L L L L L High Wycombe 5 Burnley 0
Well, I suppose this is as bad as it gets, even worse than Hull away last season. This
game proved to be the true end of the season, giving the final lie to any lingering hopes
of a play off place. With considerable irony, it came a month to the day after we had
beaten Brentford with such ease. It was less than a month since we had won with several
gears to spare at Walsall.
This, by contrast, was a waste of an afternoon off. I ventured out with the advance
party, leaving Marylebone at 2.30 determined to make the most of what little good drinking
this unattractive Tory outpost has to offer. An early highlight was getting served in the
pub from which I was so unceremoniously ejected the year before. It had changed hands. It
was a pleasure to leave through the door on my own two feet this time; sadly, this was to
be as good as it got. We took the obligatory minibus to this depressing ground on an
industrial estate at the end of a single road a few miles out of town. We arrived and
joined the patient queue at the inadequate turnstiles, in this allegedly "most
improved" ground in the division. It won an award. I’m aware that "most
improved" is not the most unqualified of compliments; I suppose it means
"slightly less crap", an accolade they gained by building one stand while we
built two. Since they spoilt the free view previously enjoyed by kids on bikes up the
hill, this could be said to be no improvement at all, because now people have to pay to
see the game. In any case, they’ve missed an opportunity for any real improvement,
because the ground is still in Wycombe.
Irony of ironies, I almost got refused admission to the ground. I turned down a
steward's request to search me, politely pointing out that only policemen had the
statutory right to search people, and any search conducted by a civilian could be with my
consent only. While this is true, they do have the power to refuse admission, which means
in effect they can do what they want. Luckily, some other people had joined the argument
on my behalf, so I took advantage by nipping in through another turnstile unnoticed. Ah,
so this was the improved ground, was it? A shallow terrace inadequate last time had been
"improved" with the addition of bolted seats. Showing that touching instinctive
ability of Southern clubs to underestimate the size of the Burnley away following (lots of
us down here), the stand was virtually full. We squeezed in at the front, ground level,
unable to see a thing. Well, I suppose what happened next is what you get for complaining
about the view and worrying about being let in. Had we but known we would have begged to
be refused admission and save the tenner, and if we absolutely had to go in would have
insisted on a restricted view. Whatever the merits of one or two refereeing decisions, it
simply rained goals that night, and they could have had many more. I only regret not
leaving after the third, but it seemed too early to go. When they scored another I left,
but embarrassingly, I couldn’t find the exit, my dignified rage taking me first to
the toilets, then to the snack bar. When at last I found the way out I advised the
stewards to keep me out next time. This was the first time I had ever left a game before
half time. Apparently in doing so I missed a display of Teletubbies style gut barging at
half time.
A surreal lift from a splendid Cheltenham based Burnley cab driver, along with another
man we didn’t know, spared us the long walk back and took us to a pub, where locals
checked their watches on seeing us. After that the picture blurs a little, so here are
some alternative match facts: Litres of Orange Lucozade consumed the day after:
1.6. Number of records bought in the immediate aftermath to "cheer myself up":
6. Grubbiness of shoes the next day on a rising scale of 1 to 10: 8. Number of
minutes spent inside the ground: 42. Number of matches I have now left before half
time: 1.
Oh well, we said when the match started, at least it can’t be as bad as last time.
Not looking forward to going there next year, when we should lose about 8-0.
L L L L Rotherham
1 Burnley 0
I, along with many occasional travellers, had elected to sit out the previous
week’s game, a home encounter with Stockport County which was obviously destined to
be dire. Of course, that’s not the way it worked out, and I missed probably the only
chance in my lifetime to see a Burnley player score five in one game. Enthused by this,
the following Saturday’s trip to South Yorkshire was rather better attended than
normal; several of us were preparing to bolt our stable doors only now. Had we but known.
Early omens, such as the unexpected pub closure which we hilariously failed to reverse and
the by now customary steep hike uphill were not promising. No amount of creamy headed
Yorkshire beer could detract from the fact that this was as awful as every other game
I’ve seen here. I have a 0% record on this ground after perhaps five visits.
I’ve actually successfully managed to forget the details of this match, but I’d
guess it was a 0-0 kind of game until they scored. All these Rotherham games run together.
Afterwards we returned to the pub from whence we came, where drinking plans were abandoned
in a fit of apathetic inertia. When we finally hit Sheffield, all the pubs were shut,
which seemed about right. Unlike last season, there was to be no re-run of our trip to the
source of the divine Wards, nor encounters with Sheffield United supporters when we had
dissed our then yet to-be ex-manager. The only other thing I remember is drinking in a pub
furnished as a patio, complete with garden chairs and the sound of water.
L L L L York
1 Burnley 0
I rarely turn up for games full of confidence. When I do I come a cropper. At York I
have experienced the full range of emotions over the years, from the exultation of the
York Game to this kind of crap. One season my travel plans were thrown into chaos by a
bull on the line in West Yorkshire, but that is by the by.
Thanks to the marvellous workings of privatisation, East Coast could only offer us an
early train. My, those trains are fast, but for once we could have done with one a little
slower, as this one got us into York station at the unearthly hour of ten. This was
bewildering. What on earth were we supposed to do for an hour? Other visitors to this most
picturesque of English towns were treated to the sight of a bunch of shabby men hanging
around the exit watching the clock. There was only one thing for it: we would have to go
sightseeing. We rejected the prospect of an open-topped bus tour in favour of a less
structured ramble round the Roman walls. We set off at a genteel pace, but as the hour of
eleven got nearer our speed increased, at first imperceptibly, then little by little
faster, until by about ten to eleven we were sprinting round the walls. It seems whatever
time you arrive, no awayday is complete without a rush to the pub. There followed a select
tour of this great city’s fine hostelries, none better than the magical Blue Bell,
which was a well deserved choice as pub of the season. This was pubs as they should be. It
was not due to open till twelve but was not prepared to keep a thirsty party waiting on
the pavement to prove a point. As the landlady said, "a pub full of people - what a
good start to the day." It would be good if more people felt that way. As refreshing
as the attitude was the beer, Wards of the highest quality imaginable. The pub was a
cluster of small dark rooms, complete with serving hatch for the old jug of ale takeout,
and contained a few friendly locals, with no food so no tourists. I tore up the drinking
schedule and soaked up the ambience. Reluctantly we eventually left. A mistake. A few more
pubs later, not long after two, I realised I was full and needed a break from the booze.
Early though it might be there was only one thing for it: go to the game. Enjoying not
rushing, we got to the ground. This was unprecedented stuff - apparently they all come out
and have a kickaround. Not really worth getting there early just to see that. At twenty to
three joined the queue for food. At twenty past three we got served. They had done the
usual thing of expecting no-one would turn up. After the legendary York Game you’d
think they’d know. The terrace was as usual crowded by now. We went and stood behind
some tall people - suddenly they all were - and tried to see something of the game. Which
was dire. We were inept, nothing happened, they scored. As with the two games above, I
left before the final whistle (only 1-0 down or not, we would never have scored), and as
usual my judgement in this matter proved correct.
The East Coast electric mainline got us back to King’s Cross in good time for a
night out in London, but I suspect I went home and sulked.
L L L Peterborough 3 Burnley 2
It was just before Christmas on a Friday night for a game moved because Peterborough
feared they couldn’t compete with the glamour of Saturday chain store shopping, and I
had the flu. I dragged myself into work, took two of everything and hastily abandoned my
travel plans. I decided to set off earlier, on the basis that if I had time to go home I
would. There was a railway station rendezvous, half an hour of planning gold card strategy
to get the cheapest tickets and then a stop in Biggleswade, a place which sounded lovely
but turned out to be a bleak sub-Nelson town. There were two pubs, one of which had a
fireplace adorned with the proud slogan "Survived the Great Fire of
Biggleswade." You know the one, like London’s but smaller. A great fire now
wouldn’t have gone amiss; it was freezing. We bad vibed Major in a Huntingdon hotel
which probably sees him about once every five years then hit the characterless town of
Peterborough, there to drink on a canal boat. Then ground. Thanks to a heady paracetamol /
alcohol combination, the actual details of the game are cloudy, but I can remember that we
were terrible. The only concrete thing I can recall is that Damian Matthew scored a
tremendous goal that gave us pointless late hope. That aside, this was as unexciting a 3-2
match as you could ever see. For all the hype about the new manager, the team we put out
that day was disturbingly Mullenesque. The year before we had come here on Halloween with
terrifying masks and a sense of foreboding about this unlucky team, then watched with
amazement one of our few good performances of a poor season. This time we came with hopes
higher and the disappointment of a dismal performance was all the greater for having these
dashed. Are you spotting a theme here?
Game finished and with the normal discussion about exactly how bad it was under way, we
adjourned to a sleazy, smoky, studenty bar themed on classic Hollywood films of the
forties, which was fine, but the nicotine sodden air was less than ideal for my fragile,
clogged lungs. We missed all trains back but the last, a big shiny East Coast machine for
which our humble tickets were certainly not valid. The senior conductor (they always are;
are there any other sort?) told us the rules but couldn’t be bothered to argue the
toss. This was his last train home too, and would you try to extract cash from a load of
pissed off pissed up football fans? He let us off with a warning. I got home late. I
don’t think I’d finished a single drink that day. I decided not to got Christmas
shopping the next morning.
L L Burnley 1 Preston 2
I put this in by way of balance, to show that not all our worst nightmares come when we
go away. I’ve written about this before, so I shall not go
into detail here. All was set up for a cracking game of football, with a good atmosphere
for once, plenty of people in the new ground and even the weather just right. A win here
would have seen us poised to keep the season alive. Unfortunately, nobody remembered to
tell the players, and this was a dismal farce as we failed to match a Preston side who
were terrible on the day. They did nothing special, but we just let them win. We travelled
via Manchester for this one, so at least the evening’s gloomy drinking had some
novelty value.
Just for the record, here are five more that bubbled under: Gillingham away, Charlton away, Bristol City away, Liverpool
away and Luton home. Oddly enough, the trip of the season for me was not, as expected,
Nottingham, Bristol or York but Liverpool, where only the embarrassing tactics of our
leader spoiled the day. The aftermatch sight of maybe ten Burnley supporters avidly
huddled around a pub trivia machine probably gives some insight into the standard of
entertainment on offer on the pitch that afternoon.
Now I have written these down my therapy is complete. Having got all these bad memories
out on paper, I can now forget about the games. I would like to think that it would be
harder to write a similar article at the end of next season. I also have some smiley faces
I’d like to use. Here’s hoping! Here’s to the new regime!
