On the night itself, I spent the couple of hours after the game responding to loads of goodwill messages from mates (both City and non-City). I'd been drinking since lunchtime and just felt knackered, but relieved we'd finally done it.
When I woke up in the morning, sat on the side of the bed and, in semi-darkness with the curtains still drawn, I just burst into floods of tears. My wife was really quite perturbed and asked what was wrong, and all I could say between the sobs was, "Dad!"
I didn't cry like that when he died. I suppose then I had mixed feelings because in many ways logic told me it was a blessing that his suffering was at an end. I did end up with tears rolling down my cheeks when we won by the only goal at Chelsea through Gabriel Jesus 2 or 3 months after he died, somewhat to the bemusement of onlookers in the bar I was in - as the final whistle went, I immediately thought that I couldn't wait to get home to ring him and discuss the game, only to then sharply remember I couldn't. But I felt the loss even more keenly after this game.
Mentions also to both grandfathers, each of whom had watched City at Hyde Road, and also Dad's brother Uncle Ted. They were always happy to talk City to me as a kid and reinforce my interest. And especially to Uncle Frank, my Mum's brother, who died in 1983 having not even reached his 50th and is still missed.
I felt particularly close to him, and he often took me to Maine Road on Saturdays when my Dad was working. Maybe my passion for the club wouldn't have grown as it did had he not ensured in those early days that I could go to matches on more than an occasional basis.