It was Chris Garland’s jockstrap wot did it…..

The Incider asked for your contributions and reader Niall Duffy answered our call with this classic – if mildly disturbing - account of his associations with City legend Alan Dicks during our glorious period in the top flight…

Born in Camberwell, South London. Raised in Peckham, Crystal Palace trialist at 14 (they said “too small, son” but I know they meant “not good enough, piss off and come back when you can shoot straight”). Schooled in an institution where if you didn't support Millwall you were regarded as a retard - hardly ripe for becoming a lifelong City fan.

However, God moves in mysterious ways and I was blessed by being born a nephew of the second greatest City manager ever (sorry Alan, Sam Hollis pips you at the post, I'm afraid).

Following Alan Dicks' career as player and manager is a bit of a punishment if you're related to him. Some of my family follow Chelsea, but a strangely sizeable number remain Coventry fans because of his time there with Jimmy Hill in the ‘60s. Bad enough, you'd have thought, but imagine being my cousin Mandy, who has the Great Chinned One as her Godfather! The other half all follow the City and I 'm no exception.

When you're a pre-teen and you get to meet the players, play on the sacred turf and sit near the dugout for home fixtures, believe me, it’s hard not to get sucked in and even if we were crap, I’d probably have succumbed. But, what made it even better was that we weren’t crap – far from it.

When City went back to Division One, I was ten and my sole obsession was football. Normally, such an obsession would have manifested itself in collecting Panini cards, knowing the nicknames of all Isthmian League teams and wondering why England never seemed to go to the World Cup any more. However, having Alan as an uncle meant that I was freak-boy at school who supported a club not just out of London but in a place where people rode horses, drank cider and spoke funny.

I had a connection with professional football that none of the trainee Del Boys possessed and believe me, I could embellish with the best of ‘em. When Alan showed me the new kit for the first season back in Division One, I of course turned that into being asked an opinion, indeed given the casting vote. I was in fact, an integral part of the back-room staff. Ignore the fact that I couldn't have spelled integral, let alone knew what it meant. I was a part of the onward march to Highbury.

In the after-match hubbub, Patrick (Alan's youngest and a year my junior) and I were basically allowed to wander wherever we liked whenever I was in Bristol visiting. It was on one such occasion that I was confronted with the sight that has haunted me ever since. I can't recall the game or the year but 15 minutes after a home fixture, we went into the home dressing room looking for Alan, to be confronted by a dozen (mostly permed) and naked or semi-naked men.

And there he was, resplendent in his a slightly soiled protector, the Adonis that was Chris Garland! Have some sympathy - I was young, I'd never seen one before and it frankly scared me. Is this what grown ups wore? When would I get one? And why hadn’t my dad told me about them? Looking back at it now, what I do know is that it would be impossible for me to ever support (geddit?) anyone else.

Twenty six years on, I've had the therapy, remain comfortable with my sexuality (though I'm sure a wife and three children would prove nothing to Freud) and try to see City as often as I can. My sons both wear their City shirts when they play at the after school club in Worthing (West Sussex, for those of you who don’t have any relatives over 85) and taunt the Brighton fans for having no ground (sound familiar?). Sadly, it’ll take a special Barbie-pink shirt for my daughter to deign to wear anything associated with football (what can you do for me Mr Lansdown?) but I’m working on her.

So, while most of my friends support teams in the Premiership, I remain wedded to City. For better or worse as long as we shall live - and all because of Alan Dicks and Chris Garland.

Mind you, it could have been worse - imagine if Alan had managed the Gas...

* Share your classic City memories, hilarious accounts of away-day antics and be in with a chance of winning a coveted Incider T-shirt. Send your contributions to us at editor@theincider.com. We’ll print the best ones.