THERE is a song they sing at the Emirates Stadium which goes – and please bear with me as I hope I can share the complicated lyrics correctly:

‘We hate Tottenham, and we hate Tottenham;
We hate Tottenham, and we hate Tottenham;
We hate Tottenham, and we hate Tottenham;
We are the Tottenham haters!’

It’s a song which leaves little room for ambiguity – but you will not hear me join in the chant. In recent months, I have become more considered and contemplative, and decided: No, I do not hate Tottenham. Not at all.

How on earth could I hate a club which has enriched our lives so generously? We owe so many happy weekends to them, we are privileged to have them as Arsenal’s rivals.

Fans of most clubs have to endure horrible periods where their neighbours win major trophies and laud it through the city centre on an open-top bus. Even Man United, who at one stage might have forgotten that City were even a thing, have now been tortured by watching the tables turn.

Conversely, there are rivalries where an imagined ‘other side’ doesn’t really seem to care.

No doubt Queens Park Rangers for example would love to hate some other club, or at least be hated by someone. Where’s the fun if you’re not being hated by someone?

In north London, Tottenham have made it quite clear that they do not like Arsenal and still ramble on about the fact that the Gunners originated in south London – even though this happened before any of us were even born.

In a way it’s Spurs’ envy of Arsenal which has accelerated their latest crisis.

As explained last week, Tottenham are chasing Champions League places and there was no need to set the house on fire and spend days trending on social media with one chaotic step after another.

The real reason that they have kept pressing the nuke button and starting again is the fact Arsenal are first in the table. There would be no feeling of doom down the road if the Gunners were still trundling around in seventh or eighth place. Their obsession has got the better of them, and once again they are looking for a new manager.

Either way, these are the perfect rivals: Big enough for big talk, big enough to win a few derby matches, big enough to make those fixtures feel tense and important.

But at the same time, rich in comedic self-sabotage. Whenever things in the world seem a little gloomy, there’s a sacked manager at Spurs, a Paratici, a Jamie O’Hara on the radio, and a last-minute disaster on the field.

I don’t hate Tottenham. We are lucky to have them.