New City book...please, Blues, lend your support.

A few brief extracts...In total, the book comprises 122,000 words.

1975.

Saturday, 27th September 1975. Cannon Park 0 Templars 11. Cannon Park Primary School playing fields, Coventry. Or 0-14. I cannot remember, but anyway, I was fucking brilliant. It was my eleventh birthday, and I was up extra early to open the presents from Mum and Dad, the main attraction being a complete replica kit of City's fabulous all royal blue strip with red and white sash, complete with a No. 9 sewn on to the arm. I was to be, therefore, Rodney Marsh for the next few weeks. Even better was that the school's second XI kit was similarly all royal blue, with the shirt featuring a yellow collar and cuffs, but with identical shorts and socks to the City kit, which meant I could give parts of my new kit an instant debut in the match later that morning. I was at the school gates an hour early, slightly keen, pants and socks box fresh and ready to make schoolboy football history.
It happened late in the game when we were 7-0 up. Even with the win comfortably secured, we weren’t exactly knocking it about, more a matter of us heaving through the mud in small uncoordinated herds in pursuit of the football, such was the appalling quality of the game, with any semblance of team formation or tactics having evaporated after the second penalty as everyone tried to get in on the act of scoring against our hapless opponents. At least a dozen lads were thrashing and hacking at the ball when, inside their penalty box, it bobbled horribly off a flailing leg and fell invitingly to me to slot home superbly. From about a foot. Maybe less. I wheeled away as though I had just netted from thirty yards in the actual FA Cup Final, a celebration of, of all things, a hat-trick, on my birthday. I would later lie in a bubble bath at home, the Wombles' latest album blaring out across the upstairs landing from my bedroom record player, me basking in my complete and utter three-goal glory. What a day. I never scored again in a competitive game, or otherwise.

1976.

It was history for the last period of the day on Thursday, the fourth day. Mr. Bingley, a dour figure, was going on about something dull when the boy right in front of him on the first row of seats, Paul Springer, burped. It was a fabulous burp, too, like the bellowing of a bull bison. This massive sound had to have gestated for some considerable time before its glorious release, all helped along by Springer arching his neck backward to project the sound further, which was both guttural and massive. Bingley went nuts, more so because, from sleepy insouciance, the entire classroom erupted in spontaneous, raucous laughter, Springer releasing the tension with one magnificent, truly magnificent, burp that had built up during our first week in this fresh hell. 'I'm going to cane you, boy,' screamed Bingley, his face puce with rage as he grabbed Springer by the scruff of his neck and lifted him effortlessly out of his seat in one impressive movement. Springer’s feet didn’t touch the floor, almost hilariously, Bingley rag-dolling his little body out of the room and onto the landing for the thrashing, as the rest of us fell into a shocked but strangely excited silence. We waited. And we waited. We could hear Bingley organising the scaffold, and, as he instructed Springer to bend over, the fear in the lad’s voice as he attempted a last-minute, grovelling apology. A brief silence followed, then the swish and then the whack, which was surely delivered way too forcefully, given the size and weight difference of the lad and his teacher. Springer screamed, horribly, too. The final humiliation was to reinsert the sobbing rag doll back into its seat, again almost hilariously, in one movement, where Springer would spend the rest of the lesson with his head on the desk, crying. That, dear reader, was Corporal Punishment, an act of violence against children so beloved by some. If Springer did not develop an immediate hate for the bully that Bingley was, I did. I had never seen or heard anything remotely like this in primary school, and I was horrified. It was dreadful and disgusting, and to this day, I still think of how awful it was. I never asked Bingley a question nor offered an answer to any of his boring questions, my silence and personal strike a reflection of my disgust. It took me years to view history in a different light due to the Bingley belching bison episode. Springer came from a poor background, and he was one of three boys from Templars who were allocated a slot in the Cresswell house intake, with Graham Jones and me, so I had known him for years. He was the smallest kid in the form group, and he had the most miserable life of any other in the school. And here he was, flogged for burping. Like a bison. He did arch his neck, though. Anyway, we move on.

1981.

The climb went well until we descended late in the afternoon. The final twenty yards of the adventure were on the approach to the Ogwen Cottage car park, down an icy slope punctuated by slices of rock protruding above the surface - nasty little tricky bastards that posed a significant trip hazard. Most of the lads were carefully picking their way through the last few yards of our adventure, my mate, Dave, and I bringing up the rear deep in conversation. I maintain still that I did not hear the snap.
What I also maintain is that the lightning bolt of agony shooting up from my snapped-in-half tibia, my shinbone, was the worst pain I have ever felt. My lower left leg had folded beneath my fat, hairy arse after I slipped on one of the protruding shards of igneous rock, which acted beautifully as a pivot upon which to break a big leg bone clean in half. What I recall most is the first few moments when the pain was so bad that I could not cope, somehow prising free my folded leg that I was practically sitting upon, the movement causing untold further agony.

1987.

People will more likely remember the season for City fans bringing inflatable bananas to games than anything to do with actual football. I have read many different suggestions about the genesis of this craze, and I have a theory of my own. It was at the piss god goal West Brom game from a moment ago, too. Stood near us on the terrace behind the goal, the opposite end to the net in which Adcock equalised, was a bloke with a five-foot banana, the thing ‘dressed’ in a red and black check City away shirt. It also may have been ‘wearing’ sunglasses, but I cannot be sure. When Imre Varadi came on as a substitute in the seventy-ninth minute, some blokes behind us started ‘his’ song, to the tune of Hava Nagila, substituting Imre for ‘hava’ and ‘banana’ for ‘nagila’, at which the five-foot banana became the centre of attention, certainly more attractive than the actual football, to be fair. Weeks later, there would be a thousand bananas at City games, and perhaps five thousand a few months later.

2023.

17th May 2023. City 4 Real Madrid 0. Etihad Stadium, Manchester. I have watched football since about 1970. I have watched football, knowing what I was watching, since about the mid-1970s. Don't forget, I opted for Percy Thrower's bloody garden as opposed to seeing the legendary Beckenbauer mark the legendary Cruyff in the 1974 World Cup final, so, in fairness, in 1974, I likely knew the square root of fuck all about football. By 1976, however, I knew good football. Dennis Tueart and Colin Bell, Rodney Marsh, then Gary Owen and Peter Barnes, Dave Watson, Joe Corrigan, Asa Hartford, and many more. They were good, and I knew they were good, and, more importantly, why they were good. I knew the Liverpool side of 1988 was brilliant, Pep's Barca side too, incredible stuff, and I knew that Diego Maradona was far and away the greatest homo sapien ever to grace a football pitch. I had fully immersed myself in football history, and I can say with tremendous confidence that the final goal in the 1970 World Cup, by Carlos Alberto, was the product of football perfection and was the greatest goal ever scored. I know these things, the byproduct of a lifetime watching and thinking about the beautiful game. The Russia-Belgium game in 1986, Brazil-Italy, and France-West Germany, both in 1982 - these were great, great, great games of football - I know this. The point is, I know what is good, great, shite, embarrassing, wonderful, cheating, sensational, or whatever else we might use to describe all things football. And so it is with great certainty that I state, m’lud, that the display by Manchester City Football Club on that night in May, in 2023, against buttock-clenchingly good opposition, probably the best opposition we could have faced, was the best football I have ever seen by an English football team, and it is not even close.

As I have said, the book is a mix of various life stories, which I have diarised against a long history of City matches. I use the football to establish a time sequence and add structure to the story.
 
s1ty m said:
A few brief extracts...In total, the book comprises 122,000 words.

1975.

Saturday, 27th September 1975. Cannon Park 0 Templars 11. Cannon Park Primary School playing fields, Coventry. Or 0-14. I cannot remember, but anyway, I was fucking brilliant. It was my eleventh birthday, and I was up extra early to open the presents from Mum and Dad, the main attraction being a complete replica kit of City's fabulous all royal blue strip with red and white sash, complete with a No. 9 sewn on to the arm. I was to be, therefore, Rodney Marsh for the next few weeks. Even better was that the school's second XI kit was similarly all royal blue, with the shirt featuring a yellow collar and cuffs, but with identical shorts and socks to the City kit, which meant I could give parts of my new kit an instant debut in the match later that morning. I was at the school gates an hour early, slightly keen, pants and socks box fresh and ready to make schoolboy football history.
It happened late in the game when we were 7-0 up. Even with the win comfortably secured, we weren’t exactly knocking it about, more a matter of us heaving through the mud in small uncoordinated herds in pursuit of the football, such was the appalling quality of the game, with any semblance of team formation or tactics having evaporated after the second penalty as everyone tried to get in on the act of scoring against our hapless opponents. At least a dozen lads were thrashing and hacking at the ball when, inside their penalty box, it bobbled horribly off a flailing leg and fell invitingly to me to slot home superbly. From about a foot. Maybe less. I wheeled away as though I had just netted from thirty yards in the actual FA Cup Final, a celebration of, of all things, a hat-trick, on my birthday. I would later lie in a bubble bath at home, the Wombles' latest album blaring out across the upstairs landing from my bedroom record player, me basking in my complete and utter three-goal glory. What a day. I never scored again in a competitive game, or otherwise.

1976.

It was history for the last period of the day on Thursday, the fourth day. Mr. Bingley, a dour figure, was going on about something dull when the boy right in front of him on the first row of seats, Paul Springer, burped. It was a fabulous burp, too, like the bellowing of a bull bison. This massive sound had to have gestated for some considerable time before its glorious release, all helped along by Springer arching his neck backward to project the sound further, which was both guttural and massive. Bingley went nuts, more so because, from sleepy insouciance, the entire classroom erupted in spontaneous, raucous laughter, Springer releasing the tension with one magnificent, truly magnificent, burp that had built up during our first week in this fresh hell. 'I'm going to cane you, boy,' screamed Bingley, his face puce with rage as he grabbed Springer by the scruff of his neck and lifted him effortlessly out of his seat in one impressive movement. Springer’s feet didn’t touch the floor, almost hilariously, Bingley rag-dolling his little body out of the room and onto the landing for the thrashing, as the rest of us fell into a shocked but strangely excited silence. We waited. And we waited. We could hear Bingley organising the scaffold, and, as he instructed Springer to bend over, the fear in the lad’s voice as he attempted a last-minute, grovelling apology. A brief silence followed, then the swish and then the whack, which was surely delivered way too forcefully, given the size and weight difference of the lad and his teacher. Springer screamed, horribly, too. The final humiliation was to reinsert the sobbing rag doll back into its seat, again almost hilariously, in one movement, where Springer would spend the rest of the lesson with his head on the desk, crying. That, dear reader, was Corporal Punishment, an act of violence against children so beloved by some. If Springer did not develop an immediate hate for the bully that Bingley was, I did. I had never seen or heard anything remotely like this in primary school, and I was horrified. It was dreadful and disgusting, and to this day, I still think of how awful it was. I never asked Bingley a question nor offered an answer to any of his boring questions, my silence and personal strike a reflection of my disgust. It took me years to view history in a different light due to the Bingley belching bison episode. Springer came from a poor background, and he was one of three boys from Templars who were allocated a slot in the Cresswell house intake, with Graham Jones and me, so I had known him for years. He was the smallest kid in the form group, and he had the most miserable life of any other in the school. And here he was, flogged for burping. Like a bison. He did arch his neck, though. Anyway, we move on.

1981.

The climb went well until we descended late in the afternoon. The final twenty yards of the adventure were on the approach to the Ogwen Cottage car park, down an icy slope punctuated by slices of rock protruding above the surface - nasty little tricky bastards that posed a significant trip hazard. Most of the lads were carefully picking their way through the last few yards of our adventure, my mate, Dave, and I bringing up the rear deep in conversation. I maintain still that I did not hear the snap.
What I also maintain is that the lightning bolt of agony shooting up from my snapped-in-half tibia, my shinbone, was the worst pain I have ever felt. My lower left leg had folded beneath my fat, hairy arse after I slipped on one of the protruding shards of igneous rock, which acted beautifully as a pivot upon which to break a big leg bone clean in half. What I recall most is the first few moments when the pain was so bad that I could not cope, somehow prising free my folded leg that I was practically sitting upon, the movement causing untold further agony.

1987.

People will more likely remember the season for City fans bringing inflatable bananas to games than anything to do with actual football. I have read many different suggestions about the genesis of this craze, and I have a theory of my own. It was at the piss god goal West Brom game from a moment ago, too. Stood near us on the terrace behind the goal, the opposite end to the net in which Adcock equalised, was a bloke with a five-foot banana, the thing ‘dressed’ in a red and black check City away shirt. It also may have been ‘wearing’ sunglasses, but I cannot be sure. When Imre Varadi came on as a substitute in the seventy-ninth minute, some blokes behind us started ‘his’ song, to the tune of Hava Nagila, substituting Imre for ‘hava’ and ‘banana’ for ‘nagila’, at which the five-foot banana became the centre of attention, certainly more attractive than the actual football, to be fair. Weeks later, there would be a thousand bananas at City games, and perhaps five thousand a few months later.

2023.

17th May 2023. City 4 Real Madrid 0. Etihad Stadium, Manchester. I have watched football since about 1970. I have watched football, knowing what I was watching, since about the mid-1970s. Don't forget, I opted for Percy Thrower's bloody garden as opposed to seeing the legendary Beckenbauer mark the legendary Cruyff in the 1974 World Cup final, so, in fairness, in 1974, I likely knew the square root of fuck all about football. By 1976, however, I knew good football. Dennis Tueart and Colin Bell, Rodney Marsh, then Gary Owen and Peter Barnes, Dave Watson, Joe Corrigan, Asa Hartford, and many more. They were good, and I knew they were good, and, more importantly, why they were good. I knew the Liverpool side of 1988 was brilliant, Pep's Barca side too, incredible stuff, and I knew that Diego Maradona was far and away the greatest homo sapien ever to grace a football pitch. I had fully immersed myself in football history, and I can say with tremendous confidence that the final goal in the 1970 World Cup, by Carlos Alberto, was the product of football perfection and was the greatest goal ever scored. I know these things, the byproduct of a lifetime watching and thinking about the beautiful game. The Russia-Belgium game in 1986, Brazil-Italy, and France-West Germany, both in 1982 - these were great, great, great games of football - I know this. The point is, I know what is good, great, shite, embarrassing, wonderful, cheating, sensational, or whatever else we might use to describe all things football. And so it is with great certainty that I state, m’lud, that the display by Manchester City Football Club on that night in May, in 2023, against buttock-clenchingly good opposition, probably the best opposition we could have faced, was the best football I have ever seen by an English football team, and it is not even close.

As I have said, the book is a mix of various life stories, which I have diarised against a long history of City matches. I use the football to establish a time sequence and add structure to the story.
Click to expand...
Great read that, how old are you if you don't mind me asking, the memories are very close to mine.
 
pride in battle said:
Great read that, how old are you if you don't mind me asking, the memories are very close to mine.
Click to expand...
September 1964...so, 61.

And thanks for the comment; it's appreciated. There are so many funny stories from the 70s...I enjoyed writing this book so much that I am now seriously considering writing a comprehensive account of my education from 1968 to 1986.
 
s1ty m said:
September 1964...so, 61.

And thanks for the comment; it's appreciated. There are so many funny stories from the 70s...I enjoyed writing this book so much that I am now seriously considering writing a comprehensive account of my education from 1968 to 1986.
Click to expand...
Bl**dy hell in 60 having been born in May 1965 - I'm going to have to get this book...
 
s1ty m said:
September 1964...so, 61.

And thanks for the comment; it's appreciated. There are so many funny stories from the 70s...I enjoyed writing this book so much that I am now seriously considering writing a comprehensive account of my education from 1968 to 1986.
Click to expand...
Same age :)
Absolutely detested secondary school, 5 years of hell, teachers utter *****
 
Sounds like a great read and very nicely written based upon what I have read here. Heading to Amazon now. :)
Edit: Bought the paperback. Most of my books are ebooks but I wanted this one as a real book. I am 65 myself and well remember the horrors of a Catholic boarding school in Ireland during the seventies. Those fucking priests beat the fuck out of us, usually for little or no reason. I was also the only City supporter in the whole school too. Luckily it was the seventies when at least we were good.
That alone could be the subject of a book...,:)
Looking forward to reading it. All the best and I hope it sells like hot cakes for you. @s1ty m
 
Last edited:
DiscoSteve said:
Bl**dy hell in 60 having been born in May 1965 - I'm going to have to get this book...
Click to expand...
Do it, lad. If you don't laugh, I'll refund you. Try the eBook...cheapest and instantly reads on any device.

For clarity, Amazon determine the prices, I have no control. It's print-on-demand self-publishing. I don't have a budget to buy a stock, nor can I afford marketing.
 
s1ty m said:
A few brief extracts...In total, the book comprises 122,000 words.

1975.

Saturday, 27th September 1975. Cannon Park 0 Templars 11. Cannon Park Primary School playing fields, Coventry. Or 0-14. I cannot remember, but anyway, I was fucking brilliant. It was my eleventh birthday, and I was up extra early to open the presents from Mum and Dad, the main attraction being a complete replica kit of City's fabulous all royal blue strip with red and white sash, complete with a No. 9 sewn on to the arm. I was to be, therefore, Rodney Marsh for the next few weeks. Even better was that the school's second XI kit was similarly all royal blue, with the shirt featuring a yellow collar and cuffs, but with identical shorts and socks to the City kit, which meant I could give parts of my new kit an instant debut in the match later that morning. I was at the school gates an hour early, slightly keen, pants and socks box fresh and ready to make schoolboy football history.
It happened late in the game when we were 7-0 up. Even with the win comfortably secured, we weren’t exactly knocking it about, more a matter of us heaving through the mud in small uncoordinated herds in pursuit of the football, such was the appalling quality of the game, with any semblance of team formation or tactics having evaporated after the second penalty as everyone tried to get in on the act of scoring against our hapless opponents. At least a dozen lads were thrashing and hacking at the ball when, inside their penalty box, it bobbled horribly off a flailing leg and fell invitingly to me to slot home superbly. From about a foot. Maybe less. I wheeled away as though I had just netted from thirty yards in the actual FA Cup Final, a celebration of, of all things, a hat-trick, on my birthday. I would later lie in a bubble bath at home, the Wombles' latest album blaring out across the upstairs landing from my bedroom record player, me basking in my complete and utter three-goal glory. What a day. I never scored again in a competitive game, or otherwise.

1976.

It was history for the last period of the day on Thursday, the fourth day. Mr. Bingley, a dour figure, was going on about something dull when the boy right in front of him on the first row of seats, Paul Springer, burped. It was a fabulous burp, too, like the bellowing of a bull bison. This massive sound had to have gestated for some considerable time before its glorious release, all helped along by Springer arching his neck backward to project the sound further, which was both guttural and massive. Bingley went nuts, more so because, from sleepy insouciance, the entire classroom erupted in spontaneous, raucous laughter, Springer releasing the tension with one magnificent, truly magnificent, burp that had built up during our first week in this fresh hell. 'I'm going to cane you, boy,' screamed Bingley, his face puce with rage as he grabbed Springer by the scruff of his neck and lifted him effortlessly out of his seat in one impressive movement. Springer’s feet didn’t touch the floor, almost hilariously, Bingley rag-dolling his little body out of the room and onto the landing for the thrashing, as the rest of us fell into a shocked but strangely excited silence. We waited. And we waited. We could hear Bingley organising the scaffold, and, as he instructed Springer to bend over, the fear in the lad’s voice as he attempted a last-minute, grovelling apology. A brief silence followed, then the swish and then the whack, which was surely delivered way too forcefully, given the size and weight difference of the lad and his teacher. Springer screamed, horribly, too. The final humiliation was to reinsert the sobbing rag doll back into its seat, again almost hilariously, in one movement, where Springer would spend the rest of the lesson with his head on the desk, crying. That, dear reader, was Corporal Punishment, an act of violence against children so beloved by some. If Springer did not develop an immediate hate for the bully that Bingley was, I did. I had never seen or heard anything remotely like this in primary school, and I was horrified. It was dreadful and disgusting, and to this day, I still think of how awful it was. I never asked Bingley a question nor offered an answer to any of his boring questions, my silence and personal strike a reflection of my disgust. It took me years to view history in a different light due to the Bingley belching bison episode. Springer came from a poor background, and he was one of three boys from Templars who were allocated a slot in the Cresswell house intake, with Graham Jones and me, so I had known him for years. He was the smallest kid in the form group, and he had the most miserable life of any other in the school. And here he was, flogged for burping. Like a bison. He did arch his neck, though. Anyway, we move on.

1981.

The climb went well until we descended late in the afternoon. The final twenty yards of the adventure were on the approach to the Ogwen Cottage car park, down an icy slope punctuated by slices of rock protruding above the surface - nasty little tricky bastards that posed a significant trip hazard. Most of the lads were carefully picking their way through the last few yards of our adventure, my mate, Dave, and I bringing up the rear deep in conversation. I maintain still that I did not hear the snap.
What I also maintain is that the lightning bolt of agony shooting up from my snapped-in-half tibia, my shinbone, was the worst pain I have ever felt. My lower left leg had folded beneath my fat, hairy arse after I slipped on one of the protruding shards of igneous rock, which acted beautifully as a pivot upon which to break a big leg bone clean in half. What I recall most is the first few moments when the pain was so bad that I could not cope, somehow prising free my folded leg that I was practically sitting upon, the movement causing untold further agony.

1987.

People will more likely remember the season for City fans bringing inflatable bananas to games than anything to do with actual football. I have read many different suggestions about the genesis of this craze, and I have a theory of my own. It was at the piss god goal West Brom game from a moment ago, too. Stood near us on the terrace behind the goal, the opposite end to the net in which Adcock equalised, was a bloke with a five-foot banana, the thing ‘dressed’ in a red and black check City away shirt. It also may have been ‘wearing’ sunglasses, but I cannot be sure. When Imre Varadi came on as a substitute in the seventy-ninth minute, some blokes behind us started ‘his’ song, to the tune of Hava Nagila, substituting Imre for ‘hava’ and ‘banana’ for ‘nagila’, at which the five-foot banana became the centre of attention, certainly more attractive than the actual football, to be fair. Weeks later, there would be a thousand bananas at City games, and perhaps five thousand a few months later.

2023.

17th May 2023. City 4 Real Madrid 0. Etihad Stadium, Manchester. I have watched football since about 1970. I have watched football, knowing what I was watching, since about the mid-1970s. Don't forget, I opted for Percy Thrower's bloody garden as opposed to seeing the legendary Beckenbauer mark the legendary Cruyff in the 1974 World Cup final, so, in fairness, in 1974, I likely knew the square root of fuck all about football. By 1976, however, I knew good football. Dennis Tueart and Colin Bell, Rodney Marsh, then Gary Owen and Peter Barnes, Dave Watson, Joe Corrigan, Asa Hartford, and many more. They were good, and I knew they were good, and, more importantly, why they were good. I knew the Liverpool side of 1988 was brilliant, Pep's Barca side too, incredible stuff, and I knew that Diego Maradona was far and away the greatest homo sapien ever to grace a football pitch. I had fully immersed myself in football history, and I can say with tremendous confidence that the final goal in the 1970 World Cup, by Carlos Alberto, was the product of football perfection and was the greatest goal ever scored. I know these things, the byproduct of a lifetime watching and thinking about the beautiful game. The Russia-Belgium game in 1986, Brazil-Italy, and France-West Germany, both in 1982 - these were great, great, great games of football - I know this. The point is, I know what is good, great, shite, embarrassing, wonderful, cheating, sensational, or whatever else we might use to describe all things football. And so it is with great certainty that I state, m’lud, that the display by Manchester City Football Club on that night in May, in 2023, against buttock-clenchingly good opposition, probably the best opposition we could have faced, was the best football I have ever seen by an English football team, and it is not even close.

As I have said, the book is a mix of various life stories, which I have diarised against a long history of City matches. I use the football to establish a time sequence and add structure to the story.
Click to expand...
You’re a wonderful writer.
Hope that Bingley wanker got his just desserts.
You’re right about the Madrid game too!
 
I'm buying, I can't wait, right up my street. I'll need a physical copy via Amazon because I prefer a book! I started supporting in 1969, it was a wet day in Manchester ( what a surprise), I was staying over at my friend's and we couldn't play out. Her dad had the cup final on TV, I was transfixed - being a girl had never shown the slightest interest in footy until that afternoon! My 2 brothers and dad ( despite him being from Liverpool) were not at all interested. I'd heard of the Scum, as we lived in Monton so red shirts everywhere, infact when I think back I'd probably never been aware of God's own!! All changed that day.

Looking forward to reading, will order over weekend x
 
The local newspaper here in Coventry, The ECHO, came round and did a piece on the book. I had to smile as I explained some of the material to the reporter, who was a Coventry fan, knowing what he was going to read. He took away an author's copy, and I wondered how he would view my writing about Coventry City, my dislike for whom I do not hide in the book. He produced a fair report.

Local Newspaper article on the book.
 
Last edited:
s1ty m said:
The local newspaper here in Coventry, The ECHO, came round and did a piece on the book. I had to smile as I explained some of the material to the reporter, who was a Coventry fan, knowing what he was going to read. He took away an author's copy, and I wondered how he would view my writing about Coventry City, my dislike for whom I do not hide in the book. He produced a fair report.

Local Newspaper article on the book.
Click to expand...
The Echo? What happened to the Telegraph?
 
What a great article and good to note that there are still some literate journalists around. The guy most definitely DID NOT do his NUJ training at the MU Evening News.....he can spell, he can write a sentence and knows when to create a new paragraph.

Fwiw I personally don't have a problem with Coventry City, for obvious reasons I like their strip! They were a decent team when I first started following (69/70) season. And I will always maintain they were robbed of a perfectly good winning goal in that fixed Fa Cup Semi v the Scum a few seasons ago.
 
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