by Paul Lake
Denton was a traditional stamping ground for Blues but there were a smattering of United fans in my form, albeit of the part-time variety who didn’t know their McCreerys from their Macaris. There was nothing worse than having to endure non-stop Red gloating whenever they took the spoils, and I’d often try to silence them, asking ‘When did you last go to Old Trafford, then? Or d’you prefer a comfy armchair in front of the TV?’
I remember once having a fight in the school playground with a couple of Reds, the day after City had inexplicably sold Peter Barnes to West Brom. Barnes’s exit, in July 1979, had come as the result of Malcolm Allison’s infamous cull of fans’ favourites that had already seen the departure of Gary Owen and Asa Hartford.
‘You’re goin’ down without Barnes, down without Barnes …’ these lads had taunted as I’d tried to batter them senseless with my sky blue sports bag, my eyes stinging with tears. The news of these transfers had left me devastated. I hero-worshipped Barnes in particular and loved the way he niftily ran down the wing while flailing his left arm about like a baton-waving conductor.
The United fans at that time probably irritated me more than the team itself which, to be fair, contained some fabulous players. Steve Coppell, Joe Jordan and Sammy McIlroy were top-drawer professionals at the peak of their game and, as a fledgling footballer myself, I had the utmost respect for them. That said, my deep-seated City allegiances meant that I’d feel comfortable praising these players only when they turned out for their national sides. Somehow it seemed more acceptable and less disloyal for me to applaud a timely tackle or a perfect pass when they wore the white of England, the blue of Scotland or the green of Northern Ireland rather than the red of Manchester United.
I might well have seen these Old Trafford favourites in the flesh had I accepted United’s offer to join their youth team set-up. I was about 14 at the time – not long before I was due to sign schoolboy forms for City – and Dad and I had gone to watch my brother Mike play for Nova Juniors, a local feeder side with links to a number of First Division clubs. As we stood chatting on the sidelines, a bloke in a red and black Adidas coat walked over.
‘I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ he told Dad, ‘because I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Paul.’
It transpired that he was a United scout, and he’d been handed a brief to persuade me to jump ship in order to join their youth team on a tour of Spain. The club had been keeping tabs on me for some time, apparently; they’d been watching me play for Tameside Boys and were hopeful that they could lure me away from City with the promise of a cast-iron schoolboy contract. Dad politely thanked him for his interest and said that we’d talk about it when we got home, but he and I both knew that there was nothing to discuss. I was Blue to the core, and it was definitely a case of thanks, but no thanks.
The Manchester derby, one of the most keenly anticipated events on the sporting calendar, has thrown up some scintillating tussles over the decades. From City’s 5–0 drubbing of United in 1955 to the Reds 5–1 pasting of the Blues in 1960, and from the 3–3 thriller at Maine Road in 1971 to the Old Trafford showdown three years later (when Denis Law’s back-heel condemned United to the Second Division), the fixture has always been packed with incident and excitement.
In September 1989, at the age of 20, I found myself facing the thrilling prospect of playing in my first ever league derby. United hadn’t visited Maine Road for two years – our demotion had deprived us of our usual derby quota – and the old feudal rivalries were about to be renewed with a vengeance.
The animosity between City and United fans always intensified during the lead up to these head-to-heads but this time round it felt as if emotions were running higher than usual. The Reds’ supporters, with their ‘let’s all laugh at City’ mindset, no doubt saw the match as another opportunity to belittle their downtrodden neighbours. As far as the Blues were concerned, though, this was more than just a game. It was a perfect chance to settle some scores, redress the balance and restore our reputation. The previous two seasons, after all, had been pretty grim for all involved. Plying our trade in a lower division had meant enduring soul-sapping journeys to Gay Meadow and Home Park, being wellied from pillar to post by bruisers at Hull and Bradford, and suffering piss-taking chants (‘you’re the shit of Manchester’) from mocking supporters.
Adding to our torment were the reams of compare-and-contrast newspaper articles that weighed the down-at-heel penny-pinchers from Moss Side against the upwardly mobile big-spenders from Old Trafford. I don’t think I was the only person who’d had their fill of all this ‘poor relations’ sniping, and who saw a dream victory over United as the perfect way to salvage some pride and silence our critics.
Like many other Mancunian suburbs, Haughton Green was gripped with derby fever as the big day approached. It seemed that everywhere I went, from corner shops to garage forecourts, there’d be fans of either persuasion waiting to pass comment. Being ambushed by expectant City fans as I ordered a fish supper from The Village Chippy was fine, of course. Not so great was being waylaid by United punters in the newsagents.
‘Next week you’ll be reading about your lot getting f***ing stuffed, won’t you, eh …?’ goaded a red-shirted Einstein as I bought my paper one morning. I never used to rise to the bait though, and would just bite my lip and flick a V-sign in my pocket.
My family would get loads of hassle from United fans, too, none more so than Mum who sometimes worked behind the bar at the local Conservative Club.
‘Paul, love, I hope you’re going to win this derby,’ she said wearily after returning from a shift one evening. ‘There are some loudmouths back there who need shutting up.’
The bookmakers installed Manchester United as the clear favourites to win. This was to be expected, of course, bearing in mind that we were freshly promoted and were experiencing the worst start to a season for ages. We’d only managed four points from a possible 18 and, to cap it all, had suffered an embarrassing away defeat to Third Division Brentford in the League Cup. United, more surprisingly, were also enduring a similarly awful run of results, but stacking the odds firmly in their favour was the spending spree in which the club had forked out millions for the quartet of Gary Pallister, Paul Ince, Neil Webb and Danny Wallace. Pallister alone had cost a monster £2.3 million, which at that time was an English record for a defender.
City had also delved into the transfer market, albeit on a much more modest scale. Peter Swales had produced his moth-eaten chequebook in August to sign Clive Allen from Bordeaux for £1 million and Ian Bishop from Bournemouth for £750,000. Our chairman, for a change, had conducted a very astute bit of business. In Clive, he’d brought in a highly experienced goal-poacher who inspired and invigorated our other strikers. Bish proved to be one of the most balanced footballers I’ve ever played with, and he was unrivalled when it came to delivering a pinpoint pass with either foot.
The bookies also paid scant attention to the fact that we’d beaten the Reds 2–0 at Old Trafford a month previously. Granted, it may only have been a close-season friendly for Mike Duxbury’s testimonial, but it was still a highly unexpected victory which had given us a welcome shot in the arm. United’s star-spangled side, led out by Alex Ferguson, had been way below par that afternoon. Laboured and lethargic, they just couldn’t match our work-rate and were nowhere near their usual competitive selves. United’s cause wasn’t helped by the fact that three or four of their players seemed to be nursing monumental hangovers, their every move accompanied by a potent whiff of stale beer.
Not that our opponents’ meekness took the sheen off the final outcome, though, because we were chuffed to bits to get one over on United at Old Trafford. Our coaches, Skip and Glyn, themselves derby veterans, had always told us that any fixture against ‘them across the road’ mattered, whether it was a youth team game or a friendly match. And this one really, really mattered. In hindsight, it helped to rekindle a certain derby-winning mentality, which was nice, considering that the first team
hadn’t won one since 1981.
Saturday 23 September 1989. The morning of the 111th league Manchester derby. I was en route to Moss Side, with music blaring from my stereo, when I pulled up at the traffic lights at the junction of Stockport Road and Dickenson Road. Standing at the adjacent bus stop was a City fan with his arm around his young son, both of them kitted out in replica tops and wearing the traditional-style sky blue and white scarves. Having clocked me sitting there in my car, this bloke nudged his lad and then did something that will stay with me for ever. Pressing his palms together as if in prayer, he looked at me beseechingly and mouthed three simple words.
‘Please. Please. Please.’
The lights turned to green and I drove off towards the ground, my eyes welling up with tears and my bottom lip a-quiver. It was the fella’s haunted expression that had done me in. Here was a man who’d probably been wearied by years of taunts and jibes from United fans, a life-long Blue aching for one tiny chink of light to keep his hope afloat and his pride intact. I felt as though I owed him one. We had to beat United.
Our preparations for the game hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Niggling injuries to Andy Dibble and Clive Allen, coupled with an illness to Neil McNab, meant that all three were going to be sidelined for this key game. It was a huge setback for us. Without the spine of our team, we’d be lacking a large chunk of experience, always so vital in a derby. Mel Machin had no option but to reshuffle his pack of players. Paul Cooper was drafted in to replace Dibs in goal, Ian Brightwell and David Oldfield were slotted into midfield and attack respectively, and Gary Megson and Jason Beckford were on the substitutes’ bench.
Significantly, this change in personnel meant that half the squad was now made up of home-grown former youth teamers. So, with Redmond, Hinchcliffe, Brightwell, White, Beckford and myself all figuring on the team sheet, there were six boyhood Blues champing at the bit to play in their first ever competitive derby.
With just hours to go before kick-off, anyone spying through the keyhole of our dressing room would have seen six hyperactive 20-somethings bouncing on benches, sprinting on the spot and prowling around like caged tigers. Our non-Mancunian team-mates – particularly Ian Bishop, David Oldfield, Gary Fleming and captain Brian Gayle – were completely taken aback by our strength of feeling.
‘You’re a Scouser … you’ll never know how much a Manchester derby means,’ I remember joking to Bish, who just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
It didn’t take long for our spirit and enthusiasm to rub off though, because come two o’clock the atmosphere was electric. Everyone was up for it. Even mild-mannered old heads such as Coops and Meggo were roaming around like men possessed, psyching themselves up and pumping their fists in preparation for the battle ahead. I got a little too fired up that day, if truth be told, losing my cool when an apprentice waltzed into the dressing room sporting a bright red tie.
‘Get that f***ing thing off,’ I shrieked at the poor lad. ‘Why are you wearing that colour, today of all days? Have you got shit for brains or what?’
Totally uncalled for, I admit (and I’m really sorry, pal, if you’re reading this) but all this intense derby frenzy had clearly messed with my head.
Helping to get us totally ‘in the zone’ that day was Tony Book. Mel Machin was more of a tactician than a talker and, after giving us the briefest of pep-ups, he passed the baton on to Skip. Maine Road’s resident warhorse cranked it up big time, with Mel nodding in agreement beside him.
‘You’ll need to win your own personal battles today, lads,’ he said sternly, pointing at us like the bloke in that ‘Your Country Needs You’ poster. ‘So take care with your first touch, your first pass, your first tackle. Do the simple things well and the rest will follow.’
He went on to lecture us on the art of self-control – no rash tackles, no miscontrolled balls, no letting the occasion get the better of us – before ending his speech with a rally-cry.
‘We all know that United are going to come at us fast and hard, so just keep your f***in’ composure and trust the players around you. You all know your jobs, you all know what this game means. Don’t let yourselves down.’
Skip then made a beeline for me, Whitey and the rest of the young ’uns – his ‘boys’ – and shook our hands, his eyes glinting. You’re ready, he seemed to be saying to us. I’ve prepared you for days like this.
As I crossed the white line on that sunny autumn afternoon – the last to emerge, as my superstition dictated – I was confronted with a swathe of sky blue shirts covering the Kippax, North and Main Stands. Every man, woman and child seemed to be sporting their colours. This spectacular sight, combined with the sound of 40,000 City fans belting out ‘we’re the pride of Manchester’, made me come over all giddy and light-headed. The last thing I needed was to get wobbly-legged, so I asked Trevor Morley to help calm me down by firing some balls to my feet, which he did while the usual photos and handshakes were taking place in the centre circle.
I was going to be operating behind Trev as a left-sided midfielder that afternoon. It wasn’t my most natural role – I felt far more comfortable playing on the right – but I wasn’t complaining; I was just grateful to have been picked. I’d have pulled on some gloves and gone in goal if it meant guaranteeing my place in this derby day line-up.
It was United who started the game the stronger, despite the fact that, like us, they were missing a trio of integral players. Bryan Robson, Steve Bruce and Neil Webb were all out injured which was fantastic news for us. Robson, in particular, was the heartbeat of United’s team and we knew that his presence was going to be sorely missed.
Not that Alex Ferguson’s side were a one-man show, though, judging by the cut-and-thrust of the opening five minutes. Mark Hughes and Brian McClair immediately stamped their authority on the game, linking well and showing great fluidity of movement. Danny Wallace went on a couple of dangerous-looking sorties, and Paul Ince justified his £1 million price tag with some strong runs and incisive passing. Though we’d fully expected United to grab the game by the scruff of the neck from the outset, we were in serious danger of being steamrollered out of it. As we desperately tried to stave off their threat and get a foothold in the match, Skip’s orders rang out from the dugout.
‘Pick up … stay with your maaaan …’ he brayed in his Somerset twang. ‘Know where they aaaaare …’
Unexpected events in the North Stand gave us some timely respite from the pressure. A group of United fans had foolishly infiltrated the home support and, after a bit of argy-bargy, started to spill out onto the perimeter area. As a precaution, referee Neil Midgley decided to take both teams off the field of play in order to let the stewards and police deal with the incident. So, while the Reds’ fans were escorted to their rightful place in the Platt Lane Stand, both teams were told to return to the dressing room.
This time-out gave us a chance to calm ourselves down and, in between muscle stretches and swigs of energy drinks, we were able to get our heads back into gear. Mel and Skip were quick to analyse how the match was developing, telling us to adapt our game by getting tighter, moving the ball more quickly, and not allowing United to settle.
Those errant United fans had definitely done us a big favour. After our eight-minute breather it was a far more self-assured City team that the ref led out for the second time.
It would be wrong of me to write about this game without paying tribute to the late Neil Midgley, who was both a fabulous referee and a fantastic bloke. No one could control a game and communicate with players like Midge. His unpretentious character, combined with an innate sense of fairness, made him one of the most popular and well-respected officials on the circuit. You wouldn’t see Midge being swayed by a crowd, an occasion, a manager or a player. And you’d never witness him flourishing a yellow card for an exuberant celebration or some throwaway dissent when a good talking-to (spiced with his own industrial-strength language) would suffice. Back in the days when refs were permitted a sense of humour
, Midge would deploy his famous wit to defuse many tinderbox situations, of which there were plenty in this particular derby clash. One potential flashpoint had seen Trevor Morley and Paul Ince squaring up to each other following a clumsy challenge. True to form, Midge had dealt with things brilliantly.
‘Lads, lads, calm down, will yer?’ he’d bellowed in his broad Salford accent. ‘Anyone would think this was an important f***ing derby match …’
The players grinned and shook hands, an incident was averted and the game’s flow continued. Common-sense refereeing like it ought to be. Rest in peace, Midge.
Galvanised after our impromptu break, we started to move forward with more confidence and successfully managed to peg United back into their own half. Our build-up play paid dividends in the 11th minute when a marauding Trevor Morley was fouled near the halfway line. The resulting free-kick, a 60-yarder expertly dispatched by Andy Hinchcliffe, met the feet of David White whose quality first touch allowed him to whip the ball across the box. Gary Pallister was caught in two minds and uncharacteristically failed to clear. An unmarked David Oldfield, hovering on the brink of the six-yard box, pivoted and smashed a first-time strike into the roof of the net. It was a goal of which Clive Allen, sitting watching in the stands, would have been rightly proud.
If David’s spectacular opener stunned United, the second one – scored a minute later – knocked them for six. Trevor Morley’s fierce shot from the edge of the box was parried out by United’s keeper, Jim Leighton, to the left channel. I managed to pick it up and feigned to shoot twice, confusing the persistent Viv Anderson, before taking a shot at goal. Leighton blocked it again and, although the ball landed between three United players, it was tricky Trev who reacted first and forced it home. Cue chants of ‘we love you City’ from the Blue faithful, closely followed by catcalls of ‘Fergie, Fergie, what’s the score …’