TRUE BLUE STORIES

Karl Clarke

Growing up in the challenging and decaying ruins of Moss Side, Saturdays were all I lived for. Saturdays were spent with the Shoot magazine, a can of Coke and a Mars bar, reading about my heros waiting, for the three o'clock kick off. City was my religion on those wonderful afternoons when Bell, Lee, Summerbee, Oakesy, Doyle, Corrigan etc would trot out onto the sacred turf as it crackled with electricity - excitement - expectation and pride. City was one of the greatest teams and we were amongst the luckiest fans in the world. Along with Burnley, City was the Academy for future raw talent.

Today, looking across the Indian Ocean from the white sandy beaches of Perth, Western Australia where I now reside (10 years) with my wife and three children, I still long for Maine Road on Saturdays. Despite many great friends, most of whom are fellow Blues and a couple of baptised Aussie Blues, I yearn for the pies, the Bovril, the smoke, the pre-match conversation and the singing that went with being a City fan.

Even though I have been beaten up by Scouse Ba _ _ _ rds at Liverpool, punched senseless by Police at Shrewsbury and chased into the river Trent by Forest fans, my love for City is unconditional and even from 12,000 miles I still feel like a member of the most loyal family in the world.

The memories of thousands clad in Blue, White and Maroon heading past my house in Lloyd St North at 2.15 pm and the rush of nervous excitement accelerating through my veins remain. It didn't matter who City was playing: Chelsea, Everton, Liverpool, Man United we could take them all!

Apart from the occasional glimpse of City on Cable TV in Aussie, I rely on MCIVTA to try to educate my children about Man City in the hope that once day it will return to the way it was. It would be worth the $2,000 ++ for airfares etc to watch City if we could ever get to Wembley.

I'm sure the good times will return and if I were to have my life over again, I wouldn't change a damn thing.

Yours from afar