To All Those who Care….

Blue Moon
Blue Moon


To all those who have shared the pain, shared the warm bubbly broth, the champagne, the spilled beer, the stale ale;
to those who hugged, bumped, shuddered and cried at Wembley 99,
to those who giggled at Oldham when Big Andy flexed his neck;
to those who got washed out at Oldham when Smith missed his pen in 84, who swore at Lincoln they’d never come again;
to the bloke who ripped his season ticket book on the pitch v Bury,
to all those who have resorted to the sherry
to those that have run around dazed for days,
to those that have laughed, cajoled, persisted and wished us on from afar;
to all those that supported us, put up with us, slapped our backs, kept us sane, avoided eye contact, didn’t say what they were thinking, left things unsaid;
to all those that sang their hearts out, wrote, sympathised, phoned, reflected;
to all those in the Oscar Wilde in Berlin when City played Blackburn and the Lord smiled on us;
to all those in Manchester, back home, in Amsterdam, in Alkmaar, in Dusseldorf, in Ballasalla, in Valencia, in Barcelona, in Lisbon, in Gonçal Bocas, in Porto, in Guarda, in Clermont Ferrand, in Haarlem, in Ponsacco;
to all those sharing a moment at 3.00 every Saturday;
to all those who doubted, poked fun, poured scorn, cried foul;
to all those who believed, believed some more, hoped, lost sleep, threw up, fell out, jumped in;
to all those who waxed lyrical, shouted from the rooftops, bellowed, cried and stood firm;
to all those that went home and away;
to all those in The Comfy Cushion, The Parkside, The Whitestone, The Broadfield, Terry Neil’s, Mary D’s, The Blarney Stone, The Boardroom, Yate’s, The Pumphouse;
to all those that propped us up, put an arm around us, bought us a drink, put up with our moods, pretended to listen, spared us a thought; rubbed our hair; bought us a consolation pint of creme de menthe
to all those at Ewood Park, The Den, Saltergate, Bootham Crescent;
to all those who tackled, blocked, saved, scored, headed, came on, came off, jumped, challenged and played out of their skins;
to all those who sang long and hard deep into the night;
to all those who dared to dream;
to all those who still dream;
to Dickov and the Goat;
to all who cheered at Wrexham and Stoke;
to all who ran the gauntlet at Huddersfield and Wolverhampton;
to all those on the drink at Notts County;
to all those who sang louder the worse it got;
to all those on the InterCity to Newcastle;
to all those in Gelsenkirchen and Copenhagen, Liege and Bilbao, the Faroes and Lokeren;
to all those who empathise, sympathise, chastise;
to all those who tried to understand despite everything;
to all those who support United, Everton, Liverpool, Leeds but put up with us as mates on non-match days;
to all those who support MSV, Schalke, Sporting, Napoli, Benfica, AZ, Ajax, Belenenses but now support City a little bit too;
to all those who have caught the bug;
to all those who send text messages when we lose
to all those who have it in your hearts to say “come on Blues” just to make us happy
to all those writing, thinking, posting, tweeting;
to all those who were there and will be there
to all those who have watched our boys at Wembley
to all those who wish they could
to all those new to the throng
to all those wizened, cracked, broken and chastened
to all those for whom hope is the killer
to Tony Towers and Kevin Horlock
to Micky Horswill and Geoff Hammond
to the unsung heroes and the bottle washers
to the kitmen and the carpert cleaners;
to Thailand and Abu Dhabi
to Nigel de Jong, David Silva and Yaya Touré
to all those who have played like we dream
to all those who have dreamed
to all those who have had a nightmare
to all those for whom a Blue Moon rising sends a little shivver down the spine;
to all those who climbed the fences at Villa Park;
to all those who saw next to nothing at London Road;
to all those who saw six go into the Norwich net;
to all those who clapped Big Mal across the turf
to all those who flew with Steve Mackenzie;
to all those who sunk with Ricky Villa;
to Neil Young and Arthur Mann, to Malcolm Allison and John Benson;
to Roy Paul and Don Revie, to Genial Joe and Tommy Caton;
to Whitey, Quinny and Lakey;
to all those who waved a banana and sang Blue Moon;
to all those who sang in the rain in the Prater;
to all those who played on through the pain;
to all those who watched four goals go in on Tyneside;
to Stan Gibson and his pitchfork;
to Bert Trautmann and the never-say-die spirit;
to Buzzer, Franny and Colin the King;
to those who have walked Claremont Road;
to those who have raised a glass at the City Gates;
to Tommy Hutch and Kevin Reeves;
to Bill Taylor and Peter Swales;
to Bernard and Tony Book;
to all those who have risked food poisoning, drank too much and never regretted a moment;
to all those hemmed in at Bradford, on the hill at Blackburn, behind the wire at Millwall, in the sheeting rain at Huddersfield
to those who entered enemy territory;
to the guy who jumped on Keith Curle at old Trafford;
to quiet Mel and morose Ron; squeaky alan and confused phil;
to Uwe Rosler and ian Bishop;
to all those who played bit parts;
to all those who scored off the far post;
to those that put 5 in the United net;
to those that saw Dickov slide in the rain;
to those that stayed and those that left and those that turned back and came again
to Bondy, Jimmy Frizz and Big Seizure;
to Georgi Kinkladze;
to all those who watched van Blerk, Kernaghan, Beesley, McNaught, and still raised a cheer;
to the legendary 8,000;
to all those that sank 12 pints with Bobby Mac and Gerry Gow
to those that swayed on the Kippax, bawled in the Platt Lane, chanted in the North Stand and ate pies in the Main Stand;
to Prestwich & Whitefield
to the fella that threw his pie at referee Willis
to all those who craned their necks, asked who it was, smiled, tutted and shook their heads;
to all those who saw Dennis fly at Wembley;
to those who had a surreptitious leak;
to those who wet themselves;
to those who hung on and have hung on until now;
to those who never gave up;
to those who came back;
to those who can’t take anymore;
to those who went away;
to those who are there in spirit;
to all those who will not see what happens next;
to all those who have seen enough already;
to those who will take what comes
to all those who packed the boozers at West Brom and Watford, Carlisle and Nottingham;
to those rubbing their hands at Gay Meadow and The Shay;
to all those for whom Górnik Zabrze means something;
to Peter Barnes and to Dennis Tueart;
to Denis and his heel;
to Barney Daniels;
to Gerald Sinstadt, David Coleman, Barry Davies, John Motson, Brian Moore and those who have put silken words to our dreams;
to Mike Doyle;
to all those with too many blue garments;
to all those already wearing their lucky underpants;
to those with their sleeves rolled up
to those with a clenched fist
to all those who don’t really know how to find Wembley;
to all those who don’t understand why we do it;
to all those who have spent their last pound on a ticket;
to all those at the Full Members Cup and the Auto Windscreens;
to all those at Darlington and York;
to those who love not knowing what comes next;
to all those who dared believe one day we would come out into the summer sunshine;

Cross your fingers tight, huddle in close, think of us one more time, for we need you now

Hattip to Down the Kippax Steps