Welcome to Mad City

WITH apologies to the so-called Madchester rock scene of the late eighties, when the likes of the Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays first stalked the land, it’s surely past time that the name Mad City entered the football lexicon.

And while it might still be a bit of jump from Shaun Ryder to Shaun Wright-Philips, the Eastlands crowd seem to be doing their best to bridge the gap, even without the help of lashings of mind-altering substances. There’s ecstasy there, sure, but agony is never too far behind.

With an apparently never-ending pipeline of oil money now flowing into the club, Manchester City increasingly resemble the lottery winner who discovers that overnight riches do not bring peace of mind. We are all familiar with the tabloid fable of the lucky family whose numbers finally come up but, sent spinning entirely out of control by their new world disorder, proceed to go from rags to riches and back to rags again in double-quick time.