MY FAVOURITE YEAR

1996/97 - The Year of Living Dangerously

By Chris Armstrong

The hospital ward was quiet that night; save for the odd cough or snore emanating from one of the other patients. The

gauche, awkward young man in the corner bed l istened to the nurses exchanging gossip about the outside interests of the

handsome young consultant who had examined his operation scar that afternoon. Ah yes, the scar. An ugly thick pink line

of 12 inches now spanned the entire width of the young man’s abdomen.

“Humph! That’s going to make all the girls weak at the knees, isn’t it?” The Young Man thought bitterly.

The conversation outside had switched to the latest goings on in Coronation Street and EastEnders, but the young man had

more important things on his mind. The young man reached weakly for the nurse call button. He heard a sigh, and then the

reassuring patter of footsteps towards his temporary “home”. It was Katie. The young man l iked Katie.

“Nurse, do you mind awfully bringing me the phone please?”

“It i s rather late Mr. Armstrong. Could i t not wait until the morning?”

“Katie” The shift to informality was telling. “Would you mind? It is rather important”.

Katie wheeled in the phone from outside to find the young man sitting up in bed in anticipation. “It must be important” she

thought. “There you go Mr. Armstrong. Just let me know when you’ve finished”.

“Thank you Katie. Thank you ever so much”. Katie smiled, turned and left the young man to the privacy of his call.

The young shifted uncomfortably onto his side. “What had that surgeon – no, butcher – done to me?” he thought as he

dia lled the number. He knew the number by rote – 01274 773355. He waited nervously, “Come on. Come onnnnn”,

grinding his teeth in anticipation. Then, a click.

“Bradford Ci ty Football Club”. The West Yorkshire twang was unmistakeable. As warm as Yorkshire Puddings covered in

gravy. As welcoming as a pint of Taylor’s Golden Best after a hard day at the coalface of industry.

“Yes , thank you. I was wondering if you could tell me the result of tonight’s match?”

“City won 2-1. Mind you, i t was a close run thing. We missed two penalties! Anyroad, will we be seeing you on Tuesday

night, sir? Sir? Sir? Ignorant beggar, he’s gone. Are you going to make that pot of tea? I don’t know. Neither use nor

ornament that lad….” The voice tra iled off, and the phone line went dead. The young man regretted his lack of manners,

but he had the information he wanted. He somehow found the s trength to press the call button again.

“Is everything a ll right, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Yes , thank you Katie. Everything’s going to be all right from now”.

“Oh that i s good news. Would you like a cup of tea or cocoa before you go to sleep? Mr. Armstrong? Mr. Armstrong?”

It was no good. The young man had drifted off into blissful sleep. Dreaming of Wembley, promotion, and nurse’s uniforms.

And yes , reader. I married her.

Except for the fact that I didn’t. 19 years on and I remain, happily, sans wedding ring. My assigned nurse was a bloke. The

rest of the story i s true however.

At the beginning of 1996, I had become depressed and disenchanted with my col lege course. Luckily, with the luck of

having medically minded parents, a link to a hereditary hormonal condition was made and a tumour the size of a golf ball

on my pancreas was diagnosed. That was the reason why I was sitting in a Newcastle hospital bed whilst Ci ty took on

Brentford and Swindon wishing desperately that I was at Valley Parade as Ci ty’s season (which looked dead in the water

when the clocks went forward) was racing towards an exci ting cl imax.

I was back in my favoured position of armchair next to the patio doors by the time Ci ty travelled East in search of three

points that would cement our position in s ixth place. In contrast to how I felt the week before, I was delighted to be in the

bosom of my loving family being fed chicken soup and spaghetti hoops, than being chased around the s treets s urrounding

Boothferry Park by the Hull Brains Trust. Anyway, mission accomplished and a two-legged semi-final against a physically

imposing Blackpool loomed ahead.

Against doctor’s advice I travelled to Bradford for the home leg and Ci ty’s performance only served to heighten my sense

of post-op nausea. Two years ago at the first l eg of the Burton semi-final I was s lumped against the counter of the old tea

bar in the main s tand at half-time. My friend and colleague Mark Neale stormed past, “Why do we always f**k i t up?!” he

angrily asked. My less eloquent response was to shrug and say, “It’s Bradford Ci ty, innit.” My mind stretched back to 1996.

Surely we couldn’t come back from two goals down against a pretty nifty Seasiders team? Many Ci ty fans treated the

second leg as a jolly day out at the seaside initially. I didn’t travel to Blackpool, my position was high on a hill above the

small Durham village where I lived at the time, where we could just about obtain a signal from the Pulse as Ci ty booked

their first ever trip to Wembley.

There’s been enough written about Wembley over the years, but as in 2013 Ci ty approached the match as “a job of work”,

and did the business on the pitch with very l ittle fuss. I have grown to love the new Wembley, and even as a confirmed

Londonphile it’s not a suburb that I have a great deal of love for. But that murky, grey May 1996 afternoon was one of the

greatest moments of my l ife. As we edged out of the Wembley car park after the match (a long process only bettered by

the hour-long wait to leave the Stanmore tube station car park after the League Cup final), I looked at the league tables.

The exci tement that Crewe and Wycombe were going to be replaced as opponents by Manchester Ci ty and Queen’s Park

Rangers was too much, and I fell asleep in North London, and woke up a few miles from home.

Once the summer exams were tackled, a glorious six weeks of doing nothing loomed ahead of me. A chance to indulge in

my growing passion for archive TV and film (UK Gold, Granada Plus and Bravo were the business in 1996), spend endless

days playing Championship Manager, oh, and yes - learning to drive. I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car since 1998

and just typing those three words make my s tomach do summersaults. On my increasingly rare visits back to Durham, I

have to work past the Driving Test Centre to get to the excellent Victoria Hotel, i f I so much as glance at the centre, I ’m in

danger of losing my lunch. It’s not as i f I was a bad driver. On the five occasions I took my test, and on the five occasions I

fa i led, my instructor would look at me and shake his head in disbelief. When I got in the car on my fi rst test, my “clutch

foot” was going up and down like a s team hammer.

Of course when people ask me “Do you ever fancy doing the old “learning to drive” lark again, Chris? ” I have to explain that

I have developed a form of Adult ADHD. I’ll be the one you read about in the papers that has crashed into a bus s top

mowing down three school children, and a Falklands War hero on the way to collect his pension. I just find i t so hard to

concentrate on one thing, and not get distracted from the….is that an X84 going to Skipton I spy? Pa inted in the old

Yorkshire Rider livery too! You know, i t must be at least 20 years since I saw a bus in those colours. Sorry, what was that?

Oh yes where was I? Yes, the summer of 1996….

I used to wear my Ci ty shirts with pride during that summer. In Durham, the locals were too wrapped up in the fortunes of

Newcastle and Sunderland to care about such small fry as Bradford Ci ty. We holidayed that summer in Cornwall. Whilst

enjoying the rays in Great Yarmouth wearing the sexy denim blue away kit, a chap approached me and said, “I hope you’ve

got your season ticket”. Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of Bradford Ci ty with Geoffrey Richmond at his magisterial,

inspirational best behind the wheel of the Ci ty ship.

In those days, the internet was in i ts infancy. I remember with the excitement of seeing an advert the previous summer

advertising a rudimentary football forum. This was before dealing with years of rage arguing with knobheads on football –

and other subject specific – forums of course. I remember getting giddy that Ci ty had their own page on teletext. It was on

there that Ci ty had signed Gordon Cowans. An ex-England international no less! As my dad pointed out, “Yeah, but so was

Mike Duxbury”. I ’m about the same age now as Cowans was when he s igned, I ’m at least two s tone overweight but I can

sti ll run faster over 100 yards…admittedly this is usually when the landlord has called last orders, or when the fish shop has

opened and I’m starving, but….

Add to that mix, a Dutch centre half and centre forward in Marco Sas and Erik Regtop, I couldn’t help feeling th at Ci ty were

rea lly going to tear up the First Division.

Of course, it didn’t quite work out that way. A fi rs t day victory in picture postcard weather against Portsmouth – a ided and

abetted by a benevolent referee – was a bright start, and enough to take Ci ty to the top of the embryonic table. Reality

soon set in. A fi rst round exit in the League Cup, taken apart by division high -flyers Norwich, Bolton, Birmingham, and

Crysta l Pa lace, and an inability to score away from home (which mirrored my non-existent love l ife). When that first away

did come, i t came with a large slice of luck in front of the SKY cameras at Vale Parade – accompanied by a not-at-all

embarrassing rehearsed celebration. Things were looking grim. And then he arrived.

Chris topher Roland Waddle. Ex-sausage factory worker. Darling of the Gallowgate End, the Shelf, and the Hillsborough Kop.

And he was signing for my club. Immediately Waddle had an impact. On his home debut against a very good Barnsley side,

he unleashed a stunning half volley to give Ci ty the lead. The rest of the team were given a lift too as Ci ty settled into life in

the higher division. This was becoming a bizarre season, and the madness continued with the parachuting of three

Scandinavian players into the side for the visit of Oldham at the s tart of November.

Whi lst Ole Bjorn Sundgot, and particularly Rob Steiner are remembered fondly, whither Magnus Pehrsson? This was

actually his one and only match in a Ci ty shirt as we predictably lost 3-0. Actually, I do know where Pehrsson is. He is now

the manager of the Estonian national team according to Wikipedia. This i s nothing compared to the sole appearance of Jari

Vanhala whose sole appearance in a stultifying goalless draw is the stuff of Bradford Ci ty legend.

In the middle of a ll this, Ci ty managed to thrown away a three goal lead at Huddersfield (of more later) on live television. I

remember when it went to 3-2 saying, “If i t gets to 3-2, I ’m off into Durham”. Of course, it did end 3-3. And no, I didn’t hit

the town I stayed to the end, and then probably watched something Fist of Fun or The Fast Show on BBC2 afterwards.

By this point, my l ifelong love affair with beer and pubs had begun. About 10 years ago, Fairport Convention bassist Dave

Pegg announced that he was taking a short break from the band after some marital disharmony. Recognising that he ha d

been hitting the bottle a little too keenly, he said “I went to the pub when I was 16, and never came home”. My drinking

has never been that bad, but I ’m never more at home than when I’m the pub. Being underage didn’t matter too much in

Durham. The police turned a blind eye mainly despite rumours of spot raids and £1,000 fines. I generally stuck to

traditional pubs, never took the piss giving landlords cause to complaint, and eschewing the type of “vertical drinking

establishments” that my other friends would insist on dragging me to.

I was also taking a little bit care of my appearance too. I mentioned in the preamble how I was gauche and awkward, add

to the mix my massive framed glasses, and attempts to grow my hair into the “curtains” s tyle that was po pular at the time

which led to a horrific side parting (there is photographic evidence), I wasn’t exactly going to set many hearts racing.

I attempted to remedy this by going clothes shopping to Newcastle when Ci ty were away. I finally ditched the white socks

for black which as a serious clothing revolution for me. My serious film-going at this point begun. The British industry was

finally taking off with the help of lottery funding, and films such as Shallow Gra ve and Trainspotting blew my 17 year old

mind. Waterstones was a third home for me (after my house and the pub) and I was reading a modern fiction book once a

week. I was also buying the lad’s mags of the time like Loaded and FHM which was probably not th e greatest of ideas, as

other young people always seemed to be having much more interesting lives. I imagine a lot of the articles were

exaggerated to a degree, but life in a small vi llage could often be a source of frustration.

Having said all that, to be young in the mid-90’s was an enormously exciting time to be young. The greyness of the early

90’s had given way to a bright present and a future where anything seemed possible. Bri tpop was at its height, Girl Power

was an industry a ll of i ts own, and laddism – a ll though looked down on by the usual suspects at the time – i s now looked

back on with affection now. Compare the correct and proper furore over Dapper Laughs’ rape “jokes” last year. Gary and

Tony from Men Behaving Badly where they were both sex obsessed, but sad in a kind of endearing way. Look at Frank

Skinner. He looks like the man who comes and fixes the photocopier at work, but his bedroom adventures could put

Casanova to shame. Comedy, l ike much of modern life, seems very brutal and cold these days.

Back on the pitch, Ci ty were consistently inconsistent. The new Midland Road s tand had opened on Boxing Day to replace

the much loved “Garden Shed”, but Ci ty finally had a ground befitting the 20th Century. Andy O’Brien appeared to nod

home his first Ci ty goal against Oxford in early 1997 – the fi rs t Ci ty player to be younger than me. When Gary Jones and

Andy Gray left last summer, I realised I was now older than the entire Ci ty squad which troubles me as I still have

aspirations of being a professional footballer. It’s only the last remnants of my dignity that prevent me from becoming a

“Ful l Ki t Wanker”, wearing Ci ty shorts and socks under my tracksuit bottoms at home matches hoping for a ca ll over the

tannoy to report to the dressing room.

By this point, I had to make my decision about which universities I was going to choose to apply to. At this point, my

football obsession was at its height. Add to that a large dose of sentimentality, and I chose Bradford at the top of my l ist. I

had been away from West Yorkshire for seven years at that point. For the first two years in Durham, I was prone to the

occas ional panic attack and periods of upset but the period between 92 and 97 I know look upon as a golden period in my

l i fe. The open day at Bradford was impressive and i t seemed a really friendly place, and the grades were achievable so I

made the decision to submit my form without hesitation.

Whereas my home life was stable, the madness at Valley Parade continued. £500,000 was spent bringing Gordon Watson

from Southampton to bolster the front line, and his glorious goal on his home debut against Port Vale was only bettered by

Chris Waddle’s wonder chip at Goodison Park three days earlier in the F.A. Cup against Everton. When Steiner scored the

thi rd goal, I was covered in hot coffee. Did I care? Not a jot. Of course, Watson’s Ci ty career was damaged when his leg met

Kevin Gray’s foot. And whatever the Town fans say, they were singing “Bye-bye, bye-bye” when the ambulance came to

take him to hospital.

Chris Waddle’s City career also ended on a sad note as he was involved in an unseemly spat with Richmond over a

supposed “Gentleman’s Agreement” that he would be allowed to talk to any Premiership club who made an enquiry. When

Sunderland made an approach in March for Waddle to help save them from relegation (he didn’t), it would have been a

hard man to reject that knowing that the Rokerites were Waddle’s boyhood favourites. Waddle won, but most City fans

took Richmond’s side as at point he could do very l ittle wrong. I was ashamed to say that when Waddle made an

appearance in the Player’s Bar at a reserve match with his new team Burnley the next season, no Ci ty fan approached him

to thank him for his contribution. So, I’m saying i t now. Thanks Chris.

It was now tense on all fronts. My final A-level exams were looming, and Ci ty were entrenched in an almighty relegation

battle. Chris Kamara acted and brought in the l ikes of John Dreyer, Chris Wilder, Nigel Pepper, and George Kulscar to bring

a l i ttle more steel and experience to the team. And of course, Edinho – Brazilian pocket rocket, lover of Guinness and a ll-

round top man – brought a little of the Samba sunshine to the Worstedopolis. His mismatched boxing match with Keith

Curle was one of the highlights of the season. Forget Paciquao vs Mayweather – an Edinho vs Curle rematch would be

worth £100 on Pay per View.

Despite the injection of new blood, Ci ty s till couldn’t find the consistency that would be likely to keep them in the divisio n.

The 2-1 win against Wolves at Valley Parade was a sign of better things to come over the next two years, but Ci ty meekly

surrended points against Portsmouth, Birmingham and Tranmere as the end of the season approached. Ci ty couldn’t

dampen the party spirit at Oakwell, and had two home matches to save their First Division lives.

Whi lst the attention of the rest of the country was pointed towards the General Election on the 1st May, the only thing on

the minds of many Bradfordians was a meeting with Charlton Athletic at Valley Parade. The match was the first of two

“must-win” home matches at the end of the season. The night was filled with tension with Charlton being much the

superior of the two sides on the night. The makings of a promotion winning were there to see. H owever, Nigel Pepper’s

thunderbolt breathed new life into the Ci ty team, and Ci ty held on to Survival Sunday.

The following day at Sixth Form, I lazed on the grass with a group of friends, resplendent in my new Beaver (Don’t laugh.

My friends did. Not as much as finding that Bradford used to have a department store called Brown Muffs) City home shirt.

We basked in the glory of bright sunshine and a new whole bright new era with Labour’s landslide victory the previous

evening. Did we know that this was as good as it was going to get? No, we didn’t – but throughout that summer a positive

future seemed to be on the horizon until “She” died. Then the Bri tish people collectively lost their heads, and have never

rea lly recovered from that hysterical seven days after the fatal car crash in a Paris underpass.

A nervous weekend was spent waiting for the final match on the following Sunday. Queen’s Park Rangers had endured a

disappointing season after relegation, but they s till retained a number of ex-Premiership players, so I s till feared a tough

afternoon. I stood nervously in front of the Director’s Box before kick -off. “It’s only a game, It’s only a game” I repeated

mantra fashion, but after working so hard to escape the third tier, I wanted Middlesbrough and Nottingham Forest, not

Wycombe and Peterborough the next season. In the end I had no cause for concern. The QPR players were already

dreaming of their summer holidays, and as at Wembley 12 months earlier, Ci ty completed a professional job, winning 3-0

and s ecuring First Division football for another season.

Rel ieved to the nth degree, I set about celebrating the only way I knew how – in the pub. My dad picked me up from

Durham, and gave me the hard word, reminding me that my final A-level examinations were just a month away and that I’d

spent a ll weekend worrying about Bradford Ci ty rather than revising. It’s true; I had been neglecting my s tudies. When I

came to looking at my notes, my fi rst thoughts were “Where the f**k do I s tart?” It’s fair to say that I wasn’t the most

organised person in those days. Taking a deep breath, I managed to get the notes into some kind of order, and religiously

revised for the next month.

I was flying by the seat of my pants, and had a little bit of luck with the way the questions fell for me in my fi rst exam which

gave me real momentum for the remaining papers. I managed to obtain grades which would have taken me to Oxbridge in

those days, but I had a lready committed to Bradford which was the first of a series of wrong turns I have taken in my l ife

over the last 18 years. That is another story for another day though.

I ’l l always remember that year with great fondness. It was the year that I came of age. It was a year for Bradford Ci ty that

can only be described as “batshit crazy” with 42 players used, and a squad that managed to s tick together providing some

memorable moments that I ’ll treasure until I ’m in my bath chair playing Canasta with my pals in the nursing home.

Li fe hasn’t totally gone the way that I planned, but I ’m still here and (mostly) happy with my lot, which i s more than can be

sa id to some of my contemporaries from school and college who have died, are in prison, or have moved to

Middlesbrough. Facebook has the ability to grind my gears on almost a daily basis, I do take pleasure in seeing people I like

thrive in their professional and personal lives. This doesn’t stop me from chortling at changes in people’s physical

appearances – “Ho Ho! Look at how bald he is now!” Of course, time waits for no man and I am in no position to call

anyone out on how they look. About ten years and three s tones ago, I overheard a work colleague describe me as “a good

looking Jimmy Nail”. What an epitaph. I may have lost that adolescence gaucheness, but the physical awkwardness still

remains. And there is “a veranda above the toy shop”, as Peter Kay so succinctly described himself a few years ago.

Hopefully by the time that you read this, City wi ll be on their Italian adventure. Who knows where we’ll be in 2033?

Champions League winners, or the wooden spoon in the West Yorkshire Amateur League? One thing i s for certain, I can’t

wait to find out.