Dreary weather, dreary match, dreary city. Hmm. Surely one of the dullest places in these islands. I voice this opinion with some authority because I spent nearly every weekend there for three years as my girlfriend / later to be wife was at Warwick University. Bleak wintry afternoons when I couldn’t make the Burnley game were spent in the concrete city centre, or, if the opposition was any good, drifting along to Highfield Road to cheer the away team. OK, so that was nearly 30 years ago, but on the thankfully few visits I’ve made since, I haven’t seen anything to make me change my opinion. Even people who were born and bred there agree it’s awful. Flattened by the Luftwaffe, the city seems to have been re-built in the fastest possible time with the least imagination – and all that post-war concrete is in dire need of knocking down again and starting over with something a little more aesthetically acceptable.
Likewise, the city’s football team bored the pants off most of us during their much-trumpeted 35 years in the top flight of English football. On reaching the then First Division in 1967, their first match was at Turf Moor against the Clarets. I saw us beat them 2-1 when their team contained the likes of keeper Bill Glazier, George Curtis and Willie Carr. The national media treated them as something of a novelty due to Jimmy Hill’s chairmanship and gimmicky innovations such as the “Sky Blue Special”, which in reality was an ordinary supporters’ football train and only possibly “special” because you could allegedly groove away to Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch in the on-board disco.
35 years and many skin-of-the-teeth survivals later, they duly went back to where they had always belonged, with only the ’87 FA Cup to show for it. Now in their second season in the Nationwide, it’s another club whose ego got too big for its actual ranking in the great scheme of things. Never having had a large fan-base (just 13,000 there today), grandiose schemes for a multi-million pound stadium / leisure / hotel complex on the site of a disused gas works have quietly been shelved. So it’s back to dilapidated Highfield Road where Gary McAllister is struggling to get the best out of some ordinary players.
Our lot fetched up here on the back of last week’s thumping by Reading, and the statistics make interesting reading. If it’s goals you want to see, then get yourself to a match involving Burnley. 29 league games had produced 98 goals, an average of nearly seven goals every two games, and well ahead of the next best, Wimbledon (91). Unfortunately, 55 of these have been scored by the opposition, 25 at the Turf, the most conceded at home in the whole division along with Grimbo. Even worse, we’ve conceded 30 away, where only Stoke and Grimbo, who themselves managed to stuff six past us, have shipped more. Hardly rocket science to understand that defence is a major issue and that scoring two, three or maybe even five will often result in no points. The Claret faithful were hoping for a repeat performance of last season, when we were in our autumnal pomp and gave them a 2–0 thrashing when they hardly had a kick all afternoon. Since then both sides have changed personnel; Coventry having slashed the wage bill, getting shut of Lee Hughes and David Thompson amongst others.
Yet another grey, raw, drizzle-in-the-air Coventry afternoon saw the Clarets take to the pitch with NTG between the sticks, Marlon allegedly being a father-to-be. Arthur found himself the sacrificial lamb for last week’s slaughter, not being sent to Coventry, but sent to France instead, as Armstrong returned. In a hugely dull opening period, the brightest things on display were the amazingly garish outfit of the opposition keeper, who was kitted out resembling a cross between a satsuma and a can of Tango, and the yellow jackets of the 24 police ranged directly below and in front of us. Allied to the fact that the home club wouldn’t or couldn’t afford to switch the floodlights on till it was nearly dark, it made for depressing stuff.
In truth, nothing much happened for thirty minutes except for a sharp save early on from Michopoulos. Both sides found keeping possession difficult, and the only man of the entire 22 on display who looked real class was McAllister. He was the one pulling all the strings, attempting to play football on a bobbly surface as well as taking free kicks and corners and not shirking tackles; pity we don’t have someone like him. Well, actually, Paul Cook was doing a reasonable impression of the man. It was Cook’s persistence in two tackles just below us on the left which won the free kick from which we scored. Blake swung it into the box and amidst a cluster of heads, Ian Cox flicked it into the top right-hand corner. Apart from a stirring Branch run ending in a right-foot shot which flew over just before we scored, that was that for the first half.
Half time arrived shortly after the PA announcer’s Deep Throat / Barry White impersonation, and gave us some time to soak up the Highfield Road atmosphere; except…there was none. Celebrity Burnley fan and Tony Blair’s mucker Alastair Campbell preened and posed for a camera crew three rows below us. I wonder what sort of film they were making? How our hard-working government spin machine enjoys its spare time? Or maybe he’ll just appear as a three second snippet in the next Labour PPB. Who knows? Who cares? On the field, about twenty females of varying shape, age and size performed one of the worst dance routines I’ve ever witnessed (and believe me, I’ve seen some bad ‘uns). Deep Throat described it as an “immaculately executed routine”. Hmmm. Sadly, as I was secretly hoping he’d gone for good, the bloke behind me who had spent the first half loudly boring us with non-stop puerile ramblings returned to bore us all again for the next 45.
You expect the opposition, one down on their own patch, to come out all guns blazing. Whether it was the fact that the Clarets kept them waiting a good five minutes for the re-start I don’t know, but Coventry never really got going. They tried to change it around with a flurry of substitutions, all to no avail. Strange how a team that has leaked as many goals as we have can look so solid, but we did. Driss and Coxy repelled everything and Branch had an outstanding game along with Cook. Tony Grant played well, much to the chagrin of the burst pipe behind me who obviously didn’t appreciate the effort he was putting in. Because that’s what this team is made of - workers. We’re a team of artisans, not artists. Tony Grant is not a great footballer; if he was, he wouldn’t be playing for us, he’d have made it at Man City and also West Brom. What he does do is give his all for the team cause, same as Dean West, Gareth Taylor and yes, even Alan Moore. These players need and deserve our encouragement because without them and their attitude, we’d be nothing.
A smart move down our right ended with Taylor heading wide from a Dimi cross and yes, there was a final last ten-minute frantic session as the home crowd rose and Coventry desperately tried to salvage something from the game. For a brief moment it looked like the ref had awarded a penalty, only for it to be a goal kick. Panic over. Four minutes’ added time seemed harsh, but NTG had been warned several times by the ref for dilatory goal-kicking. The four minutes turned into something nearer seven and involved several scrambles that either Nico palmed away, clipped the woodwork or just went wide or over. Anyway, we won.
The game was poor and not easy on the eye, but, as they say, a win is a win. Suddenly, we’re only five points off the play-off spots. There’s a long way to go and anything could yet happen. After announcements of financial restructuring at the club, I for one will be happy with a mid-table spot so we can continue to establish ourselves at this level. Even with all those goals conceded, we’ve managed to beat Derby, Leicester and Coventry away from home. Not bad!
Subs not used: Payton, McGregor, Waine.
Scorers: (Burnley) Cox 35.
Attendance: 13,659.
Referee: G Cain (Bootle).
Eddie's man of the match: Ian Cox.
