by Colin_Bell » Sun Oct 04, 2026 12:39 pm
Here’s an extract from 'It's All Mick McCarthy's Fault'
Chapter Six - Manchester Bound.
I’ve got a new batch of books in this week, so if anybody would like a copy, please feel free to get in touch. You can also order a copy through Amazon.
And once again, a massive thank you to everyone who has supported the book so far, and for all the brilliant reviews received on Amazon. It really is very much appreciated.
"The trains back then felt simpler — and definitely cheaper. Sixteen pounds return from Milton Keynes to Manchester, although it took around four hours. Not like today, where you can be there in under two. Back then, it felt like a proper journey.
For reasons I still don’t fully understand, I decided to get the eight o’clock train. I just couldn’t wait to go. This was an era when no one could contact you, and no one really knew where you were unless you told them. I could set off early in the morning and come home late at night, and nobody would have noticed I’d even been gone. That feels almost surreal now, but that was just how it was then. No mobile phones.
No tracking apps. No constant check-ins. Just freedom — or at least what felt like freedom at the time. Young, wild, and untethered, roaming where football took you.
The journey seemed endless, and I felt like a kid at Christmas, peering out of the window, hoping for some glimpse — any glimpse — of Maine Road as we pulled into Piccadilly.
My first arrival in the promised land. Of many, as it turned out — though I didn’t know that then.
I asked a man at the station the quickest way to get to Maine Road.
“P11 bus,” he said. “Just down to the right.”
Once on the bus, it felt like it took forever — though in reality it was probably ten or fifteen minutes. When I got off, I raced around.
The souvenir shop. The floodlights. The ground itself.
Mesmeric.
Totally hooked.
I wandered around in a daze, hardly believing I was actually there. This is my place. This is my home, I told myself.
As soon as the turnstiles opened, I was in — not realising I still had another hour or more to wait before kick-off. I ran up the steps into the stand, and there wasn’t a single person there.
It didn’t matter.
I just stood and looked. Watching the pitch. Watching Stan Gibson — the groundsman I already knew by name — making his final preparations. The surface looked a bit battered, if I’m honest. I’m fairly sure City had hosted a concert that summer, something I doubt Mr Gibson would have enjoyed much.
Slowly, the ground began to fill. And the feelings came rushing back — just like at Luton. The same faces. The same banter. Smoke drifting through the air. People talking football.
It felt right.
Everton at home. Howard Kendall’s former club. And several former Everton players lining up for City.
And at last — I was watching Manchester City in Manchester.
The chat. The noise. Just being in amongst my people. It was fantastic.
City won 1–0.
I can still see the goal now.
Tony Coton rolled it out to Paul Lake, the newly appointed skipper. Lake knocked it inside to David White, who clipped a perfect ball over the top. Adrian Heath — once an Everton man himself — ran on to it and calmly slotted it past the legendary Neville Southall.
What a goalkeeper he was. Someone I’d admired for years, but only ever from a distance. To see him there, in the flesh, made it even sweeter.
One–nil City.
Unbeaten on my debut.
First time at Maine Road.
First win.
It couldn’t get any better.
The feeling inside the Kippax — twenty-odd thousand packed in — was sensational. The surge when a goal went in. Or even when we attacked, when it felt like one might come. You could end up anywhere — arms everywhere, bodies flying, fat lips, bruises — all through sheer, unfiltered joy.
Every single person there for the same reason. The same purpose. All as one.
A massive family.
It was incredible.
And this was just the start.
I was only getting warmed up.
I didn’t want the game to end. Not ever. It felt like it could have gone on forever.
But when it did, the whole crowd simply turned as one. A surge of bodies moving towards the three exits, funnelled down the staircases. Thousands of people, packed tight, carried along by momentum rather than thought. And yet — not for a second did it feel dangerous. You just flowed with it. You always felt safe.
Outside, there they were — the newspaper sellers. Manchester Evening News. Match reports already printed, already being sold.
The game had just finished.
How was that even possible?
I stood there stunned. I could buy a report of the match I’d just watched. This was heaven. I couldn’t quite get my head around it.
I was armed with a few pennies in my pocket — hard-earned. I was still doing my paper round in the early mornings, then evenings and weekends working at Doyle’s Farm, delivering eggs and potatoes. Every bit of it funding my obsession.
Straight into the souvenir shop I went.
I went mad.
Programmes. Badges. Anything with Manchester City on it. I bought every programme I could see, anything I could get my hands on. I spent every penny I had that afternoon without a single regret.
It was also the first time I met Janice, a lovely lady who worked behind the counter. Years later, I learned she was actually the daughter of Stan Gibson, the groundsman. I’d go on to know her personally — and she was respected by everyone. Just another part of the fabric of the club.
The train journey home passed in the blink of an eye. I was buried in programmes, reading reports, soaking up information, studying fixture lists — already planning.
Planning the next City adventure.
I was on such a high, I felt like I could have floated all the way back from Manchester to Milton Keynes. I was so happy. I felt safe. Secure. Like I’d finally found where I was meant to be.
I honestly can’t remember how I got home from the station that night. I certainly didn’t have any money left for a taxi. I may well have walked the ten or twelve miles. It wouldn’t have mattered.
Nothing could touch me.
But as I reached the back door, the alleyway, the familiar sounds hit me before I even stepped inside.
My dad had gone into one. The kitchen being smashed up. My mum screaming. Him grabbing her by the throat.
Back to reality. And fast.
Why is it always like this?
Why do I have to be part of it?
I was sixteen years old, and it was insane. I was sick to death of it. More than ever, it cemented one thought in my head — I was getting away from this. I was moving to Manchester.
cbthelegend
I do hope some of the things I post are of interest to fellow Blues, but I can see your point
