It’s an exhilarating time to be a Manchester City fan, though I am muting my optimism with a selection of the most miserabilist chants ever heard in a football stadium. “We’re not really here”; “Empty seats at home”; and “Spent all my money on drugs and City”. City’s rise has been so rapid that the fans are still very Mancunian, and perhaps less familiar than followers of other big teams. Yet they resemble other fans in their obsessive scrutiny of every aspect of the team, from the pitch, to the training field, to the corporate decisions. The idea that City fans ignore the importance of the club’s ownership in our success – even an “elephant in the room” – is far from the mark.
My own fan story sounds unusual, though I suspect it isn’t. I released a hip-hop 12-inch on Factory in the late 1980s, and became a City supporter under the infectious enthusiasm of A&R man Mike Pickering and co‑founder Rob Gretton. I was in my 20s, which is late to adopt a team, but I was living close to Maine Road, and the team embodied ideals that I appreciated: fun in adversity, jangling nerves and comic timing. By 2002, I was living in the Middle East and feeling homesick. I began to follow City more obsessively, as a bizarre soap opera. This was the era when Stuart Pearce was manager, the owner was Thailand’s fugitive politician Thaksin Shinawatra, and the agent with the most formidable reputation was Richard Dunne’s wife, Helen.
