Off, then, to Stoke once again. And for the evening game too. There's a weird atmosphere. The Bridge-Terry handshake and that peculiar game at Stamford Bridge means that unless something extraordinary happens - like say a career threatening injury - it's the second-ranking game of the day.
Evening game and tricky deadlines or not, it's all very relaxed. The hackroom is full of people I know and like and the steak pie shows Stoke are upgrading their hackfood too. If only someone would proof-read their programme.
And something extraordinary and extraordinarily horrible does happen, during a game where Arsenal do enough to show that for all their struggles against their peers, they're getting clinical at picking-off the also-rans.
Then, with Arsenal on the verge of scoring a second after going behind to a Rory Delap long-throw (call me a stickler for detail but on the week of playing Stoke I’d practice defending long throws in training) it happens. Nobody could possibly argue that Ryan Shawcross deliberately set out to injure - let alone break the leg of - Aaron Ramsey. Of course he didn't. Footballers aren't like that and, even if it were, football isn't such a precise science.
However, even from where I was sitting, it was a reckless challenge. The game sort of stops as Ramsey lies prostrate. Arsenal and Stoke players alike frantically attempt to summon medical help. They must have heard the crack. For reasons far from clear, Stoke chose not to replay the tackle on the hackbox screens, instead they focus on the anguished, lachrymose Thomas Vermaelen, who looks like he's about to be sick. The referee has a look at Ramsey's leg and then sends Shawcross off. He's in tears - presumably occasioned by self-loathing, rather than the prospect of a ban - and the Stoke fans don't help by chanting his name as one as he slopes off. As he walks to the far corner, police and stewards stop Arsenal fans from assaulting Shawcross, which is probably for the best.
In the hackbox, the Monday guys chuckle as the Sundays go white. It's time for an extensive, superquick rewrite with a looming, unyielding deadline minutes away. My adrenaline surges and when Arsenal pop in two late winners, it's pumping through my stomach like self-made crack. It's an extraordinary feeling, it really is. I try to channel it into high-speed typing, praising Arsenal's resilience, explaining how awful the challenge looked without knowing exactly what the damage was and speculating on Arsenal’s Premier League chances now. I never get to see that first edition, which also might be for the best.
There’s no time for smugness (not that I’m suggesting smugness might be in order) as another deadline’s hoving into view like a blunderbuss-toting rent collector of words. Or something.
Afterwards, I’m not the only one hyped up. You can almost smell the adrenaline oozing from both managers‘ pores. Arsene Wenger goes conspiratorial, before urging the hacks not to write about what a nice guy Shawcross is. Pulis spends 10 minutes telling us what a nice guy Shawcross is - “smashing” family apparently - and how Wenger doesn’t know Stoke’s players and is therefore inot entitled to comment, before stomping off.
They both have a point and they’re both wrong. It’s not that there’s a conspiracy against Arsenal, just that teams play to their strengths and their opponents’ weaknesses. While there’s no rhyme or reason in telling anyone to be, shall we say, overly physical, with Manchester United or Chelsea, there obviously is with Arsenal, who’re physically small for a 21st Century Premier League team and, for all their strength at the Britannia, mentally variable.
On the one hand it’s that culture which is partly responsible for breaking Aaron Ramsey’s leg. On the other hand, it could have been broken anywhere (even in training) by anyone, even Robinho. We’ve learned nothing.

Playlist:
The Psychedelic Furs: Dumb Waiters. Obviously their finest moment and a Dylan-esque lyric (“Tell her that I’m not in here/Tell her I’m a freak/Tell her that I fall about every time I speak”) we can all identify with. It wasn’t a huge hit. I’ve no idea why.