John-Paul ONeill - Red rebels : the Glazers and the FC revolution

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Copyright John-Paul ONeill 2017

John-Paul ONeill has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Yellow Jersey Press in 2017

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Extract from , by Mihir Bose reprinted with permission of Aurum Press.

Extract from , by Daniel Taylor reprinted with permission of Aurum Press.

Extract from , by Robert Brady reprinted with permission of Robert Brady. The entire cover price for this publication is donated to The Working Class Movement Library.

Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more firmly than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He would be only too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves. But sometimes you might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be?

George Orwell, Animal Farm

I dont recall any conscious decision to become a United fan; its probably because my dad was one before me. Where he got it from Ive never actually asked. One of his older sisters was a big City fan, and used to watch them regularly even heading down to Wembley for the Cup Final in the 50s but my dad evidently had more sense. Hed sometimes tell us about being coached as a kid by Johnny Carey, Uniteds 1948 FA Cup-winning captain. The family certainly had Red roots geographically my grandparents met in Cornbrook, Old Trafford, where theyd both lived, before moving out to Wythenshawe after they married.

One of my earliest football-related memories, certainly that I can date, is my dad jumping out of his chair when Norman Whiteside scored the winner against Everton in the 1985 Cup final. The following day we went to Sale to see the team parade the trophy. That was it for a few years as far as football was concerned as my parents then dragged the five of us (all under the age of eight) off to the South Pacific. As you do. My dad had given up his job, having taken a post teaching in the Solomon Islands, and off we went to live in Honiara on Guadalcanal. History buffs might recognise it as the scene of tumultuous battles between the Americans and Japanese in World War Two; or perhaps as the setting for The Thin Red Line, the book centred on that campaign.

In spite of such gallivanting, somewhere along the line I became obsessed with United, with my hero being the captain Bryan Robson. After much pestering, my dad eventually took me and one of my younger brothers to a game at Old Trafford in the midst of a gruesome 11-game run without a league victory. Needless to say, Robson didnt play, once again being out injured. It didnt matter though, as the experience was mesmerising: from the seemingly tiny slits that passed for turnstiles to the continual hum of the crowd, the fog of smoke hanging over the terraces to the glare of the floodlights, and the bright, vivid clash of the teams colours against the green(ish) pitch.

From then on pretty much all I wanted to do was watch United, and within a year I was going without my dad: being 11 years old on the Stretford End would probably seem a big deal to some parents nowadays; back then it was just how it was. By then I had six siblings, so to pay my way, even with admittance costing only 2.30, I did regular paper rounds trudging the streets every morning from 7 a.m., delivering the days news. For a Saturday game Id get to Old Trafford for 12:30 p.m., with the gates opening about 1 p.m. When the Stretford End was demolished I kept the same routine, even though the ground didnt open until probably an hour later. That meant hanging around on Warwick Road, where I quickly learnt who the regular characters and personalities were. From there, I started selling the fanzine United We Stand when I was 14 away match tickets meant more income was required and about 18 months later, Red Issue. By then Id left school, although still only 15. Id long lost interest in formal education and, as Id already done my GCSEs having been promoted a year, headed off to find more lucrative work to feed my football habit.

A mate sorted me out with a job as a bike courier for a printing firm in Manchester: 95 cash in hand for cycling round town all day, picking up and dropping off site plans from architects and building companies that they needed copying. After paying my mum rent, it worked out little better than 1 per hour but it saw me through the 1995/96 season, including a summer trip to Milan where United played Inter in a friendly as part of Paul Inces transfer. The following autumn, still only 16, I grudgingly headed back to college to do A-Levels. By then Id known Red Issue contributors like Richard Kurt and Pete Boyle for a few years, and decided to try my hand at writing and, eventually, the editor Chris Robinson was short enough on material to print something Id produced. He even paid for the honour.

The best part of watching United was undoubtedly the trips abroad. In 1998, for the fourth summer in a row, a few of us headed off overseas to watch the team during pre-season. A fortnight in Scandinavia beckoned and one older Red warned how expensive it was, suggesting that it would probably be cheaper to fly home in between the games than stay out there for the duration. Wed prepared by taking a load of United pin badges to sell to the locals at Scandinavian rates: a working holiday was the only way we could afford to do it.

During halftime of one game in Oslo we were sat by the pitch while Uniteds substitutes warmed up. Come on, I said to the others, lets have a kick around, and walked over to David May, one of Uniteds players at the time. He didnt look too surprised at the sight of three interlopers and had a chat with us all. Just before the second half we headed over to sit on the team bench but Brian Kidd, Alex Fergusons assistant, came out and said: Youd better scarper quick before the boss sees you. Although the other two headed back to their places, I remained where I was. The players filed out and took their seats alongside me, with the likes of Teddy Sheringham and Dennis Irwin casting a puzzled glance, clearly wondering who I was. The local kids behind the dugout were soon demanding autographs and, as I was sat on the end, began to pass their programmes and scraps of paper down the line. Eventually the Swedish player Jesper Blomqvist told me No more! but I felt bad turning the fans down so started signing them myself.

It was the closest Id come to turning out for United, and one of the few tales from the foreign jaunts around that time suitable for any respectable publication. With the 1998/99 season imminent I joined the herd being aimlessly funnelled into a university course for which I had no motivation. But it came with access to a student loan, and that would prove useful given the number of games and trips ahead, as United closed in on the Treble. The European Cup final in Barcelona coincided with end of year exams, and I was firmly told that there was no chance of progressing with the course if I didnt sit them. Oh well. Back into the world of work it was. A job cropped up on site building the new runway at Manchester Airport. 185 for a 45-hour week didnt sound too bad until I realised I was left with 40 after tax, rent to my mum and the expense of the car the job required. It wasnt hard to see why some people just didnt bother working, only the alternative was actually worse: Id signed on once and vowed to never do so again given the dole payment simply wasnt worth the exchange of being treated like a complete moron.