HERE'S TO YOU

To all those who have shared the pain, 

to all those sent half insane,

to those who'll never be quite the same

to all those swimming in champagne 

to those who drank it in,  

to those who believed what they saw

to those for whom it-ll never be a chore

to all those who couldn't believe their eyes;

to those for whom fiction flies

to those that toasted with flat beer, 

to those with Russian vodka raised a cheer, 

to those with Sangria jugs, vinho tinto in paper cups, 

Gordons gin with cocktail umbrellas, 

a nice cup of tea, an amoretto or Jager bombs

to those in the Hobec throngs, 

the Delirium Tremens and the Alpha Super Dortmunders  

to those eating textbook grub,

and to those trying weird stuff out of a tub

to those who hugged, bumped, shuddered, cried and bruised their legs at Wembley 99, 

to those who always refused to toe the line.

to those who gawped at Luton when Big Andy flexed his neck; 

to those for whom City has been one long what the heck 

to those who saw the pie hit Peter Willis 

and the Jack Russell that nutmegged Mark Lillis 

to those in the snow of Fellows Park and the rain of Hillsborough and the howling gale at Vicarage Road

to those getting sun burnt and to those catching a cold

to those drinking cans and making bold

to those who got washed out on the perimetre wall at Boundary Park when Smith missed his pen, 

to those who swore at Lincoln they'd never come again; 

to the bloke who ripped up his season ticket on the pitch v Bury,

to all those who have resorted to the creme de menthe and the sherry

to those that have run around dazed for days, 

to those in a trusty beer-sodden haze

to those that have laughed, cajoled, persisted and wished us on from afar; 

to those for whom the door is always ajar.

to all those that supported us, put up with us, slapped our backs, kept us sane, avoided eye contact, didn't say what they were thinking, left things unsaid; 

to all those that sang their hearts out, wrote, sympathised, phoned, emailed, messaged, reflected and thought of us when we were dead; 

to the kings of the hill at Ewood Park;

to taking it serious and having a lark

to Pete the Badge all dressed in blue

who is all of us, me and you

to Bernardo Corradi and his air guitar

and Tits Out Jackie who went too far

to all those in fancy dress at the Victoria Ground

to 10,000 inflatables and the eternal popping sound

to all those refs whose eyesight we questioned

to all the linesmen we abused

to all those in Sale and Brooklands, in Prestwich and Collyhurst

to those in Northenden and Altrincham, Gorton and Ancoats

To glorious Stockport and rainy Denton

To all those Everton fans singing Blue Moon

to all those for whom 3 o'clock spells doom; 

to all those who doubted, poked fun, poured scorn, cried foul; 

and to all who were moved to howl

to all those who believed, believed some more, hoped, lost sleep, threw up, fell out, jumped in; 

to all those who waxed lyrical, shouted from the rooftops, bellowed, cried and stood firm; 

to those from whose wisdom we can still learn

to all those that went home and away; 

to all those making hay.

to those in The Parkside, The Whitestone, The Vine, 

to those in The Navigation Inn, The White Hart, The Broadfield, 

to Mary D's, The Sale Hotel, to The Blarney Stone and The Green Man, 

to those in the The Boardroom and Yate's, The Pumphouse; The Funzel, The Little B, 

to the Proeflokaal, The Glue Pot, The George, 

to all the landlords and landladies that we have seen   

to the Abel Heywood, The Millstone and points in between.

to all those that propped us up, put an arm around us, bought us a drink, 

to those who stationed us above a sink.

to those who put up with our moods, ruffled our hair

pretended to listen, spared us a thought and showed us some care; 

to all those with oil money and no history,

to plastic seats containing plastic fans

to all those in the Tibb Street Tavern

to those at Millmoor when King Colin scored

to all who lived off that moment like a lord

to those who saw Bert bend his neck

to those with more than a ketchup fleck

to those in the biggest Maine Road crowd, 

to the men and boys, girls and mums who shouted so loud.

to those who were not really there, time and time again

To Gerry Gow and Ian Bishop

To Tommy Hutch and goals at both ends

to Bertie Magoo and the message he sends

to all those at Prenton, The Den, Saltergate, Bootham Crescent; 

to all those who tackled, blocked, saved, scored, headed, came on, came off, jumped, challenged and played out of their skins;

to all those going through the bins

to all those who sang long and hard deep into the night;

to all those who dared to dream;

to all those who still dream;

to all those with their lights on full beam 

to Dickov and the Goat;

to all who cheered themselves hoarse at Wrexham and Stoke;

to all who ran the gauntlet at Huddersfield and Wolverhampton;

to all those on the pop at Meadow Lane

who felt the joy and felt the pain, 

to all those on the roof of the Trent Navigation Inn

to those downstairs living in sin

to the throngs that greeted Charlton out on the pitch

to those still rolling around in some muddy ditch

to all those who sang louder the worse it got;

cheering and clapping every missed shot

to all those who renewed for Division Three

when City were buried deep, all out at sea.

to the 32,134 that turned out for Blackpool; 

to the fans who never were and never will be

to all those on the InterCity to Newcastle;

to all those in the minibus to Swansea

to all those hitch-hiking to Plymouth 

to all those on the boat to Bilbao and in the van to Enschede

to those that never came back.

to those who left it slack at the back

to all those in Basel and Copenhagen, Liege and Santander 

to all those on the fishing smack to the Faroes 

to all those in the double decker at Lokeren;

to all those enoying a Gaudino drive,

to all those who are dead and those mostly still alive,

to all those who empathise, sympathise, chastise, romanticise;

to all those who tried to understand despite everything;

to all those who support United, Everton, Leeds, Chelsea but put up with us still, 

to admin and directors, boardrooms and the old bill;

to Rodney Marsh and to Tony Towers 

to Glauber Berti and cartel-busting Robinho

to Manuel Akanji, the rock of the Alps

to all those who have caught the bug

to all those that offered a hug;

to all those in ski hats, Celtic and Rangers,

to those oblivious to omnipresent dangers,

to doing the Poznan and showing your back

to shouting for Mel to get the sack.

to Mike Lester and Denis Leman,

to able bodies and David Seaman.

to Mark E Smith and Bernard Manning

to all the years that we are spanning

to Frank Sidebottom's head

to things best not said

to Nicklas Jensen's unerring left foot

and Lee Peacocks bag of soot.

to Scott Carson, the eternal sub

if ever he plays some will blub

to the goalden days under Brian Horton

to present day, add a nought on.

to all those who send text messages when we lose

to all those who have it in your hearts to say "come on Blues" 

just to make us happy

to all those with logic and compassion

and to those that prefer fabrication and fairy tales

to all those writing, thinking, posting, tweeting;

to all those fans of asterisks and brackets

to those whose matchday grub comes out of packets

to all those who were there and will be there

to all those who have watched City at Wembley

to all those who knees didn't go all trembly

to all those who wish they could be there

to all those new to the throng

to the rousing words in our song

to all those who can never go again

to all those wizened, cracked, broken and chastened

to all those for whom hope is the killer

to those for whom the midweek match is the sacred filler

to Paolo Wanchope and Kevin Horlock

to Micky Horswill and Geoff Hammond

to Ilkay Gundogan and his magic feet

to those who juggle with the balance sheet

to the unsung heroes and the bottle washers 

to the foot soldiers and water carriers

to all those who find a treble bittersweet

to all those that find it quite a feat

to those that dare not look 

To our captain of captains Tony Book 

to the kitmen and the carpert cleaners;

to the poets, drinkers and truth gleaners

to Sheikh Mansour and his Lamborghini

to those whose funds only stretch to a rubber dinghy

to all those prematurely thinning

to the change from losing to permanent winning  

to Nigel de Jong and Mario Balotelli

to guvnors and young guvnors

to all those who have played like we dream

to all those who have dreamed

to all those who have had a nightmare

to Jamie Pollock and Neil Heaney, to Jason van Blerk and Paul Beesley

to all those for whom a Blue Moon rising sends a little shivver down the spine;

to all those in the Maine Road ticket line

to all those who climbed the fences at Villa Park;

to hail Bond's heroes till after dark.

to all those who saw next to nothing at London Road,

to Tommy Booth for baring the load;

to all those who watched six go into the Norwich net

and John Bond's fall, the dozy get;

to all those who clapped Big Mal across the turf

to those who knew Mackenzie's worth

to all those who sank with Ricky Villa;

to Paul Power and the Goodison mud

to all those whose hearts and limbs went thud

to Bobby Mac in goals 

to David James upfront

to Neil Young and Arthur Mann, to Malcolm Allison and John Benson;

to Roy Paul and Don Revie, to Genial Joe and Tommy Caton;

to Whiteys nap hand, to Quinny and Lakey;

to Roy the physio and Beanie the horse.

to all those who waved a banana and sang Blue Moon;

to all those who cheered in the rain in the Prater;

to all those who took a punch on the nose at Barnsley

to all those asked the time at Millwall

to those who shed a tear when City win

and those carrying FA Cups made of tin

to all those who played on through the rain;

to Makin and Wardle and times of pain

to all those who watched four goals go in on Tyneside;

to Stan Gibson and his pitchfork;

to Bert Trautmann and the never-say-die spirit;

to Buzzer, Franny and Colin the King;

to the indomitable spirit of Pablo Zabaleta

to those who have walked Claremont Road;

where litter flew and wind blowed

to those who have raised a glass at the City Gates;

to those who've seen sixes, sevens and eights

to Kevin Reeves and Paul Sugrue;

to Bill Taylor and Peter Swales;

to Bernard Halford and Terry Cook;

To all those who dared not look

To straight-faced Ron Saunders

to Phil Neal and his cure for constipation

to all those who have risked food poisoning, 

to those who drank too much 

to all those hemmed in at Valley Parade

to last minute winners out of the shade

to all those who entered enemy territory;

to the guy who jumped on Keith Curle at Old Trafford;

to quiet Mel and his repartee, to football genius Alan Ball;

who brought us swiftly to our deepest fall

to Uwe Rosler and Steffan Karl;

to our Asa.

to all those who played bit parts;

to all those who scored off the far post;

to all those that thought we could coast

to those that put 5 in the United net;

to those that made it six

to those that thought the sun would never shine

to those whose memories are a gold mine

to those that saw Dickov slide in the rain;

to those that stayed and those that left and those that turned back and came again

to Bondy, Jimmy Frizz and Big Billy Mac

to Georgi Kinkladze and Murtaz Shelia;

to all those who watched Kernaghan, McNaught and Davidson and still raised a cheer;

to the legendary 8,000 living in fear;

to all those that sank 12 pints with Bobby Mac and Gerry Gow

and lived to tell the tale, don't know how.

to those that swayed on the Kippax, bawled in the Platt Lane, chanted in the North Stand and launched pies in the Main Stand;

to all on board the Coaches from Prestwich and Whitefield 

to those that got on the pitch at Loftus Road

to Binman Bob and Gordon Davies

to Wonderwall and whoever saves us

to all those who saw the glory of Wrexham and the Bernabeu

to Captain Kompany, here's to you

to Freddie Pye and Trumann's For Steel

to Kia Joorabchian and his dodgy deal

to Joshua Parlby and to Chris Bird

to Joey Barton, the graceless turd.

to all those who craned their necks, asked who it was, smiled, tutted and shook their heads;

to all those who saw Dennis fly at Wembley;

to those who had a surreptitious leak;

to those who dared not even peek

to those who wet themselves;

to those who hung on and have hung on until now;

to those who never gave up;

to those who came back;

to those who can't take anymore;

to those who went away;

to those who are there in spirit;

to all those who will not see what happens next;

to those who don’t know how long they’ve got

to all those who have seen enough already;

to those who will take what comes

to all those who packed the boozers at West Brom and Watford, Carlisle and Nottingham;

to those rubbing their hands and eyes at Gay Meadow and The Shay;

with watery eyes from what was on display.

to all those for whom Górnik Zabrze means something;

to all those raising the forest roof in Apeldoorn

to Peter Barnes and to Dennis Tueart; 

to Denis and his back-heel;

And to how that made you feel.

to Barney Daniels; to Stuart Lee

to all those who like a bit of history

to Gerald Sinstadt, David Coleman and Barry Davies at the mic

to Brian Moore and Motty who took the celestial hike;

to all those on the quays in Porto and in the cold of Red Square 

to those on Rioja in Plaza Mayor with heads still bare

to Mr Manchester City Michael Doyle;

who used Lou Macari as his foil

to Dom Sullivan and Gordon Dalziel

to Barry Silkman and Dave Wiffill

to all those with too many blue garments;

to all those who refuse to wear red

to all those hiding in the shed

Until it's over

to all those who refuse to remove their lucky underpants;

to those with their sleeves rolled up

to those with a clenched fist

to those beginning to list

to those with a welcoming embrace

to all those in their match worn gear

to all those who walk in fear

to all those who don't really know how to cope,

to all those hearts without a hope

to all those who don't understand why we do it;

to all those who have spent their last pound on a ticket;

to all those at the Full Members Cup and the Auto Windscreens;

to all those at Darlington and York;

to Edin Dzeko and galloping Kolarov

to Kevin de Bruyne, the Zico of Gent

and to young Jack Grealish heaven sent

to Johnny Marr and Elvis the seagull

to things illicit and not quite legal;

to The Elephant of Bondoukou

to all those who fret and worry

to those who take it in their stride

to little El Mago and his pirouettes

and to Demichelis' tottering steps

to all those who keep coming rain or shine

to all those drinking red wine on the Bakerloo Line

to all those on the port in Coimbra

to Big Joe and to Helen and her bell

to those who City have left a shell

to all those Kings of the Kippax

to those with memories of Maine Road

to all those in 93rd minute limbo v QPR

to all those climbing the steps at the Camp Nou

to all who took in the mighty view

to those neutrals who will us on

to those who couldn't give a shit

to those who can take it and those who cannot.

to Bernardo Silva and Leroy Sane

to Gary Owen and Tommy Booth,

to all those memories that grate and soothe

to fedoras and ski hats

to shellsuits and flat caps

to those that prefer the simple bar scarf

to those that preferred to streak

to those having a very public leak

to those on the hard shoulder

to those left in the lay-by

to those climbing lamp posts in Sittard

to those on the frikadelle in Dortmund

to those throwing up in Gelsenkirchen

to the slowest bus driver in Europe all

who brought us to the Altstadt after the shutters fall

to all those on the gin

to those living in sin

to those who smell of curry

to those who can only worry

to Ron Healy and Eric Nixon

to Kevin Ellegaard and John Burridge

to ginger Keith and Daniel Sturridge

to Ederson Morais and his smiley face

to all those boots we're not fit to lace

to Stephen Ireland's dear old gran 

and to Elano's blast and long range slam

to big Richard Dunne and the year of the ton.

to those who Ricky Holden's pace did stun

to clocks that run to 93:20 

and to those who thought just survival was plenty.

to the Brightwells, the Morleys and the Futchers

to those that hang around training for a butchers

to Glyn Pardoe and Kenny Clements

to Riyad Mahrez and his twinkling feet

to Sergio and Carlitos Argentinean neat

to those who tweaked muscles, broke bones, cracked heads

to those that surged forward, to those that chased back.

to Fernandinho's defence, midfield and attack.

to those that didn't make it all the way back

to those that felt rain and to those in the sun

to basking in the Bournemouth glee, it's in the can

to taking the hills and buildng up a tan

to all those freezing on the Scottie Road

to any prepared to bear the load

to those packed in times less lean 

to those in space for the Autowindscreen

to all Full Members and Simod Cuppers

to all who were there when we were on our uppers.

to Richard Jobson and Spencer Prior

to those that speak truth and shun the liar

To the class and style of Roberto Mancini

To this charming man Senor Pellegrini

To Frank Clark and his crummy guitar

whose flat notes did burn and char

To Jamie Paradise with his 3 out of ten

To Bennett, Dave and Thatcher, Ben

To Foden Phil of Stockport town

To Pep the king

Who still makes us sing

To his watery eyes

That make us sigh

to the words that galvanise and purr

and all those loins that he does stir

To all those at Elland Road

To all those whose seeds were sowed.

To Gerry Creaney and the law of averages

To Colin Viljoen and Micky Channon

To all those shunning the Liverpool slant

the well worn bullshit and desperate kant

To those that gave us credit and those that pulled the plug

To those that can still read Alyson Rudd

To Roger Palmer and Nicolas Anelka

To Derek Potter and John Bean

To the Lees Bradbury, Mills and Francis

To the Summer bee and the winter wasp

To all those that count the cost.

To all those that can’t afford

To those that live like a lord

To David Phillips and Derek Parlane

To all those that felt no shame

To Kevin Keegan's mighty men

to Berkovic and Ali, a proper gem

To Neil McNab, to Willie Donachie

To Dave Watson and Mick McCarthy

to headers that fly

right into the sky

to the balls that soared and those that popped

to those that fibbed and photoshopped

To Bramall Lane and Valley Parade

To Paul Stewart and the flashing blade

to Joao Cancelo, Rony Lopes and the Benfica gang

to all those that bawled and sang 

to 12 seconds of cup final stress

and Ilkay's majesterial caress

To those that sniffed and those that smirked

To those that doubted and those that hurt

To all those that put sweat on the shirt

To Steppi Stepanovic Come on You Blues

To the exhortations you choose to use

To chicken balti and warm Lamot

To Jesus Navas who had the lot

To those in the sun of Seville

To those in the rain of Vienna

To Fiona Richmond in the bath

To Groenendijk and having a laugh

To Peter Reid and Clive Allen

to Nicky Reid and Clever Trevor

To Trevor Morley and Raheem Sterling

To Gareth Barry and Gareth Taylor

To Nelly Young and Alan Oakes

To Liam and Noel and other blokes

To National Express and British Rail

To Tom Garner through the wind and hail

To Jo

to blow

To Kakhaber Tskhadadze and all the other letters of the alphabet

To Gordon Dalziel and to Arthur Mann

To Les McDowall and the Revie Plan

To Paula and Lucas and little Sam

to Greenalls and Grunhalle

and the difference in between

to the best bloody team we have ever seen

to Rico and Cole and those coming through

to those that ensure that the future is blue

to McAdams and Hayes, Fagan and Sear

and to a past that led to the present so clear

to Buckley and Kelechi and Sheron and Mee

talents that struggled and fell from the tree

to those on the bus, the tram, the train

or trudging back to town in the driving rain

to Barry Silkman and Terry Park

whose bite failed to exceed his bark

to that Terry Phelan

and the Dissa Pointon

to Martin Petrov's magic left foot

and to all those that didn't make the cut

to the Octopus and the carthorse 

that carried the weight

to Stuart Pearce and the goals that came in a spate

to all those crossing the bridge

and those up in the air

to those on their own 

and those way down there

to dark thoughts of failure

and to emerging to light

to long years of danger

to a long way from fright

to those on the ferries crossing high seas

and those on foot can do as they please

to legs bandy, crooked and long

to those on frees or going for a song

to Sun Jihai and the times that we had

to Alf Grey and Clattenburg and everything sad

to shaking your head and saying that's it

to coming next week and feeling a tit

to Maine Road puddles and Etihad baize

where frogs did swim and GOATS graze

to the steps of the Kippax, our ancestral home

to wherever is next that we shall roam

to Nathan Ake and all that is cheap

to Haaland and Daley for pockets more deep

to the staff that prepare and the reserves that wait

to those of us struggling not to be late

to the Kippax loos

to the scoreboard fuse

to the Main Stand roof

and to the Swales truth

to Loftus Road kebabs and Coventry baps

to the girls that ate them and to the chaps

to Julian Alvarez and Stevie Kinsey

to scoring made easy in off the shinsy

to all those that worshipped in old St Mark's church

and to those whose adulation from Gorton did lurch

to Hyde Road and beyond 

to balls that cross lines and to those that don't

to goals that will be given and others that won't

to the long legs of John Stones

and to the skills that he hones

to Sporting Intelligence and the Talksport phones

to drip doctors sorting poor Samir affliction

to all those nursing a bit of an addiction

to Rodney and Bojinov and the parties we had

to the fireworks and the allergies that made us feel bad

to hearing the roar as you walk down the road

to the beat of your heart that couldn't be slowed

to those driving the bus and those not on the drink

to those sipping their way over the brink

to Belmadi and Abdoun, Djamel on both counts

to Ousmane Dabo who with Joey did flounce

to those that holler and those that cry

to those that snigger and look to the sky

to divine intervention and the lap of the Gods

to playing time out and hating the sods

to Ken Barnes and Earl Barrett

to Beckfords and Alex and all of their kin

who fought their corner despite colour of skin

to the Bowyers and the Boyers

and to the original sin

to standing and staring

to slumped in disblief

to the scorers and the passers and the work of the thief

to burgers and bangers and things wrapped in bread

to all those who saw City about to be dead

to Wembley and Porto and places of esteem

to Vienna and Manchester, the cream of the cream

to all those still here

to all going strong

to all those who fear

the going to be long

to W Meredith who kicked up a storm

and big Tommy Johnson who never lost form

to Joe Mercer's aces, young and in prime

to managers and coaches out of their time

to Redmond and Moulden and Crompton and Scott

and the day versus Huddersfield when the goals did not stop

to those that waved bananas and didn't give a toss

to Shinton and Robinson and big David Cross

to comb-over Swales, the merchant of gloom

to demos and mobs and harbingers of doom 

to good days and rough days and days that end sad

to all those that came despite being called mad

to those with style and those with a riposte

to the lads wearing Fred Perry and those in Lacoste 

to those ripping it up and those fast asleep

to the experts that gave us not one little peep

to those at Wembley to see United fall

to all who answered the blue clarion call

to those in Turkey who are breaking the banks

with understanding others still owed some thanks

to doubles and trebles and dreams in the night

to troubles and bubbles and things that take fright

to UEFA and CAS and those FA bigwigs

a figo for that if you like figs

to those in customs and stuck in a queue

to those that vote Brexit in spite of the view

to Alty and Sale and stops in between

to all of the places we've ever seen

to the Men in Black at Colleen's gate

to the maestro wearing the eternal number 8

to vodka chasers and Malibu and cokes

to Georgio Kinkladze those different strokes

to Danny Hoekman and Stanley Bowles

to all those sardines that still swim in shoals

to Charvet and Sibierski and all things French

to Neil Custis placing Foden on the subs bench

to those in ticket queues in the rain

circling the North Stand in endless pain

to the teams that we played when we were shite

and the grand masters now that have to take flight

to Northampton and Gillingham where we packed out

to Bayern and Schalke where we now shout

to Peter Gardner and the Evening News

to every scribe who gave us our dues

to all those who saw Darius score

to those that could have done with a little bit more

to Ruben Dias, whose mam and dad

are happy and gay and not always sad

to Steve McManaman and his pointy arm

to all of his shots that did absolutely no harm

to Inchy Heath and Marky Ward

to tiny people who never scored

to chunky strikers and whispy wingers

to Gary Megson's midfield zingers

To Burnden Park and White Hart Lane

to the day we score at Spurs again

to Boniek and to Messi and to all in between

to the gloss and the glamour that gives sheen

to Eidos and Phillips and Brother and Saab,

to every Guardian writer who offered a barb

to those wearing blue trilbies on public roads

to chippy teas, curries and food that explodes

to those that sing and those that moan

to those for whom time really has flown

to the fanzine sellers and the music makers

to the go-getters, the movers, the shakers.

to Thaksin and Kaldoon and men from afar

to free chicken satay and the blessed early bar

to Kyle Walker and the goalkeeper's glove

and to blessed Rodri, when push came to shove

to the Istanbul crossbar strong and stout

and to all those still able to shout

To to all those who breathe and weep

and live and sleep

Manchester City FC

to all those who dared believe one day the sun would shine;

You played your part. Now all is fine 

【fin】