Lows, Highs and Balti Pies E-Book

Steve Mingle

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Lows, Highs and Balti Pies comprises vivid, colourful and highly individual recollections of City's most memorable games over the past 37 years. One hundred matches are featured, starting with a 5-2 drubbing of Sheffield United in 1967 and ending with the 4-1 triumph in the first derby at the cursed City of Manchester Stadium. Not all of the games in between provided quite as much pleasure. The book contains affectionate portraits of the City greats down the years, together with forthright appraisals on the rich assortment of blundering buffoons which the club has seen fit to inflict upon its famously loyal supporters. However, even when describing the club's darkest moments and the individuals responsible for them, humour is never far away - be it biting, dry, self-deprecating or just plain daft. This approach capture perfectly the essence of what it is to be a City fan. The book also embraces diverse elements of popular culture over the period. Musical reference points abound, whilst the likes of Sid Waddell, Curly Watts, Ian Hislop, Tony the Tiger and Cyanide Sid Cooper all somehow find themselves featuring in the story. And how the hell did Albert Pierrepoint get in there? All long-term followers of football causes will be well familiar with the emotional peaks and troughs described so strikingly in this book. Most, like the author, will have experienced more troughs than peaks. But it's the range of imaginative, often scarcely credible, ways in which City have brought both highs and lows into the lives of their fans which truly sets them apart. It's a remarkable story, vibrantly and entertainingly told.

Leseprobe

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to Sandra Titchener for her stupendously accurate and rapid typing of a manuscript which few others would have been even able to read. Thanks also to Lindsey for proofreading and to James Howarth at Tempus for taking the book on.

Further thanks go to all those who’ve already written about City, be it in book or fanzine form. I’ve tried hard to avoid nicking any of your stuff, but if something you recognise has found its way onto the following pages, then please accept my apologies. After all, there are only so many ways of describing the joys of stuffing United.

Finally, thanks to MCFC for providing such a rich source of material to work with, albeit sometimes inadvertently. I know we all moan like hell, but we really wouldn’t have you any other way.

Contents

Title

Acknowledgement

Introduction

1

Absolutely Fabulous: 1967-72

2

The Good Life: 1972-75

3

Last Of The Summer Wine: 1975-79

4

Fawlty Towers: 1979-87

5

The Young Ones:1987-90

6

Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?: 1990-95

7

Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em: 1995-98

8

The Royle Family: 1998-2001

9

Dad’s Army: 2001-04

About the Author

Copyright

Introduction

Saturday 1 May 1965, Ashton-under-Lyne. A seven-year-old boy runs an errand for his grandmother. He approaches the shop, alongside a long row of terraced houses, in a daydreamy world of his own. Suddenly, less than five yards ahead, a door is flung open. A man springs out, eyes ablaze, arms flailing wildly, knees jerking up and down in a wild uncoordinated frenzy, screaming at the top of his voice. He looks like he’s been subjected to the electric chair, but someone’s forgotten to fasten the straps.

‘It’s there! It’s there! Liverpool have done it!’

After completing his spectacular war dance in the middle of the road, the man returns to his house and closes the door. The startled boy looks around. The street is absolutely deserted. What was the purpose of this strange and frightening exhibition? Why all the screaming and shouting when no-one can hear you? Did he have any idea what he looked like?

This was my first vivid experience of football, and what it can do to you. Then, I’d no interest in it whatsoever; now, I recognise that my encounter with this over-excited stranger had revealed a depressingly accurate vision of myself in the future. (Well, maybe not that accurate, since opportunities to celebrate cup final winning goals have been a bit thin on the ground.)

Childhood indifference to the game persisted until the arrival of the 1966 World Cup. Even my mum seemed to get caught up in the excitement, as Alf Ramsey assured the nation that ‘England will win the World Cup’. This seemed pretty unlikely to me, as Frank Bough and his prototype expert summarisers talked in reverent tones of Pele, Garrincha, Eusebio and countless other exotically named foreigners. The Queen formally opened the tournament, telling the viewing millions that she felt ‘sure that we shall be seeing some fine football’. She really had embraced the vernacular of the man on the terraces.

‘Should be a cracking match tonight, Bert.’

‘Yes, I feel sure that we shall be seeing some fine football.’

I was absolutely absorbed by the whole thing, which implanted in my young mind so many national footballing stereotypes. Brazil were brilliant and could only be stopped by foul play; the other South Americans had lots of skill, but didn’t half cheat a lot; Germans were boring; Italians had no bottle; Scotland weren’t involved at all. I certainly wasn’t going to run any errands on World Cup final afternoon, watching with mother as the national team’s greatest – indeed, only – triumph unfolded. Hooked!

The next step was live action. Mum eventually agreed that my grandad could take me to watch Third Division Oldham, perceived as a far safer option than either of the Manchester clubs. My first experience of live football was thus a 5-0 win for Oldham against Torquay United. Although the afternoon passed in an excited blur, I remember feeling absolutely unthreatened and really soaking in the sights, sounds and smells of the occasion.

We saw a further dozen or so games that season, the most memorable of which was a FA Cup fourth round tie against Wolves, then one of the stronger Second Division sides. They had several well-known players, most notably Peter Knowles, soon to be lost to the Jehovah’s Witness movement, and attracted a crowd of almost 25,000 to Boundary Park. Two Keith Bebbington goals gave Latics a 2-0 lead, and they looked to be seeing the game out comfortably. Incredibly, Wolves scored two goals in injury time, both long-distance shots, to leave the home crowd stunned. My grandad chastised those few who’d left early, saying, ‘game’s never over until t‘final whistle’. I was really sad at what had happened – so were Latics, as their replay defeat denied them a trip to mighty Everton – but at least felt I’d learned a lesson about football. Even so, my grandad did concede that I’d probably never see anything like that happen again. Hmmm.

For all the enjoyment provided by the trips to Boundary Park, there was always a sense that it wasn’t quite the real thing. I loved reading the Latics’ match reports, but they never made the back pages, which were full of stories and reports on United (mainly) and City (occasionally). Manchester was where the real football took place and, having served a season of apprenticeship, I was ready to move into the big time. But Red or Blue?

My grandad leaned towards the Reds, having favoured them in his younger days, although he’d also indulged in the bizarre practice of watching City at home one week and United the next. My mum was anti-United, purely on the grounds that she believed the majority of their supporters to be hooligans. Most of my friends, and the kids in the area, supported United, a crucial factor for a youngster who didn’t want simply to follow what everybody else did. This, together with my mum’s concerns, steered me towards City.

But, in order to decide definitively, I knew I needed to experience at first hand what watching them was all about. Big mistake, or inspirational instinct? It’s make your mind up time…

1

Absolutely Fabulous 1967-72

A thin line between love and hate

1. 16 SEPTEMBER 1967, FIRST DIVISION: CITY 5 SHEFFIELD UNITED 2

Just round the corner from us lived Dave, some five years my senior. He was the only boy on the estate who went to grammar school, and, being older, more responsible and ‘such a nice lad’, my mum preferred me spending time with him than knocking around with some of my other mates. For some reason, Dave took me under his wing for a while (basically until he discovered girls) and I remember in particular being invited round to hear the first play of his precious, newly acquired Sgt Pepper. I was already obsessed with pop music, but this sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. I still remember asking Dave why the Beatles needed to recruit Billy Shears when they seemed to be doing perfectly well as they were.

Dave was also a City fan, albeit only an occasional visitor to Maine Road. When he said he’d take me to the next match, I wasted no time in persuading mum that I’d be perfectly safe. I counted down the hours as though Christmas was coming. The opposition were Sheffield United, next to bottom of the table; City were riding high, in a very surprising fifth place.

We went in the Platt Lane End, towards the top, and the massive stands created the impression of a pitch much bigger than at Boundary Park, with the Scoreboard End seeming literally miles away. City kicked towards this end in the first half, and I could hardly make out what was going on. A pity really, since City marked my big day by scoring three goals in three minutes (Young, Bell and Summerbee apparently). I was also privileged to see a young Stan Bowles drag himself out of the bookies for long enough to score his only two League goals for City. All in all, a very auspicious Maine Road debut.

Of course, I remember virtually nothing about it. A second-half volley from Colin Bell which flew just over the bar at our end. A murmur of confusion when Sheffield United seemed to be awarded a penalty at the Scoreboard End. And that’s about it. Overall though, I’d felt safe, I’d loved the experience and I thought City were absolutely brilliant, certainly on a different plane to anything I’d seen at Oldham.

So, things were looking Blue, but I still needed to assess the alternative before making a final commitment. Three weeks later, I went to see United play Arsenal, a friend’s dad having arranged to take a group of us to Old Trafford, primarily as a ‘treat’ for his son. I didn’t like it. The atmosphere was much more aggressive, the crowd constantly irritable. We stood up, I had a lousy view and United won a poor game 1-0. The highlight by far was Denis Law and Ian Ure being sent off after enjoying one of their trademark punch-ups. There was a sense of astonishment that a referee could be allowed to dismiss one of United’s star players – my first taste of the ‘divine right’ mentality endemic among those connected to United, such a factor in the widespread antipathy they so deservedly attract.

It was no competition. A few short weeks ago, it had almost been a toss-up as to whether I’d be Red or Blue; now my position almost immediately polarised. I soon wanted United to lose every week almost as much as I wanted City to win. This intensified with every United supporter I encountered – ‘Why do you want to support City, when we’re the best?’

I remember, a few months later, listening in bed to the commentary on United’s European Cup semi-final second leg against Real Madrid. United had won the first leg 1-0, but the glad tidings from Madrid were that Real led 3-1 at half-time. Safe in the knowledge that United were being pulverised, I went to sleep. I awoke to the gruesome news that they’d somehow got back to 3-3, thus reaching the final – at Wembley. For the next fortnight, the nation was overcome by a wave of sentiment, desperate to see United gain some compensation for the horrors of Munich. I was too young to understand what Munich meant, but even had I done, it would have made no difference – I couldn’t bear the thought of them lifting the trophy.

Dave was of similar mind, and we watched the final at his house, alone apart from his small pet dog. When Graça equalised for Benfica, Dave grabbed the dog from the sofa and threw it into the air: God knows what he’d have done to it had he not been such a nice lad. The rest, tragically, is history. Close to the end of normal time, Eusebio was clean through but inexplicably shot straight at Stepney when it would have been so much more sensible to score the winner. Thus reprieved, United scored three in extra time, and sent what seemed like the whole nation into a state of euphoria.