As a kid I had no choice who I was going to support. Being born in Bedminster and having a relative (albeit distant) who played in goal for City in the 40's plus having mum and dad as diehard followers meant I was firmly established the moment my arse was slapped by the midwife.

Dad first took me to the gate at the age of 5. Looking resplendent in my red and white bobble hat and scarf (hand-knitted by my Gran) I took my position by the railings at the front of what was then known as the open end. The ground looked a lot different then, there was no Dolman, and no roof at our end. The old "cow-shed" stand was in the space now occupied by the Dolman, the floodlights consisted of several red pillars, which I believe ended up somewhere in Scotland when they were replaced.

Most of the older supporters seemed to be dressed in "Andy Capp" style headgear and all were smoking Woodbine untipped fags. At the back of the open end, perched precariously at the top of the back wall was the old wooden hospital broadcast box.

As the years went by I began to realise what a racket you could make by kicking the tin advertising hoardings through the gaps in the fence, the volume of which intensified as City attacked. I also heard some strange words being shouted that I didn't understand and was warned very firmly not to repeat. The pitch was surrounded by "Ringside " benches all seemingly occupied by bus crews who manned the City special buses. These were parked nose to tail in a row alongside the park. Light blue invalid carriages occupied what is now the corner between The Atyeo and Dolman.

At half time a geezer with a wheelbarrow full of numbers would make his way to the A-Z boards and hang numbers representing the half time scores at other grounds. The letters were interpreted by a chart in the programme. Of course it was essential to buy one of these at 2 or 3 old pence. The other essential piece of kit was a red rosette pinned to your lapel. The other half time experience was when the St John's Ambulance helpers took a weird contraption round the pitch. It was a massive target surrounded by a tray, rectangular in shape. The idea was for the crowd to throw money at the target in a bid to raise funds. The reality was anyone near the front was running the risk of injury as the old style pennies were launched with a fair degree of venom. The fun part was the scramble by groups of kids taking the opportunity to bolster their pocket money by collecting stray coins.

When I was about 10 dad gave me a prized possession - a massive wooden rattle. These things made a great racket when whirled at speed above your head. Again the danger element was present if you were too close to someone armed with one of these. All the time I took my place at the front railings, intrigued by that menacing, cavernous dark structure at the other end of the ground - The Covered End. The chants and roars emanating from within had a magnetic effect upon me. I longed to get in there. Dad always refused, preferring to take his place standing in what would now be H Block Atyeo, besides it was 3 old pence more at the other end.

One day I was stood in my usual position and felt an excruciating pain in my foot - Ray Savino had whizzed a ferocious shot wide of the goal and straight onto my foot that was poking through the railings.

At full time in any game it was compulsory for all youngsters to climb the railings and run onto the pitch. I used to love the rush of doing this and decided I would get Big John's autograph. I duly scaled the red railings and ran towards my idol, clutching my autograph book and pen, as I approached him I discovered that I was so in awe that I couldn't speak. Totally tongue-tied I turned away despondent while he trotted off in those brown boots.

Dad sorted this omission for me by sending my book into the club, which all players signed - result.

I witnessed the promotion of 1965/6 seeing Big John crack one in to clinch it in front of a 29,000 crowd.

Now I felt I was ready for the Covered (East) end and made my first visit in a win over Bury with 18,000 in the ground. I was totally hooked. The noise and chanting sent a tingle down my spine. I took up position behind the goal by the railings and looked back at the mass of humanity behind me. This was the place to be, where all the chants started. The next game saw me installed about halfway back amongst the cauldron. It was, of course, essential for everyone to push forward when we scored. I lost count of the times I was immersed in a tangled mass of bodies on the terrace. The steamy, sweaty ambiance was fantastic. An electrical charge seemed present, particularly in the big games; you could sense the tension when the opposition was in control on the pitch and witness the explosion of unbounded joy when we scored. All emotions seemed amplified with total focus and passion, this was how football should be.

Of course I was mixing with the big boys now and soon witnessed my first sight of a fight. City were playing Rovers and a few of the misguided blue fools had made their way to the corner of the East End. They started singing to the tune of "Barbara Ann" "Bob, Bob, Bob, Bobby Jones" and were immediately set upon and appeared to be swallowed by the crowd.

One of the endearing memories is of Mike Gibson coming towards his goal before kick off with the crowd singing "Gibbo" ad infinitum. He would put his gloves and cap in the corner of the goal and the crowd would count down until he jumped up and twanged the crossbar. This was a ritual performed every game.

Of course I was hungry for more and discovered the debatable delights of away travel. In order to finance this I used to "borrow" leaf mould from Blaise Castle Estate and flog it round the houses in Coombe Dingle.

A shock awaited me when, green as grass, I was deprived of my scarf and given a mild kicking at Leeds, chased by 50 at Birmingham and knocked about at Cardiff. A far cry from the security of fortress Ashton and a call to get street-wise if I was going to continue to travel to away games.

At the age of 15 new phenomena occurred - the birth of the skinhead. Gone was my bobble hat and rosette to be replaced by Levis, red braces and Doctor Martens. Oh yes I thought I was Billy Big Bollocks with my hair chopped to 16th of an inch all over and a neat razored in parting. I proudly threaded my scarf through my belt loop and was ready for action.

The focus of the pre match turned to whoever was trying to take our end. Repelling invaders was a regular occurrence as was invading an away end ourselves. There was no segregation in those days and you would enter the end to discover that the away fans had turned up early to stake their claim on our territory. Of course we weren't having that and proceeded to push and shove them away from our home. Chants of "Oooo altogether" would emanate from the

seething mass as we propelled ourselves into the motley mob of infiltrators and usually ran them to the corners. Police would appear and start ejecting fans from both sides, helmets would become airborne and anti-police chants would start. Now before anyone tags me with the hooligan label this was 500 per side stuff. If you didn't protect your end you were perceived as a softy. This was real rites of passage stuff. When ejected most found they're way back in and the process started all over again. No serious nickings or banning orders in those days, no CCTV or stewards either. In short it was open season on all interlopers.

One particular trip to Swindon saw the City fans proudly stood on the home terrace, hands aloft singing "We got the Town End in our hands" and there was bugger all they could do about it. This gave you a feeling of power, of invincibility. We came, we saw, we took the piss. There are many episodes of this nature that I could relate, however the purpose of this piece is to elaborate the scene and it's atmospheres. One is left to wonder how it took so long for some genius to come up with the idea of crowd segregation.

The saddest thing to me is that the most successful taking of our end came from our own club's policy in the 90's when it was handed to away fans without so much as a whimper. How it enraged me to see all sorts of "foreigners" such as Cardiff or, even worse, Rovers lording it in OUR END when only a few years before they wouldn't even have had a sniff. Scumbags.

The sheer volume of noise from even the smallest away following dwarfed our derisory efforts from the rest of the ground. How could our club not see the bleeding obvious of how much of a morgue our ground had become?

Thankfully the efforts of the few committed supporters have given some of us access to the hallowed ground, albeit restricted as hell and until we move to a new stadium.

Some may refer to us as dinosaurs and totally living in the past but there are those of us who can remember the vibrant atmosphere and excitement will treasure those memories because that is what football is all about.