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.

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.

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.”

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.

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?

A simple sentence but one loaded with meaning.

In the minds of many throughout the country it is a victory for the might of money. For many others it is a refreshing usurping of an established order that is dominated by a Manchester United organisation they see as as charmless as it is unrelenting.

But regardless of your point of view on the merits of a league that, for most, makes billion dollar investments the only way of achieving real competitiveness and whether acknowledging and acting on that is ‘moral’, there can be no doubting that what was witnessed at The Etihad Stadium on Sunday was an event that was as emotional in the stands as it was dramatic on the pitch.

Put aside the finances and what you found was, for a huge portion of Manchester City fans, a culmination of a lifetime of support for a team that had for years become accustomed to being the laughing stick of English football. A team that, even upon the verge of becoming English Champions prompted multiple references to “Cityitis” and “Typical City” from virtually every media man covering them. A team that for so long had been subjected to widespread ridicule and jibes, most excruciatingly from within their own city, from neighbours that had built an empire that embarked on an unparalleled run of superiority.

That people choose to support football teams and invest such emotion in them often seems to defies logic. A game is just that, a game. It almost never changes anything of importance. It only feels like it does if you invest a certain, possibly irrational, level of emotion and interest in it. To those who do not choose to support sporting institutions it is quite obvious that a sporting result is irrelevant to the progress or well being of the human race.

But all around the country people, all around the world, people do so. Particularly in those countries that have a history of football as a national game. Clubs engender such out of proportion support and fanaticism that it can seem baffling. Even more so when you consider that the vast, vast majority of them never see the sort of major, sustained success that the handful of major clubs that dominate the sport do.

So there must be more to it than just enjoying the sport. Too many people invest far too much in supporting clubs for it to be down to a mere appreciation of the game. Most become indoctrinated in the game at an early age, playing as children whenever they can. They enjoy the game but their support is defined by something else. A sense of belonging. A sense of society. A sense of identity.

To be a Manchester City fan for the last 30 years has been to understand what it is like to be part of something that bonds a large population of people, yet seems to offer little tangible reward for taking part. Yet the support for the club stayed loyal. Not because they expected success any time soon – you can’t truly expect, or even genuinely hope for it, when languishing in Division Two – but because this was them.

In Manchester, when it comes to football, you choose to be red, blue or a supporter of one of the numerous smaller clubs from the surrounding areas. Being blue often offered nothing other than a sense of belonging. In the majority of cases, one passed through generations of families. With it came the expectation that a club of City’s ‘size’ should achieve more than it had, did and probably would do in the future. Being red over most of that period was a virtual guarantee of success and an easy ride.

There often seemed no rational reason for wanting to stay a City fan. Don’t get me wrong, Rochdale, Bury and Stockport fans will tell you that they have always had less prospect of success than City and this is true. And their fans are to be commended for their loyalty and commitment to the game. The difference being that supporting City for the last 30 years came with an acknowledgement that, along with the lack of success, would come a virtual guarantee of ridicule and the disappointment of knowing that other clubs of a similar size and history were consistently achieving relatively more. And seemingly would continue to do so.

So when the change of fortune that huge monetary investment brings makes its way to City, you see something that isn’t often seen in title winning celebrations. Despite the perception that many neutrals are aghast at success funded by oil money, Sunday saw a virtually overwhelmingly positive response to City’s victory, along with delight and genuine congratulations for City fans.

It’s difficult, even for the most anti football investment campaigner, not to recognise that, investment aside, this was one of the most emotion filled events witnessed in recent football history. Here was a set of fans who have suffered from ridicule and disappointment for decades, who have had their noses rubbed in it for the last 20 years, who should rationally have given it up long ago but chose not to.

It’s recognition of the reasons that City fans, as an entity, did not choose to give it up that has made it so difficult for fans of other clubs to begrudge them the events of 13.05.2012. City fans aren’t special, as much as us City fans would like to think so. All the characteristics that any group of fans like to think are unique to them are present in the support of most clubs. And even though City fans have had to possibly put up with more ridicule and disappointment than most, the reasons for sticking with their team are recognisable to Crystal Palace, West Ham, Southampton, Sunderland, Cheltenham Town, Chesterfield, Derby County fans and fans of most other teams – possibly with the exception of certain sections of the established ‘big’ clubs.

Subsequently, fans of those clubs recognise that this title victory, whilst on the surface is a confirmation that success in football is now chiefly, possibly solely, determined by an ability to spend, was a feel-good fans story. This was vindication for a set of fans who, like other fans up and down the country, had not chosen the easy option of adopting a team that might guarantee trophy victories. Who had continued their support in the face of years of mocking and disappointment because Manchester City represented them. Their – or part of their – society. Their city. Their, or at least some of, their friends. It was their team, part of their social life, part of something that defined many every day conversations and interactions within their social circles. This is what football clubs come to mean to people. However stupid and ridiculous that sounds.

And after all those humiliations, all that ridicule, all that disappointment, all that grasping of defeat from the jaws of victory, they had finally done it. Not after waiting a few years for something like this. Not after going through a ‘dodgy spell’. But after what was for many, a lifetime of knowing nothing but footballing humiliation, punctuated by the odd instance of slightly less humiliation.

That it occurred in the manner that it did – the most dramatic, momentous comeback in title history – only served to highlight the emotion of it all. The eruption after Sergio Aguero’s goal was something rarely witnessed at a football game. It wasn’t merely celebration of a goal. It wasn’t merely celebration of a title win. It wasn’t merely a celebration of a dramatic comeback.

It was all those, combined with the habits of a lifetime finally being broken. The celebration of something that many had thought would never be possible. That modern football and the capacity for cock ups that had infected the club’s DNA had ensured would never be achieved. The celebration of a day that it was imagined might never come. When fans who had put up with so much could say that their team had proven to be the best in the country. Made even sweeter by beating their rivals, those who had revelled in mocking City so much over the years whilst they enjoyed their own unparalleled success.

This all seems a bit misty eyed. It has to be acknowledged that, like any club achieving success, over the following years, parts of City’s support will change. The reasons for ‘being a fan’ for many will not be those that drew fans to the club over the last 30 years.

But this title victory, being the first, was still untainted by the arrogance and ‘need’ for victory that accompanies many fanbases used to and expecting success. It wasn’t about how City’s fanbase will inevitably change in the next decade as they build on this success. It was about what their fanbase has been over the last 3 decades. About those that witnessed those tribulations and finally witnessed reward yesterday. About those who witnessed those tribulations and were no longer around to witness yesterday.

This was a day that had been 40 years in the making, with each passing year making it less likely that it would ever arrive. On the pitch it was a victory for the quality that money can buy. But in the stands it was a victory for football support and what football clubs mean to the societies they represent. A victory for every club that is not one of the established ‘big’ teams. A victory for fans that don’t give up hope and, for some reason, put up with every disappointment and let-down that their club throws at them. A victory for the ridiculed. A victory for the reasons, beyond wanting to win, that we support football clubs. A victory for hope. A victory that fans of most clubs can relate to and, for yesterday at least, could appreciate as an entity separate to any concerns about finances.

English Premier League

City: Hart, Zabaleta, Kompany (c), Lescott, Clichy, Y Toure (de Jong 44), Barry (Dzeko 69), Nasri, Silva, Tevez (Balotelli 76), Aguero
Unused: Pantilimon, Kolarov, Richards, Milner
Goals: Zabaleta (39), Dzeko (90+2), Aguero (90+4)
Booked: Aguero

Referee: Mike Dean
Man of the Match: Pablo Zabaleta

City began the game knowing that a win would more than likely seal their first Premier League title and their first league championship in forty-four years. For the visitors, a draw would be enough to keep them in the division. While, at The Stadium Of Light, Manchester United could steal City’s thunder if they could better the blues’ result.

The intentions from the visitors was clear from the start: They had come for the point that would see them escape relegation. It was City on top from the off and QPR were happy to see the hosts control possession, but remain firm. With 16 minutes on the clock, Paddy Kenny fumbled a City shot, but there was nobody in blue nearby to capitalise and he was able to dive on the rebound before Aguero could react.

On 24 minutes, Hart was tested for the first time: A free kick was given for a foul by Barry on Cisse and the QPR man fired a free kick over the wall and towards the bottom corner. City’s keeper, however, held on to the shot comfortably. It was a warning from the visitors and there was bad news from Sunderland: United were a goal ahead and, as it stood, they were top of the league.

Silva fired a shot wide of Kenny’s post before Yaya Toure sliced one well wide, as the blues struggled to get going. But, soon enough, City were in front: Yaya Toure slipped onto the end of a pass into the box and fed it through to Zabaleta on the overlap; he smashed a shot at goal that Kenny could only parry onto the post and into the back of the net. City were back on the top of the table.

Just before the break, City lost Yaya Toure to injury. But, as the teams emerged for the second half, it didn’t appear to have affected the host’s forward play: Aguero forced a save out of Paddy Kenny after just 31 seconds. But that ascendency suddenly turned; Cisse broke away from the City back line after Lescott misjudged his header and it fell perfectly for the striker to volley. He did and it beat Hart, pulling the visitors level.

The home side, however, continued to push forward, despite creating very little in the way of shooting chances. QPR were defending stoutly and City were looking sluggish, though soon their task got more difficult. Joey Barton swung an elbow at Carlos Tevez on the edge of the box and it was spotted by the linesman, who flagged. The referee produced a red card and, to compound matters, the former City midfielder kicked out at Aguero, before aiming a head-butt in Kompany’s direction.

The red card, though, didn’t adversely affect the visitors. On 65 minutes, QPR broke away down the left flank and a cross into the box found Mackie unmarked, breaking into the box. He met it with his head and powered the effort past Hart and Lescott on the line and City, needing to win, were suddenly behind and not looking like scoring.

Roberto Mancini went for broke. He threw on Dzeko and Balotelli and City piled men forward into the box, but despite corner after corner and cross after cross, the blues couldn’t force a shot. QPR heads were flicking the ball away and producing last gasp tackles and blocks. Dzeko forced Kenny into a good save with his feet.

A goalmouth scramble ended with a good double-save by Kenny from Aguero, the second him preventing the ball from crossing the line from inches out. Balotelli headed at goal, but Kenny was on form to push it away, also. Still needing to win, City were still losing and the board was going up for stoppage time. City had five minutes to score twice – where have we heard that before?

The first came from Dzeko. The ball was played into the six yard box and the Bosnian rose to meet the cross ahead of anybody else. The bullet header was straight past Kenny and City were on level terms, as the final whistle blew in Sunderland. United had won and City needed another.

With a minute to play, the ball was fed into Balotelli on the edge of the box. With his back to goal, he couldn’t keep his feet and slipped backward, but had the mind to nick the ball to Aguero. He beat the challenge from Onuoha and smashed the ball into the back of the net. City were back from the dead.

Manchester City were Premier League Champions.

Going to the Match

Something a bit different on the blog today, blues.

In 1999 the Professional Footballers Association paid £1.9m for a Lowry painting called Going to the Match. Painted in 1953 as an entry for a competition called ‘Football and the Fine Arts’ the picture shows a crowd approaching Burnden Park prior to kick off. Speaking at the time of the purchase, PFA Chairman Gordon Taylor said the picture captured “the heart and soul of the game and the anticipation of fans on their way to a match. It is the football picture, it captures all the atmosphere of the game.” He then added “I would have liked it for a lot less than that.”

Because this, one of Lowry’s most famous paintings, shows Burnden Park, many art critics and commentators have wrongly concluded that Lowry was a Bolton fan. In fact, there is significant evidence which shows him to have been a Blue. In an attempt – probably unsuccessful – to take your minds off Sunday for a brief time, this blog sketches out some features of Lowry’s career which may be of interest to fellow Blues. (Yes, ‘sketches’ out – I’ll get my coat.)

Laurence Steven Lowry – Laurie – was born in 1887 and died in 1976. True to form, City won the league cup that year only six days after Lowry had died in a Glossop hospital founded by one of the ancestors of the current Arsenal chairman Peter Hill-Woods. 1976 was the start of a long period of mourning for more than one reason.

Although he painted for almost all of his life, going to art college as a young man and painting as long as his health allowed, a huge number of Lowry’s pictures, whether painted then or at a later date, are images from the inter war years 1918-39. Lowry was once asked why he put so many of his scenes in the depression years: ‘because’ he replied ‘I was happiest then, and because I like the look of ill-fitting clothes, big bowlers, and clumsy bodies. They are comical.’

self portrait

There is credible evidence that like many working men in the inter war years Lowry was a regular at City. Of all the times in our club’s history, that time could justifiably claim to be the most typical of all the ‘Typical City’ periods. The club’s ground at Hyde Road was the first provincial ground to be visited by the King in 1920, the same year that the main stand burned down (prompting the move to Maine Road three years later). In 1926 Lowry would have enjoyed that seminal City experience – a 6-1 thrashing of the rags – only to see City being relegated at the end of the season. A cup final defeat in 1933 was followed by lifting the cup the following season, beating Portsmouth 2-1 in the final. On the way to the final a crowd of 84,569, still the record attendance for any club in England, watched the sixth round home tie against Stoke. Our first league title in 1937 was followed by relegation the following season – still the only reigning champions to be relegated. But Typical City went down in style, scoring more goals than champions Arsenal and also every other Club in the top Division: that season saw City beat Derby 6-1 and 7-1, West Brom 7-1, Leeds 6-2 and Charlton 5-3. Before the final game of the season there were five teams below City in the table but a 1-0 defeat away at Huddersfield coupled with wins for Grimsby, Portsmouth, Birmingham and Stoke meant that the trapdoor opened and City jumped the queue. Lowry himself had something of a black sense of humour and there is little doubt that the champions of England going down the next season would have produced a wry smile on his dour face (our famous gallows humour goes a long way back before York Away). Just to rub salt in, United were promoted to the first division the same season.

Before retiring to Mottram in 1952 (to a house a stone’s throw from the church where Mike Summerbee was later married) Lowry had worked as a rent collector. His job caused him to travel largely on foot from one house to another, one street to another. Before his retirement Lowry did his painting in the evenings and at weekends, painting from memories of what he had seen as he went around Manchester – women nattering on the front step, kids playing in the street, factories and mills turning out. So whilst most artists work by painting what they see in front of them – a bowl of fruit or a portrait in a studio, or a landscape painted in the open air – Lowry’s way of working meant that most of his work from his the pre-retirement period are general impressions of daily life, rather than images capturing specific events.

Many more are composite pictures: a street from Chadderton leading up to a Mill in Stalybridge, with a row of shops in Collyhurst to one side. As Lowry once himself said “Most of my land and townscape is composite. Made up; part real and part imaginary. Bits and pieces of my home locality. I don’t even know I’m putting them in. They just crop up on their own, like things do in dreams.” Another time he said “If I had shown things as they are it would not have looked like a vision. So I had to make up symbols. With my figures also, of course”.

Street Scene, Pendlebury

This is why one of Lowry’s paintings, Manchester City v Sheffield United, is highly unusual. It is quite rare for any Lowry to depict any identifiable event, but this picture reflects a crowd scene at the second division fixture between City and Sheffield United which took place on 22nd October 1938 which City won 3-2 (apply to G. James Esq., c/o bluemoon-mcfc.co.uk for details of City’s scorers). So far as I know this is the only specifically identifiable sporting event known to have been captured by Lowry. In 2008 the picture was sold to a private collector following auction. Speaking at the time of the auction, Christies Art Historian Rachel Hidderley said: “Manchester City Versus Sheffield United is from a small and important group of paintings in which Lowry records an actual event rather than a composite image of different locations or impressions. In the work, he concentrates on the home crowd rather than the team members, using the occasion of the match to concentrate on depicting the personalities of the individuals attending.”

Manchester City v Sheffield United

The date of the painting obviously indicates that the location is Maine Road, the match taking place just a few months after relegation to the second division. There has been some speculation that the scene Lowry shows is a ticket tout, but that seems to me unlikely as the cost of admission to the ground on match day in the Thirties was well within the means of the average working man, and entry was usually just cash on the door. Having mentioned that, it is worth noting tangentally something that a photographer called Ian Hughes said in 2009 of a picture he had taken of Arsenal’s old ground Highbury from an adjacent street during the course of a match there: “I counted five houses with the game being shown on Sky TV in the front rooms. Perhaps this signifies that the local fans that the club was traditionally based on are being priced out of going to top-end football matches. I contrast this with the great L.S. Lowry’s ‘Going to the Match’ painting from 1953, depicting crowds streaming into Bolton’s Burnden Park ground on foot from the surrounding terraced streets.” But I digress.

There is little evidence beyond the image itself of what Lowry was actually capturing in this painting but it seems to me far more likely than not that, as some other art historians have concluded, that the scene shows a bookie plying his trade before kick-off in the manner commonplace at the time. If so, there is some irony given that one of the most prolific collectors of Lowrys in recent years has been Selwyn Demmy, son of the well known bookmaker Gus Demmy (well known if you’re of a certain age) and that – rumour has it – Selwyn Demmy was himself advised to start collecting Lowrys by a footballer called Gary Owen. Now where have I heard that name before?

Whilst the painting may be unique in terms of the event that it captures, the crowd scene shown in the City v Sheffield painting is a typical Lowry image. Crowds were significant in Lowry’s work, and many of Lowry’s admirers pay tribute to his ability to capture the feel of a crowd. In 2011 for instance Sir Ian McKellen – fresh from a stint appearing in Coronation Street, itself a programme named after a Lowry painting – made a film for ITV called ‘My Lifelong Passion for Lowry’. In an article in the Telegraph publicizing the film, he said “Until Lowry painted his crowds, no other artist had recorded how people look and behave en masse. Each individual is on his/her own journey across the canvas yet leaning to form the crowd with its own collective identity. Once you have seen how Lowry saw us, you cannot ever see or be in a football crowd, nor watch kids playing, workers leaving the factory, queuing, or stopping to chat or hear the fairground barker, without saying, ‘Lowry! It’s just like a Lowry painting!’ Going about our business or pleasure, we are all subjects of his vision.”

Mill Scene

Nonetheless the irony of Lowry’s crowd scenes is that Lowry himself suffered terribly from loneliness. He never married or had children. He lived with his mother until her death in 1939, after which Lowry said “I have no family, only my studio. Were it not for my painting, I couldn’t live. It helps me forget that I am alone.” But being part of a huge crowd, at a match or otherwise, often underlined the loneliness. Lowry later said “the loneliest place in the world is in a crowd”. It is for me very sad to think of this great man, standing on the K
Kippax perhaps, surrounded by thousands of fellow blues but still feeling intensely lonely.

Many of the blue persuasion are devoted admirers of Lowry. Gary Owen is noted above, but another obvious example is Noel Gallagher, who said in Sir Ian McKellan’s film that he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known about Lowry, and who wondered out loud why the Tate Gallery in London has 23 Lowrys in its collection but none of them is on display. The video for the Oasis single The Masterplan is not only Lowry-esque in its animation throughout, but it pays homage to a number of Lowrys by reproducing in the video some of his most famous images (like the one below) whilst the animated Gallagher brothers walk past. Towards the end of the video, Going to the Match is reproduced, although Burnden Park has somehow become Maine Road.

Man lying on a wall

There are many non-football related Lowry pictures which will be of interest to Blue Mooners (google them to see the images themselves). In 1953 he sketched St Mary’s church in Beswick. In 1969 he painted Stockport viaduct (and as we all know from Sad Café, we’re all from Stockport really). There is a very famous Lowry showing the Good Friday fair at Daisy Nook park near Droylsden in 1946, which sold for more than £3 million in 2009. Many City fans will find it amazing that the Art World will pay £3 million for a picture of Droylsden, but the Art World is just as amazed that City spent the same money on Lee Bradbury.

Good Friday, Daisy Nook

Some of his more colourful pictures of daily life – such as “Fight” and “Home from the Pub” which features three women staggering home pissed clutching bottles of booze and each other – are images which could be a Friday night today as easily as a street scene from seventy years ago. (Well, he did live near Stalybridge). But it is interesting to think about what Lowry would have made of us now: would he have nodded in recognition at the blues in Shambles square and Mary D’s ahead of the game? He captured Piccadilly Gardens and Piccadilly Circus in London perfectly: what could he have done with City Square? And what of the crowds streaming down the spirals and away from the ground into a cold Manchester evening; would he have recognised the same breed of blues who watched us beat Sheffield United 74 years ago?

Yes, I think he would too.

English Premier League

City: Hart, Zabaleta, Kompany (c), Lescott, Clichy, Y Toure, Barry, Nasri (de Jong 62), Silva (Richards 86), Tevez (Dzeko 70), Aguero
Unused: Pantilimon, Kolarov, Milner, A Johnson,
Goals: Y Toure (70, 89)
Booked: Barry, Y Toure, Zabaleta

Referee: Howard Webb
Man of the Match: Yaya Toure

It was Newcastle that started the game with more possession, but it was the visitors with the first spell of pressure. Nasri and Yaya Toure had shots blocked, before a short corner routine allowed Silva to shoot first time in the box. That effort, though, was blocked behind, before Krul pulled off a neat save from a low shot from Silva across goal. Tevez then found Nasri in the box, but the Frenchman couldn’t control.

With 16 minutes played, Tevez and Barry combined to slide the ball through to Aguero on the left side of the box. There, he took the ball onto his right foot and tried a low effort at Krul’s goal, but it was weakly hit and the Dutch keeper was able to dive on it comfortably. Soon after, the goalkeeper came for a long ball but didn’t get there and Aguero was able to take it around him. His ball across the goal, though, was just short of finding Nasri.

Tevez curled a free kick from just outside the area with just over 25 minutes played, but Krul was able to swallow it up. City were pressing, but the breakthrough was still eluding them. Newcastle’s first effort on goal followed shortly after – Clichy lost the ball to Ben Arfa and he found Ba inside, but the turn and shot was over Hart’s crossbar.

Just after the half hour, Zabaleta gifted a chance to Gutierrez and he slipped it past Kompany to find Ba in the box. His shot was blocked as far as Ben Arfa on the right side of the box and the Frenchman hit it first time. Hart pulled off a great save to keep it out, before Cabaye shot well wide. Newcastle were suddenly on top.

It should have been City that took the lead with five minutes of the half to play. The ball broke to Barry on the edge of the box with room to shoot, but a brilliant save by Krul kept it out. The rebound bounced straight back to him and this time he beat the goalkeeper, but couldn’t get it past Santon on the line. A goalmouth scramble followed, but the hosts managed to squeeze the ball clear.

The first real spell of pressure of the second half came from a City corner. Silva and Nasri worked a short flag kick, before it was kept alive in the box by Lescott. Yaya Toure found Tevez on the corner of the area, but his instinctive hit was sliced wide of the far post. Silva’s effort from range just before the half hour took a deflection and that took all of the power out of it, leaving Krul an easy job to collect.

Silva and Barry were crowded out on the edge of the Newcastle box, before a mistake from de Jong allowed the hosts to break. Ben Arfa’s effort, though, was high and wide, when he should have done better having beaten Clichy. Ba broke free from Kompany and shot straight at de Jong; both sides were pressing for the victory.

Seconds after the introduction of Dzeko, City put the ball in the net with their next attack. De Jong played a neat one-two with Dzeko, before doing the same with Aguero and finding Yaya Toure in the middle of the pitch. He placed his shot into the bottom corner of the goal and the blues had squeezed themselves in front. Just.

Dzeko could have done better with 73 minutes played, as he got the better of the hosts’ defence. Though on the left side of the box, he could have looked for Aguero in the middle, but chose to volley at goal. He slashed it wide. Aguero was then onside and played in on a one-on-one with Krul, but he slide the shot wide.

With 12 minutes to play, Cisse found space inside the City box and nodded Ameobi’s cross wide of Hart’s near post. It was a let off for City, who were suddenly on the back foot again. Zabaleta gave away a rash free kick on the left flank, but a combination of Barry, Silva and de Jong got it away. A Yaya Toure free header was then flashed wide of the post, as City tried to tie it up.

Five minutes later, Newcastle were still in the game thanks only to Tim Krul. On a one-on-one with Yaya Toure, the keeper stood up and the Ivorian slipped. He found Aguero from on the floor and he appeared to have an open goal. He lifted it over the defence and seemingly into the net, until Krul’s hand came out of nowhere to tip it over the bar.

It was all Newcastle going into the final stages. Richards made a brilliant block from an Ameobi effort on the edge of the box and, on the break from that corner, Clichy slipped Yaya Toure in and he took a touch, before slotting it past Krul to double with a minute plus stoppage time to play. Hart then kept Newcastle out with a brilliant one-handed stop from Cisse.

City had put the pressure right back onto United.

Added to this however was the completely yawnsome cliché concerning City being in unchartered waters. Naivety was included on the charge-sheet and, while their arch-rivals eked out a succession of victories – often while under-performing themselves – the nonsense spouted right across both the medium and public was that United possessed the ‘know-how’ in these situations. They had been there, seen it and done it many times before and had the seasoned nous to get them over the line.

Like a fine thoroughbred this was where United opened up its legs and romped down the final straight and the general consensus was that United knew exactly what was required in the challenges ahead whereas the harsh lessons dished out to City would prove to be an invaluable learning curve for future campaigns.

I am not discounting the importance for one minute of experience in sport or indeed in life. Yet these further qualities that are often attributed to Ferguson and his men towards the tail-end of each season have been greatly exaggerated and again were in full evidence from a fawning press and reds who were smugness personified.

Suddenly every word uttered by Ferguson was a master class in mind games while some were so enthralled by United’s business-end savour faire they even falsified statistics to further enhance their case. By some I am referring to Mark Lawrenson who stated with certainly on Match of the Day that City has surrendered a ten point lead. In reality it was seven and that was only due to the technicality of their rivals playing later that afternoon.

Now that United have capitulated an actual real eight point lead should they also then be thought of as ‘bottlers’? If not, why not? What is good for the goose is good for the gander surely? And self-destruction is self-destruction irrespective of how many trophies gleam in your cabinet. Yet strangely I have not encountered a single instance of this word being aimed towards Old Trafford.

Furthermore shouldn’t the conceding of two late goals against Everton also be viewed as extreme naivety? A team with ‘know how’ would surely have the fortitude and accrued savvy to close that game out?

What about Ferguson’s misguided team selection for Monday’s mother of all derbies? Weakening your own strengths and instead going like-for-like with a team who are specialists at ‘cluttering up the midfield’ (Ferguson’s words) was tantamount to suicide and the omission of Valencia bordered on the bizarre.

Will this be considered a ‘valuable learning curve’ for the dark Lord in the same manner that Mancini’s tactical miss-steps have been condescendingly portrayed?

Of course not and, to a large extent, rightly so. The truth of the matter is that this supposed knowledge in dealing with tense title run-ins is mainly a load of theoretical b****cks peddled by spellbound armchair psychologists that has become, over time, set in factual stone.

It is at this point of the article where I have to make the unnerving confession to agreeing with David Pleat.

This is an extremely rare occurrence – I tend to disagree with the creepy nasally one over almost everything, from the correct pronouncement of a player’s name to how fast you should drive through a red light district – but prior to kick-off on Monday he was talking on Radio5 about the two figureheads of United’s experienced credentials, Scholes and Giggs.

“I don’t care how many titles these two wonderful players have amassed or how many big games they’ve played a part in….if anyone thinks Giggs and Scholes aren’t just as anxious and tense about tonight’s game as anyone else they are very wrong”.

I couldn’t have put it better myself Pleaty my new chum. No, don’t touch me.

Indeed I’d even go further and suggest that the ‘winning mentality’ of these two – the supposed invaluable commodity accrued over countless previous campaigns that gives United a supposed invaluable advantage over City – is in fact a hindrance in comparison to others. Though the duo have admirably held back the years there can be no doubt that this is their final season apiece as prominent squad members. This therefore represents their last shot at glory, a chance to cap two extraordinary careers with silverware. With their vast experience they knew far more than any other player precisely what was at stake on Monday and would have felt the tension accordingly.

Who slept better on Sunday night I wonder? Giggs or Wellbeck, the 21 year old fall-guy for the Welshman’s inclusion, who presumably still regards football with the same excitable adventure as we tackle FIFA12? The answer is probably the latter regardless as Giggs was presumably sending saucy texts to a member of his family but I digress. Experience is not necessarily a beneficial factor. Who is more nervous about going to the dentist to have a tooth pulled out – someone who has never had it done before with all the blissful ignorance that brings or someone who knows that if it goes awry it hurts like hell and there’s blood all over the place?

The surprising events of the past couple of weeks has hopefully debunked in part a few long-standing myths that have been lazily perpetuated for far too long by folk hopelessly in awe of a club that is perceived as a mystical institution. United have a ‘winning mentality’ do they? No, it simply isn’t possible for an ethereal quality to seep into brickwork nor indeed be passed onto players such as De Gea, Jones, Smalling, Young and others who have never been in this situation before. Of the few individuals who do possess such empirical wisdom – as illustrated above – such knowledge is not always a positive thing.

As for Ferguson’s ‘mind games’ – unquestionably the most exasperating fallacy propagated by a beholden media – well, surely we can now lay that one to rest.

Mancini is the only manager who has directly taken on Ferguson with identical methods and anyone who witnessed the old man’s touchline meltdown and consequent hilarious hypocrisy complaining of a rival manager attempting to influence an official will plainly see that the Italian has had him for breakfast through the merest of effort.

City’s hard-fought victory has brought both sides level with only goal difference separating each and no matter what happens this weekend the title can only be decided on the final day. What will ultimately split them are goals, ability, high-level performances and good fortune, not the myth of mentality, know-how or mind games.

This is how it should be. This is how it’s always been.