That amazing Manchester derby brought back fond memories of my days over the “wrong side” of the Pennines.

I got my first job there on a weekly paper in the late 1980s and would regularly get dragged along to Maine Road by some mates.

Four of us would go to most home games, although only two were ardent fans.

One particular Saturday, the two non-followers of our group went to watch Man City play Huddersfield.

One of the other lads couldn’t change his shift at B&Q. Big Andy had “better” things to do than waste his time and money watching a game “that’s gonna be boring anyway.”

So the two non-City fans toddled off to watch City win 10-1 with three hat-tricks. It was one of the most amazing results in the club’s history.

For someone whose team had just smashed double figures, Andy didn’t look too chuffed when we met up in the pub that night.

And surprisingly he didn’t want to know anything about the game at all, threatening violence with the merest mention of what he had missed.

Only a Man City fan would be like that. Even in their moments of glory, something would always go wrong.

That’s why nobody should view the Old Trafford demolition as concrete proof of the changing of the Premier League guard. Their delirious supporters will know that better than anyone.

I lost touch with the big fella a few years back. Last time I heard, he had relocated to America and married a farmer’s daughter in Wisconsin.

So I just hope he caught the game on the TV somewhere. Pity those unsuspecting neighbours if he didn’t.