My love of the city of Manchester does not come from its two football clubs, that’s for sure. I adore the city and it’s metropolitan area due to the incredible amount of great bands it has produced, that helped soundtrack my life. I still find it hard to loathe the blue team, hating the red team is very easy indeed.

Even with their new money ways, Citeh will not, for now anyway, be in my football room 101. It’s not like I have any mad admiration of any of their past greats (Franny Lee, they still bang on about him, the best thing he ever did was get in that on field fight and punch like a drunken granny at a wedding gone wrong). It’s probably because they are from that great town, and until now, they have been no threat to my beloved Gooners. They were in fact, for so, so many years a great big pile of steaming shit.

So that’s it, it’s my southern patronising ways of patting little Citeh on the back(“Fook off we’re a big fookin’ club we are, we were just a sleeping giant in them years pal”). Not exactly a sleeping giant more like an oversized chap in a coma.

These days, Citeh are indeed a force to be reckoned with, lordy. with all that cash they have bought some fantastic players, and it is sensible to recognise that is what they have done, they haven’t pulled off  miracles by any means to create this fantastic footballing machine, they have done, what used to be referred to as a Blackburn, but is now known as a Chelsea.

I would never put Citeh in the same bracket as C***sea though, it’s the people that support them that stop any chance of that happening. Mancs are amazing, no doubt about it, yes they think that Manchester is the centre of the universe, but wouldn’t you like to be as proud of where you come from as they are. It’s like they have this strange and very rare socialist patriotism that only certain parts of the country have. Unlike a lot of the south, where exclusivity and boasting is the order of the day, in Manchester, apart from the new-flash-as-fuck-rubbish bit, there is still boasting in the air, but it’s not about what you drive, how much cash you have and the like, it’s more about how skint you were as a kid and how that has made you appreciate everything now. A little like the Four Yorkshiremen from Monty Python. I remember sitting in a boozer the first time I went to Manchester to see the band Northside and this group of blokes were basically chatting about three things. Yes, they were talking about music and current affairs, but it always came down to three core points in the end and that was, how skint they were when they were kids, how good their mum’s cooking was (pronounced mam’s, which is just fucking weird) and who they’ve fucked over! I thought that was great, I immediately looked into a University place, luickily I didn’t get in, I would have come home for Christmas and robbed me folks for smack money.

There were moments when I was pretty poor as a kid, but not as poor as I am now, that’s for sure. I’m a reverse Mancunian, it seems. I’m proper skint all the time these days, and I appreciate what I had as a kid! There was one time though, when my Dad wouldn’t buy me Jabba the Hutt, so when I was playing with my Star Wars figures, I used to wait for our overweight and stinky spaniel called Rollo to take a shit, if it was a thick and curly log, I was well in! That’s poor, on so many levels, surely?

Right, the football… Well I didn’t give us much of a chance against the Manc cunts this time round and was kind of hoping that the Commonwealth stadium (or whatever the northern monkeys are calling it this week) was situated on an unknown fault line and all their players, staff and fans would die a horrible death and we would be gifted the result. Look at me, changed my fuckin’ tune now aint I?!

Well we played very well. Wilshire shut up  a lot of critics, me included, our new (Manc) striker almost scored a wonder goal (how many time will that be written this season) and Sanchez scrored a blinder. In fact Sanchez, is already starting to look like a huge signing for us. What is worrying me though is Ozil not only his form but also how his body language is screaming sulky bastard since the arrival of Sanchez. The fan’s appreciation of the Chilean seem to make Ozil act like the ex-boyfriend of  the village bike when a new alcoholic, night shift factory worker moves into the manor and starts porking the spoils.

The game lived up to its billing, a full-on, fight to the death. It was as good a match as I will see this season, I’m sure. Lampard turning out for Citeh was weirder than seeing Welbeck in a nicer shade of red than he is used to wearing. Lampard trotted about, not doing much at all, which was fine by me.

Against the run of play Aguero scored a goal that looked very simple, but was actually very well taken, from a great ball from Navas. What players they are, I’d love them at the Arsenal. Notice I didn’t write the word take in that sentence.

Silva should have scored a second for Citeh, but Wilshire and Ramsey worked the ball well together and Jack lifted the ball past Hart, who maybe should have stayed on his feet for a little longer. Hart is already looking shaky and I wonder how long it will be before he is out the Eastlands door.

Wilshire was involved in the next goal too, he headed the ball over to Sanchez, who in turn volleyed it into the net. Wollop! It ended 2-2, Demichelis, of all donkeys, equalised with a header. Oh well, I can’t moan too much about that, well I can. Flamini, was on the goal line and should have done better. Oh and he was booked, yet again.


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