I think it was in the final minutes of the Newcastle match, as it became evident that City would head into the last week of the season knowing that three points would be enough to win the League, that I decided to embark on one of the most foolhardy, yet most amazing adventures of my life.

In truth, it was an idea that I had much earlier in the season, when City were scoring for fun and running away with the title. If we were three points clear going into the last game against Queens Park Rangers, knowing that Premier League glory was assured, I started to squirrel away some cash with the intention of ducking over for the game and revel in the celebrations of the first title in 44 years. I wanted to make sure we were assured of winning the title first of course, as this is City we’re talking about, if anything could go wrong…

I’m not proud to admit that part of me was internally cheering on Newcastle during that match. A draw or loss would mean that I would escape having to make that huge decision – one that I would most certainly regret no matter what I decided.

And as celebrations continued at 1am in the pub after the match, conversations got a bit more drunken and with the bravado that only comes after having several pints too many, announced my intentions to the rest of the group.

“Don’t bother, it won’t be worth it” they derided. “You’re crazy, you won’t do it”.

Taking a four-figure bank loan to fly halfway around the world and back for just over a weekend is hardly the most fiscally responsible thing to do. But if I stayed at home and we won the league, then I’d regret it for the rest of my life. Especially after a fiasco with tickets at last years’ FA Cup meant I didn’t enter the ground until after the final whistle.

And you know what, it probably was crazy, but it would have been crazier not to. After all, how good would it be to say that you were then we we were shit won the league for the first time since 1968? Sure, you could be there the next year, or the year after that. But it wouldn’t quite be the same, would it?

But for forty-odd minutes of that second half, my internal monologue was something different. Standing in position at the back of 116, arms folded, feeling physically ill, too stunned to sing, there was only one thought that kept running through my head.

‘You are the biggest f*cking w*nker that has ever lived. You’ve come all this way, spent all this money, and we’re f*cking losing. You’re going to be the biggest laughing stock on the internet, your mates are going to take the piss for life. You absolute dickhead’.

I watched with fingers over my eyes as all nine QPR defenders held out resolutely, and Paddy Kenny managed to make save after blinding save. Even as Dzeko headed in at the start of injury time, no-one around me seemed to celebrate. It all seemed too little, too late. Nice goal, but ultimately futile.

And then the moment any Blue that was in the ground on Sunday will never, ever forget.

Sitting at the other end of the ground, it was hard to make out what actually happened in the scramble on the edge of the box as Balotelli got that miracle pass away. However I clearly remember time standing still as Ageuro took the ball past the final defender — like watching that extreme slow motion footage they shoot at thousands of frames per second.

The sheer wall of noise after the goal is burned into my memory. It wasn’t a simple loud cheer of “yes!” like most goal celebrations are. It was a deep, guttural sound, louder than any I’ve heard at or watching any football game. I ended up in the row in front of me, then somehow back into the row behind where I started, between continual cries of “f*cking have it” and “f*cking get in”, as I discovered upon video review. Unlike many around me, there were no tears — I was simply to shocked to adequately digest everything that happened. But every subsequent viewing of the goal in multiple languages on YouTube and again on Match Of The Day inevitably leads to me welling up.

Considering the amount of alcohol consumed in the hours following, it’s a surprise I woke up at all, let alone with the least offensive hangover of my life, still basking in the realisation that yes, we had won the title for the first time in 44 years, and damn it I was there to see it.

But where can you possibly go from here? There may never be another goalgasm like that again — hell, there may never be another moment like that in football ever again. And no-one can ever take that memory away from those that were there on that fateful day.

It cost me an absolute packet, but was it worth every penny. An unbelievable, unforgettable four days.

Adieu aspiring playwrights, sling the Shakespeare soliloquies in the skip and pack up your pen sets, the twin forces of fate and fortune have fashioned a fairytale that even the most imaginative of impresarios and wily of wordsmiths will fail to better. Yesterday was the grand unveiling of their art, the endless rehearsals at the ‘theatre of base comedy’ complete, now the bright lights of the big stage beckoned – and my you should have heard the audience’s adulation. In the ebbing minutes preceding the seventeenth hour, on the longest day of the longest of weeks, our celestial scripter’s contrived to craft the very commove of climaxes, a delicious denouement that saw Manchester City crowned champions of England in a manner wholly befitting the turbulence of our tri-decade travels.

Much will be made of the events of the 13th of May 2012. Already the word ‘dynasty’ is being floated around in press circles, while death has been declared for the ‘Typical City’ tag that received a terminal prognosis in the wake of last year’s Wembley semi final. If yesterday was a burial however, it was not one of farewell and finality, but rather the submersion of a supporter’s treasure trove. Just as our victorious FA cup run was loaded with sentiment and significance, so the current campaign has been littered with moments that have provided the yin to the crushing yang occasions of the past – coupled with welcome nods to some of our proudest days. Remarkably, season 2011/2012, has supplied an antidote to our ailments and catalogued a microcosm of our makeup; a time capsule filled with 44 years of significance that can be dug up and thumbed through whenever we blues wish to recall the path we’ve together tread.

The first bounty for the box came on a sunny Sunday in August. Spurs, the side who in 81 gave us a nudge from the top of the helter-skelter and then seemed to delight in bashing out bruises at each twist and turn, were trounced on their own turf; a hoodoo was ceremoniously shattered and shortly after, an equally emphatic etching on the road to redemption was to arrive via a sojourn into Stretford. The benevolent boys from the ‘council house’ paid a visit to the poor house and revelled in a second Oktoberfest, mere weeks after indulging heartliy in Munich. That afternoon the theatre became a citadel, and for those haunted by the events of November 1994, a ghost was well and truly exercised. Further banishments of black marks (notably a Carling Cup victory in Arsenal’s backyard) criss-crossed the months that followed, but it was in the closing stages of the seasons strung out story that the romantic relevance really ramped up.

This was in no small part due to the peculiarities of the fixture list, which conjured up a penultimate weekend trip to the black and white streets of Newcastle, mirroring the final away fixture of the 1968 title winning march. Though ultimately on this occasion the crown was not secured on Tyneside, few will question the enormity of that 2-0 victory, and the sight of scarves twirling overhead to a refrain of ‘we’re gonna win the league’ is one that will last long in the minds and hearts of those who partook or observed the scene. That this result seemed to seal the blues course must have been particularly gratifying for one man synonymous with St James Park. Kevin Keegan’s promotion winning City side brought style and a swashbuckling swagger back to the Maine Road turf, and the man prone to ‘loving it’, must have taken sweet solace in the reds surrender of an eight point lead and the long overdue lancing of the mind games myth. If only for bringing us Ali B, you’re welcome Kevin.

From one former boss to another, how apt that the last contest of the season would see the management team who had first dibs at pushing forth ‘the project’, now cast as the last men standing in the way of its seminal staging post. Regardless of the merits of the job they may or may not have done, and placing possible revenge motivations to one side, it was surely fitting that the Welsh enclave were treated to a pitch side view, as the vision that they were initially entrusted with moved towards its fruition.

That being said a match still had to be won, and over the course of ninety-five gripping minutes further weird coils of coincidence were to weave their way into the fabric of the tale. That it was one of Hughes own signings, the ‘mercenary import’ who has most embraced Mancunian life and the ethos of the club, scoring the opening goal, his only strike of the season, would be poetic enough in its narrative, but as it was, that was to be only a taster for the feast to come. Even the subsequent unravelling of Mr Barton -the former academy graduate, who somewhat dubiously laid the credit for all City’s future triumphs at his own door – was not to have the central character plot of the day; ‘Thanks Joey’ and all that, but the resonance that lay ahead was bigger even than you this time.

That’s because, when with two goals needed, hope seeping away, and the bombarded opposition looking impenetrable, something magical suddenly occurred. A fourth official sauntered forward to the touchline and lifted aloft a board that displayed simply a number ‘5’, and in that instant the cogs of history lurched into gear. Too little, too late, a single goal arrived, welcome but insufficient to keep misery from the door, yet in the throes of action that followed, its importance would be elevated one hundred fold. You see, who would have foretold that as the ball rolled into patch of space on the right hand side of the penalty area, there waiting for it would be a diminutive striker, one who was able to quickly adjust his feet and, with a crash of his right boot, drive a crisp shot diagonally into the back of the net. In the seconds that followed a keeper waved his arms and ran around manically, whilst those who had distraughtly displaced themselves to out with the stadium limits clambered to get back inside for a taste of what had been unfolding – the parallels cannot have been lost on any time served blue.

Yet if that was symptomatic of exactly what had come to pass some thirteen years previous, it was also intrinsically linked to the City of the here and now. As the Argentine goal scorer peeled away in euphoria at his achievement, a split screen image was being beamed around the globe of a shell-shocked Manchester United player trying to comprehend the unfolding events. As the song that has propelled the players on over the past six weeks proudly declares, they did indeed sign Phil Jones and we certainly got Kun Aguero, so how incredible that in the very last knocking’s of the battle it would fall upon these two protagonists to provide the contrasting images of their duelling clubs fortunes – on one side an unfulfilled promise, on the other a fully fledged champion delivering. In these exact moments City’s lowest point and their brand new high, came together in one glorious correlation.

Avenged losses next to former bosses, ex playing names beside historic games, all neatly boxed up in the 2012 time capsule. Dig it back up whenever you like Blues, it’ll make for happy viewing.

Even at this point of writing, it still hasn’t entirely sunk in yet. The little sleep that I had was with my eyes open. And all that’s left of my voice is the hoarse sound that Clint Eastwood makes when he coughs.

But to quote a famous Manchester United chant, “This is how it feels to be City. This is how it feels to be small.”

The task was simple. Beat QPR and City wins the league. (Given United doesn’t win 25 – 0 at Sunderland.)

City was playing at the Etihad, a fortress where they had only dropped two points all season. QPR, on the other hand, had the worst away record in the league. Nevertheless, they were fighting to avoid relegation, there was no love lost between Mark Hughes and Manchester City Football Club, and Joey Barton was back with a vengeance. Okay, forget that last one.

So I dared not point any of the following before the game but now that it’s all over, I’ll say it out loud…

Even with nine fingers already on the trophy, deep down inside, after all these years of following the club, I could still feel the potential banana skin. As much as I wanted to deny it, the match had “Typical City” written on it. Because no matter how rosy things might appear to be, this club has a rich history of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

And I never wanted to be more wrong in my life.

But I guess by now even the most armchair of United fans would know the outcome of that fateful afternoon. There’s probably no need to relive every second of that tumultuous 90 minutes. Even if I wanted to, there’s no way of stringing the right sentences to describe the ultimate rollercoaster of emotions accurately. Just search for “city qpr” or “mental torture” on YouTube. You’ll find highlights of the match.

When Jamie Mackie scored the second goal for QPR, my life as a supporter of my beloved club flashed by me.

The day my father showed a poster of Paul Walsh in the early 90s, and told me that blue is our colour. The morning I spent scurrying through the football results in the Sunday newspaper; when we were in the third tier of English football, playing York away. The abuse I got for wearing a kit known only for the brand of printer it bears. And more recently, the endless torrents of posts on Facebook and Twitter whenever City stumble even after spending their alleged billions.

I was already preparing myself for the lonely walk to the car, passing by the rows of United fans already gleaming at the prospect of swiping the title right under City’s nose. Friends were sending me text messages indicating the bombardment of abuse that was about to come my way.

I was so helpless I couldn’t offer any retort to their mockery. We were flirting on the thin line separating the club’s greatest and most heartbreaking moments.

Football though, is a funny game. And with City, it gets a bit funnier. Leave it to this club to make things hard on themselves and win by the skin of their teeth.

Just as our morale was at its lowest, with footage of City fans crying and biting their scarves making its way onto the screen, Edin Dzeko headed in the equalizer for City with a few minutes of injury time left. His last goal for City came back in February.

As the clock ticked faster and news that the other games had ended came into the corridors of the Etihad, the Manchester City offense which has been dominating 103% of the game’s possession surged toward the plane parked by Messrs. Hughes and Fernandes. Melodies of Blue Moon filled the air.

Balotelli to Aguero, he dribbles pass Onuoha, and smashes the ball into the back of Kenny’s net. Time stood still, and in goes the goal that would go into history as one of the greatest comebacks of the game. I don’t even remember what happened next.

It was the football equivalent of a photo finish. City came back from the dead. If there’s any team that would win the league this way, it could only be this club. Heck it was them for real.

And Vincent Kompany lifted the Premier League trophy for the club for the first time in 44 years.

Half way across the world, I sat in sheer contentment and recalled an old adage of the long-time City fans around here.

“All I want is to see City on TV next season.”

If I’d dared to imagine beforehand how it would be winning the league in such ridiculous, far-fetched of circumstances I would have pictured the screaming of a banshee, the clinging to mates and strangers with an intensity of a man being dragged from quicksand, the indescribable ecstasy that no class A has ever come close to touching, and the clothes soaked from flying beer.

Having seen the awful yet strangely enjoyable Fever Pitch that climaxed with Arsenal’s last-gasp triumph at Anfield in ’89 I would also probably have foreseen the impromptu street party; standing in front of a friend as he sprayed me head to foot in champagne, singing Blue Moon so spent that it came only from my throat and heart, dancing with the women, kissing the men, and respectfully shaking the hand of a old blue and telling him what a privilege it was to share this day – this once-in-a-lifetime day – in his company. And yes, I would have guessed at tears.

I would never however have predicted the bawling. It began almost immediately, in the midst of the insane frenzy that erupted from Aguero’s clinical burying of a 44 year old ghost. As I was temporarily released from a horde of arms and distorted faces the sobbing began, an uncontrollable torrent of emotion of which I never thought myself capable as an adult. It was a lifetime of hurt pouring out of me and the well was unfathomably deep; an endless litany of scoffing taunts from fellow pupils, teachers, colleagues, my dad, mates and pub-twats alike finding humour in an endless litany of heartbreak, disappointment, mismanagement, relegations and implosions. That was how it felt to be City and though there was always defiant pride that was all I’d ever known.

Despite the fortunes spent and the calibre of player in each shirt did anyone really think Sunday would be any different from times past? Despite the professional displays against the two Uniteds to get us here to the very precipice of the ultimate glory did anyone seriously expect a comfortable 3-0 victory and a saunter to the finish line?

The cast may now be infinitely more polished and unused to fluffing their lines but City has always been – and will always remain – a gloriously surreal soap opera and to those who deride us for our wealth and infer there is something baseless about our rise that is our f***ing soul. It is embedded in the brickwork of the club and it inhabits every employee irrespective of wage or status.

Of course we would lose to a ten-man QPR side and as Dzeko headed home an injury-time consolation I both embraced and hated the familiar sickening hope it gave me. The same hope that whispered in my ear prior to Dickov’s screamer at Wembley. The same hope from the false information passed around Maine Road that led to City players desperately holding on to a worthless draw against Liverpool that dropped them.

The hope was an old friend with a holy mother of a cruel streak and I’m ashamed to admit that on this occasion I averted my gaze and avoided eye contact instead burning a sorrowful stare into the floor. This meant too much. This was beyond my football supporting faculties. This was beyond my human limitations. This meant salvation and vindication for a choice made 30 years ago that I have never once regretted but have been made to suffer for time and again. Everything I’d ever believed in, endured, dreamed of and defended suddenly condensed itself into one final attack.

This was stupid. Ridiculous. Maybe those who had attempted to calm me over the years when passion spilt into anger or pain by telling me it was ‘only a game’ were right. Nothing but flesh and blood is this important.

And from now onwards – forever more for me – they will be right. One strike of a football and the ensuing explosion inside of my head laid a million ghosts to rest and rest they shall.

Talking of heads being blown in 1968 – when City were last league champions – Stanley Kubrick released A Space Odyssey. Conceivably Aguero’s finish was the jump cut from bone to space craft for Manchester City and it is fair to assume that many more trophies and silverware will now follow.

But they will be celebrated, cheered and relished with no more purge of tears.

That was how it felt to be City, this is how it feels to be normal.

Time and time again in soap-operas like Coronation Street, you just know when things seem to be going conspicuously well that something untoward is going to happen. In any self-respecting horror film there’s that “don’t open the door!” moment. That moment came on Sunday when, driving to the stadium, I heard someone on the radio say “City have the best home record and QPR the worst away record in the Premier League.”

My heart sank. As a fan of that well-known football soap opera that is Manchester City, this indisputably meant that something was going to go horribly wrong. Walking up with some friends we discussed a couple of scenarios. “Three goals” I said “One in the first 20 minutes to settle us down, one early in the second half to give us a cushion and a final one in the dying minutes to get the party started properly.” We then discussed the ultimate scenario: us drawing and the rags winning with us then scoring a last minute winner to win the title and break their hearts. The general reaction was “If you could guarantee that then it would be great but we’d really prefer to do it the easy way.” I also predicted that it would be an unlikely hero who won us the title so was quite happy when Zab scored late in the first half to cancel out the rags’ goal at Sunderland and seemingly win us the title. The first had come later than I predicted but surely there would be more goals in the second half now as QPR had to chase the game?

As we know, there were 2 more goals in the early part of the second half but not from City. Here was the “what could possibly go wrong” moment I’d dreaded from earlier. Samantha who sits a few seats away from me sat down and burst into tears. We tried to console her – there was plenty of time, we were well on top, we’d done it before, etc. But as time ticked away those words were starting to ring a little bit hollow. As the shots went high and wide and the crosses either hit the first man or missed everyone altogether, the sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. “Typical City” may have been in a coma with the family agreeing whether to switch the life-support machine off but the body suddenly twitched and sat up in bed demanding something to eat.

Having stuffed their squandered 8 point lead down the faces of those smug rags telling us we hadn’t the bottle for the big occasion, we managed to seemingly prove them right after we’d done the hard bit. I silently cursed all those who wore the “Champions” shirts or proclaimed we would surely stuff QPR. I thought about the next day back at work and the media and social media crucifixion we’d get. I thought about the insufferable sight and sound of the Wilmslow Wino beaming all over his alcohol-soddened red face telling us how he knew we would blow up when it mattered. I thought about those jeering, plastic, glory-hunting fans of theirs rubbing our noses in it. I saw the few people who were walking out and thought about joining them. worst of all I thought about my dad, who died just 11 days earlier and what he would have had to say about it all. I just didn’t know how I was going to face it all.

And then, thanks to an incredible couple of minutes and those brilliantly taken goals from Edin Dzeko & Sergio Aguero, I didn’t have to. To be honest I really don’t remember much after Edin’s goal. It was all such a blur. But somehow, incredibly, the ball hit the back of the net again with what was pretty well the last kick of the match. The bloke in front of me bear-hugged me off my feet (my ribs are still sore this morning). Complete strangers kissed me. Oh – and Samantha burst into tears again. Bloody City! Premier League Champions 2012 – why couldn’t we just do it the easy way for once?