Jim Curtis

Why Blue?

I have asked myself that a few times over the past few years, but I suppose that in my case it started off as why not, and now I could not stop if I wanted to. And sometimes I really want to.

I lived my childhood in Chester and as far back as I can remember, I was a football nut. I had all the stickers in my album, spent all my pocket money on football stuff, knew everything about clubs, their grounds, their nicknames and who played for them. Anything to do with football I craved. My school books were covered in pictures of footballers cut out from newspapers.

Unlike most of my school friends I did not have a team as such. Most people at school “supported” Everton, but none would ever make the 20-mile trip to see them play. As a football anorak, I did not go to any games either, until I was 11 and one of the big boys in the street took me to Sealand Road to watch Chester play Blackpool. I was amazed at Sealand Road. I had never seen such a huge stadium. My entire experience of football watching had consisted of school playing fields and television. I suppose there was a crowd of 3-4000, but I was well and truly addicted. All my ravenous reading of Scorcher magazine had been preparing me for this – actually watching live football.

Over the next few years I would go to more Chester matches. The bus to the ground cost 2p for a junior and admittance was 20 new pence. We used to buy a packet of Wrigley’s and when the team came out we would throw a stick of “chuddy” to the Chester goalkeeper Grenville Millington. He always took it, but kept it for after the match. I suppose he did not want to risk a choking accident by chewing during the match. Very steady was Grenville.

As I grew older and into my teenage years some of my schoolfriends started venturing farther afield and would return from Liverpool, Everton, and Manchester with stories of 50,000+ and a swaying mass of humanity. Not for them the homely delights of Chester. A new boy came to the school, his family had moved from London. He was a Spurs supporter and he and I, supported by paper rounds and generous grandparents would go to watch Spurs in away matches at Bolton, Anfield, Maine Road and other grounds in the North West. Here I saw the bigger grounds and the crowds of Londoners nearly always very drunk and itching for a fight with any “F***ing northern w**kers”. I was not a bit scared, but I did try to effect a cockney accent at these games. Pure self preservation you understand.

When I was 18 I moved to Manchester to become a student and immediately set about trying the local clubs for size. Stockport, Bury, Oldham and Rochdale were all lower division and although they had a certain honesty it was hard to relate to them and their supporters. There were lots of in-jokes which I as an outsider couldn’t fathom. I went down to Old Trafford and was put off by the arrogance and self importance of the club and their supporters. You must know that this was 1980, the Rags had not won the League for 13 years and were not to win it for a further 13 years but the club even then considered themselves the elite and called themselves the world’s biggest club.

At college there was a lad called Rod Young, a soft spoken Irishman from Derry. He would go to Maine Road and invited me along for a match. City had lost the previous week to Liverpool 0-3 at home and were bottom of the division. I went along and saw MCFC vs. Birmingham. As a long time Chester supporter, I took great joy to shout “Come on City”, “Up the Blues” as these were also Chester shouts. The game was awful but just when you thought it was 0-0, Birmingham scored a last minute penalty through Archie Gemmill. City were rock bottom and things looked grim for new boss John Bond. Afterwards Rod would say in his understated manner that the team were not playing well and maybe next week would be better versus Notts County in the League Cup.

It was and Dennis Tueart scored 3 as City won 4-2. From then on I was hooked. The crowd were fantastic and cheered the team on even though they had suffered a poor start to the season. This was what football was all about. I bought a season ticket as Rod promised me that City get to Wembley every few years. If only.

The years have passed and I have long since lost touch with Rod. My wife and I go to all the games now where finances and time commitments allow, and City are what punctuate my life. I have graduated from the snotty kid who memorised all the FA Cup winners and Champions since the war and marvelled at the scale and magnificence of Sealand Road (now an Olympus Sportsworld and drive thru MacDonalds) to a Man City anorak. I am sorry but that is the person I am.

Sometimes I wish I was a master of repartee and wit, but I cannot be what I ain’t. and what I am is CTID. In every sense.

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #440 on