I’m from Salford where everyone is a red. But my dad was more interested in beer than football. I’d been to Old Trafford a couple of times with my uncle, but as an eleven year old I was desperate to go to football games.

I had a mate called Jeff Honey whose dad Harry was a lifelong City fan, and one week he asked me if I wanted to go to see the Blues play Sheffield Wednesday. I wasn’t sure. City fans in Salford were few and far between, but eventually I said yes. My mum only let me go because I said Harry was taking us and that there was a gang of us going. Part of the excitement was catching three buses, the last one being the famous 53X. Harry led our motley rag bag of ten and eleven year olds to the ground and then stopped off at one of the back street pubs near the ground. Jeff knew the way, but when we arrived at the Kippax there was a vast crowd milling around outside. I’d been so caught up in the excitement of actually going to a game that I hadn’t really noticed the fog.

It was only about twenty minutes before kick off that the game got the go ahead, by which time the queues to get in were massive, snaking back through the streets. I just followed the other lads through the throng of bodies. We were jostled, shoved and trod on but it all added to an unforgettable experience.

As kick off approached the queues surged and police horses came in to try to keep order. I was about three kids from the turnstile when a policehorse’s head came down hard on top of mine. I hadn’t a clue what was going on after that. My mates somehow shoved me through the turnstile into the ground and we made our way up the huge flight of stairs at the back of the Kippax. Being kids we had to worm our way through all the adults, dodging in and out of the legs as we made our way to one of the big white tunnels that punctuated the stand. This was Harry’s favourite spot. He arrived five minutes after kick off. I thought it was because of the fog, but I later found out this was Harry’s routine and he often missed early goals.

I can’t remember much about the match, mainly because it was difficult to see anything through the fog. Of course City being City, they contrived to lose 1-0 to Wednesday even with the great side they had at the time. But as an eleven year old I thought the whole day was a fantastic adventure. I daren’t tell my mum about the crush of the crowds, or getting hit by the police horse, or that Harry went back in the pub after and we made our own way home or it would have been my last game.

A fortnight later Jeff asked if I fancied going again. I still wasn’t too sure because that would have been tantamount to admitting I was a City fan. But I went, and the great side beat Burnley 7-0. In the next game we beat West Brom 5-1. And the Blues have had me ever since. We went on to win the cup of course that year which unbelievably is the last time we did win it. When people ask me how I became a City fan I always tell them it was all down to Harry Honey. They say you never forget your first time.