Manchester Summer 1990: Madchester City

In the Summer of 1990 Manchester was full of promise. Madchester was full swing. Afflecks had broken free from just supplying grungy clothes to students. The Arndale had an underground market with escalators you could play on all day, before it was extensively remodelled following the attack by the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) a few years later. Burger King sold beanburgers to the converted and HMV had started increasing the size of its CD selection so it was larger than the Vinyl and Cassette sections combined.

It was a strange time of innocence – we were all pretty streetwise and lived hand to mouth, hand me down to hand me down, borrow to borrow. We had no real expectation at that point, just sitting on the cusp of adulthood in our early twenties, without ties or plans. Just bumping along from gig to gig, City game to City game.

Bits of roadworks littered the City Centre, partly in preparation for the installation of the Metro and partly because the transport network rumbled along from one bit of chaos to another. The Arndale Bus Station and Piccadilly Bus Station took what seemed like weeks to travel between and that was without contending with the Chorlton St National Express Coach station which offered the possibility of trips to the exotic and far flung destinations on non orange buses like Birmingham.

In May 1990, Stone Roses had played a gig on Spike Island, a hitherto unknown wasteland and in the months that followed everyone seemed to pretend they were there. Those of us that actually were there can probably recall the gig was beset with the same kind of sound problems which had plagued the band for years throughout gigs at the International and Ritz. A combination of poor sound levels, and Ian Brown’s ongoing struggle to hold a tune even loosely.

It was on throughout the Summer of 1990. The music scene had by now moved at some pace and it was as though almost any Manchester based band could attract some national interest with little trying. James and the Happy Mondays spent some days playing at GMex in the Summer and even Inspiral Carpets had a GMex gig coming up.

Bands we had spent years following at International, the Boardwalk and UMIST had started to regularly play the Ritz and looked towards GMex as the pinnacle of ambition. Surprisingly James had somehow secured a supporting slot for David Bowie at Maine Road on 7 August and in the Summer of 1990 were riding the crest of a wave driven by the radio play of their new releases.

There was a frisson of excitement building in the whole City. A confidence which began to seep. Like the air in the minutes before an electrical storm, no one knew what was to come. It was like the stars were aligning…music, beer, football.

Manchester City had achieved a solid season in the First Division under the steady guidance of Howard Kendall. The squad was full of players with a mixture of youth and experience and there had been a steady build up of excitement as it became clear that First Division status had been secured.

There was a genuine belief amongst the City fans that something worth watching was building. We had some exciting young players in our squad and all felt there was a chance we could push on further in the season to come. The Summer of 1990 and it didn’t seem possible Howard Kendall would be gone on 7 Nov 1990 returning to Everton with a comment of “it was like returning home after an affair.” Still we got Peter Reid and season 1990/91 was the highlight of my time as a city fan until Aguerooooo. Thats a different story. Anyway we managed to finish 5th in 1990/91 and still didn’t manage to cheer up Peter Reid.

In May 1990 I had moved further away from Maine Road, finally leaving Thornton Road and a house overlooking the looming stands of Manchester City. Although I missed the ginnels and car parks and leaving Maine Road was hard I was excited to start a new chapter.

It was a longer walk to Maine Road but still easily doable with the added advantage of a possible detour in Rusholme to get a kebab from Abduls. And maybe even a pint in the Whitworth.

Summer 1990 was warm and wet – typical Manchester weather. There was a heatwave to come in early August but we didn’t know that then. Instead it was the daily drudge of not knowing whether to take a jacket with you or whether desert boots were risky.

I’d started a regular job for the first time in years in the Civil Service and so we had some disposable income rather than living hand to mouth and Friday night to Friday night. The new found money supported the move to the new flat, and allowed a greater investment in a range of summer gigs. it also allowed me to purchase an Akai CD player, routed through the aux socket on my old AIWA HiFi system. CDs were my new thing and by this summer my collection had started to grow, albeit funded by the poor decision to sell my vinyl collection. Of all the regrets I have in my life this is my biggest.

More from Man City Square

The World Cup loomed large on the horizon and in what now seems like a quiz question, Manchester City only had one player at the tournament. Niall Quinn, who would of course be fondly remembered as well as being a striker was also registered as Ireland’s third choice keeper for the competition.

In June 1990 England kicked off their Group F campaign at Italia 90 with a boring draw against Ireland. Two days before I had been watching Red Hot Chilli Peppers at the Apollo. The gig and the match are both entwined in my memory – inseparably linked. Neither was very good. On the plus side the ticket for the Chilli Peppers only cost £6.50.

Supporting Manchester City had left me with a pretty distant relationship with England. We didn’t have too many international players of any kind at that time. So I wasn’t parochial about England and players. These were innocent times before the dominance of United and so I had no reason to hate most of the team in 1990. I mean it would take a heart of stone to turn against Steve Bull, Paul Gascoigne and Gary Lineker.

In the years to come I would find watching England a joyless task peppered by my hatred of the players of certain teams. Perversely as City have become so successful it is beyond my wildest dream, it is my enjoyment of watching England that has continued to elude me.

My recollection of the press coverage in the tabloids of the early part of the World Cup campaign was it was wholly negative, almost venomous in its assertion the wrong players were being played. Steve Bull should start. David Platt shouldn’t be in the side. Bobby Robson did not have a clue. Its almost refreshing to see in the 28 years since that similar tactics are still being employed against Raheem Sterling.

On 15 June I went to see the fantastic minimalist Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine at the International 1 on Anson Road. Within minutes of walking from my flat. Only £4 a ticket according to my ticket stub. The optimism I felt from a buzzing gig was quickly deflated by the England team drawing again the following day. This time against the Netherlands.

Watching England in these group games was no great ethereal experience. It was grinding boredom, tactical checkmate where little was ventured. This changed with the win against Egypt on 21 June but it didn’t really excite the nation. It was still drizzly.

The Belgium game on 26 June was where things started to feel different. Drinking cans of lager with my friends around my flat, that moment when David Platt scored that wonderful goal. It seemed as though time stood still and personally there are echoes of that goal in 93:20 for me too. The noise. the celebration. The silence.

The weekend of 30 June was shaping up to be a cracker. We all had tickets to see the Man from Delmonte at International 2 on that Saturday evening and because it was such a short walk, everyone had elected to stay over in my flat. A usual occupancy rate of 2 was being massively inflated by the arrival of 20 waifs and strays over the weekend. For the gig, the match and the regiment.

Anyway with England playing Cameroon in the Quarter Final on a Sunday we could all have a leisurely day waiting for kick off. My recollection is not great, but I suspect alcohol reinforcements were sent for. There was an attempt to cook a Sunday dinner but this never amounted to much given there were insufficient plates and food. Drinking took over. Potatoes were roasted and left roasting whilst the game kicked off.

At the end of extra time on 1 July, England had somehow won and beaten the exciting African side with their sensational goal celebrations and brightly coloured kit. We had roast potato sandwiches.

The sun came out in the intervening days making the prospect of maintaining full days in work quite hard when there were better places to be. Beer gardens of Manchester rejoiced.

A World Cup Semi Final loomed. It was difficult to comprehend, exciting and exotic. I had booked my first ever package holiday to Greece for later in August so these were heady days of possibilities, anticipation ahead. I can’t remember ever thinking through the possibility of actually winning the World Cup though. We dreamed though, we dreamed. In the summer of 1990 between the quarter final and semi final there was a growing sense of the possible. Reflections were made with 1966. Parties were planned. The sun stayed out.

On 4 July England took on West Germany. The wall had come down but Germany was not yet united and the football team retained its own specific national identity. The 4:3 loss on penalties was a crushing disappointment for all of us watching. We slinked off home afterwards in a drunken haze and climbed into bed.

Whilst the Summer of 1990 continued to deliver on the gig front – tickets were already sorted for Aztec Camera at the Apollo on 10 July and David Bowie on 7 August at Maine Road – the England result has put a fairly sensational full stop on that exciting journey. The third placed play off was like the match in Escape to Victory with all the players seemingly being held hostage by Fifa.

August turned into a heatwave, roads were melted, prisoners rioted and work drifted. The new football season started and there was hope Howard Kendall could build on the strong finish, but there were no real new signings other than someone from Bolton (probably).

The Summer of 1990 marked that turning point for me, where a strange coalescence of youth, local popular culture and football all combined as innocence and hope dwindled and expectation shrank just a little. It was the very point for me where the lines between youth and adulthood were drawn.

And now in 2020 and a lifetime later. I still have some of those same songs in my head but its a different face in the mirror. Can football transport me back? To those innocent times? Come on Raheem.

Part of me hopes to be back just for a moment in a small flat in Victoria Park, standing with friends long forgotten, sharing warm beer and singing songs of victory.