Lows, Highs and Balti Pies: Manchester City Ruined My Diet

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

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.

I just couldn’t understand it. Why had everyone – even, it seemed, City fans – wanted them to win? My impeccable child’s logic told me that if I wanted them to lose every week in the First Division, then it was entirely consistent to want them to lose in Europe as well. Why would you want a team to win just because they’re English? I couldn’t see it, and still can’t. I honestly can’t envisage any circumstances where I’d want them to win a match:

United v. Very Nasty Tyrants XI

‘We’re on the march, we’re Saddam’s army…’

United v. Nazi War Criminal Old Boys

‘Ooh aah Swastikaah…’

United v. Big Brother Housemates

Well, maybe I’d settle for a draw in this one…

I don’t think I’m on my own. The current generation of Red glory-hunters often accuse people like me of being an ABU (Anyone But United), as though it’s born of jealousy of their recent success. It’s nothing to do with that. It’s everything to do with their attitude, their arrogance, their ignorance and their delusions of superiority. My antipathy towards them peaked at a time when they were at their least successful, fuelled by the persistence of the media hype and the inability of their supporters or anyone connected to the club to accept their true status. Nowadays, no-one can deny their success, but one man in particular has ensured that, whatever they achieve on the pitch, they’ll forever be despised by almost everyone else. I know I’ll never rid myself of this loathing, which I’ve already carried with me like a curse for over thirty-five years. Because I know that they will never change.

Still, that’s enough about them. For now.

Get the balance right

2. 9 DECEMBER 1967, FIRST DIVISION: CITY 4 TOTTENHAM 1

Many childhood debates with my mother focussed on why I wasn’t allowed to watch Match of the Day. Battling against the twin handicaps of it being after my bedtime, and my mum’s interest in football having begun, peaked and ended with the ’66 World Cup, it was a real struggle, but every week I chipped away at her defences.

My first breakthrough came in March ’67 when QPR, then a Third Division side, won the League Cup at Wembley. Grandstand made a real fuss of this momentous event and, as it was a one-off, mum said I could stay up to see it. Has there ever been a viewing combination to match The Avengers (Emma Peel vintage) followed by Match of the Day? I suspect it wasn’t just nine-year-olds who couldn’t imagine a better way to spend a Saturday night.

The precedent had been set. ‘Special occasion’ matches were now in bounds, and what occasions could be more special than City appearances on MOTD? No doubt sensing serious tantrums if I was barred from watching my new heroes, mum agreed. It wasn’t the greatest concession since, throughout the whole of our 1967/68 Championship season, we featured just three times. The second of these, however, was one of the most famous games ever shown on the programme – the extraordinary ‘Ballet on Ice’.

The tale of this match has been told many times – the snow-covered pitch, the fact that the game ‘would never have been played nowadays’, the sheer brilliance of City’s attacking, the way in which we seemed to keep our balance perfectly while Spurs were slipping and sliding about all over the place and the fact that this was the match when the nation suddenly took notice of City and recognised us as genuine Championship contenders.

Jimmy Greaves’ early goal for Spurs was their only attack of any consequence in the whole game, as they scarcely managed to get out of their own half. Apart from the goals, the wood-work was struck four times, there were numerous near-misses and Pat Jennings was absolutely fantastic in the Spurs goal. The 4-1 scoreline seriously flattered Tottenham! At the end, Greaves graciously waited by the halfway line to shake the hand of every City player.

The pick of City’s goals was Summerbee’s superb header from Neil Young’s cross. Summerbee played a traditional centre forward role in this season and did it magnificently, well enough to be capped for England. Superbly though Buzzer played on this day, however, the real man of the match in my eyes was Neil Young.

Young – tall, slim and elegant – had a physique very similar to Glenn Hoddle’s and moved with the same almost feminine grace, a characteristic which, it must be said, extended to sharing Hoddle’s approach to tackling. Still, that wasn’t what he was in the team for. When everything clicked, he was wonderful to watch, his languid movement and ferocious shooting providing a real treat for the eyes. He was the last player who ought to have excelled on this treacherous surface, more suited to those with a lower centre of gravity, yet it was Young who twice rattled the woodwork with glorious first-time shots, Young who drew the best saves from Jennings, Young who always seemed to be perfectly balanced while others struggled to keep their footing.

Neil on a good day would have fans and critics alike purring over his style, skill and, in particular, his shooting which, whilst brutal in power, had a real aesthetic quality in its execution. He seemed particularly fond of the Platt Lane End, with the area about twenty-five yards out, to the left of goal, becoming fondly known as ‘Nellie’s Patch’. When he got the ball in this vicinity with a bit of space, fans expected the net to bulge and, on many memorable occasions, they got their wish.

As with all touch players, there were other days as well. Days where nothing seemed to work and he’d appear lazy and disinterested. Players like Neil, though, are all about inspiration, and he provided City with plenty of it, scoring critical goals on so many big occasions – two in the Championship decider, an FA Cup final winner, a goal in the Cup Winners’ Cup final and two in the semi-final.

This is often referred to as the ‘Bell, Lee and Summerbee’ team but, as the eponymous video illustrates very clearly, should really be ‘Bell, Lee, Summerbee and Young’. Somehow, Neil seems to have fallen off the end – unfortunate enough in itself, but when it happened to him again with Crosby, Stills & Nash, he must have thought someone seriously had in for him. City fans privileged enough to see him in the flesh, however, know only too well that he ranks among the very greatest Blues.

I had to wait until late March for City’s next MOTD appearance, and the 2-0 defeat at Elland Road seemed to signal the end of our Championship hopes. Just four days later, however, a famous victory at Old Trafford put us back on track, leading to ultimate triumph in the 4-3 win at Newcastle. The Championship in my first season as a supporter – truly a dream.

The Thrill of It All

3. 18 MARCH 1970, CUP-WINNERS’ CUP: CITY 1 ACADEMICA DE COIMBRA 0

City’s hopes of retaining the title so enthrallingly won were over by October, with Allison’s boast that we’d terrify Europe also being made to look rather silly by the less-than-mighty Fenerbahçe. Worse still, I didn’t attend a single game all season. Dave had drifted away, first to older friends and then out of the area, and I basically had no-one to take me to matches. It didn’t make me any less committed though, as I followed our every move via newspapers, radio and, still occasionally, TV.

Glory came via the FA Cup; I watched the final with my grandad, celebrating Neil Young’s winning goal with some gusto. My only other recollection of cup final day, strangely, is Simon Dee (who seemed a rather trendy guy to an eleven-year-old, but then so did Tony Blackburn) congratulating City on their Wembley win at the start of his early evening show.

At the start of the following season I managed to persuade my less-than-fully-fit grandad to take me to the opening game. A beautiful summer’s day saw Sheffield Wednesday take a 4-1 hammering, with Young scoring two delightful goals. By then, I was about to start my second year at my new school, having passed some exams to get into Oldham Hulme Grammar. My mum was very proud, but no-one else on the estate had even heard of the place, and I felt a sense of being dislocated from my roots even before I got there. It didn’t get any better.

There were a few other boys at school who followed City, but we were well outnumbered by United and, indeed, Oldham supporters. However, the place was such a haven for stuck-up posh kids that the majority of my classmates had no interest in football whatsoever. Unbelievable. Fortunately, a couple of my new fellow Blues were also keen to get to matches, and my browbeaten mum agreed to let me go with them. At last, I became something of a Saturday afternoon Maine Road regular and started to get the feel of the ground and its surroundings. The strangely alluring smell of the burger vans, the Lloyd Street programme shop, the weirdos standing outside the main stand with their ‘The End Of The World Is Nigh’ placards, the excitement of the floodlights – then the ground itself – coming into view for the first time, bringing with it, I hoped, the sight of the TV equipment vans outside.

Midweek matches, however, were still forbidden territory without adult company. Fortunately, a work colleague of my mum’s had a City-daft husband, and two sons close to my own age. My eternal pestering paid off when the mums collaborated to enable me to go to some night games. Perfect timing, since we’d made real progress in Europe, reaching the quarter-finals of the Cup-Winners’ Cup.

We’d been drawn against Academica de Coimbra. Nobody seemed to know anything about them, other than that they came from Portugal, were supposedly a student side, and that City ought to be much too good for them. We got a 0-0 draw in the first leg in Portugal, apparently content to play a containing game.

Doubtless, City had held back a bit in view of the League Cup final three days later, where we needed all our strength to pull off a 2-1 extra-time win over West Brom on an appalling Wembley pitch. By the time Academica came to Maine Road for the return leg where, for the first time, I was installed in the Kippax, City had thus completed a clean sweep of domestic honours in the space of just three seasons.

The Kippax was a huge terrace, stretching down the whole of one side of the pitch, and was the source of all the chants which reverberated around the stadium. ‘Sha-la-la-la Summerbee’, ‘E for B and Francis Lee’, ‘We’ll drink-a-drink-a-drink to Colin the King, the King, the King’, ‘M-I, M-I-C, M-I-C-K, Mick Doyle’ and lots of others were well familiar to me, but this was the first chance I’d had to join in with them. A personal favourite was the totally incongruous ‘Tott’nam are a load of WANKERS! (tra-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-laa)’, which always got an airing irrespective of the opposition. The fact that Spurs came from 200 miles away and had never, to my knowledge, done anything to justify being singled out in this way, somehow really appealed to me. (An even more innocuous victim of this sort of treatment would soon emerge, with the widespread adoption of ‘We hate Nottingham Forest…’. Becoming the object of nationwide contempt just because your name happens to scan is possibly a bit on the harsh side.)

The overall sensation was enhanced dramatically by the effect of the floodlights and, as kick-off approached, there was a buzz around the Kippax which I’d never experienced in the Platt Lane seats. It felt so much more like being at the centre of things, rather than just observing them. I’d certainly never been part of anything so deafeningly loud, as the teams came out and the crowd urged City to get about these Portuguese minnows.

Any expectations that this team of ‘students’ would be long-haired, bearded, pot-smoking promoters of peace and love were squashed immediately. They wore a sinister all-black strip, and played as though their degree courses had trained them to become masters in unarmed combat. The combination of ten men behind the ball, a brutal approach and a lenient referee meant that City’s play acquired no rhythm whatsoever, to the crowd’s increasing frustration. The few chances that did come our way were squandered, and we were further disrupted as first Heslop and then Bell were lost to injury. Doyle would have gone the same way had we not by then run out of substitutes. The Portuguese ’keeper, described by Allison as ‘suspect’ before the game, looked anything but as he dealt competently with what little was able to penetrate the black barricade in front of him. Their tactics were clear – play for another goal-less draw, then another in the third match play-off (penalties still being some years away) and hope to prevail via the 50/50 outcome of the toss of a coin.

As we moved into extra time, the suspect ’keeper still looked unbeatable and those in front of him continued to perform with grim, unyielding determination. A night of pure frustration.

The last of the 120 minutes is upon us. A hopeful cross into a crowded penalty area. The ’keeper makes his one, fatal, mistake. He flaps at the cross, palming the ball only as far as Tony Towers, just inside the area. The seventeen-year-old, on as a substitute, blasts the ball unerringly past the ’keeper and the men on the line into the roof of the net. It feels like the roof is going to come off the Kippax – I’ve never seen nor heard a celebration like it. The Portuguese sink to their knees and, within seconds, the final whistle blows. The instant transformation in mood of everyone around me beggars belief.

Towers, the teenage prodigy, makes all the next day’s headlines. He’d go on to play over 150 games for City, before moving to Sunderland, with whom he’d win 3 full England caps. And yet, at the age of seventeen, had he already experienced his most thrilling moment on a football pitch? It not only catapulted him from nowhere into all the papers, but also made him a part of City folklore. Mention Tony Towers to any City supporter of this era, and this dramatic strike is what will immediately spring to mind.

For sure, in my own brief City-watching career, nothing had come close to matching the thrill of Towers’ goal – and nothing would come close to stopping me getting to the semi-final either.

Young – Gifted and Back

4. 15 APRIL 1970, CUP-WINNERS’ CUP: CITY 5 SCHALKE 1

The semi-final draw paired us with Schalke. I’d never heard of them, but they were German, so they must be good. As in all the previous rounds, we were away in the first leg, usually reckoned to be an advantage. I always found something to worry about, though; although we’d excelled in two cup competitions, our League form was little short of disastrous.

A recent reverse was a 5-1 humiliation at the hands of West Ham, just three days after the Academica cliffhanger. The game became famous for a freak goal by Ronnie Boyce, who from forty-five yards volleyed Joe Corrigan’s clearance from wide of his own six-yard box back into the net as the hapless and totally oblivious ’keeper ambled back to his goal. For me, though, more notable was the performance of Jimmy Greaves, by far my favourite non-City player, making his debut for the Hammers. He scored two goals this day, both executed with total economy of effort and perfect balance as he simply passed the ball into the net. A true genius, the like of whom I’ve never seen since.

By all accounts, the first leg in Germany was an extremely high-quality game of football, in which Schalke snatched the only goal about 15 minutes from time; the tie couldn’t have been more perfectly poised. Even our then customary derby win at Old Trafford (the third of five in a row) hardly registered on my radar screen, as I counted down the days to the second leg.

The imminence of such a high-profile, exciting game helped take my mind even further away from the misery that was life at school. Though not quite awash with Morrissey’s belligerent ghouls, it was still a hideously unfriendly place, with pupils addressed by our surnames by teachers and classmates alike. Refer to anyone by their Christian name and you’d instantly be branded ‘a puff’. There was, however, one individual who, throughout my whole time at school, never once referred to me by my surname.

‘Sam’ Bell was the sort of schoolmaster who sticks in your mind for the rest of your life. A thickset Yorkshireman, yet as camp as anything you’d ever meet, he was Fred Trueman meets Larry Grayson, and in consequence spoke with the most extraordinary accent. To me, he seemed totally unhinged, and oscillated between violent temper and effeminate double-entendre (‘I bet that Priestley’s gone off for a puff’, ‘I’m going in the darkroom with Mr Hodder’). You never knew quite what to expect in chemistry lessons.

For some reason, he could never quite get to grips with my surname, and I endured five years of being referred to as ‘Mingham’. Even now, I vividly recall some of our exchanges:

‘Mingham! When aah say underlaahn aah mean underlaahn, and NOT double underlaahn!’ would form the inevitable prelude to having my exercise book chucked in the waste-paper bin for the crime of double-underlining my headings.

‘Haven’t you had a sweetie already, Mingham?’ as, along with everyone else, I rejoined the queue for the jelly babies he’d occasionally distribute to the class.

‘By God, Mingham, you’re no damn good! Aah’ve taught you everyfinn I know, and you STILL know nuffin!’ No wonder chemistry was my worst subject.

One day, feeling particularly brave, I stood up and answered him back:

‘Keep away from those bunsen burners, Mingham.’

‘The name’s Mingle. M-I-N-G-L-E. MINGLE!’

‘Sit dahn, Mingham.’

He was incredibly easy to mimic, and break times would see boys of all ages wandering around speaking in Sam Bell accents. When I got to university, and conversation turned to ‘lunatic schoolteachers I have known’, Sam always took pride of place and, before long, people who’d never even met him were talking more like Sam than Sam himself. Only Elvis Presley can have had more impersonators.

Despite the big impression Sam made on me, it was more usually his namesake Colin who occupied my thoughts, and I knew that he and the rest of our key players would need to be on top form for this crucial game. After a day spent wishing away the lessons even more fervently than usual, I boarded the coach and chatted excitedly about the prospects for the evening ahead.

We took our place in the Kippax well before kick-off, trying as best we could to locate the spot where we’d stood in the previous round. I read the programme from cover to cover, devouring every morsel of information. Libuda, scorer of their first-leg goal, was clearly the danger man. I learnt my first word of German, ‘Mannschaftfuhrer’; there haven’t been many more since. The programme also contained a guide for the arithmetically challenged as to the operation of the away-goals rule, illustrating the overall outcomes which various second-leg scores would bring. Helpful for the newcomer, perhaps, but examples such as ‘If City win 3-1; City go through’ seemed a tad insulting. Of course, the stark truth was that if Schalke scored one, we indeed needed to get three. Keeping it tight at the back would be critically important, I thought. But what did I know?

Schalke did get one, and Libuda proved to be the danger man by scoring it, but not before City had scored five in an astonishingly brilliant display of relentless attacking football. The whole match was one continuous joyous celebration, and many involved on this glorious night claim it to be City’s finest performance throughout the whole Mercer-Allison era.

The vital opening goal came when the ball was deflected into the path of the marauding Mike Doyle, who put it away cleanly from around the penalty spot. Shortly afterwards, Neil Young provided an identical finish, this time after latching onto a lovely through ball from Oakes. Just before half-time came the pick of the goals, a real Nellie trademark.

Seeing Oakes in possession, Young made a run towards the edge of the area to get free of his marker. Oakes played a nice pass parallel to the direction of Young’s run. As the ball came alongside Nellie, he smashed it first time without breaking step, and it ripped into the corner of the net like a shell. Absolutely breathtaking. The effect was of a perfectly executed sprint-relay baton change, with Young accelerating into full stride as the ball caught him up, and not even having to look over his shoulder to see when it would arrive.

What a fantastic performance from Young. He’d been having one of his wretchedly out-of-form runs, having scored just one goal since Christmas and being dropped for a couple of matches, but was such a big-game specialist that he could hardly be left out of this one. Now he was back in real style.

The second half was a procession towards the Scoreboard End, with Lee blasting in an unstoppable angled drive and Bell expertly hooking in a delicate first-time flick. Libuda’s late consolation received polite, almost sympathetic, applause from the crowd, many of whom were doubtless wondering how they could get to Vienna for the final in two weeks’ time. That, of course, would be well out of my own reach, but I didn’t care – we’d made history by getting to our first European final and I’d been there! The excitement of that floodlit night lived with me for weeks afterwards, and I kept reading the programme again and again, attempting to recreate the occasion in my mind.

City duly took the trophy, beating Gornik 2-1 in a rain-sodden final. It was a truly unique occasion, the only appearance by a British side in a European final not to be televised live. It clashed with the Chelsea-Leeds FA Cup final replay, which both BBC and ITV chose to screen despite, in Joe Mercer’s words, it being a mere qualifying round for the tournament we were poised to win. I was disgusted. Would they have made the same decision had it been United in the final rather than us? A less well-balanced child might have concluded that, despite being the country’s most successful team over the last three years, we were getting far less recognition than we deserved.

That would have made two of us.

Hail the King of Cool

5. 10 OCTOBER 1970, FIRST DIVISION: CHELSEA 1 CITY 1

By the start of the next season, I was a true home-game regular. Away matches, however, were still out of the question unless I had a companion, and I knew no-one else sufficiently committed to want to travel further afield. Alternate Saturdays, therefore, found me at a bit of a loose end. Occasionally, I’d get my footballing fix by going to watch Latics, but then decided that City reserves might be a better bet. I’d get more programme vouchers to help guarantee tickets for big games, as well as getting an early glimpse of our future stars.

Reserve games usually attracted crowds of a thousand or so to Maine Road, many of whom were armed with transistor radios in order to keep up-to-date with the first team’s fortunes. Those not so equipped needed to rely on the manual scoreboard operator who, whenever a goal had been scored, would select two digits from the pile lying by the scoreboard and, to widespread anticipation from the crowd, place them carefully in the spaces alongside the letter ‘A’. A groan or round of applause would greet the outcome, followed by a little hubbub of