Another Url, Another Planet

If they hadn't given away a two goal lead at Fulham, Manchester City would have a perfect start to this season's Premier League, ten wins out of ten, reminiscent of Big Ron Atkinson's last full season with Manchester United. Then, United's Captain Marvel, Bryan Robson, got injured and the rest is history: United's results tailed off badly, Atkinson was sacked the following October, and Lord Alex Ferguson began his twenty-five year reign of uninterrupted glory (if you discount his first six seasons).

A lot has changed since those days. While United still rely on a talismanic Wayne Rooney to be fit and firing on all cylinders, City have assembled a squad of players the envy of pretty much every other team in the Premier League. They have replaced their talisman of the last two seasons, Carlos Tevez, with Sergio 'Kun' Aguero, who looks fitter, faster and equally, if not more, capable of scoring against anyone and everyone. David Silva already looks like the player of the season.

Then there's Yaya Toure, Mario Balotelli and Edin Dzeko, all of whom look genuinely class acts. Micah Richards, James Milner and Gareth Barry look to have rediscovered some decent form and Adam Johnson continues to look like changing games in City's favour whenever he plays. Gael Clichy and Aleksandar Kolarov look better than Wayne Bridge. And while Kompany and Hart don't look quite as accomplished in defence and goal as they did last season, they're solid enough alongside Lescott or the returning Kolo Toure. Add to them, Nasri and de Jong, Zabaleta and Hargreaves, and City appear to have an incredibly strong first team squad.

In addition to their freak 6-1 win at Old Trafford, City mauled a well-below-par Spurs 5-1 at the Lane and thrashed woeful Blackburn 4-0 at Ewood Park. They also beat newly-promoted Swansea by the same score in their opening fixture at the Council House, after being outplayed for an hour, and saw off relegation certainties Wigan 3-0 in their second home game. Everton's traditional miserable season start continued with a 2-0 defeat at Wastelands and Aston Villa offered little resistance succumbing 4-1. Wolves looked like they might take advantage of City's ten men in their last game, but ended up losing 3-1. Similarly, abysmal Bolton briefly looked like staging a comeback before losing 3-2 earlier in the season.

Perhaps tellingly, City have struggled so far in their first season in the Champions League, drawing at home to an impressive-looking Napoli, losing so poorly in Munich that Tevez refused to play and luckily scraping a last-second winner at home to Villareal. The return with Villareal is tonight, followed by a potentially awkward trip to QPR Saturday tea-time. However much I'd love to see Gabriel 'The New Ronaldo' Obertan score the winner, I don't expect Newcastle to continue their unbeaten run at City the weekend after that, but I do expect Liverpool and Chelsea to at least get a point each in their upcoming home games against them, and who knows what Arsenal will do when they visit?

So City have done almost as well as could be expected of a team costing several hundred million pounds, but can they sustain their often brilliant start in tougher fixtures to come, and for the rest of the season when the winter kicks in and when the really difficult games come thick and fast? God, I hope not. And history tells us that City will find a way to fuck it all up again, somewhere along the line.

As for United, a freak 8-2 win at home to Arsenal, an easy 3-0 win over well-below-par Spurs, a somewhat lucky 3-1 victory against Chelsea and a 5-0 stroll at abysmal Bolton aside, United have ground out wins at West Brom and Everton and at home to Norwich, and draws at Stoke and Liverpool. United's upcoming fixtures look relatively straightforward on paper, assuming that we can at least continue with our tendency to win even when not playing particularly well. Crunch time, as usual (I hope), will be in late January and early February, which could well lead to a title decider in the return fixture with City scheduled for the last weekend in April.

Chelsea are clearly a team in transition and seem to be blowing hot and cold. I think they've blown their chances this season already and could find themselves in a fight for a Champions League place by the season's end. That fight will, of course, be with Spurs, Liverpool and Arsenal, and it will be a fight to see who can be the least crap on a consistent basis. My money's on Spurs and Arsenal to finish third and fourth.

As for the rest, it's either mid-table mediocrity or a relegation dogfight to keep the fans entertained. Wigan, Bolton and Blackburn already look doomed, but I expect Wolves, QPR and Swansea to give the Lancashire clubs' fans some hope for most of the season. But you could pretty much pick any one from Norwich, Sunderland and West Brom to join them in a season of struggle.

The worst result in my lifetime.

And yet, I had a feeling that we would be humiliated. I didn't say anything before the game because I didn't want to give expression to my negativity, as if it might influence the outcome. If that was true, United would be in the Northern Premier League by now. But I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking we had it coming.

You have to give credit where it's due. City took us apart like we have taken so many other teams apart over the years, particularly away from home. Stunning, unstoppable counter-attacks, soaking up pressure and giving little if anything away at the back.

While United's formation was unusually rigid and static all over the pitch, City's midfield, especially, was fluid. Fletcher and Anderson were, unsurprisingly, completely overrun by Toure, Barry, Milner and Silva. On the rare occasions we did get Nani and Young on the ball out wide, Barry and Milner were usually doubling up on them (not that the impressive Micah Richards needed much help). We created almost nothing of any threat. Although Fletcher's goal was simply sublime, it encouraged our ten men to push on even more in search of another goal - and if we had scored another, well, you never know. But it left us even more hopelessly exposed at the back than we were already and City exploited it ruthlessly in added time.

It's a funny old game. For most of the first half, certainly up until Balotelli's perfectly placed opening goal, we controlled the game. One-nil down at half time was far from perfect, but never insurmountable. Then right after the restart, Jonny Evans - who in my opinion, has been our best defender this season - had a moment of indecision as Balotelli turned him and got away, and then madness trying to rectify his mistake by pulling Balotelli back on the edge of the area. Evans also slipped when trying to block the first goal, and his performance yesterday was sadly typical of last season's. I hope it doesn't affect him or the crowd's perception of him too much, because those terrible forty-seven minutes aside, he has been our rock this season.

Despite having Evans sent off at the start of the second half, United never gave up and continued to take the game to City. I thought Fletcher's performance showed glimpses of a return to the level he was at a couple of season's ago and Smalling and De Gea (despite picking the ball out of the net six times) had decent games. But we seem to have forgotten how to defend as a unit, which has been a problem all season long, and camouflaged only by luck, De Gea's mostly brilliant shot-stopping and our previously joyful attacking play.

We've had heavy and humiliating defeats quite a few times before during Fergie's tenure - 0-5s at Chelsea and Newcastle spring to mind, as well as the more recent 1-4 loss at home to Liverpool a couple of seasons ago. United have always bounced back and I expect we will again. I'm just thankful I don't have to face anyone at school or work and I don't have any City-supporting mates to rub it in.

This is me (from 0:32 to 0:37 in the video below - literally my five seconds of fame) in the middle seat of my first band's blue Toyota Hiace, which we converted into a tour bus and living accommodation with a sheet of plywood. The rest of the video is where I grew up and went to school. And, more importantly, where I started drinking.

Although I don't appear 'In The Talbot' in this video, that's usually where I started my Friday and Saturday nights out, on and off for a good number of years, although it's also a good number of years since I've been back now, too. The Talbot Inn, my hometown's oldest pub, is now a Co-op Foodstore, sadly, although I believe the old pub sign is still in place. This is how Google's Map van saw it a few years ago:

And this is how it was in its pomp:

Like many of the old regulars, I suspect, it's past its prime. Indeed, I discovered while researching this post that some of them had been found after a particularly heavy session during excavations looking for Roman remains:

Anyway, the point of all of this is to say thank you to the internets for providing a little and a lot more of what we had back then. I rarely go to the pub these days and while it's nice to go with a couple of friends occasionally, it's not the same. And I'm glad about that, too. I never really felt like I fitted in as everyone else seemed to be in the pub every night of the week and Saturday and Sunday afternoons as well. So I'm happy to sit here with my glass of lemonade knowing that no one else knows and that I can chat to people in real-time on Identi.ca talking like a drunk madman without fear of getting punched in the face for shooting my mouth off or of waking up on some strange floor in my clothes stinking of cigarettes, alcohol and vomit the morning after the party the night before.

I had a big idea once. Maybe twenty years ago I dared to share this vision with one of my drinking buddies whom I considered to be much more open-minded and receptive to crazy thoughts. My idea was for beer to be delivered to the comfort and relative safety of our individual homes in pipes and for us to communicate with each other via multi-channel interactive TV screens. I called it Cable Beer. 'That's way out' I heard him say as he headed for the exit and on to the Red Lion (now flats) across the road. I have kept this to myself all of these years until last night when I was reminded of its potential by my friend Luke on Identi.ca who was out of beer and out of money.

I'm not sure how the sausages got in there, but thanks to Bruce for reminding me that I had some in the fridge, too, which I had for breakfast.

Now, I say that it was my idea for the World Wide Pub, but it looks like some sleazeblogger beat me to publishing it. Damn.

Oh, well. Here's the second and final video of my hometown including New Year's Eve 1987. I'm not in this video as I was on another gig at the time entertaining the Queen, or something. Memories, eh?

Just one final backwards trip to 1978. Here is the beginning of the end of Scottish football:

If you want to find out more about the World Wide Pub in its Identi.ca incarnation, please visit This is not a podcast.

To have any chance of making sense of this continuation of my personal review of my year in 2010, please refer first to Twenty Ten (Part One): Hard Cheese.

My follow-up appointment with my psychiatrist was due mid-March. Scornfully following his advice to pull myself together and get a life in the month that had passed since our first (and to be last) meeting I had actually begun to feel quite a bit better in myself, but my ever decreasing lung capacity meant that even if I'd wanted to go, I wouldn't physically have been able to. I could barely walk to the corner shop and back.

Yak Shaving vs. Bureaucrazy

I had a letter from the psychiatrist's secretary inviting me to the meeting, so I thought I'd email her to let her know I wouldn't be going and why. Much easier than dragging myself out to the post box, I thought. Little did I realise then the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was to follow as I set about shaving this particular yak.

Although her email address wasn't included in the letter I knew from my work that the mental health trust, like most organisations, uses a standard email address format:

firtstname.secondname@nameoflondonborough.nhs.uk

No problem! Oh, wait. The email bounced. I tried again:

firstname.secondname@nameofmentalhealthtrust.nhs.uk

That bounced, too. I looked up the names of the team managers on the trust's website and emailed them, along with the 'communication team' asking for the secretary's email address and explaining that I preferred to email her because of my poor (physical) health.

Several auto-replies later told me that three of them had already resigned or otherwise left the trust's employment. Then another two came in saying the same thing. I went higher up the food chain and emailed their managers, one of whom - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - copied in two more managers to ask them to contact me.

By this time I had received and answered an unwanted, unwelcome and totally unexpected call from none other than my psychiatrist. I asked why he was calling me. It turned out that the communications team had assumed that my 'poor health' meant that I might be in danger of killing myself (which actually wasn't far off the truth at this point) and so decided - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - to place an emergency call to my psychiatrist, who then called me. He did, however, give me his secretary's email address (it turned out that she helpfully uses a shortened version of her first name for her email, unlike on her letters).

When I finished the call I went to email the secretary to confirm what I had told my psychiatrist, that I would not be attending any further meetings with him because, apart from providing me with her email address he had been no bloody help at all. One of the other managers had also now replied to me saying that he knew that my psychiatrist had just spoken with me and gave me the secretary's telephone number, which I had already - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for.

I decided to make a formal complaint, as that is what gets me off what I do here. Of course, five months later, the chief executive wrote to me to say how sorry she was that I felt that no one wanted to provide me with an email address, but not to uphold my complaint on the grounds that the team manager had emailed me to give me the phone number (that I already had) after being asked by someone else to give me the email address I asked for. Coincidentally, last week, I received information about who has accessed my patient record, when and why. Interestingly, the team manager and the person whose email I wanted both accessed my patient record shortly after I sent the first email and several hours before the team manager actually emailed me (the why is unclear as it's a coded reference).

Oliver! vs. Pickabook

Speaking of complaints, I also got into a bit of a pickle with Pickabook. After that musical romp I had a stiff neck, a bad back and was short of breath. Another x-ray or and a big fat needle in my back later I was feeling sick, sore and sapped.

Meanwhile, the price of cheese in the UK doubled, nightmares fell by 50% and (presumably due to a price-related cheese shortage) cheese rolling in the UK was outlawed.

Various doctors still hadn't been able to diagnose me with enough certainty to prescribe any treatment, so I headed off for a CT scan. The good news was that I didn't have anything really horrible and/or potentially deadly, the bad news was that they still didn't know what was wrong with my lung and that keyhole surgery would be necessary.

Turtles vs. Tortoise

To matters worse, much worse, United contrived to snatch a one goal victory and an aggregate draw (meaning defeat on the away goals rule) from the jaws of an assured three goal victory and safe passage through to the semi-finals of the European Champions League.

Self-styled football hooligan Luke Slater summed up the evening so perfectly that I had to beat him over the head with a baby turtle. So-called journalist and self-styled football expert Daniel Taylor, on the other hand, told Sir Alex that he needed to spend big if he wanted to bring further success to United.

My sour mood was lifted somewhat the following day thanks to Marvin Preuss who slapped me around the ears with a gigantic tortoise:

Tommy Steele vs. Chris the Crafty Cockerney

Five days later I was told to attend the Heart Hospital in London in three days time for surgery on my lung, prompting a lovely conversation on Identi.ca covering a whole range of medical complaints and procedures including diarrhoea, halitosis, Tommy Steele, anaesthetics, hypnosis, funerals, cirrhosis and, of course, cheese.

I'm pleased to say everything went well and the price of matured dairy products fell as freshly-plucked cheese flooded the market. Although rather than keyhole surgery, I had a regular thoracotomy, which would extend the recovery time - something which escaped my Dad, who a week after visiting me in hospital, phoned to ask if I was going back to work the following week. No Dad. I'm having my stitches taken out tomorrow.

With hindsight, of course, I do wish I'd followed the sage Andy C's advice to take six months off work to recover fully, but at the time it just felt impossible. Especially as the doctors still hadn't been able to rule out that I might have (latent) tuberculosis.

Everything is permissible.

Following reports of Manchester City's players, coaching staff, their financial backers and executives being united in their quest to end thirty-five years of hurt by pulling off a remarkable Quadruple this season, I thought it's about time I manned up, came clean and continued my New Year's resolution to be a little more honest and open on the internets regarding my personal eccentricities and interests.

The image of Emmanuel Adebayour in the replica Inter Milan Blackburn Rovers 1992-94 away jersey he got from Santa (Cruz), exchanging snoods and hair products with Carlos Tevez under the Yaya Toure Christmas tree and especially the sight of Roberto Mancini's wardrobe bursting open with silky azure and cream neck scarves (one for every day of every season, even summer) sent a shiver of excitement up and down my spine and then back up again and then made me start sweating profusely.

The hard-earned tipping point for me, was seeing City play with such exhilarating attacking flair, wildly entertaining abandon and having the courage and confidence to carve up and bone The Arsenal like a stale, leftover turkey in order to make it into coq au vin last night, while teaching Arsene Wenger the purest of culinary footballing lessons at the French Master's own Academy was a sight to behold (or would have been if I could have kept my eyes open). It turned on a light in my darkened satanic red soul, a sky blue moonbeam, and awakened in me a joyous epiphany of adoration I now wish to share with my friends and the rest of the world. With a breath of relief:

I am a Manchester City fan, through and through and always have been. I was born in Manchester Stockport, I lived and worked in Manchester Stockport for a few years and I even drove through Moss Side, once, quickly, but still managed to glimpse the famous old Maine Road ground, the one true home of football. I admit that I was just riding the Manchester United glory train, even if I got on board after the last English top division title stop and had to wait an entire lifetime for it to start moving again. But when it did finally get going, it was glorious. But now, as City have finally proved that they can run a train service every bit as evocative as United's, it's time for me to get off and rejoin my bitter brethren in anticipation and expectation of reaching the end of the line first.

To those who cynically say it's about the money - maybe it is, for the players and the rest of the Project staff. But for the real, true football fans of Manchester Stockport, it's all about the glory.

The late and newly stiff Garry Cock was unavailable for comment.