Some people support a football club. Andy Dale is an addict.

It began, of all things, with a purple C&A tracksuit — an accidental Christmas present from his grandad that quietly nudged him away from the family's Wolves and straight into the arms of Aston Villa. He never recovered. He's not entirely sure he wants to.

He was officially diagnosed in lockdown — by his long-suffering wife, not a doctor — and the symptoms have only worsened with age.

Addicted Villan is the true, funny and gloriously honest confession of a lifelong claret-and-blue habit: half memoir, half love letter, entirely guilty as charged. It runs from the swagger of the seventies, through every promotion, relegation, false dawn and famous night, all the way to a warm evening in Istanbul in 2026 that he's still not sure he's come to terms with.

It's a book about a football club. It's also a book about time — measured out in fixtures, managers, shirts, and exactly where you were sitting.

You get the lot: the European Cup in Rotterdam, the men in the dugout, the rivals, the heroes gone too young, the deserters, the daft superstitions, and top-ten lists he can rattle off faster than his own phone number. He can summon Nii Lamptey's debut goal against Wigan in a heartbeat — yet hasn't a clue where he left his glasses.

If that sounds familiar, congratulations. You're one too.

Because this isn't really a Villa book. It's a book about the beautiful, ridiculous condition of caring far too much about eleven players in coloured shirts. Every club has its addicts. Andy's just happen to bleed claret and blue.

Warm, sharp and very hard to put down — with no known cure. And Andy's never once looked for one.