What would it mean to you?

No history? 1880. 1894. 1904. 1934. 1937. 1956. 1968. 1969. Continental and domestic in 1970. 1976. Every year in between glued together with people, vibes, life and community. Deep shades of sky blue and glorious ambition, turmoil, truths, trouble, love and hope. This City has history as deep wider than the Manchester Ship Canal and deeper than the soils that Manchester sits on.

1981: a replay on a Thursday. I wasn’t born. I heard something happened. I kept hearing it again and again and again.

Growing up on European night stories and tales. The folklore. The tales. The late nights turned tables. Not going, not knowing and City not showing. Different times, fine lines.

Railway specials, walks from The Clarence, Kippax gone, homeless and nomadic, back to the new Kippax. Relax. Imre ‘Banana’ and blowing up as City implode and reload.

“Swales out!” “Lee out!” Ball in. Ball out. Coppell copped out. Frank Clark went to the park. Asa Hartford changing seats like underwear. Brian Horton left via Gorton. Book, Reid, Neal and Machin. Howard Kendall, any good? The managerial machine doesn’t need oiling – it needs scrapping!

Uwe! Uwe! Uwe!

Wondering how much sunblock Lomas applied as Kinky cried? Seeing torment arrive on a tide.

5-1 in our cup final, and Fergie’s baptism, and then schism after schism in stands of scaffolding. Walking back along the A56 year after year, without cheer.

Being unable to get to York away, unlike the other ten million Blues, because that day, work meant I couldn’t see us lose. The Blues. The blues. Boos. Chews and choose.

Lincoln, Halifax, Shrewsbury, Bury and Stockport, where are you now? We were with you and now we’re not. We’re not really here. Thanks for keeping us company. No hard feelings, we’re just like you, but we’re not. You know what we mean. Macclesfield, cheers.

Listening on the wireless to the boom of Fred Eyre, on Piccadilly Gold. Not always because sometimes City were shoved aside for that Red lot over in Trafford. We couldn’t always go. Tickets away not available on the day.

Get that Dickov! Feed the Goat. Oooohhh it’s Nicky Weaver… Andy, Andy Mor-ri-son… Super Kevin Horlock. Edghill edged and Pollock pledged. Terry Cooke, he’s not red! Surely not! Jobson, Howey, Wiekens, Whitley brothers,

Wembley! Wembley! Wembley! Nineteen ninety nine was ever so fine. The divine stood in line and created a path headed towards a goldmine. The crocus. Dickov! Slide, slide, slide away… Tears! Tears of relief! Tears of joy! A dream reborn! CITY ARE GOING UP!

Ipswich Town in the rain? What a pain! Do it all again? Why not! Give it our best shot! Gene Kelly? Inside stand toilets? SMELLY.

Ewood Park without dark, what an hark and a lark as City are back, with some clack.

Bernarbia and Berkovic! Is this as good as it gets?

Gary Neville is a blue! The Goat? Feasted. Fed. Full.

Watching Viduka, Owen, Fowler, and every Tom, Dick and Harry pick their spots and find it. Again and again.

Seeing Keane being mean, standing over Haaland imposing his ridiculous square bean.

Keegan attacked and attacked and then got got side tracked.

Pearce’s lofted penalty hit a carcass of the Sputnik or some such other floating tin.

Goodbye Maine Road. Fireworks and sounds faded. A new concrete bowl provided.

#SAVEOURSVEN

Welcome Barcelona and Total Network Solutions… Is this the promised land?

Pearce off. How many goals in one season at home?! A ‘keeper up front?! Don’t pull that stunt! Wonky toes and European woes.

‘The Moston Menace’, SWP, BWP, tiny, tiny Willow Flood was good, and Ireland is Superman. Nedum can head ’em. Michael Johnson was on some. The golden generation we were told. Same old, same old?

Things good shook up. New owners. New investment. New opportunity. New ambitions. WE’VE GOT ROBINHO! WE’VE GOT ROBINHO! WE’VE GOT ROBINHO!

And then 2011 arrived. Things changed. But still they laughed. Still, we held our pride. Welcome to Manchester F.A. Cup. It wasn’t long before a young man name Sergio arrived… And an academy beyond our wildest imagination… and ever-growing ambitions…

But, now we’re here, watching super City from Maine Road, in Shenzhen on a television screen bigger than the North Stand at Maine Road. In China, fans are growing. Porto game showing. The Champions League Final. Whatever the weather, we’re not fair-weather. We’re not really here.

Rain! Rain! Rain!

How do,

“Rain, rain, rain, a wicked rain
Falling from the sky
Down, down, down, pouring down
Upon the night
Well there’s just one chance in a million
That someday we’ll make it out alive” – Wicked Rain, Los Lobos

Pluviophile means a lover of rain. I heard that people who identify as lovers of rain are generally down to earth and calm. I’ve even been told that daydreamers and those inclined to imagine are usually associated with that of rain. I’ve never fact checked these matters as I was too busy dreaming.

The beat of the rain droplets finding their way from way up high to land and join their countless companions. Some land on trees. Some impact puddles. Many land and immediately get swept away.

Many days without rain make my heart feel dry and untouched. Rain is my pacemaker. I’m from Manchester, a city with a heart of regular rainfall. I now in Dongguan, a city that gets a fair amount of showers throughout monsoon season. Every drop of life that falls from the sky brings

The energy of the downpour fills me. The damp smell opens my nostrils. It fills my lungs and soaks into my blood. I’m drawn to puddles and want to stamp in them, no matter the cost to my sodden shoes. That’s when I know that running is needed. Not in sun. Not in cold. Not on a dry hot evening blazing with colourful light. No. I choose rain.

Thank you kindly and ta’ra for now!

Best of British.

How do/你好,

It’s been over twenty months since I stepped on the soil of Great Britain. I’m not saying everything is roses and sweet gooseberries but I miss so much about the lands I was raised in. I want to feel the winds off the Irish Sea, the saturating rains of the Lake District, and see the fluffy clouds over the Pennines.

I long to see my family, friends, football and food. I want to visit my ancestral connections and toast my grandparents. I want to wander down lanes and places to reminisce about my dog Pup and all those days gone by. I don’t feel old but I do miss the ability to choose to visit my past and explore the future of my homelands.

I haven’t visited a proper charity shop or heard the term Bric-a-brac in so long now that even passing a construction site here in Dongguan excites me. Some discarded or unwanted piece of summat or t’other may grab my eye. Or land me in hospital with need for a tetanus jab.

I want to hug my sisters, brothers, uncles and aunts, Mum and Dad and all the other members of my scattered tribe. Nattering, sharing good foods, talking nonsense and stories, or catching up like it was yesterday. The new norm? No. We’ll carry on, just like we always did. Keep calm and drink Vimto.

Yes, I love my job and can keep busy but the longer this goes on, the bigger then pull grows. It’s tugging at emotions and connections that are strong and resolute. But even hours for the confident can be testing. Home sweet home? I’m looking for my home. I’m comfortable and content here. Opportunity is knocking on the door and chance is presenting a good hand in? life’s game of cards. Just there’s no Whitby scampy. No fish and chips, like back home.

They talk funny here but not like the funny there. I miss St Helens, Wigan, Glossop, Lancaster and all those diverse accents that are so close to home, yet so far. Winter Hill, I miss it too. The slopes, the towering vast plains and the bleak beauty under grey cool skies.

Road signs. Bus stops. Proper speed bumps. Those bubbles that appear in warm tarmac. Rhubarb crumble. Manchester tarts. Live music almost everyday, every where. Yes, I know, things have changed. No thanks to COVID-19 but the good times will return.

Manchester City versus Everton sees the return of fans. Sing like you’ve been stuck indoors for months. Champions of England. We know what we are. MCFC, ok.

Ta’ra. 再见

Stand #1

How do,

The steps leading up were worn and damp. The turnstile had swept me inside. The cool depths of the stand arched left harshly, then opened to a space aged yet far from antique. Brilliant white reflected harsh overhead lighting. Dad grabbed a match day programme. A chunky magazine booklet featuring the teams of the day. I tottered along on tired toes.

We’d strode at pace from the Clarence pub across streets far away. Eventually we swept up Kippax Street, around alleys and ginnels in to a brick wall gate. The rustic metal clanked and turned as a stub was ripped away. The darker than sky blue, yet far from royal blue panels fitted here and there gave a code to the area around. The bricks and mortar moulded to concrete and metal alike. The whole thing fitted together.

The steps into the stand opened up a tiny sliver into an outside world. Bright light forced its way in. It pierced all. The opening spread and unveiled line after line of seats. Wide to either side. Kippax blue. Glorious shades of blue, filled with those dressed in blue. Blue denim, sky blue football shirts and scarves of blue and white. Big bold lettering. Wonderful sounds. Waves of chants. The lullaby sounds sank and rose over and over again. The roof up above and the stands opposite bounced all the ambience back.

The smell of chicken balti pies reached me almost as fast as my Dad handed me the crusty sweet curry savoury snack. I gripped its warmth and shivered as the whole sense if occasion matched the cool air. I knew it at that moment that my place of worship was here.

The Maine Road home of Manchester has been missing since 2003 but the spirit goes on. We all long for those days and those feelings, but they live on, inside us. Sentimental as it is. I miss those feelings. That cool fresh Mancunian air. The longing for home is strong. But today, I feel something new. Only time can tell what it is.

Ta’ra for now.

Condolences to Football.

The day that football died could have been avoided. Instead the fans of Manchester City in the outer rims of Mongolia smiled at news they were now able to wear their Bayern Munich third kits twice a season, and quickly switch at half time to sky blue. They’d been loyal, ever since their birth into watching Arjen Robben wear the famous red of Munich. Sadly news filtered through. The German giants hadn’t joined the Super League.

The then reigning German Champions, and European Champions, and not to mention World Champions couldn’t qualify for the new European Super League. They had morality problems to overcome. Instead a team from Manchester who failed to win the Champions League ahead of being appointed to the European Super League would join a team fourth in their Italia league (at the time). There certainly had been no mention of FC Santa Claus or Aberystwyth Town. Not super enough.

The identity of football hung on a knife edge for a while. It was played in the shadows of Norwich, the villas of Aston, and islands such as Majorca. Even little old disputed Gibraltar was hoofing sacks of air around. For a while the purists switched off their television subscriptions and players ran down their contracts. Some desperado types willfully cheered for Glasgow Celtic and Rangers. They tried, with false hope, to end Secretariat ways. They begged Muslims and Jews to merge Palestinian fields with Israeli values. All was in a false belief that football could be repaired.

Mitre died first. Their football’s deflated and panels fell off. Nike prevailed with their colourful balls. Humphrey Brothers bowed out. Umbro fell to Nike and Nike sent them packing. Death arrived. Nike fired up the football kit photocopying machine.

In China, prestigious sponsors gathered around the H&M Morality Stadium to watch the Super League launch. Liverpool Red beat Liverpool Yellow by two goals to who gives a crap in the ‘The inaugural prestigious opening kicking of the ball for make benefit Great Football better at escaping Informative information technology work time tournament 2021 (postponed from the 2020 edition) Super League cup‘. You had to be there for the halftime video promotion of sunny Wuhan. The whole world gazed on in wonder at the Public Relations dream team in action. The new republic of football had found its launch moved the global online viewers to tears.

The irreparable damage to the national leagues of European professional football was not slow. Falling live viewing attendances from January 2020 ensure more people chose to watch online than be at the game. Some were even threatened by fines if they attended their local team done good. Wembley Stadium finally placed restrictions on visiting teams from Manchester and London, ensuring 70,000 seats couldn’t be purchased at their fair and reasonable set prices. Lord Carabao was perturbed but rode out the storm, only to give up hope when Red Bull F.C. Paris Saint Germain was announced. Emirates Airlines gave up the F. A. Cup and opted for a more traditional European Super League Cup Winners’ Cup deal.

The European Super League hit its first stumbling block when it announced clubs would continue to ‘compete in their respective national leagues’. The leagues sharpened their axes and expelled the 12 brave clubs. They awarded past titles and trophies to their historic runners up or whoever was closest. And then they went to court. Leagues versus the European Super League. Fans versus clubs. Clubs versus nations. FIFA didn’t recognise anyone. The new Super League Clubs had teams filled with Sepp Blatter. All unrecognised. Fans washed their hands of years of history. The suicides began. Shirts were burned. Civil war. Hooligans apologised and made up. Millwall F.C. adopted displaced Chelsea, Arsenal and Tottenham fans. Manchester City and United fans formed a breakaway club, F.C. Manchester of Manchester. FCMOM rose a few leagues but couldn’t afford the hefty burden of solemnity. A funeral for football was held in Preston.

The football museum in Manchester was archived away. England F.C. were on the brink of winning the FIFA 2022 World Cup in Qatar. They let Germany have a penalty in the final minute. As piped chanting of Three Lions ’22 blazed over the public announcement system, Germany missed the penalty. The game went to a penalty shootout in front of the English Sponsorship Corporate End and there it remains to this day. Neither side has scored a winning penalty… Each refused and refuse to be part of this game. Raheem Sterling just can’t hit the target.

At the time Manchester City’s Official Supporters Club said the move showed “those involved have zero regard for the game’s traditions”. It didn’t matter. They had added it was, “determined to fight against this proposed Super League”. The Paul Dickov knee slide and the moments of May 2012 faded fast. English Premier Boris Johnson warned his government would do everything possible to stop the renegade football league. Like Darth Vadar’s Death Star plan, it was a glowing end. Atletico Madrid started their 90 minute game (plua VAR infomercials) against Real Madrid and Barcelona in the big weekend opener. All the English teams had their visas denied. The league didn’t survive one full season.

The last known football in Europe was kicked by Sir Alex Ferguson to his new assist Jose Mourinho.

To Dad.

How do,

I wanted to write this on Dad’s birthday. I procrastinated. A habit I possibly learnt from Dad. Let’s talk about my Dad. He’s half of the reason why I exist. Now, where to begin? Last week, I had a video call with Dad on his birthday. He was sat on his lounge sofa and the frustrations of being unable to get out were etched on his face. Dad’s never been a mountain climber or a road cyclist, but he’s always been someone who enjoys the outdoors.

Dad, as father to Shaun, Tina, Asa and I, hasn’t always been perfect. Who amongst us, can say they are free from mistakes or poor choices? This is life, and the consequences of one action or inaction ripple like a stone crashing into a millpond. Things between Dad and I haven’t always been gloss paint or even matt, or emulsion. There have been paint spillages. I still love my Dad and I feel his love too. I’m lucky. I can’t imagine life without a Dad, and I truly don’t want to feel the loss of my Dad (or Mum): that would hurt too greatly.

Dad mentioned, in our last call, he’d been ‘cutting back Himalayan barbed-wire‘ or in layman’s terms, chopping the plants of blackberries. It was good to hear that the garden was once again embracing Dad. I grew up at Joyce Street allotments listening to City’s away games, or playing with our dog Pup on the nearby Broadhurst Park. Dad always seemed to have his allotment patch (and at times, two allotments).

Before my teenage days, I was acutely aware that Dad bodged things together. A loose panel fastened awkwardly here, and a piece of perspex draped there. Never quite fitting. Always in a place that served purpose. Not pristine, always functional. Dad would show me blackbirds nesting in his grey monolithic-looking shed. He’d feed me coriander and thyme, unwashed from a patch of ground. I would eat delicious tomatoes, rich in flavour, second only to my Granddad’s – and truth be told, not by much! I recall eating cucumbers, strawberries and planting potatoes, dancing with goats, finding old toys in impromptu concrete paths and losing races to my older brother Asa. The allotments were a good place to be. With Dad.

During the summers, sometimes he’d help at the Joyce Street Farm and I’d get to feed ponies, gain the trust of feral cats, collect chicken eggs, much out the horses and play with ducks. The goats were always my favourite. They’d be loaned out to allotment holders to go mow their plots or let out to feed on an adjacent banking of grass. Chickens and poultry would scatter up and down on a free range grass plain. Sometimes I’d stay there and enjoy the peace. Other times Pup and I would go bonkers and break the peace.

Dad with Granddad would take us to Tottington for cuttings and chrysanthemums. We’d go to Chester for seeds. It wasn’t unusual to serve Granddad leaning over walls taking a few freelance cuttings of his own, from other people’s gardens. Dad, Asa and I would walk ahead seemingly oblivious but totally aware. Other days and evenings we’d meet his friends, the legendary John ‘The Ghost’, Ernie at the farm, locals at the Working Man’s Club, etc.

Whether it was spam butties, salad from the allotment, a pie at Newton Heath market or reduced to clear food, I can’t say I ever went hungry. Boxes of broken biscuits at Manchester Victoria station or vanilla custard slices were probably where I got my sweet tooth. What I’d give to sit down with a shandy at Newton Heath Working Man’s Club, or Two Dogs Alcoholic Lemonade at the defunct Castle and Falcon, and talk with Dad.

From an early age, caravan holidays have been a thing. Actually, since Nana and Granddad passed away, Dad has maintained a. succession of caravans in Morecambe. They’ve been a holiday home for family, neighbours and friends of the family. Ritz Carlton they’ve never been, but a stone’s throw from Morecambe’s famous Midland Hotel, they’ve always been cosy and convenient. Walking with dogs, Snowy, Suzie, Pup, Nomaz, Jerry, Nobby, Blue, and others, even cats Sky and Lucy, around the caravan park resort or along the beaches to Heysham have given a great sense of relaxation to many an Acton.

There’s no place like home. I miss Dad, equally as much as I miss my Mum and other tribe members. I live and work here in sunny Dongguan, and have no plans to leave here. I enjoy the challenges of my job far too much. I respect the freedom it affords me. I hope in this troubled year I can be home for Christmas. The COVID-19 pandenic has probably stopped a summer jaunt to Manchester. And even if I could go back, could I visit all the family at all their houses without myself being the risk of spreading this godforsaken virus?

Dad loves trains, and as a former painter and decorator of ‘anything but the trains’ he’d steam through stories about the places he’d been, witnessing snow on Winter Hill (in summer) and what painters do when watching paint dry. It took me a while to understand that the word crumpet wasn’t always food. These days the meaning would generate the #MeToo on Twitter. We’d visit steam trains or famous stations, as long as there was no cost. We’d ride in luggage cars, behind diesel trains or then speedy Intercity 125. Being sat on huge sacks of seaweed heading for Manchester’s gardens seemed normal to me. It was a pungent form of social distancing, far ahead of its time.

My Aunty Christine tells me Dad was a talented artist, and studied so. I’ve seen some of his works but it seems time has hidden them in Dad’s clutter. Uncle George, the youngest of Dad’s brothers and sisters, told many stories of them at Wembley, away games and Maine Road following the mighty Manchester City and occasional scraps with hooligan types. I could always see the family love in Aunty Irene’s eyes for Dad, but an awkwardness towards Dad’s habits. Our family, like many, has its quirks and oddities. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

One birthday, I pretended to sleep. I think I was disappointed that Dad hadn’t picked me up that weekend. Dad was supposed to pick me up every Saturday. My parents had divorced at, for me, an early age. I wasn’t in a broken home, thankfully, but the new norm for us all was different, yet not unheard of in Manchester. So, one night Dad opened my bedroom door and I was sleeping. But, I wasn’t. The gift was wonderful. I regret not sitting or waking up. I regret not hugging my Dad.

Gifts were always welcome. Books from the barrow at Manchestet Victoria Station, from Mum and Dad were always a treasure. Animal books, and adventures became habit. Over the years Mum would collect tokens and send off for hugely discounted books. I still have some here in China now. They’re both sentimental and functional. Dad would sometimes find stray Lego bricks and these little tokens (of an expensive luxury toy) fitted well. The two square road pieces with a helipad and three lanes were rarely out of use. I know that the once-paraffin barrel of Lego passed from me to Astrid and Paul, and then over to Shaun and Christina. So, a collection started by Mum and Dad has served well.

After completing the Morecambe Bay CrossBay run, I spotted Dad near the finish line and he took some photos of me looking shattered and void of energy. Cheers Dad! I was so happy to see Dad, that day, at Hest Bank. I think Christina and Shaun with there with the West Highland terrier Jerry. Either way after a mostly solo half-marathon distance through Morecambe Bay, it was a heartwarming sight. Also, it was at one of Dad’s favourite places, a sandy bank on the expanses of Morecambe Bay, complete with passing trains in close proximity.

There’s much more I can write about Dad. Perhaps I will one day.

Thank you kindly for your time.

Wikipedia

I was going to write about the artist César Manrique but Wikipedia has it covered.

I was going to pen a few lines about Peter Saville and his artistic influence on Manchester music culture but Wikipedia beat me to it.

I was going to draw up an outline of Manchester’s musical diversity but there’s no need as Wikipedia has shed the light on the matter.

I was going to scribe, jot and share much about Mancunian folklore and key moments but Wikipedia beat me to it.

I was going to foreground and draw a conclusion about life in Manchester but wouldn’t you know, Wikipedia snuck in on that one too.

Wikipedia, what haven’t you covered?

Midnight at the last and found.

Hello, hello, we are the City boys… 你好

Sat in the passenger seat across from my Dad, the warm fans blasted heat into my legs and the windows were wound down. The cool Lancashire air drifted in. We were returning from Morecambe to Manchester. It was probably a Sunday night. Dad had been playing heavy metal from Iron Maiden, the early stuff with drums plentiful.

“You see you’re losing, yet you still try The game just a’watches your life go by You’re playin’ well, Oh you’re playin’ the game.” – Meat Loaf’s song Razor’s Edge

Now, in he popped a new cassette, and on played Meat Loaf. The smooth tracks mixed with electric and melodic blues rock took me beyond the car journey. I’d suddenly been transported beyond my pre-teenage self into a world of words sang at just the right tempo to catch my ear. Razor’s Edge is my favourite track on the often-ridiculed album. It has a frantic feel but is such a short song in terms of lyrical content. That’s considering it’s just over 4 minutes long.

“I can tell by the look in your tear-filled eyes;
You need somebody you can hold onto; If you really want to, I’d love to hold you;
If you really want to, then I’d love to be the body that you hold onto.” – Meat Loaf’s song If You Really Want To

I still remember looking at my Dad at the wheel. As a small kid, I looked up to my Dad. He was a colossus of a man with shoulders like bridges and arms like tree trunks. His chest stuck out like a rugby forward. His hands were like two shovels. He smoked casually at the wheel, eyes forward into the traffic and we talked a little. City this. City that. I gained my passion for Manchester City from my Dad. Stories of the ballet on ice, Kippax crowds, Uncle George and Grandad at the games. King Colin Bell, the floral named Summerbee, Franny One-Pen (took me years to understand that name), Tony Book, Trevor Francis, John Bond, Asa Hartford, Paul Powers, Gerry Gow and so on. Many other names were mentioned but times eroding effect on a kid’s memories can be harsh.

We talked lego, steam trains and finally Dad introduced me to Meat Loaf. With the finale of the Midnight at The Lost and Found album, Dad ejected the cassette and popped in Bat Out of Hell. The first Meat Loaf album I’d heard had been like a warm up act. Now I was spellbound by the range of vocals, the ferocity and energy, the theatrical length of several tracks and the tracks within tracks. The lyrics of Jim Steinman were sensational and to this day are poetry in musical form. A few weekends later Dad played me Dead Ringer on vinyl. Fond memories. I can’t wait to talk with my Dad again on a video call soon. If only the VPN would work with Messenger, Skype or something to make it. easy. Here’s hoping. Until then writing helps homesickness.

Goodnight from China. 晚安

Colin Bell MBE 1946 – 2021

Colin Bell: 1946 – 2021

Let’s drink a drink a drink a drink/For Colin the King the King the King/He is the leader of Man City/He is the greatest inside Forward/that the world has ever seen.

I grew up on Colin Bell stories from my Dad, Uncle, and Granddad. Our kid had some too, but his playing days were before his time. Met Colin Bell many times in the years that City moved to the cold new grey City of Manchester Stadium. Can’t say, I was blown away, but I will say that talking with Colin Bell, was like talking to any down-to-earth person. He was quiet, welcoming and warm-hearted. Me being shy, I didn’t get a photo, but I did get a signature on more than one occasion. His Maine Road folklore will last long into the future.

Colin Bell MBE played 501 games (scoring 153) for City. He played about 48 games (scoring 9) for England. He began his career in Bury, scoring 25 goals in 82 games. He had a short spell at San Jose Earthquakes. Nicknamed after a racehorse, Nijinsky had stamina and was soon nicknamed The King of the Kippax. He played in the days of Bell, Lee and Summerbee. Having scored at the Maracana Stadium (against a Brazil team featuring Pele), Wembley, Maine Road and countless other grounds, the crowds were won over by the skilful player who was forced to retire from the game all too early. He would later move on into coaching at City with the youth and reserve teams. Following that he quietly held club ambassador roles.

Number one was Colin Bell, number two was Colin Bell, number three was Colin Bell…

My condolences to his widow, family and friends.

Wilson x Silva: Musical Football Hero

How do! / 你好 (nĭ hăo) / Namaste / Welcome!

Spanish footballer David Silva is a part of Manchester. Tony Wilson is ‘Mr Manchester’. What an ace city to be part of?! It’s got Shameless, it’s got Coronation Street and it’s got football and music by the bucketload. Some are born here. Some arrive here and fit right in.

I remember hearing the local tones of Anthony Wilson on Granada Reports news as a kid. In contrast to the home counties accents of England, used by the BBC, here was ITV’s regional voice with a proper twang. Known for his nightclub (Hacienda) and Factory Record, Anthony H. Wilson was deeply rooted in Manc culture. He still is, even after his early death, aged 57, in 2007.

Born in 1986, in Gran Canaria’s Arguineguín, a small fishing village, David Josué Jiménez Silva’s rise in football has been dramatic. His 5’ 7” (1.7m) stature has been iconic in the Premier League since his arrival at Manchester City in 2010. He leaves the club having won 4 league titles, 2 F.A. Cups, and 5 E.F.L. League Cups. There were also 3 Community Shields. During his time at City he has represented Spain and gained two UEFA European Championship trophies. All on the back of 2010’s FIFA World Cup crown. Bizarrely there has only been one Premier League Player of The Month award (September 2011). Many other individual awards have been picked up. David “El Mago” Silva is and has been Mr Manchester City.

“The best signing we [Manchester City] have made.” – Carlos Tevez, former Manchester City footballer, October 2011.

After finishing the delayed Champions League campaign, David Silva will leave the sky-blue base of Manchester for a new challenge. Seen as one of the best and exquisite midfielders around, he will leave buckets of memories for his adoring fans. His possession-retaining ball play, his rarity in losing the ball, his deft passes and his nimble runs along the Etihad Stadium turf will be missed.

Born in Pendleton (Salford), the man dubbed ‘Mr Manchester’ slotted into journalism, concert arrangement, and radio. His record label, Factory Records hugged Britpop and Mancunian music. His love of the city of Manchester can be seen throughout his colourful career. As an entrepreneur his Factory Records gave us Happy Mondays, A Certain Ratio, Joy Division and New Order. Madchester was born here in the late 1980s. Amongst the gloom yellow smiley faces and exciting vivid colour schemes gave pride back to the people of Manchester. He threw money at music and was a little careless in terms of making a profit. By the end of the 20th century both Factory Record and the Haçienda went bump. No money. No glory. His voice carried on and even down the road in Liverpool he was identified with. He didn’t like centralisation and clearly wanted more regionalism.

Xavi and Andrés Iniesta played alongside David Silva, and it can easily be argued that such dynamic playing styles will have influenced each another. Between the trio, how many future stars, current players and fans will have been inspired or motivated by them. The drool spilled from each twist and turn would probably fill Victoria Baths (Manchester) many times over.

“He pulls the strings on the pitch. A brilliant footballer with great movement, he can score, assist, a player who decides a game. He’s got so much to his game, that I would consider him one of the best ever.” – Andres Iniesta, footballer, Manchester Evening News, January 2020

Steve Coogan didn’t do too much of a bad impression in 24 Hour Party People. In fact, if anything, he elevated a charisma known to few of the younger generation and brought real warmth for Manc culture and the main man, Anthony Wilson. I’ve seen him star on World in Action and After Dark amongst other shows. What always truck me was his voice and his belief in what he said or did. When he started on Channel M it was exciting but never lasted beyond one episode due to his illness.

“I used to say ‘some people make money and some make history’, which is very funny until you find you can’t afford to keep yourself alive. I’ve never paid for private healthcare because I’m a socialist. Now I find you can get tummy tucks and cosmetic surgery on the NHS but not the drugs I need to stay alive. It is a scandal.” – Anthony H. Wilson, BBC News, 11/7/2007

In Spanish and Mancunian footballing history David Silva ranks at the highest orders. The boy from UD San Fernando (Maspalomas, Gran Canaria, Spain) will leave Manchester as a man – a man who has touched the hearts and minds of many City fans. His son Mateo will be able to look back on his father’s time at City with pride. Not bad for a boy born into City’s culture without knowing it. At the end of the day David Silva has been an exemplary custodian of Manchester City. To think that he started his playing days as a goalkeeper before switching to a winger and then midfield dynamo or trequartista. It’s been a journey with City and it all started under Roberto Mancini. The rest they say is history. Tomorrow night’s game against Real Madrid could be his final, or it could be close to the last game. The UEFA Champions League final would be a fitting farewell, but not all fairy tale has a happy ending.

Manchester Town Hall’s flag flew at half-mast in August 2007 following Tony Wilson’s death. FAC 501 was the number on his catalogued coffin. Peter Saville, famed designer and artist, alongside Ben Kelly (an interior designer) designed the gravestone. The headstone is marked as Anthony H. Wilson, ‘Cultural Catalyst’. Since then Factory Records has been reborn in some shapes and forms, and HOME/First Street in Manchester has a new square, Tony Wilson Place. A fitting tribute for a true champion of Manchester.

“Mutability is the epitaph of worlds/ Change alone is changeless/ People drop out of the history of a life as of a land though their work or their influence remains.” – Mrs G Linneaus Banks’s 1876 novel The Manchester Man