Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.
Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.
I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.
My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.
And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.
The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.
I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.
Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.
Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.
Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.
Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood. Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.
I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.
And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.
I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.
Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling, Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow. The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal, across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards Tumbling automatically without consideration. Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger. Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone. This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly. Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.
Lost in nature, we forgot the time; Chasing mountain hares along a line; Admiring butterflies hanging on fine; This was a day where we forgot the time.
Let out until darkness, we lost our way; Plenty of words we could speak and say; Through flags full of colour we did pray; This was a day we could play our way.
Under stars that shone down on us; Hands in hands feeling the buzz; Taking the moments, each one a plus; Not one feeling deemed superfluous.
These were the places, the times, and the escapes; Swallowed within sprawled landscapes; Every connection spans and takes shapes; These moments, these memories: wonderful escapes.
Guangdong didn’t miss me. Nor I missed Guangdong. The mosquito feeding service resumed, probably, as the train doors slid open. “Attack! Attack! Attack!”
Luofushan is a big bulging expanse of subtropical mountain. Swallowed by managed parkland, concrete and stone passages loop and weave its sides. Temples, museums, and a cable-car ropeway dot the landscape amongst entertainment options like a jungle chair ride and multiple fish food vending machines. Huizhou’s economy is further boosted by passionfruit and banana sales at the gate. Cold tofu desserts add other sweet options. Water is essential. The big expanse commands your appetite.
In regards of appetite, a giant chicken restaurant, for consumption of regular-sized roast chickens was the final stop of the day. The playground, climbing walls, balance wires, and swings afterwards tested hands and feet, and possibly full bellies too. A decent enough end to a day of bug-spotting (including bee eggs for sale – as food). The stadium-sized chicken restaurant was stupendously busy and barely a quarter of it was open. Must avoid a fully-booked attendance.
“No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, otrovert
Heated up, overly tired, and distracted, we headed up GaoBangShan again. My mood was odd, angry (and not just at City losing to Spurs), and I should not have gone out. The distant lightning storm to the west was not just a metaphor. I really was starting to feel upset that soon I’d be leaving to the U.K. My emotions and behaviour were inexcusable. Hot heads can’t cool in heat. I had to apologise for being petty and silly.
“When anger rises, think of the consequences.” – Confucius (孔子Kǒngzǐ)
Time slipped away fast and no sooner had I arrived back in Guangdong, it seemed I was on a plane heading for Manchester, via Cairo. Time really is precious.
“How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss, controversial author.
Summer ’25: 37:13 of railway travels.
There:
0838 Huiyang > Guangzhou South 1:18 1057 GZ South > Yangshuo 2:34
1321 Yangshuo > Guiyang North 3:07
1533 Guiyang East > Chengdu East 3:45
0909 Chengdu East > Guangtong 6:24 1622 Guangtong > Dali 1:08
1147 Dali > Shangri-la 4:19
22:35
And back again:
1200 Shangri-la > Dali 2:15
1413 Dali > Nanning 6:34
1128 Nanning > Guangzhou South 2:45 1430 GZ South > Huiyang 1:20
Read my eyes. Read them carefully. I heard you. I really got your gist. I’m not talking. My words are silent. I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.
I heard every little thing. I am not deaf. Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me? Look at my face. Read the expression. A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.
Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me. Look closer. See my body raging. See that deep upset. I won’t speak. I don’t want to erupt. I am close.
I have plenty to say. I hold back. You push me and push me. And some more. Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate. Nothing positive to say? Thought not.
Can’t you shut up? Think of better words. Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me. You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry. I count. Don’t I?
Empty seats, Emptihad, plastic fans, not real supporters, glory seekers, 115 charges, and a plethora of yawn-inducing taunts later. Where were you when you were shit? Even Wrexham A.F.C. fans will get this with their outside investment…
Many fans say oil club this, oil club that. But, it seems to me that these City owners are the progressive people who are putting their money into other things and getting away from oil dependency. Yes, it is still there, but electric cars in Abu Dhabi are less reliant on black gold from the ground. The provision into alternative uses of land through social housing, football, community aspects, and so called washing of wealth is a controversial one. Are Lloyds Bank, Barclays, or the British government less contentious in their investment habits?
Would East Manchester be improved without the Abu Dhabi commitments? Would new parks in Ancoats and the preservation of derelict hospital and mill fronts be a reality? Thay once stagnant area is a mesh of community, life, and people. Yes, it isn’t fully accessible to everyone but where in Great Britain can you find an affordable home or alternative to homelessness and food banks? That’s a condition at a far higher level than overseas interests. One that England and its neighbours have been flogging beyond the shores for near eternity. Why enable your own people onto a property ladder? Cash in quick.
I am all for human rights. Completely for safety and security of innocent people. What’s worse: a country that executes the absolute bad eggs of society? Or, one that turns off the ability for its elderly to heat themselves in harshest winter? That same latter country drops bombs indirectly through third party holders and battlers. They also provide that weaponry to states that deliberately target civilians. I’m not saying executions are right, not at all, but surely when people exchange cultures and mix and match, they see a clearer picture of where works and what can be realised. Opportunity to change. To improve. The City Football Academy is the utopia of football development. What about Manchester being the bridge of internationalist progressive thinking?
I have never understood why so many people sat at keyboards look at short little numbers and comment on a few hundred empty seats (that likely have sold out). Is there attention groundbreaking? If tens, hundreds, or thousands choose not to turn up, is it worth a song or dance? Are they saying that Manchester City has no right to ambition, growth, and to sit at the top table with Glory, Glory Man United, Liverpool, or Arsenal? Should City look up at their consistently consistent pack of red cartel and stop trying to be better? All that effort to comment on seats. Have they not got anything better to do?
In my mind there is no shame in empty seats every now and then. In fact, the more the merrier. It needs to be seen. Empty seats means that the gaffers at the top made mistakes in pricing and accessibility for a fan base. They became detached and they instilled conditions that do not allow a working class game to connect with an increasingly instable pool of absolute diehards. “The game’s gone “, is one thing I’ve heard time and time again throughout this last decade. And that’s when we’ve won!
Empty seats shows the club, Manchester City, or whoever has lost touch with who we are. And, yes, supporters on their loyalty schemes, from all over planet Earth, may film those gaps. Will they be there when the proverbial turd hits the big skinny blades of a less-shiny fan? I’ll look after my sphere of influence, my mates, my family, my friends, the community of our Official Supporters Club, and whoever matters. That community has built up around us, our City, with us, for us, for City and our seats will be full when they’re full, or empty when unfortunately people get ill, stuff happens beyond their control, and so on. Life happens. You can’t bow down and let football dictate where you should be every day or week. Televised games, competition kick off times, and other factors have put that regularity to bed. It isn’t for the match goer. Losing touch with supporters and televised fixtures can be fixed. It can change. Let’s hope so.
Things happen beyond your control and if others want to sing and chant about how empty the Etihad is, or how akin to a library it can be, knock yourselves out. Good for them. Enjoy it. Right now, with two games to go, after a quiet standing area experience at Wembley, I’m reflecting and positive that good times will return. Football comes in cycles and runs, and staying at a top level, for so long, has been freakish.
The first team to win 4 Premier League titles four times in a row. A record. And like all numbers and statistics, things pass, and clubs have to rest and reset. As a City fan since birth, I feel no shame in losing to a much more hungry Crystal Palace squad. Luck has to be on your side at times but desire and graft get you over the line. I hope Palace fans, players, and the neutrals enjoy the trophy win. Those who rest on their laurels seek no opportunities. So, what now?
Looking down on fans for not attending games is snobbish. Not everyone in Manchester has access to disposable income. And, even when buying tickets it has consequence. How many meal tables are sacrificed for a Champions League night out with the family? Shame on all the pundits and papers for continuing to single out City fans for having the odd lower than capacity appearance. How often do they ignore the reduced allocation of an away club and draw attention to a segment of up in the rafter seats left unoccupied? The constant reference to City’s council house ground, in reference to City’s occupation of the former Commonwealth Games 2002 stadium was pitiful, and should be treated in the same vein as anyone referring to Liverpool fans as bin dippers or Scousers as favouring giros for supporting their living. Football banter and jibes are cruel at times. Until the changes of attitudes, empty seats on tour.
Spin, spun, twirl, and life has gone; Gaze, glare, peer, asking all you love; Vacantly, unoccupied, empty, an account declined. Elapsed, faded, as ebbed time trickles away.
This canvas captures my heart’s breath; Stronger as remains blanket the grief. Acts of kindness, love, and selflessness. Portions of souls shared. The best yet made. Endure and carry on.