So if I asked you about Manchester City's history, you’d probably give me the skinny about every Gary James book ever written. Joe Royle. You know a lot about him. Life’s work. The promotion season in 99/2000. Him and David Bernstein. The signing of Mark Kennedy. The whole works, right? But I bet you can’t tell me what it smelled like down the Kippax steps. You never actually stood there and looked at the brand new Umbro Stand. Seen that. If I ask you about City strikers, you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favourites. You may have even seen highlights of Robbie Fowler's first goals at Maine Road. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to see Shaun Goater nick the ball off Gary Neville and make it 2-1. You’re a tough guy. If I ask you about losing runs, you’d probably throw some stats about the Stuart Pearce years at me, right? ‘Once more with Bernardo Corradi, dear friends.’ But you’ve never been in a relegation scrap. You’ve never had to trudge to the City of Manchester Stadium, knowing City were going to be overturned by Paul Jewell's Wigan, relying on DaMarcus Beasley for goals. If I ask you about the brief renaissance under Sven Goran Eriksson, you’d probably tell me about Elano's stats. But you never saw his free-kick against Newcastle in the flesh and thought he might win us the league. Known someone like Stephen Ireland who could floor you just by exposing his Superman underpants. Feel like God put an angel on earth just for you when Geovanni scored from distance to win the Manchester derby. Who could rescue you from the depths of Hell like Paul Dickov would. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to see Richard Edghill. To have that love for him be there forever. Through anything. Through that game against Coventry when he had to be substituted off because the crowd were booing him. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in during a Monday night game against Middlesbeough, holding your son's hand. The stewards could see in your eyes that the term ‘fairweather fan’ doesn't apply to you. You don’t know about real loss. Because that only occurs when you win 5-2 at Stoke and still get relegaed. I doubt you’ve ever dared to manage a team that low down in the football pyramid. I look at you, I don’t see a potential Bertie Magoo. I see someone who's won the Champions League. You’re a genius, Pep. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about City because you read all the matchday programmes from Mark Hughes' brief tenure at the club? You ripped our fuckin’ lives apart. You’re from Barcelona, right? Do you think I’d know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I watched a few episodes of Fawlty Towers? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don’t give a shit about all that. Because you know what? I can’t learn anything from you that I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you want to talk about how a tear rolled down your cheek when Jon Macken scored his first ever Premier League goal against United. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t want to do that, do you, sport? You’re terrified that you don't really know what it was like to pour your hopes into Kiki Musampa. Your move, chief.
