Tag Archives: Manchester City

Once In A Blue Moon – It’s Time To Celebrate!

14 May

This is the moment today that Manchester City won the FA Cup Final.

Excuse the blurring: my hand was shaking with nerves.

The Hub was so excited, he almost stood up.

Thirty-five years since we last had any silver to polish – no wonder we enjoyed it.

Blue are Britain’s entry tonight: that’s got to be a good omen.  I’m off to watch Eurovision!

I’ll Never Be Superstitious (Touch Wood)

7 Nov

I would not say that the Hub and I are superstitious.  I’m pretty sure that superstitions like it’s unlucky to walk under a ladder came from a pot of paint being dropped on the head of whoever started it; and the thing about shoes on the table being unlucky came from the bloke whose mother gave him a good slap for putting dirty boots on her newly-cleaned surface. 

But then there’s football.  The Hub is so Man City-mad that most of our house is decorated in varying shades of blue.  He once bought a red England shirt, wore it once, and had to give it away because it reminded him too much of the Salford team.  He is not superstitious when watching a match, but today he refuses to listen to the City game on the radio, because if he does, they will lose.  They can be winning 1-0 when he turns on the radio but will finish the match 2-1 down.  It never fails.

I think I’ve mentioned this before: he says he supports two teams – City, and whoever United are playing.  But when he’s watching United and supporting the other side, you can bet United will win.  It got to such a point that the Hub fleetingly entertained the idea of supporting United in the hope of making them lose every game and being relegated; but he couldn’t do it even in fantasy: he felt nauseous at the thought.

Besides, he says you can’t cheat the football gods; they don’t like it and he doesn’t want to be avoiding ladders for the rest of his life.

Ricky Hatton Stole My Glove

5 Jul

He’s coming home, he’s coming home; TB’s coming home!  Okay, this is actually a picture of Ricky Hatton but it might as well be because what I have to look forward to is a summer of fighting between the Hub and Tory Boy.  Don’t get me wrong: they love each other very much.  Preferably from a distance.  You know how they say look at the mother to see what the wife will be like in twenty years?  That’s not exclusive to the female of the species.  Tory Girl, you have been warned.

This photo was taken at a book signing.  We took along a full-size and two miniature pairs of boxing gloves – if we’re going to queue for hours then we want our money’s worth.  We’re not Northern for nothing.  Mr H is a huge Manchester City fan and when he saw these gloves he asked if he could have a pair.  The gloves were individually priced and the Hub had bought us all one each but, being good parents, we gave up ours so the boys could keep theirs.You don’t say ‘no’ to a man who can beat you to a pulp and the Hub wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a fellow City fan anyway; being  Blue is like being in the Masons: a nod, a handshake, a wince at how we haven’t won any silverware for thirty years, and the deal is done.  What irked me as I smiled politely at the boxing champion with the huge fists is that The Hitman took my glove.    It never occurred to me until just now to say ‘no’ and use the children as human shields.  I never think on my feet; I’ll never make a boxer, will I?

If you are parked at Eastlands one day and you see a flash car with a pair of City boxing gloves hanging from the mirror, do us a favour and pinch them back: they’ll be worth a fortune on eBay.

Tory Boy will get to meet his new fish today.  Did I mention we had to buy another two when the boys heard that I was keeping mine?  They showed no interest at all in the fish until they were formally adopted, and now they want their own.  Spud decided yesterday on a name for his: Shingles, after the disease.  I don’t know if I’ve told you about Spud’s shingles.  I’ll save that story for another day.  Shingles is a Shubunkin (it was worth buying him for the joy of saying his species name; what a fabulous word).    They do look kind of diseased, don’t they?  If the pattern is followed, Tory Boy’s all-white goldfish could soon glory in the name of ‘leprosy’.  Tory Girl, you have been warned.

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