Mark Dale

Why Blue?

I was born in Gorton in ’64, my older brother Paul preceding me by just over 3 years, and my kid bruvver Ian 18 months later. My Old Fella was (and is) a Red. This didn’t matter though, as I worshipped my big brother who, being the rebel, decided to support the Blues, mainly to p*** the Old Man off. I duly followed, with Ian turning Red. At the time, my mam’s sister was well into the 60s club scene, running pubs and clubs that attracted most of both City and United’s players including the likes of Best et al. One of Paul’s claims to fame was that, thinking she was doing him a favour, my Auntie arranged for Georgie (plus entourage), to arrive in Watson Street one Saturday morning to take Paul to that day’s Rag match in a Roller. Much to everyone’s horror, Paul refused as Bestie was a ‘Red’, and, despite actual begging (plus the odd threat), our kid stuck to his guns. I don’t think the Old Fella has forgiven him yet, and I was sold.

Thereafter, from 11 onwards (we’d moved to Moston in ’69) I went to every match I could. This stopped at 16 when I joined the Army. Mostly because the Regiment I joined was Rugby orientated and I gradually lost touch (spending the best part of 11 years abroad didn’t help. Boll*cks. Trying a tad too hard to explain lack of loyalty aren’t I?). Anyway, in ’91, I lost respect for human rights and joined the Met. Police. Now these people are football mad. That’s great if you love the Hammers or the Gooners etc, but not for a lapsed Blue like me. Eventually, after 7 years of listening to football being discussed day in, day out (whether you like it or not), I decided to adopt a London team, just to keep up with the pace. Something was nagging though. Some small voice inside murmuring, murmuring. It kept on. I ignored it and toyed with the Hammers (we Police most of their games anyway. Why not when you get to see a lot of their games on the Job’s time?). Back to the voice; City, City, it whispered. Still I ignored it.

Then, one fine day, at the begining of a particular season, the Rags were playing their first game at West Ham, and press speculation was rife as to how fans would react to Beckham’s first domestic appearance after his unforgettable tantrum in France. I’ll tell you. The United bus got bottled and 3 (yes, 3!) Rags ‘charged’ the home firm in the Anne Boleyn pub. I was outside at the time, and after a couple of hours listening to United fans gobbing off (and not a Manchester accent to be heard), I was particularly distressed to be ordered into the pub to stop this outrageous example of football hooliganism by force. Very shortly after (never forget, there are 28,000 Old Bill down here, twice that of GMP and the West Mids put together), all three miscreants were nicked by me and my carrier. One was from the West, and the other two from the home counties. What’s more, when we got them to the charging centre, in a room full of MUFC prisoners, the only Mancs present were Old Bill. Surprised? That was the final straw. Plus the nagging voice was now shouting City you moron! I checked out where in the 1st Division we were, instead to discover our place in the 2nd. The 2nd?!

This was in the autumn of last year and you all know the rest. I found the club’s web site which led me to McVitee and I’m 11 all over again. For what it’s worth, every single Southern wuss Premier supporter that I know is avidly following the Blues. Without exception, the most common view is “The sooner you get back to where you belong, the better.” Secondly, the loyalty of the Blues’ fans, especially the attendance figures, is definitely not lost on other teams, and is spoken of in admiration. They ain’t seen nothing yet!

CTASOMTBTGS (City Till A Son Of Mine Tells Beckham To Get Stuffed)

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #534 on