Andy Irving

Why Blue?

Disclaimer – this is written at 3.00am on a Saturday morning and I tend to talk b******s after about two o’clock in the afternoon. I hail from Stockport, hail being the operative word with precipitation (and, just to get it off my chest, a pathological loathing of caravans) featuring prominently in my formative years west of the Pennines. I remember Stockport in the late sixties being a town (note town, not County) divided in its support between the two Manchester clubs, United and City. Funny but nobody ever considered supporting Stockport County, not even its own players’ families. Also, for the record, Stockport had one of the first caravan showrooms in the North of England although this fact has no bearing on anything that is to follow.

So, I was faced with a stark choice – Blue or Red. Bit like the Jets and Sharks in West Side Story really but without the American accents and the fancy dancing. Oh, and without the songs. And it rained more. A lot more. Anyway, Blue or Red? I had no hesitation in choosing Blue. Why? Prepare yourselves for the worst “Why Blue?” ever… Because I liked the colour. The blue shirt complemented my jeans and the long sleeves set off my tank top a treat. I looked snazzy alright – a real crowd pleaser. Stop and consider for a moment, what if the MCFC kit had been, say, fawn or some other colour? Easy. Answer – I would not now be writing a “Why Fawn?” or a “Why Mauve?” because I wouldn’t support Manchester City because I don’t like these colours. Looking back it’s funny how an embryonic interest in fashion all those years ago could lead to thirty years of ecstasy and frustration, delight and disappointment. I’ve seen two hundred and forty seven managers come and go, had more weekends ruined than I care to remember and now it’s Frank Clark’s turn to systematically shaft my marriage and alienate my kids. But, like most fans, the worse it gets the more I support them. I want to see them in the Premiership again but a spell in the Beezer Homes League would be just as interesting – we’d still get 26,000 for home games.

When Tony Book came back for a second stint how many of us said “not again”? Brian Horton was appointed and it was a cacophony of “who?”, with Alan Ball it was “oh God, no.” When Frank Clark was asked why he wanted the Man City job he replied he needed to pay his mortgage. MCFC manage my expectations brilliantly so I expect very little and I’m happy at that. It’s the poverty of desire. Anyway, for what it’s worth, I’d like to see Cherie Lunghi given a chance. At the end of the day Manchester City are still playing in blue and that’s all that matters to me. MCIVTA is the self-help group and this has been like therapy for me. It’s taken guts to admit the fickle nature of my support when, to the outside world, I follow MCFC as if I was spawned from the very loins of Colin Bell and Frannie Lee (an unholy alliance if ever there was one!).

Anyway, back to caravans. I hate the names which imply speed – Sprite, Monza. Ever been stuck behind one? My parents had one called a Caribbean Buccaneer and the furthest we ever went in it was Tenby. The caravan used to rock when my parents bonked and the perspex skylight was yellow which made us look permanently jaundiced. The step for climbing into the caravan could be turned upside down to carry milk, in transit, but then the step was an upturned milk crate after all. Victoria Wood once said only the British could invent a static caravan. And another thing…

P.S. Frank Clark – a tip for the dug out – will you please stop slapping your forehead and bending at the knees every time there’s some drama on the pitch. My wife thinks you should wear lederhosen.

P.P.S. Hello to the Nestl