Sorry about use of a worn out, overused cliché at the top of this piece of prose, but apart from being true for all footy matches of course, the halves of this match, all two of them, could not have been more different.
It is probably worth mentioning, before I ramble on any further, that this was my first match of the season after a fairly lengthy sojourn overseas. Before departing this green and pleasant land I hadn’t envisaged the Clarets accumulating maximum points from the first six games. A few however from Brighton, Sheffield, Palace and Reading, and a comfortable mid-table position, was the (I thought) understated and comfortable scenario leading up to a difficult game at Pride Park. A few minutes in the company of fellow London Clarets in the pre-match hostelry soon brought me fully up to speed with the enormity of the ‘lack of’ problem. Lack of form, confidence, effort, goal chances, solid, competent goalkeeping, a midfield, take your pick. Oh dear, and last minute substitute for the match report!
The re-signing of the very splendid all round good egg that is Marlene in goal would deal with the keeping problem, but goals without Taylor? The midfield of Johnrose, Grant and Weller would hardly concern Accy Stanley’s reserve team, so this was a problem. The defence looked sound even without Davis, and would be given confidence by Marlene now that the Greek has finally lost all his marbles, leaving him with little more testosterone than a yoghurt. Moore up front, working tirelessly harrying defenders in a difficult away game makes sense, and surely Blake would earn his veritable silo worth of corn some day. Confidence was alarmingly absent from all points of the Claret compass.
The Derby team (penurious, the poor dears) was a mixture of old lags (Lee and Barton) and talented youngsters such as Christie and Riggott with the mad Italian, Georgian and the curious looking cove that is Mart Poom, missing. The day was warm but drizzly, and the stadium not very full but included a Dalek no less, which we passed, strangely, on the way to the ground, with a due sense of dread and concern. Apparently these refugees from the old Doctor Who series have a novel, but usually fatal method of dealing with Chairmen they don’t like. Seemingly, this is also a very subtle method of getting into the ground without paying. Sadly, only about seven hundred Clarets in attendance but voluble as always (when away from home), which is more than you can say for the Derby fraternity.
The first half of the game from a highly expectant Claret’s point of view was absolute rubbish. As bad as all of the London Clarets had predicted, pre-match. Little perceivable effort, no covering, no movement off the ball, no positional sense, no tackles, no shots at goal and as much chance of scoring as Quentin Crisp in a brothel. Have I missed anything? We were fairly bad at the end of last season (ex Johnson), but this was astonishing. Adam Bolder scored after just seven minutes (having already hit the woodwork with a header) with an angled shot in off the post, with not a Claret in spitting distance. This followed a corner taken after a great save by Marlene from Rob Lee. Beresford then made a full length save from another Bolder effort. Malcolm Christie, who was a handful throughout the half, turned Cox before his shot hit the post. It was a bit like trying to stop a water buffalo with a pea shooter, with Cox and Marlene as peas.
Half time and only one down, which was due more to the inadequacies of Derby rather than the Clarets' efforts, with the honourable exception of Mr Cox. I seem to remember a free kick from Briscoe, easily pouched by ex Claret keeper Oakes, as our only effort of the half. The three-goal rule beckoned.
The substitution of Little for Johnrose at the start of the half was a ray of sunshine, which grew to a veritable heatwave when he moved straight to the right wing position. McGregor moved to full back, releasing Briscoe forward into a 4-4-2 formation. Almost immediately things began to happen, and Blake began to emerge from hibernation to match Little’s activity. He first of all blazed over the bar an excellent chance from close range following a Briscoe cross, before tricking Riggott into giving away a clear (except to John Gregory) penalty with some excellent footwork on fifty minutes. The ball was snatched and on the penalty spot before anyone else but Blake could claim the kick. Low shot, bottom corner, goal, yesssss, game on.
It was then all Burnley, head, shoulders and even upper torso above the opposition. Blake to Moore to Little to Briscoe, cross, Blake shot, goal via Warren Barton. In just ten minutes the game had completely changed. Barton then tried to double his og account before Blake headed just over from a good opportunity. Moore then outpaced the two young Derby centre-backs on a long run before shooting straight at the substitute keeper. He didn’t look like scoring though, somewhat reminiscent of Liam Robinson in his prime (OK, when was that, then?). The Little/Blake link-up play involving West and sometimes Moore was pulling Derby all over the place, but did not produce that extra goal cushion. Before the end a small amount of Derby pressure was a minor irritation, before the well-deserved final whistle and the usual polite round of applause from the travelling faithful. The celebratory pint had more than a hint of nectar.
So how did the greatest comeback since Lazarus happen? A red hot poker up one or two backsides at half time? The resilience of Cox during the first half? Confident keeping? The hint of Little genius from last season? All contributory. The real downside was another four yellow cards in the second half, and the continuing abysmal form of Grant for whom I would recommend the introduction of a 24 hour enema. Can’t complain though, after all we could be B****rd fans with absolutely nothing to shout about!
Subs not used: NTG, Payton, O’Neill, Moore A.
Scorers: Derby: Bolder 8 / Burnley: Blake 51 (pen), Barton 55 (og).
Attendance: 22,343.
Referee: Andy Fussy (Charisma By-Pass) Hall.
Hego's (joint!) man of the match: Cox and Blake.
A game of two (unbelievable) halves