TheNamelessThing.com

We live in an age of ‘thug literature’ and post-Rave documentaries. A time when 70s ‘bootboys’ or 80s ‘casuals’ memoirs are littered with tales of pillage and fashion. Ian Hough places this era under a spotlight and, with an assortment of voices from those who were there, he paints a picture of the city he calls “the sleeping giant of British culture” – Manchester – considered by many to be the epicentre of working-class cool.

If you’ve fondled the erect ear of a Blackpool donkey you know what twelve inches of rock-hard gristle feels like. Unfortunately we got something akin to that rammed up our arses on March 14. Getting stuffed is not fun. What was anticipated as a grand ol’ day at the seaside ended up as Grimsby revisited – bummed hard by the Scousers and sent home with faces like smacked arses. And to make it worse, I was there in person; flew the pond on a spot of business.

And so I continue on this American election night. My sordid serial confession of Manchester and Salford. Unseen crannies where Engels feared to tread. The old stomping ground’s had some right attention lately. Jazzed up and glorified by latter-day Wiki-trendies. Some of us don’t need Wiki to discuss the place. We lived there, cried there and loved there. Saw United do nowt for years in a magic envelope of community and belonging. Migrated from unvarnished centre to developing glade. Suburbia.

Regress with me, me hearties, to the days of olde; when Coventry and Wales had that same bizarre Admiral kit/tracksuit. White bands running vertically up the front of each leg onto the shirt and curving away down the arms. A darker, thinner stripe running along the centre of Big White. Fucking shite. Especially the Coventry away; purple-brown like a savoury vinegar crisp bag. It was a novelty then to own a football kit from another city, excepting arch-enemies. Football was life. It enlightened, salved and saved us.