1. MY FAVOURITE YEAR
1996/97 - The Year of Living Dangerously
By Chris Armstrong
The hospital wardwas quiet that night;save for the oddcoughor snore emanating fromone ofthe other patients. The
gauche, awkwardyoung man inthe corner bedlistenedto the nurses exchanging gossip about the outside interests ofthe
handsome young consultant whohadexaminedhisoperationscar that afternoon. Ah yes, the scar. An uglythickpink line
of 12 inches now spannedthe entire width ofthe young man’s abdomen.
“Humph! That’s going to make all the girls weakat the knees, isn’t it?” The Young Man thought bitterly.
The conversationoutside hadswitched to the latest goings oninCoronationStreet and EastEnders, but the youngman had
more important things onhismind. The young manreachedweaklyfor the nurse call button. He heard a sigh, andthen the
reassuring patter of footsteps towards his temporary“home”. It was Katie. The young manlikedKatie.
“Nurse, doyou mind awfullybringingme the phone please?”
“It is rather late Mr. Armstrong. Couldit not wait until the morning?”
“Katie” The shift to informalitywas telling. “Wouldyou mind? It is rather important”.
Katie wheeledinthe phone from outside to findthe youngman sitting upin bedin anticipation. “It must be important” she
thought. “There you goMr. Armstrong. Just let me know whenyou’ve finished”.
“Thank youKatie. Thankyou ever somuch”. Katie smiled, turnedandleft the youngman to the privacyof his call.
The young shifteduncomfortablyonto hisside. “What hadthat surgeon – no, butcher – done to me?” he thought as he
dialled the number. He knewthe number byrote – 01274 773355. He waited nervously, “Come on. Come onnnnn”,
grinding histeethinanticipation. Then, a click.
“BradfordCityFootball Club”. The West Yorkshire twang was unmistakeable. As warmas Yorkshire Puddings coveredin
gravy. As welcoming as a pint of Taylor’s Golden Best after a hard dayat the coalface of industry.
“Yes, thankyou. I waswondering if youcouldtell me the result of tonight’s match?”
“Citywon 2-1. Mind you, it was a close runthing. We missedtwo penalties! Anyroad, willwe be seeing youon 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 trailed off, andthe phone line went dead. The young man regrettedhis lack ofmanners,
but he had the informationhe wanted. He somehow foundthe strengthto press the call buttonagain.
“Is everythingallright, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Yes, thankyou Katie. Everything’s going to be all right fromnow”.
“Oh that is good news. Wouldyou like a cupof tea or cocoa before you go to sleep? Mr. Armstrong?Mr. Armstrong?”
It was nogood. The young man had driftedoff intoblissful sleep. Dreamingof Wembley, promotion, andnurse’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. Myassignednurse was a bloke. The
rest of the storyis true however.
At the beginning of1996, I hadbecome depressedanddisenchantedwithmycollege course. Luckily, with the luck of
havingmedicallymindedparents, a link to a hereditary hormonal conditionwas made anda tumour the size of a golfball
on mypancreas was diagnosed. That was the reasonwhyI was sitting ina Newcastle hospital bedwhilst City tookon
Brentford and Swindonwishingdesperatelythat I was at ValleyParade as City’s season (whichlookeddeadinthe water
when the clocks went forward)was racingtowards an excitingclimax.

2. I was backinmyfavouredpositionof armchair next to the patio doors bythe time CitytravelledEast in searchof three
points that wouldcement our position insixthplace. In contrast to how I felt the weekbefore, I was delightedto be in the
bosomof myloving familybeing fed chickensoup and spaghetti hoops, than beingchasedaroundthe streets surrounding
BoothferryPark bythe Hull Brains Trust. Anyway, mission accomplishedanda two-leggedsemi-final against a physically
imposingBlackpool loomed ahead.
Against doctor’s advice I travelledto Bradfordfor the home legandCity’s performance onlyservedto heightenmysense
of post-opnausea. Twoyears ago at the first legof the Burtonsemi-final I wasslumpedagainst the counter ofthe old tea
bar in the mainstandat half-time. Myfriendandcolleague Mark Neale stormedpast, “Whydowe always f**k it up?!” he
angrilyasked. Myless eloquent response was to shrug and say, “It’s Bradford City, innit.” Mymindstretchedback to 1996.
Surelywe couldn’t come back from twogoalsdown against a prettyniftySeasiders team?ManyCityfans treatedthe
second leg as a jollydayout at the seaside initially. I didn’t travel to Blackpool, mypositionwas high ona hill above the
small Durham village where I livedat the time, where we couldjust about obtaina signalfrom the Pulse as Citybooked
their first ever trip to Wembley.
There’s beenenoughwrittenabout Wembleyover the years, but as in2013 Cityapproachedthe match as “a job ofwork”,
and didthe business onthe pitchwithverylittle fuss. I have grownto love the newWembley, and evenas a confirmed
Londonphile it’s not a suburb that I have a great deal oflove for. But that murky, greyMay1996 afternoonwas one of the
greatest moments of mylife. As we edgedout ofthe Wembleycar park after the match (a long process onlybettered by
the hour-long wait to leave the Stanmore tube station car park after the League Cupfinal), I lookedat the league tables.
The excitement that Crewe andWycombe were goingto be replaced as opponents byManchester CityandQueen’s Park
Rangers was toomuch, and I fell asleepinNorthLondon, and woke upa fewmiles fromhome.
Once the summer exams were tackled, a glorious six weeks ofdoing nothing loomedahead ofme. A chance to indulge in
my growingpassion for archive TV andfilm (UKGold, Granada Plus andBravo were the business in1996), spendendless
days playing ChampionshipManager, oh, andyes - learning to drive. I haven’t beenbehind the wheel of a car since 1998
and just typingthose three words make my stomachdosummersaults. On myincreasinglyrare visits back to Durham, I
have to work past the DrivingTest Centre to get to the excellent Victoria Hotel, ifI somuch as glance at the centre, I’min
danger of losing mylunch. It’s not as ifI was a bad driver. On the five occasions I took mytest, andon the five occasions I
failed, myinstructor would lookat me andshake hisheadindisbelief. WhenI got inthe car onmyfirst test, my“clutch
foot” was going upanddownlike a steam hammer.
Of course when people ask me “Doyou ever fancydoing the old “learning to drive” larkagain, Chris?” I have to explain that
I have developeda form of Adult ADHD. I’ll be the one youreadabout inthe papers that has crashed into a bus stop
mowingdownthree school children, anda Falklands War hero onthe wayto collect his pension. I just findit sohard to
concentrate onone thing, and not get distractedfrom the….isthat anX84 goingto SkiptonI spy? Paintedinthe old
Yorkshire Rider liverytoo! Youknow, it must be at least 20 years since I sawa bus inthose colours. Sorry, what wasthat?
Oh yes where was I? Yes, the summer of 1996….
I usedto wear myCityshirts withpride during that summer. In Durham, the locals were too wrappedupinthe fortunes of
Newcastle and Sunderlandto care about suchsmall fryas Bradford City. We holidayedthat summer inCornwall. Whilst
enjoying the rays inGreat Yarmouthwearingthe sexydenimblue awaykit, a chapapproachedme andsaid, “I hope you’ve
got your seasonticket”. Suddenlyeveryone wanteda piece of BradfordCitywith GeoffreyRichmondat his magisterial,
inspirational best behindthe wheelof the Cityship.
In those days, the internet wasinits infancy. I remember withthe excitement ofseeinganadvert the previous summer
advertising a rudimentaryfootballforum. This wasbefore dealing withyears of rage arguingwith knobheads onfootball –
and other subject specific – forums of course. I remember gettinggiddythat Cityhadtheir own page onteletext. It was on
there that Cityhad signedGordonCowans. An ex-Englandinternational noless! As mydadpointedout, “Yeah, but sowas
Mike Duxbury”. I’m about the same age now as Cowans was whenhe signed, I’mat least twostone overweight but I can
still runfaster over 100 yards…admittedlythis is usuallywhen the landlordhas calledlast orders, or whenthe fishshophas
openedandI’m starving, but….
Add to that mix, a Dutchcentre halfand centre forwardinMarco SasandErikRegtop, I couldn’t helpfeelingth at Citywere
reallygoingto tear upthe First Division.

3. Of course, it didn’t quite workout that way. A first dayvictoryinpicture postcardweather against Portsmouth – aided and
abettedbya benevolent referee – was a bright start, andenoughto take Cityto the top ofthe embryonic table. Reality
soon set in. A first round exit inthe League Cup, taken apart bydivision high-flyers Norwich, Bolton, Birmingham, and
Crystal Palace, and aninabilityto score awayfrom home (whichmirroredmy non-existent love life). Whenthat first away
did come, it came witha large slice of luck infront of the SKY camerasat Vale Parade – accompaniedbya not-at-all
embarrassing rehearsedcelebration. Things were looking grim. Andthen he arrived.
Christopher RolandWaddle. Ex-sausage factoryworker. Darling of the Gallowgate End, the Shelf, andthe HillsboroughKop.
And he was signing for myclub. ImmediatelyWaddle hadanimpact. On his home debut against a verygood Barnsleyside,
he unleasheda stunning half volley to give Citythe lead. The rest of the teamwere givena lift tooas Citysettledintolife in
the higher division. This wasbecoming a bizarre season, and the madness continuedwiththe parachutingof three
Scandinavianplayers intothe side for the visit ofOldham at the start of November.
Whilst Ole Bjorn Sundgot, and particularlyRob Steiner are remembered fondly, whither Magnus Pehrsson? This was
actuallyhis one and onlymatch in a Cityshirt as we predictablylost 3-0. Actually, I do knowwhere Pehrsson is. He is now
the manager of the Estonian nationalteamaccording to Wikipedia. Thisis nothing comparedto the sole appearance of Jari
Vanhalawhose sole appearance ina stultifying goallessdraw is the stuff of Bradford Citylegend.
In the middle ofallthis, Citymanagedto thrownawaya three goal leadat Huddersfield(of more later) onlive television. I
remember when it went to 3-2 saying, “If it gets to 3-2, I’m off intoDurham”. Of course, it did end3-3. And no, I didn’t hit
the town I stayedto the end, andthen probablywatched something Fist ofFunor The Fast Showon BBC2 afterwards.
By this point, mylifelong love affair with beer andpubs hadbegun. About 10 years ago, Fairport Conventionbassist Dave
Pegg announcedthat he wastaking a short breakfrom the bandafter some marital disharmony. Recognisingthat he had
been hitting the bottle a little tookeenly, he said“I went to the pubwhenI was16, andnever came home”. Mydrinking
has never been that bad, but I’mnever more at home thanwhenI’mthe pub. Being underage didn’t matter toomuchin
Durham. The police turneda blind eye mainlydespite rumours of spot raids and£1,000 fines. I generallystuckto
traditional pubs, never took the piss giving landlords cause to complaint, and eschewing the type of “verticaldrinking
establishments” that myother friends would insist on dragging me to.
I was alsotaking a little bit care ofmyappearance too. I mentioned inthe preamble how I wasgauche andawkward, add
to the mix mymassive framedglasses, andattempts to grow myhair intothe “curtains” style that waspo pular at the time
which led to a horrific side parting(there is photographic evidence), I wasn’t exactlygoing to set manyhearts racing.
I attempted to remedythisbygoingclothes shopping to Newcastle whenCitywere away. I finallyditchedthe white socks
for blackwhichas a serious clothingrevolutionfor me. Myserious film-goingat thispoint begun. The Britishindustrywas
finallytaking offwiththe helpof lotteryfunding, andfilms suchas ShallowGra ve andTrainspotting blew my17 year old
mind. Waterstones was a third home for me (after myhouse and the pub) andI was readinga modernfiction book once a
week. I was also buyingthe lad’s mags of the time like Loaded andFHMwhich wasprobablynot th e greatest ofideas, as
other young people always seemedto be having much more interesting lives. I imagine a lot of the articleswere
exaggeratedto a degree, but life in a smallvillage could often be a source of frustration.
Havingsaid all that, to be younginthe mid-90’s was anenormouslyexcitingtime to be young. The greyness of the early
90’s had given wayto a bright present anda future where anything seemedpossible. Britpop wasat its height, Girl Power
was an industryall ofits own, andladdism– all though lookeddown onbythe usual suspects at the time – is now looked
back on withaffection now. Compare the correct andproper furore over Dapper Laughs’ rape “jokes” last year. Garyand
Tonyfrom Men Behaving Badlywhere theywere bothsex obsessed, but sadin a kind ofendearingway. Look at Frank
Skinner. He looks like the manwhocomesandfixesthe photocopier at work, but his bedroomadventures could put
Casanova to shame. Comedy, like muchof modernlife, seems verybrutalandcold these days.
Back on the pitch, Citywere consistentlyinconsistent. The new Midland Roadstandhadopenedon Boxing Dayto replace
the much loved “Garden Shed”, but Cityfinallyhada ground befitting the 20th Century. AndyO’Brienappearedto nod
home his first Citygoal against Oxfordinearly1997 – the first Cityplayer to be younger thanme. WhenGaryJones and
AndyGrayleft last summer, I realised I was now older thanthe entire Citysquad which troubles me as I still have
aspirations ofbeing a professional footballer. It’s onlythe last remnants of mydignitythat prevent me frombecoming a

4. “Full Kit Wanker”, wearing Cityshorts andsocks under mytracksuit bottoms at home matcheshoping for a call over the
tannoyto report to the dressingroom.
By this point, I had to make mydecisionabout whichuniversities I was going to choose to applyto. At this point, my
football obsession wasat its height. Addto that a large dose ofsentimentality, andI chose Bradfordat the topof mylist. I
had been awayfrom West Yorkshire for sevenyears at that point. For the first two years inDurham, I was prone to the
occasional panic attack and periods of upset but the period between92 and97 I knowlookuponas a golden periodinmy
life. The open dayat Bradford was impressive andit seemeda reallyfriendlyplace, and the grades were achievable soI
made the decision to submit myform without hesitation.
Whereas myhome life was stable, the madness at ValleyParade continued. £500,000 was spent bringing Gordon Watson
from Southamptonto bolster the front line, andhis glorious goal onhishome debut against Port Vale was onlybettered by
Chris Waddle’s wonder chipat GoodisonParkthree days earlier inthe F.A. Cup against Everton. WhenSteiner scored the
third goal, I wascoveredinhot coffee. DidI care? Not a jot. Of course, Watson’s Citycareer was damagedwhenhislegmet
Kevin Gray’s foot. Andwhatever the Townfans say, theywere singing “Bye-bye, bye-bye” whenthe ambulance came to
take him to hospital.
Chris Waddle’s Citycareer alsoended ona sadnote as he was involvedinan unseemlyspat withRichmondover a
supposed“Gentleman’s Agreement” that he would be allowedto talk to anyPremiership club who made anenquiry. When
Sunderland made anapproach inMarch for Waddle to helpsave themfrom relegation(he didn’t), it wouldhave beena
hard manto reject that knowing that the Rokerites were Waddle’s boyhoodfavourites. Waddle won, but most Cityfans
took Richmond’s side as at point he could dovery little wrong. I was ashamedto saythat when Waddle made an
appearance inthe Player’s Bar at a reserve match withhisnew team Burnleythe next season, noCityfanapproachedhim
to thank himfor his contribution. So, I’m sayingit now. Thanks Chris.
It was now tense on all fronts. Myfinal A-level exams were looming, andCitywere entrenchedinan almightyrelegation
battle. Chris Kamara acted andbrought inthe likes of JohnDreyer, Chris Wilder, Nigel Pepper, and George Kulscar to bring
a little more steel and experience to the team. And ofcourse, Edinho – Brazilianpocket rocket, lover of Guinnessandall-
round top man – brought a little of the Samba sunshine to the Worstedopolis. HismismatchedboxingmatchwithKeith
Curle was one ofthe highlights of the season. Forget Paciquaovs Mayweather – anEdinhovs Curle rematch would be
worth £100 on Payper View.
Despite the injectionof new blood, Citystillcouldn’t findthe consistencythat wouldbe likelyto keepthem inthe divisio n.
The 2-1 win against Wolves at ValleyParade was a signof better things to come over the next two years, but Citymeekly
surrendedpoints against Portsmouth, Birmingham andTranmere as the endof the seasonapproached. Citycouldn’t
dampenthe partyspirit at Oakwell, and had twohome matchesto save their First Divisionlives.
Whilst the attentionof the rest ofthe countrywas pointedtowards the General Electiononthe 1st May, the onlythingon
the minds ofmanyBradfordians wasa meeting withCharltonAthletic at ValleyParade. The matchwas the first of two
“must-win” home matches at the endof the season. The night wasfilledwith tensionwithCharltonbeing much the
superior ofthe two sideson the night. The makings of a promotionwinning were there to see. However, Nigel Pepper’s
thunderbolt breathednew life intothe Cityteam, andCityheld onto Survival Sunday.
The following dayat SixthForm, I lazed onthe grass witha groupof friends, resplendent in mynew Beaver (Don’t laugh.
My friends did. Not as muchas finding that Bradford usedto have a department store calledBrown Muffs) Cityhome shirt.
We baskedin the gloryof bright sunshine and a new whole bright new era with Labour’s landslide victorythe previous
evening. Did we knowthat this wasas good as it was going to get? No, we didn’t – but throughout that summer a positive
future seemed to be onthe horizon until “She” died. Thenthe Britishpeople collectivelylost their heads, andhave never
reallyrecoveredfromthat hysterical sevendays after the fatal car crashina Paris underpass.
A nervous weekendwas spent waitingfor the finalmatch onthe following Sunday. Queen’s Park Rangers had endured a
disappointingseason after relegation, but theystill retaineda number of ex-Premiership players, so I still feared a tough
afternoon. I stoodnervouslyinfront of the Director’s Box before kick-off. “It’s onlya game, It’s onlya game” I repeated
mantra fashion, but after working so hard to escape the third tier, I wanted Middlesbrough and Nottingham Forest, not
Wycombe andPeterboroughthe next season. In the endI hadnocause for concern. The QPR players were already

5. dreaming oftheir summer holidays, andas at Wembley12 months earlier, City completeda professional job, winning 3-0
and securing First Divisionfootball for another season.
Relieved to the nthdegree, I set about celebrating the onlywayI knew how – inthe pub. Mydadpickedme up from
Durham, and gave me the hard word, remindingme that myfinal A-level examinations were just a month awayand that I’d
spent allweekend worrying about BradfordCityrather than revising. It’s true; I hadbeenneglectingmystudies. When I
came to looking at mynotes, myfirst thoughts were “Where the f**k do I start?” It’s fair to saythat I wasn’t the most
organisedpersoninthose days. Taking a deepbreath, I managed to get the notes intosome kindof order, and religiously
revisedfor the next month.
I was flying bythe seat ofmypants, andhada little bit of luckwith the waythe questions fell for me inmyfirst examwhich
gave me realmomentum for the remaining papers. I managed to obtain grades which wouldhave takenme to Oxbridge in
those days, but I hadalreadycommitted to Bradford whichwas the first of a seriesof wrong turns I have takeninmylife
over the last 18 years. That is another storyfor another daythough.
I’ll always remember that year withgreat fondness. It was the year that I came ofage. It was a year for BradfordCity that
can onlybe describedas “batshit crazy” with42 players used, anda squadthat managedto stick together providing some
memorable moments that I’ll treasure untilI’m in mybathchair playing Canasta with mypals inthe nursinghome.
Life hasn’t totallygone the waythat I planned, but I’mstill here and(mostly) happywithmylot, whichis more thancanbe
said to some of mycontemporaries from school andcollege whohave died, are inprison, or have movedto
Middlesbrough. Facebook has the abilityto grind mygears on almost a dailybasis, I do take pleasure inseeingpeople I like
thrive intheir professional andpersonal lives. This doesn’t stopme from chortling at changes in people’s physical
appearances – “Ho Ho! Look at how baldhe is now!” Of course, time waits for noman and I am inno position to call
anyone out on how theylook. About tenyears andthree stonesago, I overheard a workcolleague describe me as “a good
looking JimmyNail”. What an epitaph. I mayhave lost that adolescence gaucheness, but the physical awkwardness still
remains. And there is “a veranda above the toyshop”, as Peter Kayso succinctlydescribedhimselfa few years ago.
Hopefullybythe time that you readthis, Citywillbe on their Italianadventure. Whoknows where we’llbe in2033?
Champions League winners, or the woodenspoonin the West Yorkshire Amateur League? One thingis for certain, I can’t
wait to findout.