I am crazy drunk, so bear with me on this.
When I was a kid Pa Bollo was posted up to Northumberland. While there the Falklands happened and he was sent to the top of Mount Kent to man a big radar pointing at Argentina. Pa B always had fond memories of Butch, the family tripehound/collie cross that terrorised Benchhill while he was growing up. Apologies if you were bitten by Butch. So, before he left, we acquired a border collie pup.
Moss was the product of a well-regarded working dad and pet mum. The farmer who owned the dad was worried that the local working collie bloodlines were getting a bit inbred and wanted to mix things up a bit. Most of the males of this happy union went on to become working dogs, whereas the females went as pets.
In the style of most Northumbrian collies, despite being a lady Moss was a bit of a unit. Her size combined with that big collie brain made her a bit of a handful. Because of this, the 13 year old me and Moss were sent to obedience classes.
After the first class or two, another attendee offered to give me and Moss a lift to and from the class. She was a very lovely, quite posh lady who completely dominated my pubescent dreams.
Anyways, my lift’s dog was a young pedigree doberman, absolute crufts royalty. She really was a beautiful animal and also very sweet-natured. But when it came to training, this dog completely fucked it up. She wasn't dumb. She wasn’t especially difficult, but at those key moments when she had to perform, she’d look up and either pee or run to an exit and scratch at the door.
My point. Despite the beautiful football and years of success, there are times when City remind me of that doberman. We look fucking gorgeous. We’re capable of a dazzling level of football. But sometimes for no discernible reason we absolutely shit the bed.
Christ I’m pissed.
