Tough to feel any sympathy as Manchester City run into sudden strife

It’s been a harrowing week as a Blackburn Rovers fan. The derby day loss to Burnley appeared almost inevitable as our Claret cousins seemingly surge towards automatic promotion while we flounder in a sea of mediocrity. The midweek Bournemouth defeat could be diagnosed as the hangover effect from that derby flattener.  So I have had to take warped solace in another team’s misery.  Thank goodness for Manchester City. Surprisingly, City were dumped from the FA Cup by Wigan Athletic, who had done the unimaginable to them at Wembley in last season’s final. Then rather more predictably, Barcelona finished off the job at the Nou Camp to snuff out City’s ambitions in the European Champions League.  Good stuff.  Man City  have  always held a curious place in my footballing affections in that I have never liked them.  Never,  ever…  Even when they were the downtrodden half of Manchester as United were winning trophy after trophy.  The  reason?  I suspect that  it’s due to City’s fans. They always came across as a bunch of whingeing, self-pitying apologists when things were going badly for all those years. These same defeatist followers of the self-proclaimed “true team of Manchester” are transformed into braying braggarts as soon as any form of success appears on the horizon.  Exhibit A:  The illiterate, expletive-laden efforts of one their celebrity ilk, Liam Gallagher, on the box before the expected Wembley cakewalk all went horribly wrong against humble Wigan. My own gripe with City’s overbearing bigmouths goes way back to the FA Cup campaign of 1968-69. City had a class team under Joe Mercer and Malcolm Allison, no arguments there – Colin Bell, Francis Lee, Mike Summerbee and  the rest went on to beat Leicester City in the final that year.  So imagine the thrill when they were drawn to visit Rovers in the fifth round.  The magic of the Cup was still alive and the original capacity of a terraced Ewood Park was set at 55,000 for the all-ticket clash.  Rovers were going nowhere fast in the old Division Two so  this  was a real brush with the big time for young fans like me who had had such fleeting experiences before relegation in 1966. The snow fell consistently that winter and consequently the big game suffered seemingly endless postponements. No undersoil heating in 1969.  As a consequence, much of the sting and anticipation was lacking as many folk didn’t bother turning up when City finally rolled into town and steamrolled Rovers 4-1.  City were  a different class. And alas, so were their fans. The attendance was more than 42,000 – still the biggest I have personally witnessed or ever will again see at Ewood.  The City travelling hordes were housed in the Darwen End but seemed to be everywhere.  And wherever they were, random outbreaks of violence instantly occurred.  This was the beginning of the hooligan era, true, but for a 14-year-old like me, the whole atmosphere in and outside the ground was truly terrifying.  Next day at school, there were many tales of brutality and virtual pillage inflicted by the City invaders.  I suppose that mistrust and disgust of City stayed with me, even though both teams existed in different stratospheres for many years. Eventually City slipped out of their lofty existence and had to suffer the indignity of life in Division Two.   It was with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation that the now-adult me made my first visit to Maine Road in September, 1983 just a few months before I was due to set off for Australia.  City  were still elite slickers to me.  But their ground, set in the rabbit warrens of the cobbled streets around Moss Side, was not a desirable residence. If fact, like many in those days, it resembled a slum. We took up our places on the infamous Kippax terracing, separated near the halfway line from the City fans by a fenced-off no-man’s land,  complete  with chicken wire stretching to the roof of the stand. This didn’t seem to prevent a multitude of objects flying into the visiting throng from Blackburn.  These ranged from ball-bearings and sharpened coins to plain old bricks. It was a horrible afternoon. Out on the pitch, Rovers were blown away 6-0 by a rampant City side, with Scotsman Derek Parlane helping himself to a hat-trick. As each goal went in, the derision and gloating from the other side of the chicken wire seemed to grow more intense.   Trudging disconsolately away after the match along the dogshit-littered pavements, big Jim Chadwick, Ivan and Olive Hickmott plus myself had trouble locating our vehicle.  We wandered on and on as the streets emptied, then turned one corner to be confronted by a group of City fans who must have known we were lost Blackburn souls.  “Enjoy the game, lads?” one of them sneered.  “Yeah,  Parlane hat-trick!” I replied in a hastily improvised Manc accent. I don’t think they were fooled by that but the female presence of Olive I’m sure, saved us Peaceniks from a kicking. That would have put the lid on a truly awful day. Since then, I’ve watched games at Maine Road accommodated in the seated Platt Lane End, then the old re-roofed Open End. As Rovers’ status and fortunes soared, victories at Maine Road became quite commonplace.  Meanwhile, City lurched from one disaster to another and somehow found themselves in the old Division Three. As their former playing idol then chairman, Francis Lee, said: “If there was a cup for cock-ups, we’d win it every year.”  There was still no sympathy from me. City duly rose from the ashes as Rovers fell through the trapdoor from the Premier League under ex-City and United icon Brian Kidd. So we met again at Maine Road in October 1999. A regulation 2-0 win for City was memorable for little apart from the plain-to-see glee and verbal flak that was dished out with unexpected venom at Rovers’ plight in the pubs before and after the game. I really wondered why these City fans had it in so badly for us.  City were  flying that season and needed to clinch a return to the promised land in the last game. Unfortunately, that match brought the Sky Blue barbarians to Ewood  for their promotion party.  Rovers were marooned in mid-table with nothing to play for in front of a virtual full house. So it was no surprise on the way to the ground to see many season-tickets holders handing over their final match-day stubs to desperate City fans for outrageous amounts of money.  I got offered 100 quid for mine but “politely” turned the trade down.  I must have been one of the few. Inside Ewood there were Blue Moon singers all over the home sections including four – blokes and lasses,  pissed  and obnoxious – sat right in front of me and Tom, my dad, and Margaret, my mum.  The loutish behaviour was off and running instantly.  My dad was having none of it though. “Oi, put out that fag out!” he said to one middle-aged yob.  Thankfully, the smoking cretin obliged.  It was impossible to enjoy the game.  Matt Jansen put Rovers one up. We then proceeded to outplay City but hit the woodwork on at least three occasions that I recall.  On the other hand, City seemed to score every time they attacked. In the end, it was 4-1. It was meant to be for City that day. As full time neared, the four loudmouths in front were in orbit. One of the lasses even wanted to kiss my dad.  No thanks… Normally, I would have shook their hands and said “well done.”  But there is something that still nags away at me when it comes to the Citizens of Manchester.  Since then they have taken to social climbing.  City inherited a brand-new home in East Manchester where Rovers managed to secure a couple of draws before I left again for life in Oz.  Then the Arabs came in, but not before Mark Hughes had foolishly quit Ewood for a spell with City before being shown the door.  Now it’s all the dosh you can imagine from the Sheikh tycoons, continental mercenaries wearing sky blue shirts plus foreign managers with silly names and dafter accents. And Brian Kidd is still hanging on as assistant. City even managed to snare the title from United’s grasp a couple of seasons ago in dramatic fashion.  I was gutted  for  United – I never imagined I would ever say that.  And streets world-wide are alive with people wearing City shirts. Where did they all come from?  So it was a pleasant distraction this week to see things go wrong again for City, not just once but twice.  Now I hear the Arabs are being urged to spend big.  Jeez, how much do they need! I know Rovers had “Uncle” Jack Walker to finance us for a while. But at least he came from the town.  Ditto Lionel Pickering at Derby County and Sir Jack Hayward at Wolves.  I have no qualms with local moneybags trying their best for their hometown clubs.  But I can’t empathise with City, the club with the boorish Blue Moon brigade as fans, whose inscrutable Arab owners continue to bestow their bottomless treasure chest of garish filthy lucre on Manchester’s noisy neighbours.