The summer of 1959 was one of torpid heat. Being
then of Pavarotti proportions, it was a bad time to be a garden gunslinger. Weighed down
by flab and metal, I had a morose and sweaty duty. But that unrelenting sun withered the
most protective fantasies. After all, I was, as missable as the Queen Mary was. So just
whom was Tex Blubber trying to fool? Once the long afternoons had stripped away the
pretence, I would lie, exhausted and exposed, in the shade of the derelict shed, dully
watching the droning airliners; the Super Constellations and Stratocruisers arriving from
the modern west. It was then that my thoughts would turn to other things. Sometimes
they’d turn to Burnley.
With my mind offering the only prospect of travel, Burnley then seemed as exotic as the
Black Hills of Dakota. It was a town that mattered, like Dodge, Abilene or Tombstone. My
first football annual told me this. Its team and players were on the Chix Bubble Gum
cards, too. Ray Pointer was big playground currency, then. Krugerrands, for sure. Not even
Wild Bill Hickok achieved that much. Just to prove this point, I once traded in a class
scrapbook for a card of the blonde predator. When it came to the punishment, I found that
my plumpness had its uses, after all. My contract with pain began here.
Having said this, it all started rather well. The first game at Elland Road was won
3-2. Not that I made a big thing of this. I quickly learnt that it was better to keep my
feelings to myself. That way, I could avoid the jibes that would always follow a defeat.
You see, I didn’t have that much faith. Even then. So, a Burnley win became a private
pleasure. Something to fortify me for the start of the school week. A temporary
confirmation that all was well. Almost forty years on, Burnley's result is still a
barometer of personal fortune. A good result makes me expectant of other good things, at
work and outside, whereas a bad result leaves me reflecting on my shortcomings.
Having persuaded my dad to take me to see 'The Left-Handed Gun', with Paul Newman as
Billy the Kid, I had little left in the moral armoury by the time Burnley came to Stamford
Bridge. Perhaps it was just as well. Burnley lost 4-1. Nevertheless, the momentum had been
regained by the time that Lunik 2 had won the first leg of the moon race. Burnley had
managed to defeat Tom Finney's Preston and Derek Kevan’s West Bromwich, both at home.
What’s more they’d come from behind in each game. I duly studied their progress
in my aunt's 'News of the World'. Not that my reading was confined to the sports pages.
There was other stuff on offer. Like Diana Dors's 'Saucy Confessions' plus excellent
pictures. But Diana didn’t provide my biggest turn on. That came from nurse Carole
Brown of Emergency Ward Ten. All those hot, restless nights, twisting and turning,
fantasising about her range of improbable treatments. The NHS was certainly safe in those
cool, caressing hands.
Khrushchev was then doing America, prior to his talks with Ike about divided Berlin.
Khrushchev was furious when they wouldn't let him into Disneyland. I could understand
this. Especially when the Americans began to make fun of him. It seemed like bear baiting
and totally unfair. Just like playground taunts.
By October, the 'South Pacific' soundtrack had been the best-selling LP for a year. It
seemed that all grown-ups were dotty over this slushy sort of stuff. Rock ‘n’
roll was more like it. I would catch the twanging, throbbing music from the steamy hissing
expresso bars. But I never dared intrude. Their frothy coffee, glass cups and cane
furniture seemed claimed by a different generation: teenagers.
Rather belatedly, Jerry Keller's 'Here Comes Summer' emerged at the top of the charts
at the beginning of October. Woolworth’s hopefully played their 'Embassy' cover
version during our woeful town shopping trips. I endured these in the hope of securing a
'Movie Classic' or a 'War Picture Library' comic. 'Classics Illustrated' was always too
cerebral. ‘Get me behind this arras… aaarghh!’ It was perhaps fitting that
Bobby Darin's 'Mack the Knife' should make it to number one later in October. For
‘Supermac’ had just carved up the opposition in the General Election.
By November, I’d discovered I had one footballing talent. I could kick. I couldn't
move, of course, but that didn't seem to bother my teammates. They were content to trundle
me into the centre of the action and point me in the direction of something useful. My
natural ability would do the rest. It was the tactics of the field gun, but it seemed like
getting on.
November saw the opening of the M1. The month began in a triumphant vein for Burnley.
It opened with a brilliant 4-1 home win over Champions, Wolves. Arch playmaker Jimmy
McIlroy completely ran the show. Shortly after, Nottingham Forest, the FA Cup champions,
were annihilated, 8-0. Forest attempted to man-mark McIlroy. This left Jimmy Robson with
all the space he needed as he helped himself to five. Sir Cliff, our ersatz Elvis, again
flew the British flag at the top of the charts with 'Travelling Light', so all was well
with the world. But nothing is secure for long. Fulham promptly spoilt my birthday
celebrations with a 1-0 win at Craven Cottage.
Despite its attractive location, Craven Cottage is a reliable venue for deeply
depressing experiences. Of course, Fulham were no pushovers in those days. They had
internationals like Johnny Haynes, Roy Bentley, Jim Langley and Graham Leggat. I carefully
recorded all this stuff so I thought I knew what I was talking about. I had discovered
then that football facts were something you could rely upon.
All in all, I don't remember too much about December and January. Flicking through the
headlines, I see that Kennedy was then about to stand for the US Presidency. Albert Camus,
novelist, existentialist and international goalkeeper, was killed in a car crash, and
Algeria, the country he represented, edged towards civil war with its French overseers.
These months were generally good months for Burnley, apart from the inexplicable foul up
against downwardly mobile Leeds.
Adam Faith's flat, nasal, hiccuping voice had begun to make its mark, too. He was
ripping off Buddy Holly, really. But when did plagiarism ever hold our rock stars back?
Anyway, Adam headed the charts with 'What Do You Want' for most of December, but Emile
Ford's 'What D'You Want To Make Those Eyes At Me For' (a revival of a 1916 vaudeville
song) became the Christmas number one.
My most precious gift that year was a programme for the Burnley v Newcastle game of
February 6th. One of my dad’s workmates gave it to me. It was like a holy relic.
The adverts are still of interest. They seem to say more about the fifties than the new
decade. For example, a coal merchant suggested that, "Now that coal is off the
ration, obtain your supplies from us." It reminds me how much the fifties were marked
by austerity and utility. A smoky winter pall hung over Burnley at this time. You could
see why.
A tailor and outfitter "for the man with taste" sketched out its vision of
sartorial loveliness. A brylcreemed model stood awkwardly holding a pipe. He looked
resplendent in his Harris Tweed sports jacket, his white collar, striped tie and flannels.
Here was the well-dressed Man about the Cotton Towns. Of course, working men usually
dressed up when going out in those days. Even at football games, most of them had collars
and ties. For my dad's generation, a smart public face mattered. I invariably look a slob
beside him.
As for the game, Burnley beat Newcastle 2-1 and remained in second place. George
Eastham played for The Magpies. He would later make a successful legal challenge, enabling
professional footballers to enjoy greater freedom of contract.
On this same day, actor / singer Anthony Newley, then the husband of Joan Collins,
headed the Charts with 'Why'. I guess many people wanted to ask How? There seemed to be a
cartel of nasal pop singers. But, whatever their quality, pop songs had that capacity for
capturing the moment; for defining a time, a place, a feeling. This was quite unlike the
music peddled by Uncle Mac ('Hello Children Everywhere') on the radio in the fifties.
Then, songs like 'The Runaway Train', 'Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen By The Sea' and
'Nellie The Elephant' seemed as timeless as the weather.
Plans for the construction of Concorde were about to be announced. I remember being
excited by the futuristic drawings in the magazine 'Flight'. Macmillan also rattled the
South African parliament with his 'Winds of Change' speech in Capetown, just one month
before the Sharpeville horror. He announced, "The wind of change is blowing through
this continent, and whether we like it or not, this growth of (African) national
consciousness is a political fact." Of course, this went down as well as a fart at a
christening.
Following on from the Newcastle game, I was back into obsessive scrapbook mode, taking
cuttings from the Sunday papers and from my copies of 'Charles Buchan’s Football
Monthly'. Perhaps I felt, too, that my reclusive grasp of football knowledge gave me a
sort of wizened power. Although, my preoccupation with lone games of magnetic football was
simply perverse.
As we came to March, Burnley manager Harry Potts announced that the home game with
Spurs was, "One of the most important we have staged at Turf Moor for many
years." The London club, under Bill Nicholson, had spent over £200,000 on developing
a championship-winning team. This was something akin to £15 million in today's transfer
currency. Spurs had bought the fast, goal-scoring Welsh winger Cliff Jones; the muscular
and dynamic Scottish left-half Dave Mackay; the subtly inventive Scottish play-maker John
White (to replace diminutive Tommy Harmer) and the dependable Scottish goalkeeper Bill
Brown. However, arguably their biggest asset was midfielder Danny Blanchflower, who was to
become the first person to refuse to appear on 'This Is Your Life'.
The most spectacular demonstration of their power had, thus far, been reserved for
Fourth Division Crewe. Spurs humiliated them 13-2 in a Fourth Round Cup replay (Les Allen
scored 5), that year. I can't remember British Railways ever having a forte for irony.
However, they arranged for the defeated Railwaymen to leave Euston from platform 13 and to
arrive back at Crewe's platform 2.
By the time Spurs came to Turf Moor, Adam Faith was in pole position with 'Poor Me',
but the Londoners were not to be pitied. They were summarily dispatched with a 2-0 defeat;
John Connelly and Ray Pointer were the scorers and almost 33,000 turned up. However, Spurs
continued to head the First Division. The other team pressing them for the Championship
were Wolves, who still had a chance of achieving the Double.
At that time, Wolves were managed by Stan Cullis, who was said to have been a strict
disciplinarian in the mould of his predecessor, the autocratic Major Frank Buckley. Cullis
favoured the long-ball game, setting his team the objective of getting the ball from one
end to the other in a maximum of three passes, and fewer if possible. Wolves scored 106
goals during that season, with some stunning victories, such as the 9-0 battering of
Fulham and the 6-4 win at Manchester City.
Unlike with the modern exponents of the long-ball game, the Wolves forwards were
generally small. Their tallest were Peter Broadbent and Jim Murray, at only 5'9''.
However, the Wolves defence was physically robust, revolving around the all-international
halfback line of Eddie Clamp, Bill Slater (one of the three players of 6' in the squad)
and Ron Flowers. Nevertheless, Wolves' star was fading. Some of their best players had
retired (Hancocks, Mullen, Wilshaw, Wright, Williams) or were ageing (Broadbent, Slater).
Their replacements did not seem to be of quite the same calibre. After some early
successes in the European Cup campaign of that season, they were ruthlessly crushed, 9-2
on aggregate, by Barcelona.
One Spanish critic made this scathing analysis immediately after the Wolves's 4-0
defeat in Spain. "Once more the difference between artists and artisans has been made
clear. Wolverhampton, like all English teams, continue to play football that is twenty
years behind the times. Against the English play, based on physical speed, hard shooting,
the long forward pass and zonal play, the technical superiority of Barcelona was
absolute." This sounds uncannily familiar. There was as much breast-beating about our
international inferiority then, as there was prior to the World Cup.
Fading or not, Wolves proved far too good for Burnley on that late March evening,
crushing the Clarets 6-1, and thereby opening up a three point lead over them, seriously
threatening Spurs' position. Johnny Preston's 'Running Bear' had supplanted Adam Faith at
number one at the time of this game. By the end of the match, the Clarets were said to
have been running on empty. Some of them were reported to have left the field not knowing
what the final score was. I picked up the news the next morning and sullenly noted that
the Championship looked likely to remain at Molineux for a third year. I couldn't bring
myself to read the report then. That just seemed like twisting the knife.
April brought with it rippling spring warmth. April; the "cruellest month, mixing
memory and desire, stirring dull boots with spring rain," and featuring a fixture
pile-up, as well. Elsewhere, race riots were breaking out in Mississippi, the worst ever
to occur there. In West Berlin, the city authority was struggling to contend with a rising
tide of East German refugees. At home, racing driver Stirling Moss lost his driving
licence for dangerous driving and Dr Richard Beeching was chosen to lead a review of
Britain's rail network.
At the start of the month, Lonnie Donegan's hard-driving skiffle sound made it to
number one with the raucous 'My Old Man's a Dustman'. But a sombre note was struck on
Easter Saturday when Eddie Cochran became the fatal victim of a taxi crash in Chippenham,
Wiltshire. His CV had included 'Summertime Blues', 'C'Mon Everybody', 'Something Else' and
the prophetic 'Three Steps to Heaven'. Eddie was apparently anxious to get an early flight
back to the States, following a gig at the Bristol Hippodrome. The taxi driver was only a
kid. He, at least, survived. So did Eddie's tour manager. Gene Vincent, who was also in
the taxi, got out alive too, albeit with a fractured collarbone.
Immediately after the midweek debacle at Wolves, I had convinced myself that it was all
over. According to my diary, I think I'd even stopped being depressed before the week was
out. There is a sort of release when you cease to care. But by the following Saturday
morning, I was plagued by hope once more. My scrapbook again reveals all, including the
crucial remaining fixtures for Burnley and their rivals. It is uncanny how you can repel
the memory of your recent despair as a new fixture comes into focus. Tom Eliot was wrong.
The April syndrome is not so much a mix of memory and desire, as a concoction of amnesia
and desperate longing.
Burnley continued to pick up points, but they were a bit off the pace, now set by
Wolves. Then, on April 23rd, Spurs and Wolves faced one another at Molineux. Spurs had all
but blown their chances with two consecutive home defeats over Easter. Consequently, had
Wolves managed to beat Spurs, the Championship would surely have gone to them. However, on
a glorious spring day, Spurs proceeded to lower the old gold standard with a dazzling
display of football. It was said to be a triumph of skill over physicality, a victory for
fluent passing over the long ball game. According to some, it was the performance of the
season. That was, until Real Madrid's master class lit up Hampden Park, in the European
Cup Final of May 1960.
Spurs' victory gave Burnley further hope, which they doggedly clung to. However, they
failed to win their final home game, while Wolves were thrashing Chelsea. This meant that
Burnley had to obtain maximum points from their final game at Manchester City in order to
snatch the League title from Wolves' grasp.
On Monday, 2nd May, the day of the game, I discovered that there was to be radio
coverage of the second half. It was to be on the BBC Light Programme, a sort of Radio 2 of
the fifties and sixties. I recall using the wafer-thin pretext of needing an early night.
This was necessary so that I could hear all of the commentary. I'd already smuggled the
transistor radio into my bedroom. Bedtimes had been a war zone ever since our family had
reunited. My parents were probably quite content to accept my shifty departure without
question.
I had never seen Burnley play either in the flesh or on the box. 'Sports Special', a
predecessor to 'Match of the Day', was way out of bounds then. This commentary would be as
close as I'd ever come to the team. I remember pulling the curtains on that fine evening
and burying the radio with me beneath my heaviest bedclothes in order to muffle its sound.
My dark wait of sweaty expectancy was like that of a U-boat commander on the trail of
an Atlantic convoy. There were no progress reports up to half time. Just dismal dance band
music. It was always the same, every night. Musty balm from another age and no longer in
step. Finally, the music ceased. An announcer would have then cut in, affecting the plummy
sort of voice that they all had then, saying something like, "We are now going over
to Maine Road, Manchester for some Association Football and Raymond Glendenning will
provide the commentary." The joy of it all! Burnley were winning 2-1. Excited, I
wanted to tell someone, anyone, but I couldn't blow my cover. I had to lie quietly beneath
it.
Obviously, my grasp of the game’s details owes much to a surviving report. Burnley
had gone ahead as early as the third minute. Brian Pilkington had scored. He had
apparently cut in from the left wing and crossed hard and low. City's goalkeeper Bert
Trautmann, a former German paratrooper, dived to intercept. But he made a hash of it and
the ball screwed into the far corner.
I do recall the commentator referring to City's fighting spirit. It was said that they
had deservedly equalised in the thirteenth minute, through diminutive centre forward Joe
Hayes. Barnes had apparently set up this goal with a chipped free kick. Dennis Law miscued
but Hayes found goal with a rasping drive. However, Burnley's lead was restored after half
an hour. Cummings’ free kick was headed partially clear by City’s defence, but
in attempting to complete the job, full back Branagan sliced the ball back into the
goalmouth. Burnley's right winger Trevor Meredith immediately pounced; blasting a left
footed volley past Trautmann. From then until the interval, play was said to have been end
to end.
Although I don't remember any particular incident, the overwhelming sensation of the
second half has remained. Football always seems more frenetic on the radio. Even in those
days when commentators were more restrained, games seemed to have been enacted on speed.
There were certainly numerous near misses, most of them at Burnley's end. On the radio
these sounded impossibly close.
The report indicates that City were on top for much of the final stages. It was said
that City hit the bar and the post during their furious late rally. Unsurprisingly, the
claustrophobic tension of that evening has stayed the course; fidgeting, wriggling under
the covers, arching and flattening the legs, creating stale, warm currents like air
conditioning from hell. No distractions in the moist darkness. Just total concentration;
straining to make sense of the play. The ambiguous crescendos of the crowd; those taut
seconds waiting for them to subside and allow the commentary to explain and, hopefully,
assure. Counting out the final minutes; calling the seconds too quickly; starting over.
Trying to repel the final threats by counting over them; a sort of a mantra. Then, finally
the relief, the euphoria, the exhaustion, but the hopelessness of sleep.
On May 2nd 1960, in front of nearly 66,000 people at Maine Road, Manchester, Burnley
went to the top of the First Division. It was for the first time that season. It was the
only time that it really mattered. The celebrations flowed through the night and in the
days that followed. For several weeks afterwards, my life hovered on a cushion of
contentment. The Everly Brothers’ number one hit 'Cathy's Clown' marks that time.
I will always associate that Burnley triumph with a turn for the better. It wasn't
dramatic. It is rarely like that, but gradually I began to dispense with those things
which had been dragging me down. I lost weight. I stopped carrying my books around in a
suitcase. I even hung up my guns. I found that other people offered fun and companionship,
not just threats, ridicule and unwelcome intrusions into my fantasies. I found, too, that
I could achieve things for myself. Neither my weight nor my eleven plus failure appeared
to be definitive judgements. It's funny. You sometimes don't know how bad things have
been, until they're better. You can become a bit oblivious and accept the greyness as your
lot, like I accepted ill-fitting clothes in the interests of growth. I still see the
fifties in monochrome, like the miniature snaps that my aunt would take on those windy,
rain-sodden outings to Whipsnade Zoo. By contrast, the sixties are much more colourful. It
is perhaps ironic then, that in this year my team should begin its steady decline. But
I’m used to stumbling over ironies.
Burnley MP Peter Pike adds, "I drove
up from London (to see the final home game with Fulham) with two of my friends –
Fulham supporters. It was a much more difficult journey in those days without the present
motorway network. Indeed, with championship fever in mind, I went too far off route on the
A6 and we just arrived at Turf Moor in time. No victory and not an exciting game (0-0),
but we still had a chance. That night in Burnley it was the talk of the town; could we do
it or would we miss out by a whisker, a habit for the Clarets.
I couldn’t go to the City game, as I could not get time off work. That evening,
the final part of the game was to be broadcast live on the Light Programme. I had a
problem, however, as I was chairing a Young Socialists meeting in Merton and Morden that
night. That was an obstacle I was able to overcome. At the appointed hour, I managed to
get away with it as I had a pocket transistor radio, which in those days was still
somewhat rare and was of novelty interest to everyone at the meeting.
In the final phase of the game with Burnley in the lead we seemed under pressure and I
kept shouting at the radio for the referee to blow the whistle. It seemed an eternity but
in the end it came. Burnley were champions and into Europe."
Dave Wood wrote, "Was I really only
fifteen years old? Is it really that long ago? The 2nd May 1960 is only a very
distant memory and of the match I remember very little. I remember running home from
school, donning my Burnley scarf and going down into Nelson to catch the coach.
Apprehension was the order of the day for the thirty or so miles to Maine Road –
would they be champions? If they were champions, it would be one of the most unexpected
titles in history, and with one of the lowest points totals. Wolves were the team expected
to win the title that season.
Burnley had their usual team minus Connelly who was injured. We arrived at the ground a
little late. The ground capacity must have been 70,000 at that time and yet we were locked
out. My memory of that night is of standing looking at the back of the high stands, but
cheering loudly with the crowd at every (what we thought) Burnley attack. I cannot
remember the sequence of goals except that I believe when we finally got into the ground
twenty minutes from the end, Burnley were already 2-1 ahead. With a youthful Dennis Law
around, Burnley were by no means safe but hung on for the Championship.
We returned jubilantly to the coach singing and chanting and the residents of Bury,
Rawtenstall and the villages in between wondered who the crazy gang were."
