On this day, May 13, 2012: Manchester City pip United to Premier League title and heap despair on fans of the Red Devils

At the start of April 2012, I noticed that Montpellier were leading Ligue 1 in France, ahead of big-spending PSG despite having the 13th highest budget in the league. Montpellier had never won the title and a look at the calendar showed they would play champions Lille, with Eden Hazard, on May 13. I booked a few days in France’s eighth biggest city to witness the event. At the time, Manchester United were eight points clear in the Premier League and the title would likely be won either against Everton, Manchester City or Swansea. I’d be at all three. That was my wildly incorrect assumption which saw me rule out a trip to Sunderland on the final game of the season for what I assumed would be a dead rubber. It would be far better to be in Montpellier. What happened next was that United started dropping points. A 1-0 defeat to Wigan on April 11, a 4-4 draw at home to a buzzing Everton team. United’s failure to beat Everton didn’t just cost United, it gave rivals hope. They thought United had gone and they were right. Crucially, a 1-0 defeat at City in a critical Manchester derby followed. And with that, I felt the league was lost, but I’d made my plans and had to stick to them. The train pulled into Montpellier at 1pm on Sunday afternoon. I’d Googled an Irish bar which would be showing United’s game, which I’d watch in hope but little expectation of winning the league. There were four other people inside the city’s old town when the games kicked off. City were on one screen in English at home to QPR, United away in Sunderland in French on another. I watched United but kept swivelling around. Always the optimist, my hopes started to rise almost from the first minute as City didn’t score when they needed to. Wayne Rooney’s goal brought relief, but that was secondary to what was happening at the Etihad. When City went ahead, what sliver of hope I had was crushed. A West African lad came and sat next to me with his girlfriend. His ‘oohs and aahs’ told me he was United. I liked him. A Turkish man with slicked back hair in a United shirt came in while expats and students started to fill the place. They hadn’t gone there to watch football, but they slowly found themselves transfixed by events on the two screens in the corner. And then it happened. QPR equalised. Djibril Cisse, 48 minutes. I celebrated that more than any Manchester United goal all season. Sad, eh? Joey Barton then ruined it by getting sent off. The Liverpudlian former City player was influencing the outcome of the Premier League. Or was he? No. QPR scored again. Jamie Mackie, 66 minutes. I started to dream the impossible. Which United fan didn’t? I danced alone in a room I’d never been in before, a pathetic spectacle. Other customers looked at me as if I was a mad man as I shouted: “Come on United! Come on!” Crying City fans came on television and I laughed out loud. This was so City, to come so close and yet fail. They even had a book called Cups for Cock-ups . City were about to fail and lose the league to United, when they all thought they had won it. This was going to hilarious and triumphant. The room continued to fill. A group of students who were United came in – they were loving it and danced around too. I was more than happy for them. I prayed for Manchester City not to score. I’m a hypocrite who only prays in the darkest hour – and not for mere outcomes of football games. And now I was praying out loud for City not to score a goal. Praying for the clock to speed up. Not watching Manchester United in front of my eyes, but twisting awkwardly until my back hurt to see City in the other corner without ever wanting to watch City over United. Seconds lasted for minutes. “If we get to 75 minutes we’ll be alright,” I say to nobody in particular. “80 and we’ll be fine.” It was back to the screen and hoping that QPR would somehow keep possession. “85 minutes and the title is ours,” I thought, never for one minute thinking that Sunderland would score against United. That game was over and done, even when it wasn’t. I didn’t really start to believe until 85 minutes. Properly believe that Manchester United were going to win the league. That’s when I made the mistake of relaxing and enjoying it. “You from Manchester?” asked another United fan before embracing me. United were going to win the league and my only regret – a big one too – was that I wasn’t there to see it. I didn’t expect a final twist, let alone four twists at games I’d been at. And then it happened. City scored. Didn’t see it. Don’t know who scored it. Still don’t. The next few minutes were a haze. I remember the Irish landlord smiling at me sympathetically. They scored again. Sergio Aguero wasn’t it? The places erupted, neutrals as opposed to City astonished by what they were seeing. They were happy for City. Head in bits, I rolled my newspaper up, slipped through the crowd and out of the door into the bright sunlight and a near deserted old town. My head was, in Mancunian parlance, battered. I felt like I’d just had the high point and low point of the year crushed into half an hour – but I was in Montpellier to do a job. I walked and walked. Past churches and ancient squares full of beautiful European students listening to the lulling of live music. I was annoyed with myself for letting it get to me like this. I was 38, not eight. I was a sensible father and a husband. I could count on my hand the number of times I’d genuinely been floored when Manchester United lost a game: West Ham in 1992 and Anfield a few days later, Barca 4 United 0 and Rome in 2009. Other games may have been more obviously sickened to some, but that’s how I felt. My Blue brother-in-law texted the results. He was inside the Etihad. As if I wouldn’t know. More text messages (remember them?) arrived from Reds in Sunderland. Their mood reflected mine. An hour later I was outside Montpellier’s ground, where the party atmosphere was at odds with my foul mood. Raffish kids from the nearby estates hounded ticket touts, men sipped from bottles and chanted Montpellier songs. It would be the first full house at the 32,000 capacity stadium since France ’98. I had to speak to strangers, to get quotes for a story. When they found out I was from Manchester they all said: “We just watched the games!” Reminders in every conversation. Montpellier won the title. Football, eh? It’s why we love it, but on days like that Sunday, it’s why we hate it too. And now, eight years on from that afternoon, it’s why we miss it.

On this day, May 13, 2012: Manchester City pip United to Premier League title and heap despair on fans of the Red Devils

Andy Mitten looks back on a personal journey and a painful day for him and the red half of Manchester