Norwich is a pretty good day out, and a goodly contingent of London Clarets
boarded the 09:30 departure from Liverpool Street in anticipation of some fine
drinking, eating and football viewing. (Minus Dermot and Russ, who managed to miss the train by misreading the time!)
Paddy and I joined the others at Colchester - for us, only Ipswich is easier
to get to than Norwich. On that sunny Essex morning, both Ipswich and Norwich
were pushing for the play-offs. Although we've nothing against either club,
we were fervently hoping that both remained
in
Division
One, for
purely
selfish
reasons!
We'd probably been at Colchester station about five minutes when we had our
first disagreement of the day. It went something like this. Me: "That chap
over there, with the young lad - he looks familiar. Where have we seen him
before?" Paddy: "Don't be stupid. We never saw them before in our lives. Time
you paid another visit to the optician, I think." And so on, until we were
interrupted by the arrival (on time!) of the train.
Once we'd boarded the train and said hello to everyone, I noticed
that fellow London Claret, Woody, was chatting to the familiar-looking chap.
To
cut a long
story short, a) he was a Norwich City fan; b) we had met him before,
in a pub (where else?); c) it wasn't my eyesight that needed checking.
Ah - the satisfaction of winning the day's first "domestic"!
The journey to Norwich took about an hour, but it flew past. I hadn't seen
quite a few people for ages, so there was plenty to catch up on. There was
no ticket check on the train, but on arrival at Norwich we soon realised why.
Lots of ticket collectors, intent on catching all the "fare-dodging football
supporters". We were told by another passenger that this always
happens when Norwich have a home game: Anglia Railways are supposed to sell
tickets on the train, but don't bother, because they can charge people a lot
more by "catching" them when they get off the train at Norwich. What a disgrace.
We all had tickets, and always do, but it still took us ages to
get out of the station. I'm sure the jobsworth who counted our heads (like
we were
children on a school outing) was very disappointed that he couldn't charge
any of us. Anyone who looked like a football supporter was clearly being
targeted. Still, there's nothing like
a bit of stereotyping, is there? I'd be interested to know how many of the
supposed fare-dodgers were actually on their way to the game.
On arrival at Naardge, most of us jumped into cabs and headed for the Fat
Cat pub, somewhere in the suburbs. I don't drink, but I can certainly appreciate
the quality of the pub. It seems to offer every beer under the sun, and a lot
more besides. Better still, they happily cater for non-drinkers. There's nothing
worse than ordering a soft drink, or a coffee, and being looked at as if you're
a public nuisance!
Whilst we were in the Fat Cat, there was a phone call from Joanne (who'd gone
to the gym at a local hotel), advising us that the Burnley squad were in the
same building! She wondered whether to speak to Stan, but in the end contented
herself with wishing
Lee
Briscoe good luck for the game (of which more later).
We were all quite envious.
After a while in the Fat Cat, we visited various other pubs, and ended up
in the Coach and Horses, near to the ground. This is kind of the traditional
meeting pub (for home and away supporters) prior to kick-off. Unlike in many
other towns, Norwich is a place where opposing supporters mingle happily, by
and large. Good to see. I wish Burnley was as welcoming.
We got to the ground in plenty of time, and for once there were no police
or aggressive stewards blocking our path. I realise the situation might be
different when Ipswich are the visitors, but it was still nice to be treated
like "normal" people rather than putative criminals.
Another good thing was that our seats were towards the front of the stand.
Having sat at the back of the away stand before, I can say with some certainty
that it provides one of the worst views in the division, if not the whole
league. I found out afterwards that Norwich are to redevelop the stand - not
before time.
So, I was easily able to see the players as they ran out: NTG
in goal; West, Davis, McGregor, Branch, Weller, Papa, Briscoe, Blake, Ian
Moore, Taylor. Norwich's line-up included David Healy, on loan from Preston,
up front; ex-Burnley favourite Paul Crichton was on the bench, and got a good
reception from the travelling Clarets when his name was read out.
As is so often the case with Burnley, we went behind almost straightaway.
It wasn't even with Norwich's first chance, either. Within seconds of the kick-off
we'd conceded a corner, and NTG had to make a superb save to stop us going
behind. Seconds later, we'd conceded another corner, and it was from this that
Norwich scored. One of their players (I later found out it was defender Steen
Nedergaard) seemed to be completely unmarked, and it was easy for him to head
the ball into our net.
Coming so soon after the 4-7 thrashing by Watford, we started to fear the
worst. After a few wobbles, though, the players seemed to settle down (or wake
up), and we got back into the game a little. Our best player on the day was
undoubtedly Robbie Blake, who was coming in for what seemed like an unwarranted
amount of stick. (I later found out it was because he'd made some gesture or
other after scoring for Bradford at Carrow Road.) The Norwich defence didn't
seem to know how to handle him. It was good to watch, and a reminder of what
an excellent player he is.
Shortly before the half-hour mark, we forgot all about Robbie Blake as Lee
Briscoe went down following a challenge from the Canaries' Darren Kenton. I
didn't actually see the challenge - as Arsene Wenger might say - as I was
watching the ball, but people round me said that Kenton had lunged in recklessly.
(Do
I correctly recall that the same player clashed last season with Glen Little
up at Turf Moor, resulting in Little being knocked unconscious?) After what
seemed like an eternity,
the
referee stopped play, and poor Brisser was
stretchered off, clearly in some pain. Moral of the story: if Joanne tries to
speak to you before a game, put your fingers in your ears and run!
Stan replaced Briscoe with the clearly unfit Gordon Armstrong, and the game
continued. As the first half drew towards a close, we had two good chances
to equalise. First, Golden Bonce was one-on-one with Norwich keeper, Robert
Green, but wasted the opportunity by blasting the ball into Row Z. Shortly
afterwards, Blake seemed to be dragged down in the area, but neither the linesman
or the referee saw anything untoward. The Norwich fans behind the goal told
Blake exactly what they thought of him. Hmm.
Despite being behind, I felt that we could come back, probably through Robbie
Blake. The next goal was to be crucial, though.
Soon after the restart came a disgusting piece of gamesmanship by David Healy.
Unmarked in the penalty area, and with the ball at his feet, he was one-on-one
with NTG. All he had to do was round Nico and tap the ball into the net. He
did the first part, and then executed a blatant - and I mean blatant -
dive, as he collapsed in a heap just in front of the goal. Clearly, his desire
to see our keeper sent off was greater than his desire to score the easy goal
presented
to him.
We had a great view of the incident, and I'd stake my house on NTG not having
touched him. What a pathetic little cheat. Fortunately, the referee agreed
- at least in part - as he declined to award the penalty. He didn't, however,
have the bottle to book Healy, which he certainly should have done. (And yes,
I know that our players sometimes dive, and in the same situation they should
be booked, too.)
The atmosphere turned sour after that, and one of my fellow London Clarets
was almost thrown out of the ground for calling Healy a cheat. Yes: a "cheat".
Not one expletive. One of the jobsworth stewards seated a few yards away immediately
issued a warning. Apparently it's an offence to stand up and shout. Unless
you're a Norwich fan, in which case you can shout whatever abuse you want,
make all kinds of gestures, and have the stewards bow to you in admiration.
Match stewards would certainly be in my Room 101.
A few minutes later, Stan replaced the (injured? worn out?) Armstrong with
one of the Burnley youngsters, Richard Chaplow. I'm ashamed to admit that I'd
not heard of him until that day. He had an excellent game, though, and certainly
looks like one for the future.
Of course, the inevitable happened, and Norwich scored their second with twenty-five
minutes to go. Paul McVeigh had a shot, which NTG couldn't (or didn't) hold,
and Zema Abbey had possibly one of the easiest
goals of his career. Not bad for a player who'd previously been as static as
his name suggests.
Afterwards, the detestable Healy taunted the away fans by making a "2-0" sign
with his fingers. What an idiot.
By then, we knew it was all over. The game petered out, enlivened only by
the good showing from Chaplow and fellow youngster Matty O'Neill. We trudged
back to the Coach and Horses, and indulged in some comfort eating (and drinking).
The day's irritations weren't at an end, though. We had reserved seats on
the return train, which was two-thirds empty. Lo and behold if a middle-aged
woman (who probably last smiled back in 1992 or thereabouts) didn't go and
sit right in the middle of our group. Before I give the wrong impression,
we weren't actually being rowdy. We were, however, talking. About football.
That was enough to start Ms Pruneface off.
After pointedly sticking her fingers in her ears, she resorted to complaining
to Bob (the Norwich fan mentioned earlier) about being exposed to our "rubbish".
When Bob politely suggested that she might wish to move to the
next
carriage,
which was virtually empty, she declined. We would have to move.
I did begin to wonder, though, why she was so agitated. Perhaps
she was an academic, trying to do some research? After all, she
was
intently
reading
some publication or other. Further examination showed that it was a magazine
about "celebrity" lifestyles. Personally, I object to being exposed to such
rubbish. Memo to prune-faced old biddies (of either gender): if you want to
sit quietly and read some trashy mag or other, don't plonk your fat arse in
the middle of a block of reserved seats, and then moan when the people who've
reserved the seats have the audacity to sit in them. Common sense, I think?
The others went on to Chelmsford for some more drinking, but I left the
train at Colchester and went home. I felt completely exhausted, mentally as
well as physically. I went to bed soon after, and dreamed that David Healy
had married the prune-faced biddy, with Lee Briscoe officiating. I think that
watching Burnley may be turning me slowly insane. The end of the season can't
come soon enough.
Achilles Healy