In 1984, the home of Manchester United, Old Trafford, had a run-down faded glamour and needed more than a lick of paint. Some things never change. It's surroundings as grim a northern landscape you were likely to find. Alongside the nearby River Irwell, for as far as the eye could see, amidst overgrown weeds lay wrecked cars, baby trolleys and a million dumped footballs floating out of reach. On the mud-splattered, murky banks sat the ancient, decrepit old mills, the boarded up warehouses, if not always empty, inhabited by tramps, drug addicts, winos and ghosts of an industrial past. Like all cities in the north, a bleak winter had come and Manchester lay wasting in decline and crippled with huge unemployment. A Tory wet dream. Left to rot. It's youth stricken with lack of opportunities, dark skies, no future it was claimed, though they continued to dance, write, sing and dream. Happy in the haze of Morrissey's drunken hour, bleeding not beaten. They had the Hacienda and their football team though even that existed on past glories. The Busby babes. Best, Law and Charlton. The 1968 European Cup final. Manchester was a city on the verge of needing a life support machine, but it would in time survive and prosper. A testament to its people and their spirit to never give in. So, bring on FC Barcelona Maradona and all It was an occasion that even today possesses the power to send chills down the backs of any Manchester United fans who were lucky/blessed enough to be there on those Old Trafford terraces. As Nena reigned at number one with 99 red balloons, this is the story of Barca 84. A Mancunian Testament.
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