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The Overseas fan - Scott Sheldon of Newark, NY

Quite a few things in life have contributed to me being a fucked-up individual.

Firstly I'm an annoying loudmouthed Yank who doesn't deserve the subtle pleasures of Football, or should I say 'Soccer'?

I also come from a Villa-supporting family, and when my parents moved from Brum to New York State shortly before I was born, save for occasional trips back to England to go to Villa Park, I wasn't perhaps given the best start in life, culturally speaking.

Another weird thing was having two uncles in Solihull who were only five and seven years older than me. But, crucially, who supported the Sky Blues!!!

So it's May 5th, 2001, and City are winning – inexplicably my father and older brother failed to instill any kind of Villa loyalty in me, while uncle Stu, thousands of miles across the pond, has got me hooked on the Sky Blues.

Oh, and we're winning 2-0, shitting on the Villa and staying up. Hadji's scored twice, we're playing brilliantly by all accounts, and for once I've actually got a decent internet commentary feed!

Except that I have to head off for work now.

It's about 10:35 AM, I'm a 21-year-old law student in Massachusetts, and working in a kitchen to pay my way. Chopping potatoes during the most important game in history. Fuck, how will I react if we don't stay up? What if I can't find out the result? I'm a bag of nerves – what if I lose a finger or something?

I arrive at the bar (where I work) at what I guess must be half-time. What's the score? What's the fucking score? Trouble is, no-one here gives a fuck. What is it with you Americans? Cov could go down, for fucks sake!

Why didn't I call in sick today? It's only one Saturdays worth of low-paid work, dammit. I never think things through, do I?

And what do I say if someone asks me why I'm trembling and distracted? They wouldn't understand. Maybe it's better that I don't know the result – it wouldn't do to be crying into a plate of Nachos intended for someone else, would it?

Thing is, I now have no idea what the score is – we needed a win, and we were two-up when I set out. There is no footie on the radio over here, and there's no web access in the bar, and no-one to talk to.

I mentally mark off moments in the game in my head. Mid-way through the second half. Hmm.. wonder if Hadji got the hat-trick? How's our new Lord and Saviour John Hartson doing? Have they brought anyone on to be a hero?

But I don't know the answers.

Finally I realize that full-time must have come and gone, and our destiny is sealed. Whatever has happened has happened, so why should I get stressed about it?

I take out some guys order, and notice these two people I vaguely know – friends of my brother – are in there. Footie fans, Arsenal I believe. Shit, they'll know the score. Got to ask them, gottoaskthemnow…

I almost spill pasta in the ‘some guy's lap, and then I rush over. ‘Guys. The Score.’ I blurt out, hurriedly, incoherently.

They look at me quizzically.

‘Did we win? What was the score? Please.’ I ask again. There is pleading in my eyes. Someone, just put me out of my misery.

'Yeah, you won', the guy who I think is called Paul or Pete or something says, '3-2, last minute-winner sounded like a cracker of a game.'

Yessssssss!!!!! I knew it!!!!

!

Funny how surreal thoughts fill your mind. I never knew he was Scottish until now.

Technically I’m not allowed a break for another 40 minutes, but fuck it. I go and phone my Uncle Stu, who I know was at the game.

International calls, be damned, City are staying up. I’m damn well going to find out what it was like. Hey, maybe he’s still at the ground, and I can take in the atmosphere.

With overwhelming Joy. I begin to sing ‘Three Lions’ as soon as he answers. Badly.

‘We’re staying up, we’re staying up, we’re staying. City’s staying up! Sky Blue Army!’ etc.

Silence.

‘So how was it, man?’. Or something. God, I can’t remember what I said.

Silence. Then ‘Umm… Scott?’

I say ‘Hooray! What a great result’.

‘Err... We lost, Scott. You do know that we lost, right?’

And doubt begins to creep into my mind, as dark clouds descend over my world.

‘No way, you can’t do that to me, mate, I already found out that we won’.

But I’m in denial, I could already hear in his voice as this was no joke. And then it dawns on me – those guys, those guys out there assumed I was a Villa fan like my bro. Even now, I can see them if I peer around the door, as the world falls apart around me.

I’m now barely conscious of my uncles voice on the other end of the line. ‘We were 2-0 up with half an hour to go, and lost 3-2. Bloody typical. Oh, and Derby won at Old Trafford anyway, so we would’ve been all-but-down even if we had won.’

I struggle through the rest of the day, preparing Bowls of Chilli and Shrimp Sandwiches and Fries for a bunch of people who don't even know, don't even care. Nothing seems to matter any more. Still I hope that when I get back I can check on the Internet and find out we won. ‘Hadji hands City lifeline’ I imagine the headlines reading.

But they don’t.

Maybe I should never have bothered. It would've been so much easier if I'd just listened to my father and supported the Villa from day one.

I quit working at Gary's Bar soon after, then dropped out of law school. I spent a few weeks back in the UK, watching City lose to mediocre division one sides like Preston and West Brom, and wondering why I bother following them.

Uncle Stu died in a motorcycle accident last Summer.

And, like it or not, I'm also going to be City till I die.

The nearly man - Ben Nunn

I'm not going to say that no-one had a worse day than I did. But if anyone did, I'd like to hear it.

The game was a sellout, but there were a few empty seats at V*lla P*rk at 3 PM that day. Why? A signal failure at Queens Park meant that trains from London to Birmingham weren't running for a large part of the afternoon.

Those who got out of the capital early were fine. Anyone leaving London after about 11:30 AM were facing a big struggle to get to Birmingham.

So there I was, sitting on the train at Euston which was supposed to leave at midday. Plenty of time. Except that at 12:30 it still hadn't gone, nor had we been told anything about what was going on. I mean, Christ Alive, this is the most important game in history. Whether we stay up or go down, I've got to be there.

There's a few V*lla fans around too, but I don't give a fuck about them. If they miss out on their opportunity to gloat as we suffer a final indignity then good. But I've been travelling all over the country following the Sky Blues this season, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna miss the most important game of all.

Eventually staff tell us that the train won't be leaving. Great, if only I'd known that 45 minutes ago, I could've started making other plans rather than sitting on the fucker.

So it's Contingency plan: Tube to Marylebone, fucking stupid Chiltern train to Leamington, and then another bastard train to Brum. Cab to Villa Park. Hey, maybe I can get there without missing too much of the first half.

Ironically a similiar situation earlier in the season saw me missing the entire first half of the game against V*lla at Highfield Road, ah, these little anomalies that footie throws up from time to time.

All this time I'm fretting about what's going to happen, and whether our unbroken run in the top-flight is coming to an end, but there's no way I'm going to give up. Not today.

At 3:00 it's kick-off time, and I'm only just arriving at Leamington. Fucking 30 minute wait for a Birmingham train, and I'm going to be very late, but at least I'm in the correct part of the country now. Out comes the trusty radio walkman and in go the headphones.

I hear the familiar voice of Rob Gurney on CWR. Willo makes a determined challenge on Boateng in the first 30 seconds, and it looks like City are up for it. I want to be there, dammit.

It's an interesting wait and train ride, and all I remember about it is hearing Mous Hadji scoring twice, giving us a surely unassailable lead. Get In!!!

The downside is that we also need Derby to lose at Old Trafford against the Champions, but, hey, that's the easy part, right? Unfortunately they've taken a shock lead, but surely that won't last, so it doesn't bother me too much.

About five to four, we arrive at New Street, and I dash to the cab rank. Then something stops me. Why bother? I think. We're winning anyway, you don't want to jinx it, Ben. You don't need to go to V*lla P*rk today. These things happen for a reason, and you're just not meant to see the great escape.

So what do I do instead? I wander abstractly around the construction site that was the Bullring at the time, listening to radio coverage and feeling powerless and slightly ashamed that I'm not there in person. A bunch of V*lla fans got off the train and went straight for the ground, and I feel inadequate, but still sure that I did the right thing. It's fate that I'm not there in person.

As we go into the second half I'm getting worried that I haven't heard about Man Utd's equaliser yet. (And also bizarrely feeling sorry for Barnet who are losing a relegation battle heavily and heading for the Conference).

When Vassell scores for Villa with half-an-hour to go I start to think nasty thoughts that won't go away and the fact that Middlesbrough (who we can mathematically catch) are still losing at Bradford doesn't make things much better.

I give up walking around the streets and go back into the station where all the trains back to London are delayed too, because none have arrived for several hours. Having resigned myself to a completely wasted day, I decide to just head back, when I can.

So I sit on the bleak, subterrainian platform as two goals at the same time destroy our hopes. Firstly we concede Juan Pablo Angel's first goal for V*lla (and I'd been telling people for months that the useless Columbian striker would do just that), and then I hear that the silly-haired Karembeau equalises for Middlesbrough.

We've less than ten minutes remaining, and we need to score to give ourselves any chance of survival in our final game against Bradford. Additionally we really need either another goal against Boro, and two against Derby, which simply isn't going to happen.

The passing of time becomes a blur, but the miracle doesn't happen.

Derby have been shit away from home all season, and Man Utd at Old Trafford are pretty much unbeatable - and the final whistle confirms Derby's unlikely win. It's a conspiracy, I tell you, and won that relegates us.

But it gets worse as the scoreline changes to 3-2 at V*lla P*rk - I'm convinced it's going to be a late winner for us that at least gives us a mathematical glimmer of hope. (We can score 20 against Bradford, easy!)

But it's Paul fucking Merson with a last-gasp screamer, apparently. Great.

At this point it's worth mentioning that - unusually for a match day, and especially unusually for a failed match day, I suppose - I've not had a drop of alcohol all day, and my being is taking the full blow of relegation raw, alone, cold, and afraid.

I always had a vision in my minds eye of what it would be like. We get relegated at Villa Park, and after shedding a few tears, I rise to my feet and sing.

Nearer My God To Thee I sing - just like the string quartet in Titanic. At first it's just my lone voice, then other fans join in the singing in a show of defiance.

But, nah, fate has conspired against me and I'm in the gloomy bowels of New Street Station. Elsewhere the 'We'll be Back' guy is becoming the face of post-Premiership CCFC - no-one ever got to hear my hymn.

I can't remember much of the journey home except that I'm eating chocolate footballs and getting lots of text messages from jubilant V*lla and E*erton fans.

And now it's like I never got closure - at least if I'd been there, the word would've been made flesh. As it is, I'm stuck in limbo, and if I'm honest, it's still not quite sunk in, after more than a year.