SARAH SEA

Heading north to Mallaig for a couple of days, late birthday treat! Never been up these parts before but it’s all very very pretty. (Taken with instagram)

It’s got to be a photoshop job, right?

Still in shock. Beer o’clock. (Taken with instagram)

I am so, so very nervous this morning.

I’ve been supporting Manchester City Football Club since my childhood in the early 90s. My younger brother chose United, so I picked City. It was as simple as that. Peter Reid was at the helm when I was first initiated, Maurizio Gaudino and Ian Brightwell the players adorning our bedroom walls. Even back then, our club was regarded as something of a basket case (cups for cock-ups, anyone?)

And it never got any better from there. As I entered puberty, I watched my team trip up and slip up at every turn. My first relegation (‘96 against Liverpool on the last day of the season) was a tough rite of passage. I got constant pelters from rag kids at school, and when I went home I got even more from my United-supporting brother, who rubbed their success in my face like 10-year-old boys do. Was this what it meant to be a City fan?

But no, it wasn’t all bullying and heartbreak. To this day, I still cherish my memories of the Nationwide years. The fans’ solidarity, the refusal to lay down and die even when our 11 men on the pitch seemed happy to, the adventure of rainy away days at Macclesfield & Wycombe, the rare delicacy that was Georgi Kinkladze and his ridiculous skills, and - most importantly - the unique Blues sense of humour, were what got us through the dark days. In fact, I shouldn’t really call them “the dark days”. I have a sneaking suspicion that in years to come, I’ll look back on those years as my favourite time of supporting City. That may seem perverse to many, but I suspect there’ll be one or two fellow Blues reading this who know exactly what I mean.

And so, I sit here in my blue-walled living room on this rainy Sunday morning, and I wish I was in Manchester today, I should be in Manchester and I’m mad that I’m not - so instead I sit here alone in my flat, waiting for kick-off and shaking like a leaf, and looking back down the road we’ve travelled to get here. I’m 28 years old now, too young to remember City’s established glory days, but old enough to know better. I’ll be travelling this road for the rest of my life, though, I’m certain of that. “Blue and white they go together, we will carry on forever more.”

Barely a decade ago, we were playing our football in the third tier. Today, only goal difference separates us from our first league title in 44 years. Forty-four years. We are a changed club. No more cups for cock-ups, no more Swindon & York away days, no more relegation dogfights. Today, City fans from infancy to middle-age could be celebrating their first taste of what it’s like to be champions. It actually kinda blows my mind a little bit*. (*a big bit)

In the summer after we were relegated to Nationwide League Division 2 in 1998, my brother put a wager on with me. He dared me to get a tattoo of the City club crest, and I said I’d do it when we won the league. I was joking, of course, because back then, at the tender age of 14, I was already battle-scarred and cynical from supporting Typical City FC, and I didn’t expect that we’d ever win the league within my lifetime. But today, we will ascertain whether or not I’ll be getting inked, and the bookies’ odds suggest I will be. Now there’s a turn-up for the books. I guess all this adrenaline is good for an anaesthetic, if nothing else.

I can’t put into words how much it would mean to me if we won the league today. And if you were in the room with me right now as I type this, you’d know that because you’d see me shaking and jittering and pacing up and down the room. I feel sick to my stomach. Don’t get me wrong, I’m familiar with big-game nerves - Stoke ‘98, Wembley ‘99, Blackburn ‘00, Wembley ‘11(x2) all spring to mind - but I’ve never felt quite as physically sick and anxious as I do today. Here comes the big one.

As I remarked to my boyfriend last night (he’s a Celtic fan so thankfully he doesn’t have to deal with this, having already won the SPL title at a canter), today is Roy Of The Rovers stuff. Hollywood would go crazy for it; the stage is set, and the atmosphere thick with tension. If we beat QPR today, we will have that elusive first league title since 1968. But of course, if this story was written in the stars, the stars would just put United in second place to snap at our heels and test our nerve, wouldn’t they? So, we take it down to the last day of the season and battle it out for the points - United against Sunderland, us against QPR - oh, and did I mention that QPR need a point from this game to stay up? So, if we win, not only will we be champions, but we will relegate another club - a club that I nickname “Manchester City Rejects”, whose manager was ours before he was sensationally dethroned by the man who has gone on to take us to the top. You really couldn’t make all this up.

So, the stage is set, and we wait for the opening credits so we can watch our fantastic team play a decent game of football and do their very best for us, the fans. (yeah yeah, they do it for the money and stuff as well, obviously, but City players traditionally have a good relationship with the fans; they know how much it means to us…)

Today this could be the greatest day of our lives. Superbia In Proelio; Pride In Battle. You were chosen, boys. Play like we dream.

Managed a passable job on my nails, despite having the shakes. If this is destined to be the best day of my life, I’d better look the part, right? (Taken with instagram)

…lol. (Taken with Instagram at Riverside Museum)

Happy Star Wars Day. Strike a pose.

OK, I think I’m done posting Cheryl spam now. It’s not a great tune, but the video is sexy as hell, and obviously EXTREMELY GIFFABLE.

As you were…

madoli:

Push 10

nevver:

The Karma Sutra of Sleeping for Couples

My very favourite eyeshadow, “Bitter” by Mac <3 (Taken with instagram)