At the end, no other part of Maine Road had anything like the history or significance of the Main Stand. I stood and sat in all parts of the ground but for the last ten years or so had a season ticket in block H. First H Right, then H Left. The Main Stand felt like the heart and soul of our club. It was a link with our past, glorious and not so glorious, and I absolutely loved the place. It wasn't the best stand in the world, having pillars and a fairly flat camber. But it more than made up for it in character. It housed the club's inner workings, the dressing rooms, the chairman's office, the manager's den, the boardroom. All those historic events which went on in it's bowels: the board meetings, the backstabbing, the transfers, the sackings, the cataclysmic decisions. In the various concourses it was a warren. It had scruffy little bars with old signs painted in the blue and claret colours of the early 70s. It had odd little rooms for the ball boys, the tea ladies, the press. It was dark and dank in the concourse and felt like you were inside City's wayward, unfaithful heart. There were even a set of stairs which led to nowhere, like in a haunted house. In the stand, you had the directors within earshot - and boy, they must have regretted that at times. Remember Swales sinking into his seat as Franny marched in to a hero's welcome? The press and commentators sat behind you in odd little blue boxes at the back. The manager sat in front of you. Some of the longest serving, and bitterest of all fans sat in the Main Stand. When things were going badly, as they usually were in my time, people shouted in the knowledge that their insults were not falling on deaf ears. "Swales, you've killed this club", "Franny, you let us down!", "Clark, you're the worst manager we;ve ever had" (the guy next to me shouted this half a dozen times a game for his entire tenure). The referee and players could be personally abused as they left the field. One ref was injured by a coin and substituted. Big Mal broke his leg jumping down the tunnel. The idiot. A Mirror journalist was beseiged by angry fans once in the press box. I've got some great memories there too - the bar behind H Left rocking in disbelief at half time in the 5-1. Pitch invasions - who took the chair on? Small crowds -sometimes big ones - at winter youth team games. You felt you were part of the workings of the club in the Main Stand. It symbolised the City of the 80s and 90s, with padded seats on crumbling concrete.