, could hold its head up high, and for once everyone knew who we were for all the right reasons. Bradford City are back on the map, and, I hope, this is the start of great, great things.

Because we. Beat. Arsenal.