The rain fell hard and relentlessly, swirling in the floodlight glare, soaking the seats at the front of the stands, spawning an epidemic of ponchos. The bitter wind bit hard, leaving a contagion of shivers in its wake. And in the gloom of London’s midwinter, the champions-elect met the old champions on the stairs.
Arsenal were travelling upwards towards the light, beyond that ceiling of second place that has been their fate for the past three seasons. Liverpool were heading down, fading ever further away from the great triumph of last season when they won the Premier League at a canter in Arne Slot’s first year in charge.