Enthused by Firmo's inspired idea of getting his copy of The Abs' Grease
Your Ralph signed by the man himself, Philo was on the blower asking for a member of
the London Clarets to come on air and interview Ralph. Despite my best attempts to palm
this task off on Firmo, my excuse turned out ultimately to be the flimsiest, and so I
phoned producer Philo to make arrangements. When Philo told me that he wanted a seventies
nostalgia fest, I saw a chink of light. Pleading excessive youth, I suggested that St.
Dave of Burnley was Philo's man.
Unfortunately, Dave had already made arrangements to be in Portsmouth on
the Saturday morning. A further plan to have the lead singer of The Abs in the studio for
a live acoustic rendition of Grease Your Ralph was jeopardised by the fact that the
boyo had a ticket for the rugby in Cardiff. A tenacious character though, this Philo. Not
to be denied, he arranged for a three-way link-up with Dave in Portsmouth, Mr Abs in
Cardiff and Ralph in London.
I wangled a place on the guest list. Hence, at 8.45 a.m., I found myself
sat in the entirely agreeable surroundings of the Five Live studio, coffee on tap from a
very becoming 'runner', chatting to Ralph and a journalist from the Independent who
was unaware that he was sitting next to a football legend. "I'm not really into
sport," said the hack, "...except darts. Now that's a sport." Given that
the journo was public school smooth, complete with cords and a receding swept-back quiff,
it occurred to me that this could be the assured irony of the cosmopolitan professional. I
mean, can you imagine Christopher Hitchens in a bar with his Marlboros, G&T and International
Herald Tribune urging Ronnie Baxter on to a double eight?
I was in a good mood and so gave him the benefit of the doubt, concurring
that darts was indeed excellent entertainment, particularly now that the cameras give
almost as much attention to the families as they do to the players. Anyone who's seen Ted
Hankey's mum applauding will know from whom The League of Gentlemen got their idea
for Tubbs.
At 9.30, Ralph was taken into the studio, and a small speaker was set up
outside so that we could listen to proceedings. The link-up worked, and Ralph was the
personification of good humour as Adrian Chiles launched into a well-rehearsed monologue
about comb-overs. Fortunately, Ralph had a few one-liners at his disposal too:
Chiles: "I have to say, Ralph, that you've as much hair today as you
had in the seventies."
Ralph: "Yes, I've kept it well, haven't I? I lost strands 59 and 61
the other week, but apart from that it's okay."
Chiles: "You know how your hair used to flap around behind you in the
wind as you charged down the wing? Did anyone try to stop you by grabbing hold of
it?"
Ralph: Yes, that happened once when I was playing for Spurs at Bayern
Munich."
Chiles: "Ah, so it was a German who tried that one, eh?"
All good-humoured enough. At 10 o'clock, the news interrupted the fun and
I presumed that that was the end of it. However, Philo emerged from the studio and asked
if I wanted to go on air for a couple of minutes. The hack grinned at me and suggested I
should go for it. I'd praised his paper's stance over the legalisation of cannabis, after
which he seemed to quite like me. Thus I found myself in the tiny studio (it actually had
a red 'On Air' light outside it) surrounded by Adrian Chiles, a newsreader, the sports
headline reader and a woman whose job seemed to consist of nothing more than reading out a
list of traffic jams (a congestion correspondent?). I asked Chiles what he was going to
ask me about. "No idea, mate." Then, with obvious mischief-aforethought, he hit
me with an enquiry about Alastair Campbell. I relayed Hego's tale of Ali C's encounter
with Ralph at Crystal Palace and that was my role fulfilled. Nothing too embarrassing, and
a mention for the London Clarets in the bargain.
The only downer was that we then had to sit through an excruciatingly
boring interview with Alex Salmond, ex-leader of the SNP. Politicians always come a
cropper when they ignore politics and try some matey footballing banter, and Salmond was
no exception. His attempted comparison of Ralph's hair with some Rangers bloke who had a
perm was toe-curlingly bad, and we were losing the will to live by the time Chiles finally
managed to cut him off.
This left a mad dash to Waterloo for the 11.08 to Portsmouth. This was
something of a nostalgic return journey for me, as I spent three years at the Polytechnic
here between '87 and '90, during which time I travelled to numerous away games and never
once witnessed a Burnley win. Having got used to the cathartic experience of the slo-mo
Virgin service, I was a tad unnerved by the careering, swaying monster that roared its way
through the South-East. However, reading about the sad death of John Diamond put me in a
philosophical mood about the randomness of bad luck. The train arrived safely on time, and
I found Portsmouth exactly how I remembered it: greasy cafe under the railway bridge, nice
town square with postmodern juxtaposition of imposing Victoriana, eighties smoked glass
and a shuffle of seventies serrated concrete for the purists. Locals looked rough and
pissed-off. No change there, either.
Was good to see so many London Clarets in the pub. In a short space of
time my ticket was purchased from the inestimable Mr Burrows, a good pint of mild was
extracted and a pre-arranged meeting with an old friend was realised. To quote the
preferred lexicon of Hego, there appeared to be saturation levels of positive chi in the
air, whatever that is.
What's the opposite of positive chi? Bad vibes? Whatever, I got my first
whiff of it (literally) when I arrived at Fratton Park needing the Gents. I had been
critical of Grimsby's appalling lack of ablutionary facilities, thinking it a ramshackle
Fourth Division set-up. I wasn't prepared for what awaited us at Portsmouth, which was, if
anything, worse than Grimsby. Eight urinals for 1,000 men is not the porcelain ratio one
expects from a self-proclaimed big city club. Moreover, they were located in a cramped
corner accessible only from a steep concrete staircase, the design of which made it
impossible to organise easy access or departure. Nothing short of a disgrace.
At Portsmouth, you also have to come to terms with the concept of sitting
down in the open air. Now, I can understand the logic of standing in the open air, as at
Fulham, where you have the freedom to wander around and keep the blood circulating.
Sitting down under the shelter of a roof is also a fair enough proposition. But sitting in
the open, in a chilling wind, having paid a full price for the privilege? To add to the
irritation, the stand opposite kept asking whether they could hear "the" Burnley
sing. Trying to raise a song in the open air in a gale is the vocal equivalent of pissing
in the wind. With the guarantee that we wouldn't be able to make ourselves heard, they
taunted us all afternoon with the arrogance of the bully.
Gamely, a couple of small lasses in Burnley kit kicked a ball around the
lush outfield. At the kick-off, they scampered over and sat in front of me and Whitto,
informing us that Payton was nowhere to be seen. With there being no tannoy for the away
fans and the dugouts set back in the main stand, I didn't know the subs, but on the field
the first eleven lined up: NTG, Thomas, Armstrong, Davis, Di Branchio, Cook, Ball, Little,
Weller, Moore, Taylor. Pompey had a three-pronged attack and included former Premiership
brat-packers Lee Sharpe and Lee Mills in their team.
But for a couple of incidents, the first-half was a non-event. After a
couple of minutes, a Portsmouth corner saw Mills with a free near post header that he
should have buried, but he managed only the faintest of glances and a combination of NTG
and Thomas cleared. The game settled into a subdued pattern. The most passionate thing in
Fratton Park was Whitto, once he'd discovered that Firmo had scoffed his pie. Neither team
threatened for some considerable time. Whitto decided he'd had enough and went off for a
replacement pastry, cue for a little piece of Glen Little magic down the left. Twisting
his way through a couple of defenders, Little found some space to look up and cross from
an excellent position, but no Burnley player was in position. I suspect I wasn't the only
one thinking that Payton would have got himself in line for that one.
Some taunting from the Pompey fans to our left drew my attention to the
seating in the main stand. It had been one of those stands with a terrace enclosure
beneath, but seating now adorned the bottom half as well. The very front row was so low
down that you'd probably have needed a periscope to watch the game. Half time, no goals
and very little to talk about. The predominant mood was dark, but I fancied that this was
coloured by the accumulated effects of our dire away form. I seem to remember the first
half at QPR being equally bad, but our perspective then was that Stan was just keeping it
tight before going for a late strike. Apart from the early header, Portsmouth had done
nothing to extend the defence, and the Clarets looked comfortable. Little was having a go
down the right, and Weller was typically accomplished covering him. Even Armstrong was
managing to find a Claret shirt with his lofted balls out of defence, usually aimed at
Moore, who was doing well to control and lay off. That said, the Clarets' attacking
progress was often painfully slow.
The start of the second half indicated we were in for a more lively
experience. Burnley were the first to show, but Thomas faded a cross behind from a good
position. Shortly after, the Clarets found themselves one goal down when Crowe got past
Branch down the right and centred for the oncoming Nightingale. Allowed a positively
munificent amount of time and space in the heart of the box, the striker screwed his shot
just inside the opposite top corner, suggesting to me that he nearly wellied it out of the
ground. Recrimination was rightly aimed in the direction of Weller, though Crowe's
dominance of Branch had been the root of the downfall.
With the damage done, Stan took Branch off and replaced him with our
proper left-back. But Pompey had their dander up now, and another crisp passing move ended
with Armstrong colliding with a Portsmouth striker just inside the box. The latter hit the
deck as if given a glancing blow from the Isle of Wight catamaran. The ref gave it and
Panopoulos beat Michopoulos with an excellent pen low to the left.
Earlier in the season, the Clarets had been dealt a similar double whammy
by a Birmingham team far superior to this Portsmouth one. Then the Clarets had roared back
into contention, but their reaction today couldn't have been more different. Stan brought
on Mullin for Cook, but this had little effect as an unchallenged Sharpe thundered a
long-range effort against the post. The travelling Clarets began to get restless. It had
been a long journey from the North. They were sitting down in a sty of an away end in the
freezing cold with prelapsarian facilities. The least they rightly expected was a bit of
fire in the Burnley belly. Provided this is freely given, we know that Burnley fans are a
fair bunch with their team. But today was a reminder of those days when hapless
capitulation used to be the norm.
A final substitution saw Cox on for Ball, which was the first I knew that
he was even on the bench. This meant that Stan had had the option of playing the
early-season defence that had proved so difficult to beat. Why weren't they on for the
start? Cox then received what must rate as the fastest ever booking, around seven seconds
after coming on, by my reckoning. Stan shoved him to right-back and paired Briscoe with
Weller in the inside midfield positions. An ineffectual Mullin retreated to left-back.
Unlikely as this formation sounds, it worked well, though one has to consider also that
Portsmouth had eased off. The final part of the game saw Burnley make some progress.
Briscoe enjoyed a couple of forceful runs and looked fresh and keen. Weller also found
some space, and was cynically hacked down when he had brilliantly dribbled through down
the right. The Clarets even forced a couple of corners, but the only bona fide
attempt on goal was a long-range fizzer from Little that dealt Flahavan little bother. At
the final whistle, a few Clarets vented their frustration by flicking V-signs at the
players, whilst a few applauded. To be honest, it was a performance that deserved neither
of these actions. Just leaving quickly and quietly said it all.
The warmth of the Five Live studio seemed a long way off as I made my way
to the pub in the company of Patrick, Pauline, Mike and Steve. Philo said that as soon as
they revealed Ralph Coates was on the show, the phones had started ringing. They let one
bloke on air, and he chose to contrast the earnings of today's stars with the renumeration
enjoyed by Ralph in his heyday. Just think: a box-to-box midfield international who could
run for 90 minutes, beat defenders for pace, cross with both feet and shoot on sight. What
wouldn't we give for a Ralph Coates Mark II?
