City of Manchester Stadium

In Memory of Francis Lee

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Franny Lee was to many Blues, something to everyone. It’s hard to grow up in a City household or one of football and not know the greats of each club. Usually, it’s the big clubs. Often, the clubs who are making the most impact at the time. The name Franny Lee will be known to many Citizens.

As part of the treble trinity that was Bell, Lee and Summerbee, those who watched City from ’67 to ’74 will know of Lee. Those who followed City from 1994 will know Lee experienced an ill-fated spell as Chairman. His heart was there. City and the off-field conditions were not. Those who knew of the Maine Road to City of Manchester Stadium transition will know that Lee was involved behind the scenes. In fact, Lee sold his final shares in 2007 to Thaksin Shinawatra. Without Franny appointing Alan Ball, City may never have had fan favourites and legends in Georgi Kinkladze and Paul Dickov. Relegation and promotions may have happened differentl. Who knows.

The Forwards With Franny and We Want Franny badges have their place in time. What can never be argued against is that the former Bolton Wanderers player Francis Lee fell in love with City. Lee One Pen, as he was known for his penalty taking (and gaining) would have been a Video Assistant Referee nightmare had the game have had such technology then. Following retirement and games at Derby County (where he won the league), the ex-England forward went into business selling toilet rolls and other things.

Franny Lee cut an imposing figure on the field, and I can see why my Dad and Grandad rewatched VHS highlights and instilled my passion I to City’s history. At one time, growing up, history was all we had, but through players like Franny Lee, I could connect to glory long before 2011 arrived and City’s purchase power of Brasso became legendary once again.

I didn’t see him play, but I did say hello, get the odd signed bit, here and there. I listened to interviews on television as I grew into following City at an early age. Manchester City’s characters like Lee, and moments like the Ricky Hatton-style punch up with Norman Hunter, or those photos from the league win in Newcastle, will always stand out. And the shirt. Iconic. The style. The class. Footballers now don’t wear shirts in the same way. Franny Lee made the shirt his. Around 250 games with almost half as many goals is a statement statistic to be proud of, for any City player.

Born in Westhoughton, Franny Lee was drawn here. He never left. Not deep down. He’ll always be behind us. Even in absence. A true legend of the game. Eternally, one of our own.

Francis Henry Lee CBE (29th April 1944 – 2nd October 2023), always known as Franny Lee

Thank Athens.

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A stench of heated and dried piss, dead kittens, riot Police and crippling heat are just some of the things Athens offers. And graffiti. On the positive side, thousands of years of preserved cultures, warfare history, sports, and great cuisine are to be had.

Accommodation was booked via Airbnb. A basic room with access to a shower was all I needed. The lodging on 4-8 Delfon (Kalithea), once found after a lengthy walk, did the job. Although standing in the shower, I found the top of my head touching the ceiling. The shower itself is more of a half-bath with a seated step and a shower hose and head, unattached to the wall. The sink and toilet were more functional, thankfully. A kitchen, straight out of the stereotypical filmsets of U.S.S.R. rounded off the communal areas, with a small balcony hosting a decent washing machine. The bedroom, bland, but cosy had the necessary air-conditioning unit.

Beyond the Airbnb lodging, Athens offers ample walking opportunities and plenty of ruins. Ruins in subway stations. Ruins by the road. Ruins in parks. Ruins, modern and old. This ancient city has experienced quite a modern crash of its own. Successive economic nosedive, political turmoil, earthquakes, and a lack of tourism during the CoViD-19 pandemic have ensured that you’re never far away from another ruin, abandoned outlet or sign that things aren’t so well. Not that the U.K. is any better.

The constant summer sunshine and incessant heat are stark reminders of recent wild fires and how the climate of August 2023 isn’t quite balanced. With that in mind, I hopped from shadow to shadow, under every available tree like a kangaroo-sized squirrel. Breaking to drink more and more water, fruit juices, and some much needed nibbles allowed some respite from the overhead sun. Hadrian’s Library, exposed to the baking solar rays, allowed viewing of wild tortoises and the first proper gander in a closed area of ruins.

The impressive columns, shattered walls, and flooring of Hadrian’s Library are impressive. The baking heat under your feet equally of impact. With toes on fire, hopping around the views led to an eventual passage to Piraeus and the Super League fanzone by UEFA. Satisfied the fanzone was not too exciting, save for photo opportunities with a range of Treble-winning Manchester City’s silverware and the UEFA Super Cup, I scattered for a coastal wander of Piraeus. The relentless heat guaranteed a sit down, some great local scran, and a few beers. Following that, a game of football at the G.K. Stadium, involving City’s win over Spanish side Sevilla. The win, on penalties, concluded just after midnight. It was probably the first time I saw a football game live ending the following morning.

City had won the UEFA Super Cup of their debut. Fittingly, it wasn’t far from the historic Panathenaic Stadium (also known as Kallimarmaro, meaning beautiful marble). This flash stadium has origins as far back as 330BC, remodelled in 144AD, and was rebuilt in 1896 (two years after Manchester City’s name began) as the first modern Olympic Stadium. Every Olympic flame handover is completed here before travelling to the host country and city. Without the Olympic Games, there would have been no British Empire Games, then Commonwealth Games, and no events in Manchester during 2002. Manchester City may not have left Maine Road for the now Etihad Stadium. The UEFA Super Cup may not have been lifted. Cheers Athens for helping Manchester City progress.

Amongst other wanders of Athens, several football grounds (the churches of football fans) were visited. The impressive Agia Sophia Stadium actually had a church Chapel inside (next to the bookmakers and the bookmakers). As impressive as the A.E.K. Stadium was, the dilapidated stadium of Panathinaikos could easily be mistaken as heavily graffiti-covered ruins. The whole city of Athens, to be fair, is daubed with varying football teams and their tribal colours. Gate 13, the cheaper seats in years gone by, gives its name to a supporter group and hooligan outfit. The gravity of the dark graffiti is bleak. Leoforos Alexandras Stadium was opened in 1922 and probably had more gallons of spray paint on the outside than years of existence.

Whilst I get the homage to working class seating areas, I do not understand the need for violence at football. Gate 13 has a bizarre friendship with Dinamo Zagreb ultras. This likely contributed to Zagreb thugs fatally stabbing an A.E.K. fan, ahead of a Champions League game. Over 100 Croatians attended court in the aftermath of a bloody night. This happened at a game where away fans were actually banned in advance. Many others were injured and hospitalised. The game was postponed as a result. A.E.K. rightly questioned how the game could go ahead. Rest in peace, Michalis.

“There is) no place for violence and hooliganism in European football” – Margaritis Schinas, vice president of the European Commission & Greek politician

A diverse visit to Athens for ruins, football, and reflection concluded with an early morning taxi to the airport. I dropped my luggage off after checking in. It would be the best part of a week before Aegean Airlines would get my backpack back to me. Still, as with others going to see the football, at least I came back safe and sound. Nobody should go to see a sack of air being twatted around by foot, and not return.

THE URBANATHLETIC MEDALION

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Found in my documents, on the archives of my old computer, here’s some writing from July 14th in 2008:

GREENBLUE AND THE URBANATHLETIC MEDALION

The morning of Sunday July the 13th 2008 marked something rather different for me.  I woke up, had three Shreddies breakfast bars, a bowl of muesli and a banana.  I decided to skip having a bath or shower.  I affixed the bog standard shop’s own roll-on to my armpits.  I then walked my family’s dog Bailey around Highfield Country Park (Levenshulme) in glorious shimmering summer sunshine.  The bus journey into town and out towards Sportscity filled me with nerves.  Prior to today, I had only ever ran around chasing a football or on Aberystwyth Town reserve team runs with Richie Jones barking his orders at decibels only heard near commercial aeroplanes.

The full three months of training were about to come into fruition.  Had running like a Monty Python sketch artist up stairs in Plymouth’s Hoe before diving to the ground to do a transverse abdominal stretch on the grass made a difference?  Had cycling insane distances and mentally challenging hills improved my stamina?  Did laying off the real ale and whiskey make one iota of a difference?  Only today would tell all.

Watching The Gladiators since I was younger and occasionally catching great Olympians like Linford Christie and Sir Steve Redgrave on television should have been a big influence.  I should have done more sport back in my University days at Aberystwyth.  However, the Latin Superbia in proelia stuck to mind.  Having gotten sponsors that combined a total of over £700 between them, I had to do this as best possible for my chosen cause the Genesis Appeal.  I had chosen the Genesis Appeal for several reasons.  I like boobs.  One in ten women develop breast cancer (and even 1 in a 1000 men develop this too).  That’s shocking!  Imagine the days back at your secondary school, I went to Reddish Vale where we had around 1400 students at the time.  Just pin-balling figures around to say half the students were female to give us 700 and then dividing that by ten to give us 70 possible breast cancer sufferers.  Astoundingly large numbers.  Scary.  The other factors for choosing The Genesis Appeal included someone within the family undergoing treatment for breast cancer and my football club, MCFC (okay) choosing to nominate a cause I had up until then never heard of.  I perused the matchday programmes and visited their excellent website, www.genesisuk.org, to find they are a national charity based in my homeland of Mancunia.

Preparing for the run did not just involve physical preparations, but I had to bug people, kneecap them, and scrape for pennies towards my chosen charity.  The medium of Facebook proved easiest, setting up a group called the, “John Acton’s Urbanathlon Run In Aid Of The Genesis Appeal Charity” which could also have been named, “Oi, gimme cash for a bloody good cause, and I’ll do something stupid.”  Then there was the T-shirt… having emailed many custom-made t-shirt providers and got no response, I contacted a firm in Plymouth who took my order, then lost it, then re-took my order before eventually deciding a week before they could not find the order again.  I still await a refund.  So, off to the shops I go, I grasp the blue dye and apply liberally to a cheap polo shirt from a high street sports shop (the night before the run).

So, to the task in hand, the Original Source 2008 Urbanathlon in Sportscity, East Manchester… the warm-up was bloody hard work.  Diane Modahl launched the race, the first of its kind in Europe, and then on the day started us off.  And off I jogged.  Ouch, why do you always need a piddle after only a few minutes running?  The race started on the Regional Athletics Stadium, looped around the City of Manchester Stadium forecourts, over some concrete blocks, looped around beneath the F of The Fart (I mean B of The Bang), up the spiral staircases into the City of Manchester Stadium (I stopped enroute to use the men’s toilets), back out of the stadium and past the City Social café, over another wall, through a man-made lake of water, lemons and oranges, back out feet drenched before tumbling over a few logs, following the course below, alongside the canal, then up into Phillips Park, through towards the bridge, under the bridge, up a hill, over a pyramid of hay bails, down a dip, up a slope, over some trees, through stinging nettles, up a muddy embankment, down a hill, up a steep winding path, slid down a huge waterslide aided by Fireman Sam’s hosepipes (no pun intended), up a grassy slope, across more green fields, down a path, banking left, following the pathway alongside the river Medlock, through the river Medlock and up a steep bank of mud, following the river pathway yet again but on the opposing bank, back through the river, this time over more slippery pebbles, up onto the dry land in drenched trainers (will they ever wash clean?)…

…up a hill of hell, no car could ever climb this hill, it is far too steep and long, through more green pastures, descend some steps, crawl through the pipelines, grab some water where a lady informs me I’m halfway (is there no end to this hell?), a lad shouts to me, “well done Genesis Appeal, its horrible what happens in a Genocide.”  I slow my pace and inform him of what The Genesis Appeal is, I clamber through ropes aplenty in a horrible sapping rope course, waddle along the pathway, transcend a hill banking up towards Newton Heath, a silver car passes me by on the pathway with its hazard lights flashing to reflect my feelings, over an assault course (similar to that seen on parks), through some tyres one foot at a time, then run over the bridge, towards Ravensbury in Clayton, down a cobbled alley way, over a platter of car tyres, over the road back into Phillips Park.  Under the old bridge, onto the straights towards the finishing line which is now in sight…

…over a sadistic climbing wall, I decide to leap two footed onto the cars just before the finish line before jogging over to glory, collecting my medal and goody bag before grabbing a drink and striding away in sheer agony.  Who’s idea was this?!  One milkshake later, a warm down and some water I decide to go and collect my time.  I was assaulted on the way by a Gazebo and promptly St. John’s ambulances called into action.  One superficial cut to the noggin cleaned up later and then a whiz round the Party In The Park before watching hundreds more cross the finish line. I had finished the 10k Urbanathlon in around an hour.  Not bad for a non-distance runner!

And even today my muscles twinge, my feet burn and my body demands energy.  If you sponsored me, thank you kindly.

John Acton,

www.justgiving.com/greenblue (open until September 2014  for sponsorship)

From my archives.