No. 25 - An Inconvenient Passion

In the summer of 1968, drawn by stickers exchanged in the school playground, I suddenly became interested in football. My father was pleased I was showing some interest in a sport. I enjoyed learning about the First Division clubs from the backs of football cards, buying Goal and Shoot, and reading Scorcher comics, but I couldn’t be a proper football fan unless I supported a particular club.

Shoot, Goal and Scorcher.

Most kids in North Wales supported Liverpool, Everton or Manchester United. The Parkers who had minded me as a child were staunch United fans and they encouraged me to follow suit. Dad would have preferred me to choose Cardiff City, but wasn’t that bothered, for he was a rugby man. Working away, my brothers had started watching Everton, and Ipswich Town. The first match I can ever remember watching on TV was Liverpool’s FA Cup victory against Leeds United in 1965.

I eventually decided to support Manchester City, which was a surprise to the family. City striker Francis Lee had graced the cover of the first issue of Goal I’d ever bought but, most compellingly of all, I liked their sky blue shirts. I was unaware they were the reigning league champions, and they weren’t likely to repeat the triumph that season - I had 44 years to wait.

My first scarf and programme, a rosette and a 1970's City shirt.

Dad expected I’d grow out of it, but I didn’t. A cold, grey Christmas Day saw me and the only other City fan I knew in Pwllheli kicking a ball around an empty car-park, shivering in our brand new kits. At school we wore red or royal blue so pulling on a new-smelling, 100% cotton sky blue shirt felt superb. We weren’t really in an empty car-park in a small Welsh Town, we were at Maine Road playing phantom opposition, and City were sure to win.

A Day Return to Manchester

Dad would have preferred me to support a Merseyside club. Every year he'd treat his handful of school leavers to a match at Goodison Park or Anfield, so Liverpool was within his comfort zone. Manchester was not, but on 22 August 1970, he took me to my first proper match - Manchester City versus Burnley at Maine Road. We drove the 46 miles to Llandudno Junction to catch a train to Manchester Victoria. I was sick twice en route, but once that was done with and we were on the train, everything was brilliant. And I mean everything. Bacon sandwiches and tea in the station buffet. Listening to the clackety-clack of the train wheels on the rails. Watching the various tribes sporting their colours as they headed for their respective matches - bar scarves hanging from belts or wrists, or tucked into Crombies (in August!), even the odd rosette. Once in England, the names of the stations we passed through carried a magic for me (if nobody else) - Helsby, Frodsham, Warrington Bank Quay, Earlestown, Newton-le-Willows, Patricroft, Irlam, Eccles, Manchester Victoria.

Victoria looks rough now, but in 1970 it retained enough grandeur to suggest you were arriving in a city of importance. Along Corporation Street, scores of orange and white Manchester City Transport buses growled past us. The taste of diesel in the air, the crowds, the impatient roar of traffic, even the arrogant pigeons, were exciting to a twelve-year-old from a remote Welsh town. This was life. I had arrived. At Lewis’s we had breaded plaice, crinkle-cut chips, garden peas and cups of tepid tea. Not very glamorous perhaps, but I was unused to dining out.

In those days, if you didn’t know the way you asked someone. In a thick Manchester accent we were told we could get a bus to the ground from Aytoun Street, where we found a long line of double-deckers with destination blinds simply reading ‘Football Match.’ I insisted on going upstairs, so I could eagerly scan the horizon for a first glimpse of the floodlights, for like most grounds at the time, Maine Road had four corner pylons that could be seen from miles around.

Maine Road's 1923 red brick façade rose above the slate roofs and chimney stacks of the identical rows of terraces surrounding it - a suitably industrial setting for what was still a working class game. A sky blue mosaic above the entrance read ‘Manchester City Football Club.’ The official souvenir shop was a far cry from today's superstores - it had once been a humble corner shop - a grocer or a newsagent. At busy times there were two women serving. Dad bought me my first City scarf there. The old scoreboard end was a heap of rubble, and construction of the North Stand hadn’t begun. A disgruntled, elderly car park attendant moaned to us about the loss of club revenue. The aroma of fried onion from the nearby burger and hot dog vendors would be replaced by that of cigar smoke once we were inside.

My first album and the City page of it.

To enter the Main Stand, we pushed through iron turnstiles that had once revolved at Hyde Road, City’s old ground. I’d only ever seen the pitch on a black and white TV, so as I walked up the steps and saw the green turf for the first time, it was the closest I’ve come to a religious experience. It was the first game of the season, come January hardly a blade of grass would be left on it.

Opposite us stood the popular side, ‘The Kippax,’ a steep terrace where all the noise came from. As far as pre-match entertainment was concerned, someone played records, including The Kinks’ Lola, Mungo Jerry’s In The Summertime and All Right Now by Free. That was it.

Then without razzamatazz, out trotted the teams in temporarily pristine cotton, Burnley in claret shirts, and in the sky blue and white of Manchester City - my heroes, Francis Lee, Colin Bell, Mike Summerbee and Mike Doyle. I remember nothing of the match, but despite the time and expense of getting there, Dad made us leave on 82 minutes to avoid the rush. At Victoria, a Football Pink revealed that it had ended goalless in front of 36,599, and showed us how all the other teams had got on - United were thumped 4-0 at Arsenal, Liverpool thrashed Huddersfield 4-0 and Everton lost 3-2 at Leeds.

The return journey was less thrilling, because I had tired myself out and Dad was exhausted too. And there was still a nauseating car journey through the dark Welsh countryside to be endured.

More Firsts

This routine was repeated over the next few years. My first victory, a 3-0 pasting of champions Everton on my 13th birthday, my first defeat, a 0-1 reverse to Leeds United. My first FA Cup match was a 3-2 victory against Stoke City and my first away game a 2-1 win against Everton at Goodison Park. The last match Dad took me to was a 4-0 win over West Ham United on 19th August 1974 - the month before he died.

In October 1978 I went twice from Liverpool with a couple of college friends - my first ever League Cup tie, a 3-0 replay win against Blackpool and a 2-2 league draw against West Bromwich Albion. In 1980 I moved to Manchester, supposedly to attend teacher training college, but really to watch Manchester City. Over the next few years I’d see us lose an FA Cup Final to Spurs at Wembley, buy my first season ticket and experience a relegation that had once seemed unthinkable, at the hands, or rather the feet, of Luton Town.

Further Inconvenience

City’s demotion, and moving back to North Wales, did not dull my inconvenient passion. On a Saturday morning, I would rise early and catch a bus to Chester. It would leave in darkness, but dawn would break as it wound its way into Snowdonia, which made the journey long, but spectacularly beautiful. I would watch lights coming on in isolated farms and cottages and wonder about the lives of those who'd flicked the switches. Like an old time stage coach, the bus stopped for a thirty minute break at a café, for us to use the toilet, stretch legs, drink tea and breathe the fresh, intoxicating mountain air. At Chester I would sprint for another bus, and arrive in Manchester just in time for me to hurry to Maine Road for kick-off. The total journey time was five hours.

Unlike Dad, I would never leave before the final whistle, which meant a frantic hurry back to Chorlton Street Bus Station. The buses being too risky because of the traffic, I would walk and run all the way.

Changing at Chester, I would dash to the newsagent to get a Football Pink with the final scores in. The ink would come off on my fingers as I scanned it, absorbing the shocks, the scores and scorers, checking on the local rivals and our closest competitors. As the only passenger with a 'Pink ‘un' in my hand, which isn’t as rude as it sounds, I became the 1980’s equivalent of the internet. “How did Wolves get on?” “Did Wrexham win?” “What was the attendance at Anfield today?”

My first scarf and programme, a rosette and a 1970's City shirt - in colour!

Returning, the mountains lay in darkness. Without a refreshment stop it was bleak, but only took four and a half hours. I would arrive in Pwllheli just in time to pop into Sparta Café for a beef cutlet, chips, mushy peas and gravy and walk home up the hill, where Mum would cadge half my chips off me. It now seems crazy to have spent nine and a half hours of my day off on a bus, just to watch the labours of Second Division Manchester City. But the dawn journeys through Snowdonia I’d happily do again, and I wouldn’t say no to the beef cutlet and sharing chips with my mum.

My final City match was the title decider against Aston Villa in 2022, where they came from two down with time running out, to win both the match and the Premier League. I relinquished my season ticket. It was a good way to end...if indeed it was the end.

The love of football is like glandular fever, it may become dormant, but it can flare up at any time, however inconvenient it might prove.