August 1988 was a bit of bastard by all accounts.  Taylor Dayne wanted you to tell it to her heart, Michael Jackson was with Dirty Diana and the Communards never could say goodbye.  Sadly, Neil McDonald, Paul Goddard, Paul Gascoigne and my father could.

I mean at the time I didn’t really know that.  I knew Goddard had found Derby County (and Arthur Cox) and I knew that Paul Gascoigne had found Spurs (and Chris Waddle).  Of course I knew that Neil McDonald had found Everton; we were playing them first game of the season, but I had no idea that Dad had found this Rachel woman.

It was a strange time, the 88 / 89 season.  Liverpool had Sesame Street’s Bert & Ernie up front, Brian Clough was punching pitch-invaders at the City Ground and if you didn’t drink milk you’d only be good enough to play for Accrington Stanley.

There’s things in life that you learn as you grow up; things that you discover as you become an adult that sometimes come as a shock to the once all-believing, all-innocent child.  For example, the Toothfairy doesn’t exist, neither, sadly, does Santa Claus.  Your favourite players kiss the badge and the shirt one week and then sign for another club the next.  Your favourite Dad, your only Dad, can suddenly pack his bags and up and leave and Berlinda Carlisle isn’t actually from Carlisle even though Hebburn is indeed a place on earth.

And of course, you can spend millions on new players and somehow, somehow, you’re still shit.

For reasons I can only attribute to childhood innocence I genuinely thought we’d do all right that season, 88 / 89.  We got relegated.  And even after all these years I never cease to amaze myself how wrong I can get my predictions.  From that first occasion in August 1988 when I confidently predicted a top 5 finish I have gone on to systematically prove that I really do know fuck all about football.