Golden Gordon.

In honour of Gordon Strachan and the news that he resigned at Glasgow Celtic FC today I thought I would share a couple of stories regarding the (great) man.
Let me start off by saying that apart from his L**ds and Manchester U****d connections, I really do like the man. He is a decent manager, his interviews were always funny and quote worthy, but as a player I was obliged to strongly dislike him.

PART ONE.

One year back in the early 90's I flew back to England and a friend of mine had arranged for me to have a tour of Maine Road before the match against L**ds, with a chance of meeting City manager Peter Reid and both sets of players.
I also had an old Geordie friend (Keith) who I knew from California coming down for the weekend for a visit. When I informed him of the plan he was well chuffed because apparently his mum had a massive crush on Gordon Strachan, he immediately called her and she ordered him to get her idol's autograph for her.
Can you imagine how that conversation would have gone?
"Gordon, can I have your autograph? Errr... it's not for me, it's for me mam"
Anyway I was instructed to go to the players entrance and ask for City's assistant manager Mick Heaton, he came out and told us to hold on while he informed Peter Reid that we were on our way to the dressing room to meet the players.
It was at this point that I started to get cold feet and decided that meeting the players like some awestruck 8 year old wasn't really the thing a retired footy hooligan should be doing.

"Fuck this" I said to Keith, "let's get into the ground, I can't be arsed with this"
"But what about Gordon Strachan?" he whined.
"Fuck Gordon Strachan"

And with that we made our way into the North Stand and took our seats, Keith was devastated.
A few moments later we forgot all about Gordon as 20 or so L**ds fans suddenly appeared in the seats in front of us and were quickly leathered as us and hordes of other City fans eagerly steamed into them.
I could tell that Keith was still gutted though and I swear he might have even been holding back tears as he called his mum that night to inform her that he never meet Strachan after all.
The little ginger git had the last laugh though as he crept through the City back four fucking miles offside to toe poke home the winner in a 3-2 win for the sheepshaggers.
Jammy Yorkshire bastards.

PART TWO.

Back in the 80's when Strachan played for Man United we drew them in the FA Cup at Old Trafford. Strachan was a favourite target for abuse among City fans, because he was ginger, Scottish and usually very annoying.
I was stood with the City fans in the corner section of the Scoreboard End where it meets the United Road Paddock.
Anyway I had typically spent all my money on ale and was already a bit bladdered when up walks my mate Stocker holding two meat and potato pies and as usual, I'm fucking famished.

"Hey Stocker, give us a bite of one of those pies"
"Fuck off, I'm starving"
"So am I you tight twat, just one bite"

While this delightful banter was going on United win a corner directly in front of the City fans and Strachan walks over to take it.

"Fuck off Strachan you ginger twat"
"You Scottish bastard"
"Munich wanker"

And other such charming pleasantries were aimed in his general direction from the City fans. Unfortunately for him it was at this point that Stocker finally relented and decided to give me a bite of one of his pies, he handed it to me just as Gordon sarcastically cupped his ear in order to mock his sky blue tormentors.
He then turned his back to us and bent over to spot the ball in order to take the corner.
Well, I don't know why, but upon seeing this I just snapped.
"Fuck off Strachan" I shouted as I hurled the pie towards him.
"Noooooooooooooooooooo" screamed Stocker anxiously as the pastry treat flew through the air in a perfect arch and seemingly in slow motion until SPLAT!!!!!! It hit the cheeky wee Scotsman right on the back of his pristine white shorts leaving a nice brown gravy stain right around his ring piece making it look like he had follow through on himself.
This was met by a roar of approval from the away fans and I am an instant hero with my fellow blues as many surge forward to pat me on the back or shake my hand to congratulate me on my perfect aim.
Stocker isn't one of them as he is still crying about the loss of his meat and potato pie, oh well, serves him right for being a greedy twat anyway.

Kajagoogoo

The 80's spawned many of the bands that I still worship to this day, it clearly is my favourite era, the time of my youth, good looks and (gasp) even a full head of hair.
But it wasn't all perfect, this was also the height of Thatcher's Britain, record unemployment and musical horrors such as Wham, Duran Duran and Kaja-fucking-googoo.
Fronted by skunk haired tosser Limahl they were truly an abomination clearly aimed at cloth eared 14 year old girls.
Anyway, one New Year's Day in 82 or 83 me and a small group of my scally mates were down early one morning in Manchester City Centre with the intention of "liberating" various items of clothing from our fine retail outlets during the January sales.
We were wandering around the deserted area's around Kendall's and Debenham's waiting for them to open, I think the plan was to relieve them of a few Lyle and Scott, Pringle jumpers, Jeans or Adidas trackie bottoms.
Suddenly a big tour bus pulls up at a red light about 20 yards in front of our mini mob. The bus was covered in graffiti messages of love obviously written by teenage girls (I hope), stuff such as "I love you Limahl" and "Marry me Nick" were scribbled all over it.
We looked up in horror and to see that big goon Nick Beggs with his dodgy haircut waving at us and giving us the thumbs up, while sporting a big cheesy grin.


Obviously the situation was well out of order and clearly needed to be fucking sorted out!!!!

I can't remember exactly which one of our group it was, but somebody chucked a litter bin at the tour bus, it bounced off the window spewing beer cans, bottles and take-away wrappings everywhere.
"It's fucking Kajagoogoo, let's do 'em"
"Fuck off you mop headed twat"
The smile had by now been firmly wiped off Nick Beggs' face and Limahl and the rest of the band were screaming and gesturing at the driver to get out of there pretty sharpish as we chased them down the street throwing whatever we could get our hands on at the bus and as fast as our Forest Hills could carry us.
We gave chase for a couple of hundred yards but couldn't keep up with their lead footed driver. So after our futile race was over we congratulated each other and got back to the business of our shopping trip where we certainly weren't too shy to unite and take over while keeping up with the latest casual fashions using our Langley members only five fingered discount card.

The Sheepshaggers from Elland Road.

Being a Manchester City fan I naturally hate Man United and all things Scouse, but there is one team that I personally hate more than those two combined and I certainly take great pleasure in their current plight in the third tier of English football.
I am of course referring to those dirty inbred scumbags from South Yorkshire, Leeds United.
It was always a battleground whenever City played them whether it was at Maine Road or their horrible shit hole of a ground Elland Road.

One year we went up there on the Yelloways coaches, as we disembarked in the coach car park it was kicking off all over the place with the sheepshaggers and no old bill in sight.
Eventually the Yorkshire plod showed up and ruined the fun, they steamed in and decided to hold the 200 or so City fans involved and escort us to the ground.
As usual they let the white shite go and were being a bit heavy handed with us.
Obviously this was because they were jealous of our superiority due to the fact we hailed from Lancashire and they were unfortunate enough to come from the armpit of England otherwise known as Yorkshire.

Anyway, they decided to hold us under some motorway darkened underpass near the ground and some smart arse mounted copper comes in and starts knocking into City fans with his horse and generally being a prick.
At this point we getting hyped up for the match and gave it a massive chant of "Manchester, la, la, la..."
The sound was completely amplified in such a confined space and the plod's horse panics and starts jumping around. Very unlucky for this particular member of Yorkshire's finest as his head hit the bottom of the concrete underpass and he was knocked out cold, much to our amusement.

Another time we played them up there we were on the piss in the Roebuck in Middleton, when it suddenly dawned on us that travel arrangements hadn't been made and it was already 1.30pm.
Suddenly in walks Lordy who wasn't much of a footy fan , he had just finished his early shift at McBride's and was stopping in for a quick pint before going home for the day.
"Hey Lordy" shouted one of our group, "you have a van, fancy driving us up to Leeds"
"Fuck off"
"We'll all buy you a pint when we get back"
"Oh alright then"

So with that 10 of us piled into the back of his tiny Ford Escort van accompanied by a huge carry out from Tesco's and set off for sheepshaggerland.
Lordy's van was minging by the way. It had no tax disc, the tires were bald, black smoke was coming out of the exhaust pipe, no wipers and it was pissing it down.
Actually there was one wiper but it was sitting on the dashboard and every now and then during the journey Lordy would open the window, lean out and manually wipe the rain off the windscreen while doing 70mph on the motorway.
How we got to Leeds in one piece, I will never know.
When we got to the ground we parked up and all bundled out for a quick piss and it was at this point that Charnock discovered the spare car battery he had been using for a seat was leaking acid and had burnt a hole into the arse his brand new maroon Lois cords.

We didn't really get any bother on the way to the ground, which was just as well as Charnock was so annoyed about his cords that he would have leathered any Yorkie's single handed.
Not sure of the score that day, but we probably won because as bad as we were back then, Leeds were usually a lot worse.

After the game we piled back into the van, upon trying to get back on the motorway Lordy informed us that along with all the other faults on the van his indicators weren't working either.
We came to an intersection and needed to turn right, unfortunately there was a copper directing traffic and because Lordy couldn't signal, he pointed the van straight ahead.
Because of his dodgy motor, Lordy complied as he didn't want any unwanted attention from the local costabulary.
Of course we ended up miles out of our way in a slow moving traffic jam. As we were slowly passing a pub full of Leeds fans one of our lot decided it would be a good laugh to shout "City" out of the window.
Well nobody laughed and we were instantly bombarded with bottles, pint glasses and anything else the neanderthals could get their hands on. We were packed into the van like sardines and there for the taking, Leeds twats surrounded the van, rocking it and trying to drag us out.
"Get off my fucking van you sheepshagging cunts" screamed Lordy while trying to fight them off through his window.
All of a sudden he floored it and mounted the kerb sending Yorkshire inbreeds running in every direction. One or two of them gamely held onto the van for dear life, but fell off as Lordy skillfully weaved down the pavement like a James Bond stunt driver and out of Dodge City.
He certainly earned his free beer that night back at the Roebuck, never a fucking dull moment in Leeds.

10,000 Blues in Blackburn, Lancashire.

At the tail end of the 84/85 season Manchester City were struggling for promotion out of the old 2nd division. In the middle of April we were playing Blackburn Rovers with about five games to go in a "must win" situation.
With Blackburn only a few miles up the road City took a massive following of around 10,000 fans. The away end was seriously overcrowded and 100's of Mancunians were just paying into the sections normally reserved for the home fans. The Yelloways lot made our way to the Blackburn end behind the goal. Upon reaching the turnstiles the police were quizzing fans in an attempt to quell the invading Mancs.
"Who's your favourite Rovers player?"
"Simon Garner"
"Okay, you're in"
"Who scored the winner for Rovers against Barnsley?"
"No idea"
"Fuck off back to the City end"
"Where are you from?" one asked me
"Er... Middleton?"
"Okay, you're in"
Fucking result, I thought I was dead lucky until one of the older lads explained that there was a place called Middleton in most northern cities or towns.
Anyway all of our group got in without any problems and we made our way onto the terraces.
The Ewood Park I entered was before Rovers benefitted from Jack Walker millions and was a bit of a dump. In the days before Shearer, Dalgleish and Sherwood Rovers had to make do with the likes of Noel Brotherston and Derek Frazackerly.
The ground was in even worse shape than their sorry team and with City fans in every stand in huge numbers, there were big scuffles occurring all over the place. Fans were getting chucked out by police left, right and centre. We didn't mind a fight but having to pay in twice was not something we fancied.
We walked through the paddock at the side of the pitch and towards the City end, as we were doing so a fan who'd obviously got a bit of a kicking was being lead past us by the St John's Ambulance with a huge bandage around his head. In a voice mimicking the popular Anadin adverts of that era I shouted across the stand at him, "Headache? Tense, Nervous Headache?" he wasn't amused and gave us the "V" sign.
Oh well, it certainly made dozens around us chuckle.
We eventually made it to the away end and stood directly behind the goal.
To the right of the City end we saw Langley village idiot Daft Donald and his kiddie mob emerge from a massive brawl and a huge sway in the crowd, then they were herded up and packed into the away end to a standing ovation.
Then it kicked off big time again in the Blackburn end behind the goal directly opposite from where we were. There was a big parting of the crowd and we could actually make out members of our coach party in the middle of it all in the distance.
After things quelled down we saw somebody being carried around the pitch on a stretcher, doubled up and obviously in agony.
"Fucking hell, it's Colin Wilson" said one of our lot.
"He looks in a real bad way"
I bet he's been stabbed"

***Now these events happened 25 years ago so the following dialogue may or may not be 100% as it was spoken at the time, but you get the general idea***

"Yeah, I bet he's been stabbed, look at him"
"Yeah, he's definitely been fucking stabbed"
"Those fucking Blackburn bastards"
"We're gonna do them after the match"
"Cunts, we'll smash up the town"
"Yeah"
"We'll kill their kids"
"Yeah"
"We'll rape their pets"
"Fuck yeah"

We spent the next 25 minutes plotting a murderous revenge attack on any Blackburn fans after the game and searched out any Yelloways travellers informing them of the plan, everyone was up for it. But just as our outrage was reaching boiling point who should appear holding a pie and pint looking cool as a cucumber and in perfect health but Colin Wilson?

"Fucking hell Colin are you alright?"
"Yeah"
"Did you get stabbed?"
"No"
"Badly beaten?"
"No"
"But we saw you get carried around the pitch in agony"
"Oh that?" he replied, "I had stomach cramps and had to flag down the St John's Ambulance before I shit myself. They took me around to the City changing rooms and let me go in the bog in there. Billy McNeil was giving the half time team talk while I was behind the door farting up a storm. The players were fucking pissing themselves laughing, but Billy didn't look too pleased when I walked out.
I just let on to him and wished them luck for the second half, his face was as red as fuck.
No more dodgy late Friday night curries for me from the Akash lads"

Obviously Colin pebble dashing the visiting teams shitter did the trick, we wondered why City ran out for the second half so quickly. We won the game 1-0 and got promoted at the end of the season at Rovers' expense, were we always fated to go up or was it just bad korma because of the piss taking actions of the Blackburn St John's Ambulance Brigade?

Valley Parade Tragedy.

On this day 24 years ago 56 innocent football fans died needlessly in a fire at the Valley Parade ground, home of Bradford City FC.
I had spent the day watching Manchester City thrash Charlton Athletic 5-1 at Maine Road, thus gaining promotion to the top flight of English football.
My joy was short lived when I saw the tragic events in Bradford unfold on the news.


On Saturday 11th May 1985, as Bradford City Football Club captured the 3rd Division title a devastating fire engulfed the main stand at their Valley Parade ground killing 56 supporters.
Late in the first half smoke was spotted in the old stand and the fire brigade called. Evacuations began within four minutes and the match abandoned. Over 11,000 fans then witnessed the entire stand quickly go up in flames.
The cause of the fire was put down to the accidental dropping of a match or cigarette stubbed out in a polystyrene cup, reminiscent of the tube disaster in London, where old wooden structures, rubbish and dust burnt very rapidly.

Mr Justice Popwell's official enquiry report was supposed to bring about new legislation governing safety at the nation's sports grounds and stadia, especially the lower divisions antiquated wooden stands that had been in use for decades. He also stated that, "The importance of allowing full access to the pitch where this is likely to be used as a place of safety in an emergency should be plain" A recommendation clearly ignored by the authorities as was to be so tragically exposed fours years later at Hillsborough....


RIP.

Middlesbrough Away 1983/84. Fearsome Park.

There were a lot of football grounds that you didn't look forward to visiting back in the early 80's, proper dumps in the rougher area's of England.
Millwall for a start, either of the Merseyside clubs, West Ham and even going to City as an away fan at Maine Road was pretty daunting and many many others.
Old crumbling relics of yesteryear surrounded by shitty pre-Victorian era housing, with dark alley ways and streets that surrounded the ground like a maze making it all too easy to get lost and not a very inviting proposition for the ordinary footy fan out on a day trip.
Ayresome Park home of Middlesbrough FC was one of these such places situated in the North East of England, not a pretty town at the best of times but on a Saturday afternoon it was a particularly sinister place to be.
Anyway I first visited Boro, back in the 83/84 season with Man City, as usual we travelled up on Yelloways coaches and as we were there quite early a few of us (10 or 12) decided to find a pub to have a drink or two or three or more.
We found a pub called the Wellington, it was empty and looked harmless enough.
We went to the bar to order and the landlord immediately knew we weren't locals due to our superior Mancunian accents.
"Look lads I know you're City fans, you should just have a quick drink and move on, I had a few Barnsley fans slashed in here the other week"
The thing is about the Yelloways mob is that they weren't hooligans, just lads who passionately followed City and liked a drink before and after the match. We very rarely looked for trouble, but having said that, we certainly wouldn't walk away should it arise.
Anyway while the older lads were ordering their ale me and another "young 'un" Tony Rutter decided to walk across the street and get some food from the chippy.

"Meat and potato pie and chips please love" I requested.
"Sorry pet" she replied "we don't do pies here, we only have fish and chips"
"No pies? Really?"
"Aye pet, really"

We were gutted, no pies, I mean what fucking philistines, what a shit hole this Middlesbrough was. I even felt sorry for the locals, although my sympathy was soon proven to be short lived.
Anyway, we ordered our food and left the chippy.
The street that was empty when we walked in was now buzzing as 30 or so Boro lads stood in between us and the pub.
"Fuck" said Rutter "Head down, say nowt"
We walked through them

"Who are you?" one asked
"Are you's City?" said another
Fucking Manc twats"
"You's are fucking dead"
We got a few bumps, kicks and digs for our troubles while crossing the road, but nothing to write home about.
Charming fuckers these Middlesbrough supporters.

We got back in the pub and informed the other lads of our welcoming committee.
"There's fucking loads of Boro waiting for us outside lads"
Everyone looked towards the pub doors and windows, now full of inbred Boro faces, many sliding their fore finger across their throat for the benefit of any deaf and dumb City fans in our party indicating their intentions towards us.
The lads took their time drinking and it seemed every few seconds the Boro numbers outside increased.
The landlord was really nervous at this point and called the police, within seconds a couple of vans speed through the Boro mob scattering them.
The street was now pretty empty, but we knew we hadn't seen the last of them.

Alan Garforth the oldest blue amongst us stood up.
"Right lads" he said "everyone buy two bottles of (Holsten) Pils each, we're tooling up"
We all followed his direction, made our purchase, necked them down in one and stuffed the empty bottles into our coat pockets.
Then we all exited the Wellington and turned towards the ground.
I was only 16 and don't mind admitting that I was shitting myself, sure I could look after myself and sure I was with a few older lads, but at one point there was about 150 locals outside waiting for us and we only had about a dozen in our group.
We were marching to the match in our small group trying to look inconspicuous but failing miserably, a few of the older lads had been through this many times before and knew the score.
One of them came up to me and had a friendly word "It's going to kick off, don't shit it and fucking run you little twat"
Most of this lot were good mates of my uncle Jonah so I knew they'd look out for me.
"Don't run" hissed one of our group in my ear.
"Stick together lads" whispered another.

We turned the corner, we could see the ground just over a 100 yards down the street. Out of a ginnel (alleyway) in front of us about 20 lads suddenly appeared. They looked at us, but carried walking towards the ground. Ayresome Park was very similar to Maine Road with plenty of hiding places, I knew what was coming next.
As we passed another ginnel the Boro lot stopped in front of us, turned, and their mouth piece shouted "Howay the lads, c'mon then you Manc cunts, let's have yer"
I distinctly remember thinking at the time "Howay the lads? I thought only proper Geordie's said shit like that"
Then I was kind of appalled by his obviously cliched choice of language.
While I was pondering the inferior north east dialect another 60 or so Boro boys appeared right behind us, this minor detail didn't go unnoticed by the older lads in our group
"Right lads" shouted Alan, "this is it, fucking stand City, no runners"
I was determined not to let the side down, young twat or not, I was more concerned what my uncle Jonah would say if word got back to him that his nephew legged it rather than my own personal safety.
I was immediately confronted by 5 or 6 Boro, in incidents like this time kind of stands still, you lose all awareness of anything going on around you, it's fucking surreal really, quite a buzz.
"Come on you cunts" I shouted as I pulled my bottles out of my coat.
One threw a punch at me and I dodged it, this gave me a bit of confidence and I hit him across the head with a bottle. I threw the other one at the group and as I did I was punched in the back of the head, fell to the ground and was set upon by god knows how many of them.
I instinctively curled up and tucked my head into my hands, while I was kicked to fuck by several pairs of Adidas and Puma trainers, it seemed to go on for a while but in truth was probably less than a minute.
I remember thinking that it it really didn't hurt, just a few dull thuds and in fairness to the Boro boys they really could have gone to town on me, I was just grateful that this clearly wasn't the same lads that had sliced up Barnsley fans earlier in the season.

The Boro either got bored or legged it with the Police now approaching.
I jumped up, looked towards the ground, there were still loads of Boro lads blocking my way, I looked around for my older City comrades, I first saw Les Jones, bottles in hand walking to the ground surrounded by a group of Boro, but unmolested.
I looked to the other lads for back up and saw them well in the distance legging it back towards the pub. "Don't run you little twat" my arse.

Apart from Les Jones, I was the only fucker who stood my ground.
I was pretty skinny and fast as fuck back then so rather than take my chances with Les, I legged it off towards the others. I caught up to them just as they made it to an off license, with dozens of Boro still in hot pursuit.
We all made it inside.
"What the fuck are you's doing? Get out of my shop" screamed the bloke behind the till.
"Shut it you cunt" shouted one of our group and with that we dead bolted the doors behind us
Luckily for us the windows were protected with steel mesh grills, because we were trapped in the shop and the massive Boro mob would have just smashed the glass, walked in and easily annihilated us.
There were loads of them outside screaming that they were going to "Kill us" and other such pleasantries.
"If you lot don't get out of my shop right now I will call the police" shouted our reluctant host
"Yeah, why don't you fucking do that grandad?" replied Alan

After a few minutes the police did arrive and moved the Boro out of the way.
"Right you soft Manc cunts, come on, we'll take you to the ground" said the pig with the biggest truncheon.
Outside was a Police van and an empty police mini bus.
"Brilliant" said one of us "they're giving us a lift to the ground"
"Oh no we're fucking not" replied PC Plod "you can bloody well follow us"

And with that the police vans set off at a snails pace towards the ground with us following them with dozens and dozens of Boro 20 feet behind us watching our every move, practically begging us to leave the confides of our escort.
We made it to the ground with no further incident and the first face we saw was Les Jones who got in unscathed, adding that the Boro lads didn't touch him.
Inside Ayresome Park I was finally successful in my quest for a pie in Middlesbrough and treated myself to a steak and kidney and a meat and potato at the snack bar, all that running certainly gives you a healthy appetite.
The match ended in a riveting 0-0 draw and apart from a lot of mutual posturing between City and Boro nothing else happened until after the game when the locals treated us to a contest of "Throw darts at the Mancs" and my own personal favourite, "Dodge the flying bricks and bottles"
Outside the Police were firmly on top of things and didn't let us out until the area was fully clear of the inbred locals.
Back at our coach we discovered one of the windows had been put through with a brick by some considerate Boro fan, a chilly drive home ensued, but we lived to drink another day and regale each other with tales of our skirmish all the way back to Middleton.

Coining it in at Sheffield United.

My first visit to Bramhall lane was certainly memorable enough.
Obviously all Lancashire v Yorkshire games are pretty "lively" and this was no exception.
The first thing I noticed after getting off the coach and walking to the ground was it was kicking off all over the place and a police Land Rover was upside down in the middle of the road. Careless driving or the result of an earlier run in with marauding City and Blades fans?
Either way I have never seen anything like that before or since.
Anyway because of the usual shite service Yelloways coaches we got there pretty late and didn't have time for a pre-match pint, so it was straight around the the away end.
The place was absolutely mobbed, with no chance of getting inside in time for kick off.
We decided to pay into the home seats to the left of the away end, and within seconds we sussed by a lone copper as City fans, we claimed we had paid in the wrong stand by mistake.
He told us to wait there and said he'd be back with someone to help us get to the City section.
Chessy who was our leader for the day because he was two years older than the rest of us piped up.
"Fuck that,they are either going to nick us or chuck us out. Let's do one and find our own way to the away end"
So we set off jogging around the maze of tunnels around the back of the seats, it was pretty similar to the scene in Spinal Tap where the band cannot find the stage.
After about 10 minutes of wandering around in a state of confusion and displaying navigational skills not witnessed since Mark Thatcher went driving in the desert, we eventually found ourselves walking up a tunnel leading onto the pitch.
So there we were stood on the touchline in between both sets of fans, the game was in progress and at that very moment the ball was kicked out for a hotly contested decision with City on the attack.
After a delay the linesman gave a corner to City.
The home fans were incensed. while the City fans behind the goal cheered enthusiastically as did our small group on the touchline.
Spotting this we were immediately charged at by dozens of pissed off inbred Yorkshiremen, only to be saved by the red railings surrounding the pitch.
Unable to physically get at us they bombarded us with spit and hundreds of coins.
Being Mancunians, instead of fleeing we gave our rivals the thumbs up and proceeded to pick up the money and pocket it. We made out like bandits apart from Charnock who got one in the eye and stopped cashing in while he unwisely chose to abuse our kind Yorkies. This carried on for a few minutes until the old bill showed up and escorted us to the City end behind the goal.
With our pockets weighed down with a few quids worth of spare change in each pocket we made our way to our own fans to a standing ovation from them.
Even the Blades lads saw the humour on our scally antics and gave us a round of applause as well.
The game was a dull 0-0 draw, but the look on the landlords face on the way home when we paid for a round with our "donated" beer money was almost as tasty as the ale itself.

Watford Away

I once went to Watford five times in one season because they served really good burgers, well that's the local legend around Langley anyway.
I did go there five times during the 1985/86 season, twice with City in the league and the FA cup, once each with Rochdale and Bury in the League cup and again with United in the league on the last day of the season.
The Bury and Rochdale games were both midweek and I was on the dole, so it was just a laugh really. Sure the burgers were good, but not that fucking good.
Situated at the back of the away end was this massive grill where they made the damn things, along with fried onions. It beat the fuck out of a pie and cup of bovril anyway.
The second trip was an FA cup replay game with City on a Tuesday night.
I hitch hiked down there in the snow, setting off from Birch Services. A truck driver from Yorkshire was the first one to give me a lift, he was a bit quiet and didn't say much, he dropped me off half way there much to my relief that he wasn't a Peter Sutcliffe wannabe.
I was then picked up by an Irish Priest, he was pretty sound and even went as far as dropping me off outside the ticket office outside Vicarage Road.
Such was his concern for a good hitch hiking Catholic boy like me that he gave me a couple of nips of whisky to ward off the cold.
At the ticket office I bought the cheapest ticket available but was sussed out as a Manc by a steward the second I walked into the stand.
"You're a Man City fan aren't you?" he bellowed from the bottom of the seats.
"How the fuck did he know that?" I thought.
Then I looked around and realised that I had paid into the stand reserved exclusively for kids under the age of 12 and nobody else in there even came up to my chest.
It was pretty embarrassing to be honest.
Luckily he saw the funny side of it and instead of chucking me out of the ground walked me around to the City end.
That was a good thing really as being on the dole I didn't have much cash and if I had to pay in twice it would have severely eaten into my limited burger budget.

Just to back track a bit, the first City visit was for a league game and one of the Yelloways lot Benny had recently acquired two broken legs in a motorbike accident and was on crutches.
Anyone who visited Vicarage Road in the 80's might remember that in order to get to the away end you had to take a long walk up a really steep hill.
Benny obviously couldn't manage it so he flagged down a police van.
"I can't make it up the hill with two broken legs, can you give us a lift?" he asked the rozzers.
"Sure" they said, and he got on board.
We tried to follow.
"Where do you think you lot are going?" one of them asked.
"With our mate"
"Fuck off, you can walk"
"Alright" we moaned, "we'll see you at the ground at the back of the stand Benny"
"Okay lads" he sniggered, "enjoy your walk"

10 minutes later we arrived at the ground, obviously knackered at this point.
No sign of Benny, so we paid in.
Watched the first half, went for a burger (Obviously), still no sign of Benny.
Watched the second half, City were trounced as usual, no sign of Benny.
Hung around the back of the ground outside until the police moved us on, still no sign of Benny.
We finally got back to the coach and there's Benny sitting on the front seat arms folded with a face like a smacked arse, he clearly had the hump.
"What's up Benny?"
"Well those coppers gave me a lift, I thanked them, but that wasn't good enough for them. "Oh no" they say, "we'll take you in there and make sure you're alright". But they are pissing themselves and I soon found out why. They marched me into the dugout in front of the away end. That fucking thing is reserved for handicapped supporters. The thing was full of proper mongs, I had some bloke next to me with no arms and no legs. Those fuckers were bumping into me every fucking time Watford scored, I was showered with mong spit. The place stunk of piss, stunk of shit and not a fucking chance of a pie or a pint. It was the worst fucking experience I have ever had at a football match, ever" he cried.

And that was quite a claim for a Man City fan to make as well.
Needless to say Benny didn't go to the match again until he was off his crutches.

TWP. @ The Casbah Friday Feb 17th 2006.

Set List:

Corduroy
Sucker
Always the Quiet One
Apres Ski
Go Out and Get 'Em Boy
Don't Talk, Just Kiss

Loveslave
A Million Miles
Suck
IFFNTY
Come Play With Me

It's Not You, It's Me
Crushed
Blue Eyes
2,3, Go
Click, Click

Ringway to Seatac
Brassneck

Nobody's Twisting Your Arm
Heather

After months of anticipation the last USA/WP tour finally got under way. The Casbah is a small dive of a venue in downtown San Diego situated at the end of the runway of the airport. It was very dingy and holds about 200 making for an intimate gig. The perfect place to see The Wedding Present really.
The support band Tim Fite were interesting to say the least. The front man Tim was a cross between Jimmy Swaggart, David Byrne's "Once in a lifetime" persona and The Fall's Mark E. Smith. They weren't really my cup of tea to be honest, but I can safely say that I've seen a lot worse opening for TWP.
Sporting two new band members (Chris and Charlie) TWP took the stage and DLG steamed into the set list like a young Mike Tyson throwing strong jabs.
(Bam!!!) Corduroy, three more in quick succession (Bam, Bam, Bam) Sucker, Always the quiet one and Apres Ski.
There could only be one winner in this one sided fight, the audience.

"This song has never been played live in before in America" declared David.
"Jumper Clown" shouted some young wag in the audience.
"Well that's never been done over here, but it's not that one. Go out and get 'em boy".
The new recruits looked slightly nervous on their debuts but supplied ample support for David and Terry and never put a foot wrong.

The revolving door drummer situation in TWP is getting very Spinal Tap. One day I half expect to see a WP drummer explode at his drum kit during the middle of a gig. And given the hectic pace Charlie performed, it just might happen.
DLG was in great spirits, very chatty and cracking puns through out the gig.

"This is an old Cinerama song, it's called Alanis Morrissette, why the long face?"

"I'm getting too old for this, I'm not looking forward to hitting 40"

"I have over 200 songs to chose from" he replied to a request for MFD, "I have 20 on this list and it isn't on it. I never do requests ever."
"Oh no, I've made you groan haven't I love? Come back and see me later"

By the 10th round the crowd were out on their feet as David delivered the knock out blows of Brassneck, NTYA and Heather. A hefty performance and one for all WP purists and indeed WP pugilists.
The only downside was the absence of Simon Cleave, but such is the nature of the beast that is TWP. A great performance though and it looks like I'll have to hit the gym in preparation for the re-match at the Troubadour next week.

TWP. @ The Troubadour Saturday Feb 25th 2006

Set List:

Courduroy
Sucker
Blue Eyes
Always the Quiet One
Apres Ski
Go Out and Get 'Em Boy
Don't Talk, Just Kiss
Loveslave
A Million Miles
Suck
I'm From Further North Than You
It's Not You, It's Me
Crushed
Falling
2,3, Go
Click, Click
Ringway to Seatac
Brassneck
Nobodies Twisting Your Arm
Heather

All the omens were there for a great Wedding Present show.
Kellie and I drove south on Interstate 5, picked up our friend Lori and indeed did Take Fountain as a short cut to reach The Troubadour.
We also had a nice Indian curry when we hit Hollywood and I'm sure the guy standing behind me at the gig could have confirmed that it's a gas indeed , but that's another story.
The historical and much loved venue while not sold out was almost full. And after Tim Fite and his band were well received by the normally too cool to clap LA crowd, the fab four finally took the stage.
Fronted by the famous Middleton Moptop, they delivered again and left the audience asking for more.
The set list was identical to the rest of the tour (bar San Diego where we were treated to Come Play With Me instead of the awful Falling), but it really didn't matter.
New recruit Chris McConville more than fills the recently departed Simon Cleave's boots and the band didn't miss a beat. He looked a bit more relaxed than on his debut in SD and on more than one occasion I even caught DLG looking over at Chris and beaming like a proud father (figure) in appreciation.
New drummer Charlie Layton is an energetic character and up there with some of the better WP stick men. It's early days yet, but I hope he is around for a long time. (I was wrong btw)

Terry De Castro was her normal self, impeccable on the bass and adding sex appeal for the male WP fans in attendance. Sadly the new riding boots had gone.
During the show David amused us with his stunningly accurate and whiny Morrissey impression, move over Mike Yarwood.

"This boy can wait" shouted a female fan
"Is that a request or a statement from a man with a very high voice?" replied DLG.
"That's my best joke of the tour. Where's that lad from Middleton?"
He scans the audience, sees me "Ah there you are, you can put that on the Internet"
(Your wish is my command)

"This next one is a Cinerama song. If you don't like them now would be a good time to go to the restroom for a rest. Or if you like, the bathroom for a bath"

The performance was high tempo and the highlights for me were a rocking version of Ringway to Seatac and Brassneck where Gedge finally broke a string and impressively switched guitars mid-song. They finished with Nobodies Twisting your Arm, then Heather and then they were gone.
A brilliant night, over all too soon.
Bye from LA for now David, come back soon.
Who knows? Maybe next time I'll bring my old mate Kirsten Dunst along to the gig.

GRIMSBY AWAY

Okay back in the 1983/84 season Man City were in the old second division of English football and we found ourselves visiting stadiums that we had never been to before.
For the first time I got to travel up to Blundell Park home to the mighty Grimsby Town FC to watch the blues play.
In those days a large group of beer monsters from Langley and Middleton would use local coach firm Yelloways to travel up and down the country following our beloved City.
To say these were crap coaches would be an insult to crap coaches everywhere, they were unusually dire.
Before every trip the owner of the firm would walk up and down the aisle and loudly announce "Remember lads, no drinking allowed"
We'd all nod and try to act shocked that he even suggested such a thing, but as soon as the coach pulled out of the Arndale Centre the cans and bottles would come out and you hear the "Pssst" sound as they were all opened in unison.
We'd be one the piss all the way to the game like our life depended on it.
There were no toilets on these coaches so we'd amuse ourselves by pissing into large plastic cider bottles and pouring them out of the skylight on the top of the coach onto the cars behind us on the motorway.

Anyway back to Grimsby.
We made it up there with no stops or breaks and as we parked up on a street overlooking the sea and some massive power plant, suddenly I was hit with severe stomach cramps.
"Fucking hell I need a shit" I said to my mate Stocker.
"The ground could be miles away" he replied "you'll have to hold it in."
"I can't wait, I think I'd shit me pants"

I immediately legged it off the coach.
"What are you doing?" asked Stocker
"I'm gonna ask somebody to let me use their bog"
"Nobody is going to let you use their bog you daft twat"
"Wanna bet?" I said and with that I ran down a garden path and knocked on the door.

"Bastard" no answer. I hopped the fence and tried the neighbours.
Remember during this I was only a skinny arsed 17 year old and not the big bastard you all know and love today.
I knocked on the door, a big bloke about 30-ish answered the door. He had a moustache, was smoking a cigarette and was wearing pajama pants and a vest (wife beater). He looked at me in a vaguely uninterested manner.
"Yeah, what do you want?"
"Look mate, I'm a Man City fan up here to watch them play Grimbsy. I'm really dying for a shit and can't hold it, can I use your bog please?"
He looked back at me in disbelief, pointed down the hallway and muttered "Sure, it's back there"
I really couldn't believe my luck, I had no concerns for my safety, I really had to go and probably would have smacked the cunt if he had tried anything anyway.
I sprinted down the hallway with a turtles head touching the back of my undies, I unzipped frantically and gave out a huge sigh of relief when my arse hit the seat.

Amidst the deafening farting noises, grunts and moans I emptied my bowels into the toilet, I swear the woodchip wallpaper was on the verge of peeling off the wall as a result of the unbelieveable stench, my eyes were certainly watering.
I must have deposited 5lbs of toxic waste into his water closet before I wiped and pulled my pants up.
I like to say that I washed my hands but knowing my 17 year old self I probably didn't.
Anyway I stunk the place out and sheepishly walked down the hallway and up to the living room doorway.
The door was open, the curtains were drawn and the room was full of cigarette smoke.
The bloke had an ashtray overflowing with cig dimps next to him, beer cans everywhere and his armchair was pulled forward right in front of the telly. He was leaning forward so his face was inches away from the screen, he was glued (and I mean glued) to the horse racing on Grandstand.
"Alright mate, I'm done, thanks a lot" I said
He didn't even bother looking up and away from the screen. He just gave me a thumbs up and said "Ta chuck, could you make sure you shut the door properly on the way out? It sticks, give it a slam"
"Okay" I replied
"Ta"

With that I left.
The game was pretty uneventful, I think we probably lost as usual.
A few of the lads off our coach had wandered off before the game looking for a pub to have a drink and were ambushed by superior numbers of Grimsby fans.
I like to think that by knocking on the door of that pajama clad friendly racing enthusiast I was literally saved from having the shit kicked out of me.

Coachella. Friday April 17th 2009.

I'd never been to Coachella before and very nearly didn't go to this one either.
With funds a bit scarce right now and the line up not being too dazzling I decided just to go for the Friday, I booked a hotel months ago then the arseholes at Coachella decided to stop selling Friday tickets immediately prior to the event.
This left me in a very tight bind, hotel booked and no guarantee of getting in.
After much debating (I am a master at it after all) I decided to take a chance and travel down to the desert community hoping that they would do the right thing and release more.
Kellie didn't fancy the risk, so I roped in my old concert partner Lori and we set off in our rented VW Jetta.

Our gamble paid off the next morning and we secured a pair of tickets for $120 each.
The weather report was predicting highs of 88 degrees, well I have no idea what Mark Kriski, Dallas Rains and co were smoking but it was a scorcher and touching near 100.
Bearing this in mind I decided my bald head wasn't up to that kind of punishment and was forced to purchase an overpriced hat. The only thing that would fit my massive cranium was a black, dodgy cowboy hat, $35 later there I was looking like a proper twat.
There were a few great bands scheduled for the Friday, my main objective was Morrissey, but there were a few others I was looking forward to.

First up were THE COURTEENERS, I had bought their CD a few weeks earlier and was mildly impressed. But they are a band who are from my hometown of Langley, Manchester back in England. In fact they all attended the same school as me and despite the rumoured handicap of being Man United fans I was eager to see them perform.
They were okay, nothing spectacular, but a decent California debut.
It might have been a bit daunting for a lesser band to open such an established festival, but if they were nervous it certainly didn't show.

Next up for me was NOAH & THE WHALE , I must say that I thought they were a bit shite, so after a couple of songs I wandered off for something to eat and to get a couple of beers.

Of course, this being Coachella it cost $8 for a Taco Bell sized burrito, $5 for an order of french fries and $7 each for a half pint of Heineken.
Sigh........ it was going to be a long day.

I had arranged to meet a friend from Seattle., we were going to meet at the Mojave stage while THE HOLD STEADY were performing.
He was stuck in traffic so I sent him a text that read
"You can't miss me Fergal, I'm wearing a Barcelona shirt and wearing a cowboy hat.......... No really!!!!"
I was quite excited to be seeing The Hold Steady perform, a lot of people I know had been raving about them, but I had never heard them.
Sad to say though that they were a massive disappointment, complete rubbish in my opinion.
They just sounded like some piss poor pub band, I really wanted to like them, but really hated them.
Thankfully I didn't have to endure them for too long, my friend Fergal showed up and rescued my ears as we walked over to the next stage and watched LOS CAMPESINOS perform the second half of their set.
The first thing that struck me about them was their lead singer was wearing an "All the songs sound the same" Wedding Present t-shirt.

Then they broke into a rousing take of "Box Elder MO", it was quite a kick seeing a "new" band covering TWP covering Pavement.

After they had finished we headed off for more over priced Heineken, it was hot and it had to be done.

At the beer tent we saw A SWARM OF BEES , this wasn't the name of the latest American indie band, but an actual swarm of bees.
Needless to say I kept a nervous eye on them while I polished off 2 or 3 more Heineken's, getting stung wasn't on my agenda.

Next up was FRANZ FERDINAND , I'm not really much of a fan to be honest, but I must say they did a fucking blinding set and really blew the cobwebs off the rapidly melting crowd.

I got lost in the crowd and missed out on LEONARD COHEN so I could get a good spot for MORRISSEY , fingers crossed that it would be worth it.
By the time the Pope of Mope took the stage we were packed in like proverbial sardines.
He came onstage to "This Charming Man", he should have left it in the back catalogue to be honest as his band and his current voice simply can't carry such a classic.
Things were going okay until "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others" when he announced "I can smell burning flesh..... I hope it isn't animals cooking and it's human flesh I can smell"
(The main stage was a couple of 100 yards downwind from the food court and the smell of hot dogs, burgers etc was very obvious) He spluttered through the rest of the song and then walked off without saying a word leaving Boz and co still playing and looking bemused.

He returned moments later to an ovation, but continued to act like a diva, constantly complaining, missing entire lines from songs and croaking his way through the rest of the performance.

It was a real shame, Morrissey's personal views should be left backstage. His fans pay good money to come and see him play, travel great distances at great expense yet he continually shits on them.
The man is one of my idols and has been since 1983, but sometimes I just wish the fucker would shut up and sing.

SILVERSUN PICKUPS , were next up and they didn't disappoint. They performed songs from both of their albums and staged an energetic set. It certainly made up for the Moz experience.

The night was nearly over and it was time for headliner PAUL McCARTNEY , to be honest I wasn't really too keen.
The sceptical middle aged indie kid/music snob in me wasn't bothered and I just basically hung around just so I could say I had seen a Beatle in real life.
When he finally took the stage it felt like that everyone was there to see him, as he walked out I swear I had a fucking epiphany. The light bulb went off, the cynic in me took a backseat and a voice in my head said "It's fucking Paul McCartney up there onstage Andy, one of The Beatles you twat"
He kicked off with "Jet" and never really looked back. I was amazed at how good he looked for a man of his age, his voice sounded great and his band were brilliant musicians, as you'd expect.

Then when he put his bass down and picked up a guitar his playing was unexpectedly amazing, I'm talking Hendrix type riffs here.
I have to admit that I was blown away by him, he played for nearly three hours, playing most of his classics along the way, this alone was well worth the $120 ticket price.
I only hope that Morrissey stayed around and watched and picked up a few tips from Sir Paul, but I doubt it.

A great day overall, the low lights were Diva Moz, the heat, the prices and especially the 2 hour crawl out of the venue.
I was shattered and relieved to make it back to the hotel, where I slept like a log.
I was somewhat glad that I didn't book for the entire 3 days, I don't think I could have taken two more days of that.
Would I do it again?
Possibly, let's see who's on the bill next year.
I might even bring my cowboy hat again.

Salt and Lineker indeed

During the summer of 1986 the year of the World Cup Finals in Mexico, I found myself working at Granada Birch Services in Middleton, Manchester.
Back then Granada Services would hold an annual footy 5 aside tournament, consisting of one or two teams from each regional branch in the UK.
I signed up during a bout of boredom on the late shift and before I knew it a few of us were "bundled" into the back of a van and driven up to a "secret" location for the tournament in Carlisle.
The footy was a bit redundant to be honest, we lost in the final via a penalty shoot out, not the highlight of my footballing career to be honest.
The real point of my story is a blister...... yeah a blister.
You see during the tournament I picked up a blister about 3 inches wide on the ball of my foot.
Obviously it was really painful, but I tried to grin and bear it and play on.
After the third game I'd had enough and pulled my sock off in order to check out the damage and to my dismay a large chunk of skin fell out of my sock and onto the dressing room floor.
For reasons unknown I picked up the skin and put it on top of the radiator in the dressing room and then carried on playing.
After the final I went back to get changed, noticed the skin, I picked it up and inspected it.
By now it was completely dried out and a bit crispy, I was fascinated and stuck it into my coat pocket.
We then made our way to a local pub for an after tournament buffet. It was the usual pub crap, cheese and salmon paste sandwiches and bowls of crisps.
I was a bit drunk, grabbed some sarnies and then chucked my dead chuck of skin into one of the bowls of crisps (cheese and onion I think).
I know this sounds really disgusting, but if you think that was bad, I went back later on and the bowl was completely empty.
Some poor bastard had eaten it with a handful of Golden Wonder's finest.
I just hope the poor fucker wasn't a vegetarian.
Anyway it was pretty much the one and only time I was eaten and not present.