The New Shirt

The between season Summer months are a funny old time. The wilderness months. For me the first few post-football weekends were surprisingly pleasant this year, after the drudge of those last matches when there was nothing to play for it was almost a relief to be able to focus my time around stuff other than City and maybe actually get a bit done around the house and garden. But that now seems a very long time ago. As the weeks have rolled by the sense of yearning has returned as it always does - quite mild at first but then growing and growing with each passing second until suddenly mowing the lawn doesn't seem like such a fantastic treat. The sound of forty thousand voices roaring in unison as Yaya Touré thunders towards goal breaking tackle after tackle as he strides away - you just don't get that in your back garden.

So it's got to the stage where I'm counting down the days - thirty five to go - and the exciting new chapter in the (occasionally) gleaming history of Manchester City is near dominating my every thought. Long overdue DIY was actually being attempted four weeks ago but now that's been ditched in favour of feverishly trawling the internet for the latest tour reports and transfer rumours.

And don't those rumours come thick and fast. Every day a different player is mentioned, a different hope arises only to be dashed and instantly forgotten as the next batch of unfounded gossip rolls in. Isco, Cavani, Lewandowski, Soldado, Cardoza, Bruma, Suarez, Negredo, Jovetic, Pepe, Di Maria, Ronaldo - hang on, RONALDO?? Do me a favour he would never play for City and I wouldn't want the winker any way (although I suppose I secretly would - come on Cristiano we've got LOADS AND LOADS of lovely money!).

So in the midst of these wilderness months, the thirty five days to go torture time, comes the first tangible sign that the new season is getting nearer: the new shirt. This year it is an especially new shirt as there is a tick where the diamonds used to be. And mine arrived this morning.

The package slipped through my letterbox so silently it didn't even alert my postie-hating dogs Dexter and Missy. Neither hound moved from their bone-emblazoned beanbags as the package floated like a feather on to the doormat. I knew what it had to be and instantly scooped it up - it felt as light as a feather too. Could this weightless plastic bag really contain my weekend uniform for the next eight months?

I tore into the plastic like a giddy child when the music stops on pass the parcel and quickly revealed a square inch of blue material. Sky blue. Moon blue. That first glimpse of cotton fibre was the nearest thing this junky has had to a fix in a long while. It's a sure sign that the ball has started rolling again and in its path lie the highs and lows of what absolutely has to be a seminal season in the history of the Premiere League. A slight chill ghosted through me.

The rest of the plastic was rapidly removed and tossed in the direction of my still comatose dogs and then, in a blue flash, the colours were upon me. First thing I noticed was the subtle change Nike have made to the way the shirt fits - it is noticeably tighter around the belly area than last years strip. Dismissing this minor design error I cross my arms and pose for my teamsheet photo in the mirror. In my mind I saw the image on the big screen at The Etihad and I hear the announcer's voice - "And making his home debut tonight please give a big Manchester welcome to Maaaaaaaaark Winthrope!" The crowd roar significantly louder than they did for Aguero's name and then -
"Is that it?"
My long suffering girlfriend Hannah has entered the room (just as I was doing the Balotelli "Hulk" pose).
"That was sixty quid?"

And thus commenced another important pre-season tradition: the new shirt cost justification argument.
"Yes it was sixty quid. Money well spent."
"But it's exactly the same as last years."
"Not exactly."
"Minus the curry stains and fag burns its exactly the same shirt. Sixty quid for a t-shirt you already own Mark."
"Right - first of all it's not technically a t-shirt and -"
Then I remember the ace up my sleeve.
"How much was that handbag again?"
BOOM! I slam the handbag card on to the table and suddenly all bets are off. It's called a Blueberry or Huckleberry or something, cost more than my season ticket including half time pies and looks (to me) pretty much like any other handbag. After that Hannah changed her tack.
"Well actually now I look at it I suppose the neck is a bit different than before and ooh look the badge is in colour again and - does that say - why does it say 'Jesus' on the back?"
I started to explain about Navas and my hilarious idea to put just his first name on my shirt (bet I'm the only wag to have come up with THAT one! His CHRISTIAN name ha ha just thought of that I'm unstoppable!) but Hannah is a seasoned pro at switching off when I start rambling about City and quietly retires to get ready for work.

So there I was - stood in the kitchen glowing from my fantastic handbag victory and resplendent in the new colours. I decided they should be given a road test. The Poznan was calling.

[At this point I would like to point out that I am not a Poznan nuisance. I think like most blues I embraced it at first (check out the film I made at the time VIDEO) but then started to grow increasingly weary as the seasons rolled by. I am, however, still more than happy to break it out on those special occasions. There are still some fans who want to turn their backs and jump every time Silva completes a pass but I prefer to save it for the more important goals or, of course, when they announce our opponents team at Wembley.]

So I had an uncontrollable urge to do the Poznan in my new shirt with the tick, but unlike other uncontrollable urges this could not be performed alone. I already knew that long-suffering Hannah was not an option - a lifelong Forest fan, I have managed to drag her along to the last two Charity Shield matches during which she was reluctantly forced to go through the Poznan routine (although her feet never left the ground - I checked) and has since assured me it will never be happening again. And definitely not on a Tuesday morning in our kitchen.

That just left the dogs. Dexter is a staffy and Missy a staffy-husky cross and despite the somewhat dodgy reputation that breed has acquired they are two of the most friendly and loveable hounds you could ever hope to meet. If a little mad. At that moment in time they seemed to me the perfect Poznan partners - Missy even has one sky blue eye to match the new shirt.

Thirty five days to go. Pumped full of new season adrenaline that had been lacking during the wilderness months I threw one arm around each dogs hairy shoulders and expertly yanked them from their beanbags, spinning the three of us one-eighty degrees in the process.
"LET'S ALL DO THE POZNAN!"

Instantly I realised that this was a huge mistake. I said that Dex and Miss were friendly but they are still, at the end of the day, dogs. Sudden shouting and jumping around, when seconds previously they were chilling on a bag of beans, was bound to over-excite the poor hounds and before I could even get to the "CITY! CITY!" bit (put your paws in the air!) they had gone for each other big time. In their confusion these two normally best of friends suddenly flipped into attack mode and I was in the middle. In a whirlwind of claws and teeth the three of us spiralled across the kitchen floor, taking out the bin and two chairs in the process before crashing against the fridge in a hairy heap. For the hounds this brief moment of mayhem was instantly forgotten and when my vision returned to normal it appeared they were back to their usual selves; scampering round the tiled floor playfully tossing around a - what is that? Some little piece of material? Blue material? Oh.....

Kids remember this - dogs are dumb animals. They do not understand the concept of football let alone an obscure Polish choreographed jumping routine and any attempt to impose this on the poor creatures will ultimately result in extreme violence and a big old hole in the back of your spanking new City shirt. Which will be nothing more than you deserve.

So now it's time to dig out the needle and thread and attempt to repair my "sixty quid t-shirt" which now, after Dexter's artistic alterations, bears the not so funny or masculine name of "Jess" on the back. Thirty five days and counting. The next pre-season present the postie brings will be the big one - a neat little goody box stuffed full of exciting City nick-nacks (pen, postcards, wallet type thing, bracelet, the little thingy that goes in the side of your laptop, cuddly toy) and in the midst of all this the kind of golden (or platinum) ticket that even Willy Wonka couldn't deliver.

Thirty five days until Etihad whipping boys Newcastle, Fernandinho, Navas and who knows who else will be lacing up their boots as I file into the East Stand optimistically hoping to get a post Mary Ds pint before kick off.

In the meantime I have one more thought to keep me warm at night as the wilderness months play themselves out. And that is that somewhere, possibly right this very second, some abject genius is toiling away on what will become the definitive Pelligrini song. And we will not accept simply replacing "Italy" with "Chile" either - work harder abject genius the Citizens are depending on you.