In July 1995, the Spice Girls burst onto the music scene with their debut single Wannabe. The track shot straight to the top of the UK charts, creating a sensation and leaving the public eager for more.
That one song alone broke records. Seventeen years later, when the group reunited at the London Olympics, it was Wannabe they performed at the closing ceremony—instantly reigniting the crowd's enthusiasm.
On a sunny afternoon in southeast London, The Den was already packed with more than 10,000 fans. Few remained seated. Instead, they stood, swaying and singing along to the music blasting from the speakers. The song looping around the ground was, of course, Wannabe.
It wasn't Aldridge who had chosen it, nor was it some formal promotion for the Spice Girls. The stadium DJ simply played the hottest song in Britain at the time, and the fans loved it. Pairing the most popular track of the summer with Millwall's big day gave the occasion an even brighter shine.
Everywhere in the stands, supporters wore dark blue. Millwall's new kit had been released for the Premier League debut, and fans had made a point of putting it on, turning the terraces into a vast rolling sea of blue. It was a historic afternoon—the club's first ever home match in the Premier League—and they were determined to mark it properly.
While the players waited in the tunnel, Aldridge arrived early on the pitch. Wherever he walked, fans called out greetings. Moving along the east stand, he signed programmes, posed for photos, and stopped for handshakes. With twenty minutes still to go before kick-off, he took his time, patient with each request.
Then, as he leaned toward one group, a young woman in her early twenties suddenly pulled him in and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Caught completely off guard, Aldridge froze for a moment before staring at her in surprise. She looked like a student, flanked by three friends who instantly dissolved into laughter at his expression. Emboldened, they leaned forward together, half-joking as if they might all join in. Aldridge hastily moved on, cheeks warm but smiling.
At the top of the east stand, a section had been converted during the summer into executive boxes. The club had sacrificed a small number of seats to create space for families, VIP guests, and television crews, including a proper commentary booth for Sky Sports.
Inside, commentators Martin Tyler and Andy Gray had been following the whole scene through their monitors.
"The Old Trafford bullfighter, felled by a kiss!" Tyler chuckled.Gray laughed. "That's right! Aldridge Hall—unbeaten against Manchester United, but no match for the Millwall girls."
Just below the boxes sat another group of women. Five young spectators, still unknown to most of the country: the Spice Girls themselves.
They had seen everything. Emma, the youngest, giggled and leaned toward Melanie."He's so popular… and good-looking too. Why didn't you let me kiss him instead?"
Melanie gave her a playful shove toward the aisle. "Then go on."
Emma squealed. "I was only joking! Anyway, I don't go for younger boys."
Melanie smirked. "You're barely a hundred days older than him. And if you knew him properly, you wouldn't think of him as a 'boy' at all."
Emma blinked. "Oh? So you mean… I should go after him?"
"But he wouldn't be interested in a wilful little girl like you," Melanie teased.
Emma pouted. "I'll kiss him right now!"
"Too late," Melanie laughed. "He's already here."
Emma turned and found Aldridge standing in front of her. Having recovered his composure from the earlier ambush, he smiled warmly, extended his hand, and said,"Welcome to the match."
Emma's bravado melted. She shook his hand sheepishly, suddenly shy.
The others—Melanie, Geri, Victoria, and Mel B—were less restrained. Still moving to the rhythm of Wannabe, they swayed and clapped along like it was a nightclub dance floor.
Aldridge shook hands with each of them, though by then the television cameras had caught on, and a ripple of excitement spread through the stands as fans recognised the five young women.
To avoid further commotion, Aldridge invited them up into the box. He didn't linger—his real destination was to greet his family seated there—but the brief moment with the "hot girls," as the papers still called them, had already become part of the spectacle.
In a central box at The Den, Arthur Hall proudly wore Millwall's home jersey. From this season onward, the role of club chairman had officially passed to him. It wasn't that he sought the spotlight—far from it—but with Millwall now in the Premier League, the workload and responsibilities of the position had grown. Aldridge could not do everything himself. Arthur, a lifelong Millwall supporter, had stepped up.
Arthur and his wife Amelia stood at the box window, looking out across the stadium. Behind them, Barnett and Andrew were deep in conversation. On the sofa sat Aldridge's elder sister-in-law, holding a toddler in her arms: Bowen Hall, just over a year old. Bowen was Aldridge's nephew, born shortly before his return to London the previous summer.
The Hall family's ambitions seemed best embodied by Aldridge's elder brother. His business was expanding rapidly—his path might be that of a nouveau riche, but even so, he had chosen for his son a name with noble meaning.
Next door, Aldridge had arranged seats for the Spice Girls. But he himself pushed open the door to his family's box and stepped inside.
He crouched before the sofa, grinning as he gently held Bowen's little hands."Bowen, do you miss Uncle?"
"Mummy!" the boy chirped, his only word.
Leah, Aldridge's sister, laughed."Sorry, Aldridge. For now he only says 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'."
Aldridge chuckled, kissed Bowen on the crown of his head, then rose to embrace his brothers. Turning, he received a kiss on the forehead from his mother. Amelia sighed as she scolded him softly."Aldridge, you should come home more often."
"I'm so busy with work," he replied. "But I promise—I'll be home three times a week. Just be sure to make my favourite beef."
Amelia shook her head with a helpless smile.
By the window, Arthur leaned on the rail, his cheeks flushed with excitement. In his jersey he looked nothing like a club chairman—more like a mischievous boy who had smuggled himself into the director's box.
Aldridge slipped an arm around his father's shoulders."The ground feels a little small now. In two years we'll build a bigger one—bigger than Old Trafford. Then you'll see an even greater view."
Arthur's voice trembled with excitement as he embraced his son back."It feels incredible. Before you were even born, your brothers and I could only stand on the terraces. There weren't even seats then. We stood, sang, and danced from first whistle to last. And if anyone didn't like it, we gave them a shove and a mouthful of abuse. If that wasn't enough, there were fights outside the ground. Crazy times.
"But now—this is a dream. Son, you've done the impossible. You've made me proud, and every Millwall fan proud. Manchester United used to look down on us—what about now, eh? And today, Arsenal too. Beat them, and let them know that from this day forward, Millwall are the ones in charge. The rest can go hang!"
His enthusiasm was infectious, but Aldridge frowned slightly."Arsenal? What's your grudge with them?"
Arthur's face darkened."At the Premier League roundtable. Bloody hell! Edwards—old pervert—said Millwall's image was bad for the Premier League brand. I grabbed him by the collar and he started backtracking fast.
"Then that big idiot Bates stood up—proud as anything—bragging that Chelsea had signed a World Player of the Year, telling everyone to follow their lead to 'help the Premier League grow'. I called him a fool to his face, turning Stamford Bridge into a retirement home. The room laughed at him.
"But the worst was David Dein. He actually proposed that Premier League clubs with stadiums under 20,000 capacity should be forced to rent elsewhere. Everyone knew that was aimed at Millwall! Damn him. I let him have it too—greeted his whole family with choice words until he shut his mouth."
Aldridge burst into laughter."So the so-called gentlemen of the Premier League boardroom met a real old gangster instead!"
Arthur grinned."They had it coming."
The Premier League "roundtable" was, in truth, the boardroom of English football's biggest business. Each chairman was like a shareholder. New members arrived, old ones departed. And like any corporate politics, alliances were forged and broken, backroom deals made, dissenting voices silenced. Edwards of Manchester United was already floating talk of a "European Super League," driven by the club's financial losses after missing out on the Champions League. David Dein of Arsenal, one of the architects of the Premier League's founding, was as influential as ever. Smaller clubs had little voice unless they banded together to resist the big clubs' attempts to squeeze them.
Yet whatever the arguments inside, once the doors closed the rule was silence. Break ranks, and you risked being isolated. Their only shared goal was clear: the stronger the Premier League became, the more money they all made.
As Aldridge prepared to leave the box, the door swung open. In stepped Arsenal vice-chairman David Dein, accompanied by a tall, smartly dressed Frenchman.
Aldridge froze. Dein gave him a curious look, but the Frenchman walked straight over with a faint smile.
"It's been a long time, Aldridge."
Aldridge's surprise melted into recognition. He extended his hand."Yes… it really has. Arsène."
Arsène Wenger stood before him.
Aldridge was enjoying his moment in the limelight, yet Wenger—the "Professor"—still carried himself with the same calm composure. Their sudden reunion after years apart was genuinely emotional.
"How's life in Japan?" Aldridge asked warmly.
"Very good," Wenger replied with a faint smile.
"Back here on holiday? No… the J-League must be in mid-season now."
"Yes," Wenger nodded. "I was invited by Mr. Dein. I've come just to watch a match."
He spoke openly. In truth, David Dein had been pursuing him for months. When George Graham was sacked six months earlier, Dein had already wanted Wenger for Arsenal, but at the time Wenger had just gone to Japan. After a bruising five years at Monaco, he politely declined. Still, Dein believed Wenger was the man to revive Arsenal, and he kept in touch. Visiting him in France, finding reasons to connect, building trust. Over time, Wenger began to feel his interest in European football return.
This summer, Dein had urged him to come to England. He arranged for Wenger to attend Arsenal's home game against Nottingham Forest next week. But when Wenger saw the schedule, he chose first to see Arsenal away—against Millwall.
Aldridge smiled. "I hope you enjoy the match. Perhaps afterwards we can meet up?"
Wenger shook his head."No. I'll fly back as soon as the game ends. I must return to my team."
"Fair enough. Then I'll look forward to seeing you in London in the future," Aldridge replied. He gave Dein a polite nod and left the box.
Arthur and Amelia, curious, stepped forward to greet Wenger."Mr. Wenger, hello—it's been a long time!" Amelia said warmly.
Dein watched the exchange with surprise. Did Millwall also consider Wenger as a coaching option? The thought flashed through his mind, then he dismissed it. Impossible.
Arthur turned toward him with a broad grin."Oh, my old friend! Come here and give me a hug!"
Before Dein could react, Arthur's round belly pressed into him as he wrapped him in a crushing embrace. Dein's ribs creaked. Normally he would have pushed the man away, but with Wenger watching, he forced a smile and endured it.
Inside, Dein fumed. This wretched little club—Millwall—what a parasite in the Premier League. A shabby stadium, thuggish fans, a clown of a chairman.
He hadn't even wanted to come. Even with Arsenal playing away, he'd have happily stayed at Highbury. But when Wenger insisted on seeing the match, he had no choice but to request VIP tickets from Millwall. By then the entire stadium was sold out. The only option left was a director's box—and Arthur Hall had deliberately kept him in the same one. There was no tradition in the Premier League of rival directors sitting side by side, but Arthur had engineered it as a display of power.
Dein swallowed his anger. We are civilised men. Educated men. We don't stoop to the level of rogues.
Endure. Besides—victory is not yet decided.
After Arthur released him, Dein forced a smile, shook hands formally with Barnett and Andrew, and made small talk. He may have despised Arthur, but he did respect the Hall sons. Barnett was making his mark in business. Andrew's agency was growing. And Aldridge—young though he was—was clearly no ordinary coach. If not for his age and background, Dein admitted to himself he would have considered Aldridge a genuine alternative to Wenger.
Barnett, however, treated Dein with cool formality. He had already dealt with far bigger figures in the City of London, men who moved markets. A club vice-chairman hardly impressed him. To Barnett, Aldridge choosing to coach football instead of using his gifts in business was almost a waste.
Two days earlier, Microsoft had released Windows 95. Its stock had skyrocketed, and markets around the world buzzed with anticipation. Barnett's portfolio was surging by the hour. Years before, on Aldridge's advice, he had invested heavily in Microsoft after Black Monday. Now that foresight was paying off beyond belief.
Barnett often thought his younger brother was a financial genius—someone who could literally make money in his sleep. Yet Aldridge had chosen the exhausting, uncertain life of a football manager. Barnett respected that choice, even if he never quite understood it. The Hall brothers never interfered in each other's ambitions. Their rule was simple: whatever the path, they gave full support.
Wenger, meanwhile, moved closer to the window. He gazed out across The Den.
He had been here nearly a year ago, sitting anonymously in the stands. Back then, the ground had seemed unremarkable. But today the sight before him was different—breathtaking.
Apart from a small corner of red-clad Arsenal fans, the stadium was a roaring sea of dark blue. The South Stand in particular drew his eye.
The Lion Roar fan group had spent more than two weeks preparing a massive choreographed display. They unveiled a giant banner stretching across the entire stand: a replica of Millwall's official Premier League poster.
In the centre stood Aldridge, in suit and tie, smiling with a touch of wild confidence, hands in his pockets. Behind him, thirty first-team players lined up in a V-formation, clad in dark blue, fierce and unyielding.
Now that same image dominated the South Stand. The crowd held it aloft, a wall of blue and white that shook the stadium. The TV cameras replayed the spectacle again and again.
As the players emerged from the tunnel, Aldridge returned to his technical area. He stood calmly on the touchline, expression cool, waiting for kick-off.
Opposite him, Arsenal's manager Bruce Rioch stood with arms folded. His face was stern, betraying the pressure he felt.
Rioch had taken over in the summer from caretaker Stewart Houston. The burden was immense. He wanted to reshape Arsenal, but lacked the authority. Any new coach's first step was to erase the shadow of his predecessor—but Arsenal's case was complicated. Houston's four months barely mattered, yet George Graham's eight-year reign had left a deep imprint. That influence could not be erased in a day.
And the squad itself was strong. With so many established players, Rioch dared not attempt sweeping reforms. The risk of a player revolt was too high. For now, he could only adjust their form, not their structure.
As a result, Arsenal's tactics remained unchanged from Graham's era: the rigid 5-3-2 that had defined them for years.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome to The Den, where our cameras are live for Millwall versus Arsenal. I'm Martin Tyler, alongside the familiar voice of Andy Gray."
"Martin, how do you see this London derby shaping up?"
"This feels like a clash of spear and shield, Andy. Millwall's attacking display at Old Trafford last week caught the imagination. Arsenal, meanwhile, have built their reputation on defence—remember, under George Graham they once went through a whole league season conceding just 18 goals. But times have changed. Arsenal have lost that stability. Less than a year, and they're already onto their third manager: from Graham, to Stewart Houston as caretaker, and now Bruce Rioch. I expect Rioch to be cautious here at The Den. His first game in charge was a home draw against newly promoted Middlesbrough, and the pressure on him is already building."
"But if Arsenal come here looking for only a draw, I can't see that going down well with the fans or the board. No disrespect to Millwall, but the old perception lingers—that this is a scrappy club with bite, but no pedigree. Millwall are celebrating their 110th anniversary this year, and yet they've never won a major trophy. Their last title of note was the Southern League more than a century ago. Compare that to Arsenal, one of the great ruling powers of English football."
"You're right, Andy. But it's precisely that long wait, that century of frustration, that fuels the passion of Millwall's fans now. Look around The Den—it's ferocious, it's fevered, but it's also understandable. The question is, could Aldridge Hall be the man to finally end the barren years? If this team stays together, I believe a championship isn't beyond them."
"Agreed. And remember, the average age of this Millwall starting eleven is just 23. They're nowhere near their peak. Give them three to five years together, and they could be a genuine threat to the established order in England. Of course, that depends on the club keeping hold of its stars and resisting the lure of bigger clubs."
"Well, the decision of Larsson and Trezeguet to turn down Manchester United this week sends out a strong message. For two young strikers, still in the early stages of their careers, to refuse Old Trafford—that's extraordinary. United were ready to spend £12 million for the pair, and plenty of other clubs had their cheque books open. But Millwall held firm."
"Now then, let's run through the line-ups. Millwall are unchanged from Old Trafford. Kasey Keller keeps goal behind a back four of Lilian Thuram on the right, Lucas Neill on the left, with Jaap Stam alongside Gareth Southgate in the middle. Across midfield it's Schneider wide right and Robert Pirès wide left; in the centre Claude Makelele sits as the anchor with Pavel Nedvěd alongside him as the runner from deep. And up front, Henrik Larsson with David Trezeguet—Millwall in a very clear 4-4-2."
"And Arsenal, no surprise, stick with Bruce Rioch's trusted five-man back line. David Seaman is in goal, shielded by Lee Dixon and Nigel Winterburn on the wings, with Tony Adams, Steve Bould and Martin Keown forming the spine. In midfield it's Paul Merson wide, John Jensen in the holding role, and David Platt adding drive from deep. Up front—what a combination—Dennis Bergkamp, the new signing from Inter Milan, partners Ian Wright. That's a 5-3-2 for Arsenal against Millwall's 4-4-2. It's defence versus attack."
As the whistle approached, Bergkamp bent to place the ball on the centre spot. Aldridge, arms folded by the touchline, watched him calmly.
The Ice Prince? Let's see how cold you can be today.