The comedian Jackie Mason tells the story of the rueful middle-aged man driving through the neighbourhood where he can no longer afford to buy, saying wistfully: "I could have had that house …"

As I watch Manchester United and Chelsea locking horns at the top of the Premiership, that's pretty much the way I feel. Because it could all have been so different.

As a young kid recently moved to Manchester from the south, my mum offered me United on a plate. In my first live game, George Best not only played, but scored (even though Blackpool – yes, Blackpool! – secured a 1-1 draw). Two years later, recovering from an op in hospital, I switched allegiance as Peter Osgood, David Webb and the rest brought the FA Cup to Stamford Bridge. And though my dad never tried to force the issue, he had Liverpool up his sleeve to tempt me as well.

But I was still restless. Perhaps it was all too easy, too good to be true. Then one day, I asked my mum the fateful question: "Which is the nearest team to where I was born?" And that's how I ended up with QPR.

Actually, it all began so promisingly. Only a few seasons after I cried on the sofa when Rodney Marsh left for Manchester City, there we were, Dave Sexton's blue-and-white army, matching Liverpool stride for stride in the race to the league title.

It was at about that time that my parents bought me a blue tracksuit for my short-lived career as a youth-club footballer, and I lovingly cut out the letters 'Q P R' from felt and stuck them on the back. Our manager, a bluff Northerner, accused me of forming this allegiance only because at the time QPR were doing so well. If only he could see me now, still as devoted, with so much less to brag about.

Anyway, back to 1976 and the fateful finale to the season. QPR a point ahead, games over, with Liverpool due to play at Wolves fully 10 days later, when their European exertions allowed. A draw will be enough for them to take the crown on goal average, as it was then, while Wolves need a win to avoid relegation.

Long before the days of the Internet or Sky Sports, this was the era of Radio 2 Soccer Special, with live commentary on the second half from Molineux. Over to our commentary team for a half-time report – and it's Wolves, incredibly, holding a 1-0 lead.

I can't bear the prospect of listening for 45 minutes as Wolves attempt to protect their slender lead against the inevitable onslaught from Kevin Keegan, John Toshack and Terry McDermott. I escape to the garden to play catch with my sister as my dad, the Liverpool fan, sits in his armchair in a darkened room, radio on, praying for exactly what I am dreading.

And of course, what I'm dreading is what happens, even though Wolves get within 14 minutes until finally cracking as Liverpool ease to a 3-1 win and yet another title.

And QPR? Well, in many ways that's about as good as it got. There have been some memorable times – the run to the FA Cup Final in '82 that I enjoyed at first hand as a student living in Shepherd's Bush, a few years as a decent Premiership club, the reawakening under Ian Holloway, plus the occasional miracle match (4-0 down at half time at home to Newcastle, 5-5 at the end, and even a 4-1 win at Old Trafford). But for every success, there have been numerous disappointments.

So should I have seized my opportunity when it came my way? As United and Chelsea fans bask in the warm glow of high achievement I, despite everything, have no regrets about my more humble choice. As Jackie Mason's middle-aged man might have said as he returned to his abode far away from Millionaires' Row:  "It's not much, but it's home".