S ilenus the satyr, stumbling with age and wine, was taken captive by the Phrygians and taken before King Midas. But the king recognised him as a friend and joyfully led a celebration of his guest’s arrival, lasting 10 days. On the 11th day the king with gladness came to the field of Lydia and restored Silenus to his foster son, Bacchus. The god, delighted at his father’s return, offered Midas a gift. “Make it,” Midas said, “so Manchester City, whom I supported even in the Third Division days, are the richest club in the world.” Bacchus accepted and Midas returned, rejoicing in his bane. But as City won, and kept winning, he came to understand his strange misfortune, for it didn’t make him happy.
One of my earliest memories is of walking into the kitchen and saying: “I wish we lived in Liverpool.” Surprised, my mam asked why. “Because then we might win things.” Looking back, being born and growing up in Sunderland, and being unaware till much later that some people chose their teams, seems an incredibly fortunate escape. Being a fan of a superclub looks immensely stressful. Seriously, have you seen how stressed they are, all the time? Far better to have a couple of pints with your mates, drift along to the game and half-watch it talking nonsense, comfortable in the knowledge that none of it much matters.
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