Andy Noise

Why Blue?

(Incorporating How, What, Where and When Blue?)

Most regular attendees of Maine Road have some tangible reason for supporting City, not many as tenuous as this, though. At the tender age of six and two weeks, I wandered into the lounge one Saturday afternoon to find my dad about to watch football on the telly. Incidently ‘telly’ in those days was a 10 inch black and white. Turned out the match was the ’69 Cup Final, City vs. Leicester. I apparently chose City to win and being the contrary little git that I was, decided they were my team.

Background info: Living, as I did, in a miserable little outpost called Borehamwood (between Barnet and Watford), all the kids at my school supported London teams. The nearest 1st Division clubs were Arsenal and Spurs at about ten miles away (no one outside Watford actually supported Watford and Barnet were non-league). For some reason Spurs weren’t fashionable at the time and everybody supported Arsenal or the then glamour team, Chelsea.

I remember no more details of City until the following years’ Cup Winners’ Cup final against Gornik, when I was allowed to stay up and watch the highlights on Sportsnight. I do remember that Franny Lee had already become my hero, although on what basis I’m not sure.

The following season staying up became the norm if we were on Match of the Day. A cup game against Wigan whose outcome was closer than it should have been, sticks out.

By now, I’d discovered Midweek Sports Special on Radio 2. As we were in Europe again, I was happily going to bed at 7.30 to listen to games on the radio. We beat Gornick again (as usual, thought I) and next were Chelsea. I wasn’t prepared for the shock when we lost. This was our cup. I expected us to win (youth, eh?).

It didn’t happen.

Still, soon after, a parcel turned up for me and it was my first City kit. The plain blue shirt with a white collar and cuffs and a badge to sew on yourself. This arrived via the post, needless to say, as finding any thing to do with City in the local shops was rare to say the least. Ironically, since ragomania broke out, it’s even more difficult now. By hook or by crook I was acquiring all the necessary trappings of a ’70’s football fan, the silk scarf, metal badge, holdall (or whatever we called them then), and the Subbuteo team. One Christmas, I received the Subbuteo Continental Club edition. You got a couple of teams included, Everton and Bristol City as I recall, but in addition to these I got Man City. A dab hand at Airfix kits, I painted numbers on their backs (they gave you sticky numbers but they were crap), gave Franny blond hair and later gave Dave Watson a permanent nose bleed (he’d had one on Match of the Day, presumably). This was surpassed by adding glue to Brian Kidd’s head and painting it to give him a big curly perm. This made his ability to swerve much greater, no doubt why the Liverpool team of the time achieved so much.

Back to reality. I managed my first game when I was eight, away at Spurs. 1-1 and the guy over the road was on the books at Spurs and got me into the dressing rooms after the game. When confronted with Franny, my idol, I was speechless. Joe Corrigan was obviously no big deal as I managed a few words with him.

As I said earlier, at school you were either Chelsea or Arsenal. There was a Rag at secondary school, but this was the days of back heels and one derby defeat in six years, so I was King in that battle. Barring two Spurs fans (who were certified odd) the rest of the school was split firmly in two. You could normally escape the major battles or be roped in as a mercenary. Suffice to say you didn’t necessarily have half the playground on your side when the other half was chasing you. And you never left your City bag unattended. Good character forming stuff.

Being young and in the South, chances to see the Blues were rare. It was Fulham or nothing in our house, so that’s where we went. At least I was going to a game every week. No other kids did. It never occurred to me what it would be like going to see City every week. By Christ, however, it was exciting when you did. I got to a fair amount of City’s games at Arsenal and Tottenham, but that was not enough and my enthusiasm waned in the late seventies when punk became more important. Not a lot of football/music crossover in those days. I think that Malcolm selling my second (and final?) Blue hero Dennis Tueart didn’t help.

If, to all ‘born and bred in Burnage’ Blues, this sounds a bit like the excuses of a Rag glory hunter, I was sixteen OK? Football was not the main priority.

Ultimately, I don’t agree with supporting some team on the far side of the country. Given the choice I’d rather not. It’s expensive, lonely and dangerous. But a moment’s folly at the age of six has shafted me for life.

Needless to say, when it came to applying for University, my choices were UMIST and Salford, because “I support Man City and I’m into Joy Division (who were singerless at the time!)” I told the old codger interviewing me. Blank response.

Crap grades and Salford it was. Maine Road was a mere 55 calf-aching minutes’ walk away. It was the time of Trevor Francis and… Aage Hareide. Variable to say the least.

But now I was on the Kippax every home game. I had a spot. I’d enter through the back of the Kippax and walk up towards the away fans, finishing about a three quarters of the way along and a quarter of the way from the front. I’d arrive at 2.30, read the programme and nod to those who I recognised and then shout my lungs out for 90 minutes. Well that’s how I remember it.

Aways were down to Victoria (normally) and another ground to tick off the list. I can still remember returning from Carlisle in a pitch black train and barred windows on more than one occasion.

I’d at least grown out of hero worshipping a certain player by now (apart from Maradona). Nicky Reid’s was the name I’d cheer the loudest (he was once actually cited in a Dear John letter, an ex-girlfriend sent me), but as I said, Tueart was my last real hero. Is it growing up, or lack of quality, but I don’t even have a favourite player these days? After Reid there was Wilson, Lake, Quinn and Rösler. Now?

I digress.

The Luton game was in there somewhere. I felt physically sick for the rest of the weekend. It really never crossed my mind we’d actually go down. After the previous week’s party at Brighton (when Kevin Reeves scored one of my all time favourite goals, not a classic but you had to be there), we seemed OK. I even went to the Sty on the intervening Wednesday, Luton’s second last game. I stood on the United Road side adorned in my City shirt, yelling abuse at Luton. Probably seemed like a bit of cabaret to the Scum in retrospect, but, I was young (-ish).

Relegation, however, just made me want to go even more. It was the winter of Parlane and Tolmie. We had a couple of 6-0’s, Chelsea away when about 150 of us were very lonely in the middle pen in the away end, and being City, Newcastle away, when we lost 5-0 and our goalie was still the man of the match. Went on the service (a normal train!) and got chased through the town centre as a bit of my City shirt was showing out of my coat. Although the service gave you more freedom to have a mooch and a pint, it was considerably more hairy. If you wore colours, the above happened. If you didn’t, getting in, with a southern accent, was a hassle. More than once at London games, I was quizzed about City by Police or stewards, before being allowed in. Who were your summer signings, what terrace do you normally stand on, etc?

I remember travelling around Europe one summer, wearing my City shirt until it rotted. This was pre-Heysel and the English were still welcome. I wore the shirt to a Juventus game and a group of fans I’d met on a bus earlier got a chant of ‘Manchester’ going. It was a great way of ingratiating yourself with the locals.

Mid-eighties, work was scarce and after a time on the dole, I got a job in back in London. This time I was still managing plenty of games. It’s typical City that what stands out are the spectacular defeats. 1986 and I’d gone to Holland for a couple of months. I’d gone to the Members’ Cup games against Hull (Northern Final, no trophy), so flying back for the final was a must. Ended up (in our section) next to a Chelsea fan who was too scared to sit with his own fans. My other memory was the infamous relegation game at West Ham. I’d persuaded a West Ham supporting mate to stand with me in the City end. All was well till after the game, when, for those who were not there, all their fans poured on the pitch and made their way to our end. My mate was shitting himself (I was none too happy). The prospect of a kicking from your own fans is, well but no. We all joined in with mutual back slapping and community singing.

In late ’87, I upped sticks and moved to Holland and had my second dip in City support. Amazing as this followed the most prolific goal scoring spell in living memory (nice way to leave, a ten, a six and lots of fours). Following Feyenoord seemed far more important and such highlights as the 5-1, I only read about on the Monday morning. I presumed that it was a mis-print in the paper, and we’d lost 5-1! It was only when I saw an English paper, later in the day, that I believed it.

My (still) love of Feyenoord means a staunch loathing of Ajax. Since Gio went there, I’ve even started looking at their results. Echt grappig, dit jaar (it’s been along time and it’s probably wrong).

After three years in Holland, I got a job in Turkey. Needless to say, I shared an office with a load of Fenerbahce fans, who wound me up mercilessly. Turkey had had a rough time in the seventies and eighties and their win against us was still a big deal. Not anymore, I hasten to add. I already liked Galatasaray, so that merely strengthened my allegiance. By now I was firmly back into City again and got to see the goals on TV each week. Not to mention getting fanzines and newspaper cuttings sent to me aswell. After witnessing Feyenoord’s worst period in years, I saw Galatasaray win just one (!) trophy in two years. Like City, it did nothing to dampen the fans. The crowd were awesome. They got a bit confused when me and a mate, after a few beers, started singing English football songs with a Turkish slant. “Hayrettin, Hayrettin, give us a wave.” “There’s only one Tugay Kerimoglu”. “En buyuk Cim Bom Bom” got a much better reaction.

After two years, I returned to the UK and actually managed half a dozen City games. It was the Autumn of ’92 and I saw Lakey play for one last time and away wins at Wimbledon and Sheff Wed (Ooh Vonky, Vonky) before departing again, this time for Malaysia.

It was incredible. There were more Reds than in Torquay. I hear the Scum have actually opened a shop there now. I went to watch the National team one night, wearing my City shirt naturally, and I had people chanting at me. Left two weeks before the Scum won the league, it would have been unbearable to stay.

It was whilst here that I started writing stuff for the fanzines. Initially bits for K of the K, and for the last three years, a regular stream of drivel for Bert Trautmann’s Helmet. Over the last six months my ego has stretched to putting stuff in McVittee.

Spent six months travelling, managing to listen to City on beaches, in swamps and adorning the world with City car stickers and graffitied club badges. Never met a single Blue although came across a girl in the middle of Indonesia one day. Spoke no English but was dead proud of her City T shirt.

Returned to the UK at the end of ’93. Again tried to find work in Manchester. To no avail.

Ended up in Chesterfield, without a job and a car. It was early ’94 and Franny was imminent. Every home game now was a half hour walk to Chesterfield station, 1.5 hours on the train and another half hour walk from Piccadilly. All told this amounted to 12 miles of legwork, worth it to watch Rösler and Walsh but Shutt and Griffiths was pushing it.

These days I live in Derby, so it’s a couple of hours each way just for a home game. Pretty grim coming home on your tod after a mid-week defeat. Still, the saga of my last few years has been done to death in Bert.

My obsession with the Blues, however, seems to get worse. The more I write, the more stats obsessed I get (databases etc.). I’ve also started going to a few reserve games each season.

The internet has certainly changed things for City fans outside Manchester. Keeping up with the gossip and trivia was always a problem. Nowadays who needs GMR and the M(U)EN?

This was supposed to have been just a Why Blue, not a life story. Sorry, call it catharsis. Cup Final day, this season will be my thirtieth anniversary of being a Blue. I don’t see us picking up any new fans in the manner that I was ensnared.

Any Derby Blues ever fancy starting a Supporters’ Club branch? I’m too lazy.

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #464 on