We moved to Manchester in 1964 from Wigan, but I didn’t bother with football much until the 1966 World Cup, after which I was a football daft 10 year old.

My Dad decided to let me choose who we would go and watch and we went to Maine Road courtesy of a Maynes bus leaving from the Quality Shop in Droylsden.

My first impression of the stadium was just its sheer size, and when we finally squeezed through the turnstile and walked up what seemed like 1000’s of steps to reach our seats – those great long benches – in the Platt Lane Stand I was in awe of the place. The smell of fag smoke, burgers and horse manure mingled with the cacophany of sound and I just stared, wide-eyed.
Alan Oakes – what a plyer ! – scored the only goal and City had beaten my home-town team 1-0.

On the bus home the noise was almost as great as the stadium as everyone talked about the great win. Everyone was so friendly and whilst most of my friends were Blues I agreed to go to Old Trafford the folloiwng week.

Same bus, same departure point – totally different atmosphere. United beat Newcastle
3-1 but all I recall is everyone moaning – some things never change. As the sworn rivals of my home town team I should have been delighted that Newcastle got stuffed, but all the carping mystified me. My Dad could not answer the question why.

When he asked me who I wanted to go and support there was no hesitation -”City”. He hadn’t tried to influence me at all, but I remember he said “Good lad” as he was an admirer of the great Joe Mercer.

Never regretted it for a minute and I know nor did my Dad and, like another supporter whose first game was in this era, I too would give the world just to attend another City game with my beloved Dad.

He was City till he died. So will I be.