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The Balloon Goes Up
Summoning the last drop of energy at 8am in the morning from the sky blue helium balloons now hanging limply from the tree (where they had a year ago floated and entangled themselves) felt a tad foolish 92 minutes into the most cataclysmic game ever witnessed in English football. At that point the apocalyptic tyranny of Manchester United bore down on me and I was gripped by the impending horror of having my insides ripped to shreds and my soul hung out to dry in a vicious gale of perpetual and choking abuse. Manchester City despite everything were still a bunch of shit Jamie Pollocks, lobbing a back pass onto our own forehead and nodding it passed a befuddled keeper into an empty net. The equaliser from Dzeko was a microscopic crumb of comfort on a gigantic plate of wriggling spaghetti. Then at 93:20 time and space warped, veering from a gnat-sized bundle of sinews to a vast echoing chasm of white noise. Sounds from tinkling streams to empty oil barrels being dragged along the Conway tunnel added to the cacophony of confusion. The world turned CGI, colours soared and swirled, went monochrome, shattered then exploded. What was happening to me would have challenged the combined seismic brain power of Dr Brian Cox, Timothy Leary, William Burroughs and even Joey Barton at his most philosophical. I stood transfixed, motionless in this bubble of chemical imbalances, I could see the individual hairs on the heads and catatonic limbs of people in the Kippax opposite but nothing of those around me. A couple of light years later my body went into the spasmic convulsions you would associate with a last minute goal to decide the Premier League for City after 44 years. I grabbed Kids 1 & 2 and unwrapped the placard they’d made for such an occasion. We moonwalked over the heads of the few rows in front and sailed onto pitch like latter day Peter Pans. Now what? We ran around a bit, screamed like banshees, hugged, fell to our knees rolled around and examined Premiership quality turf at close hand (luminous plasticcy green tightly woven strands if you must know). The sun shone and ‘I can see clearly now the rain has gone..’ went round on loop ‘..all around me blue skies’ all around me unfettered joy and love that the Hacienda in its pomp never knew existed.
A football match of allegedly epoch-making proportions sits with
a coquettish smile over the horizon, a siren drawing in followers from all over
the football world ready to be dashed on the jagged rocks of a shallow reef of
disbelief. City fans the world over and apparently every single household in Stockport are unprepared for such Shakespearean drama in the full
glare of prying eyes from every corner of the globe. They have been bought up
on titanic grinding failure generating a gallows humour of epic proportions
unmatched in sport. The disasters are legion, the on-field successes fleeting
always heralding a new era but only delivering layer upon layer of crushing and
suffocating silt. But a combination of a visionary investor, deep pockets and a
manager of undoubted quality are fracking away at the historical substrates
layer by layer. The tear-stained humour will endure as failure is an omnipotent
presence for even the clubs operating at the highest strata, but silverware and
success will also be woven into a new history of the club. Searingly happy days
are but a tantalising step away.
Summoning the last drop of energy at 8am in the morning from the sky blue helium balloons now hanging limply from the tree (where they had a year ago floated and entangled themselves) felt a tad foolish 92 minutes into the most cataclysmic game ever witnessed in English football. At that point the apocalyptic tyranny of Manchester United bore down on me and I was gripped by the impending horror of having my insides ripped to shreds and my soul hung out to dry in a vicious gale of perpetual and choking abuse. Manchester City despite everything were still a bunch of shit Jamie Pollocks, lobbing a back pass onto our own forehead and nodding it passed a befuddled keeper into an empty net. The equaliser from Dzeko was a microscopic crumb of comfort on a gigantic plate of wriggling spaghetti. Then at 93:20 time and space warped, veering from a gnat-sized bundle of sinews to a vast echoing chasm of white noise. Sounds from tinkling streams to empty oil barrels being dragged along the Conway tunnel added to the cacophony of confusion. The world turned CGI, colours soared and swirled, went monochrome, shattered then exploded. What was happening to me would have challenged the combined seismic brain power of Dr Brian Cox, Timothy Leary, William Burroughs and even Joey Barton at his most philosophical. I stood transfixed, motionless in this bubble of chemical imbalances, I could see the individual hairs on the heads and catatonic limbs of people in the Kippax opposite but nothing of those around me. A couple of light years later my body went into the spasmic convulsions you would associate with a last minute goal to decide the Premier League for City after 44 years. I grabbed Kids 1 & 2 and unwrapped the placard they’d made for such an occasion. We moonwalked over the heads of the few rows in front and sailed onto pitch like latter day Peter Pans. Now what? We ran around a bit, screamed like banshees, hugged, fell to our knees rolled around and examined Premiership quality turf at close hand (luminous plasticcy green tightly woven strands if you must know). The sun shone and ‘I can see clearly now the rain has gone..’ went round on loop ‘..all around me blue skies’ all around me unfettered joy and love that the Hacienda in its pomp never knew existed.
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