Topic of cancer
Burnley 0 Man City 6, 9th March 1999
Tim Quelch
I came to Burnley as an adult and
left twenty years ago. I lived less than ten years in the area. Nevertheless, I’ve
tended to think that Burnley was where I really belong. Deep down, I’ve always known
this to be just misty-eyed pap; the indulgence of a hopeless football fan without roots.
And last night, Burnley didn’t feel at all like home. Trudging up the Manchester Road
in the gusting glacial wind and the neuralgic, suppurating drizzle, I could see the
hopeless pretence. Had the notion not been so stupid, I was minded to walk on and not turn
back.
It wasn’t the weather. That was just the
backcloth. It wasn’t the violence, either. Sure, there were the mean spirited
scuffles, the sirens and the barking, snarling police dogs. That made some of my soft souf
credentials come clattering out of the closet. But much, much worse than that, I felt
utterly humiliated. Not by Man. City. They were simply in a different league. No, by
Burnley.
This game was billed as a star event. The club
even urged us to buy tickets as Christmas presents (next year buy a phial of anthrax
instead). What we received just derided our loyalty, mocked our devotion. Many of us had
made special efforts to attend. Unless you have the grasping, must-be-gratified instincts
of a true Man.U fan, disappointment is taken for granted. How could we think otherwise
(unless cataclysmically drugged)? But we rightly expect a proper competition, a
demonstration of commitment, and more than a modicum of professionalism. Instead, what we
were given last night was a display that would have embarrassed a pub side. An arthritic
Gerbil would have defended poor Crichton better than our back line. A half-savaged
Wildebeest would have shown more movement, purpose and tenacity than the collective
contributions of Mellon and Armstrong. Only Little, Crichton, Ford and Davis emerged with
any credibility, although Payton tried hard. The rest should be lining up for their P45s.
NOW!
Without even a semblance of a team, all else is
ridiculous posturing; the so-called premiership facilities, the Café Claret, the Club
shop’s range of Mother’s Day gifts, the Director’s business plans.
What’s the point of all the trappings if the core product is trash? It’s as
misplaced and productive as the shameless pomp of a Third World dictatorship.
Unlike Stan, I can’t distance myself from
failure of this kind. That is always my team out there, whoever is playing. If they
disgrace themselves, they don’t cease to be my team. I just want them to play better.
And I want their manager to sort out what’s wrong. Citing cancer as the culprit is
just bollocks. Certainly, I have no intention of chanting Stan Ternent’s oncologist
army. This outburst is just more distancing and no analysis. Stan might just as well blame
a gypsy’s curse. But I expect that will be next up.
I don’t claim to be any kind of football
expert but even I can see that we don’t play when we’ve lost possession. Even I
can see that there’s not enough movement off the ball. Even I can see that our full
backs are hopeless despite my earlier delusions of their adequacy. Even I can see we
desperately need a third striker to take the weight off Payton.
What I do fail to see, however, is why good
incoming players turn to crap. I vilified O’Kane as much as anyone. But seeing him
play for Everton on Sunday, this was a different specimen. This alter ego was assured,
skilful and effective. Nothing like the hopeless mess I saw at Fulham and Bournemouth.
Take Vindheim, too. He looked a class performer at Colchester. What’s happened since?
I raved about Mellon at Bristol Rovers. The new John Deary with knobs on. OK he once set
up Branch beautifully in last night’s game, but otherwise hid, especially when the
ball needed recovering or the defence bolstering. Branch looked a terrific signing at
Rovers, but despite some fitful nuggets of talent, I now see why he was given a free. Even
Steve Davis seems less commanding with each game. Was Stan conned? Can’t he pick the
right player? Or is it his management, which brings them down? His people skills seem to
come out of the Tiananmen Square coaching manual and his naïve but arrogant handling of
the press beggars belief.
I expected Stan to create a team, which was
better than the sum of its parts. After all, this is what he appeared to do at Bury. But
it now seems that Stan’s teams are much worse than the sum of the squad’s
individual talents.
I’m not ignoring the dreadful run of
injuries. This must be the worst run since I began watching Burnley in 1970. But has Stan
compounded the unsettled state of the team by over-rotating the tactics? Like in any
organisation, you are likely to have more success in developing fluid roles and systems
once employees are confident about their place, their skills and contribution. The
revolving door selection brought about by injury and (lest we forget) Burnley’s poor
disciplinary record, can only compound uncertainty, weak integration and collaboration.
Might it have not been better to stick longer with one tactical system, to allow the
players to adjust, find their feet before mixing and matching? But what do I know?
God knows what tactical system was in use after
Moore went off with concussion. It appeared to be a 3-3-4 system. It should be called the
colander defence. If four defenders couldn’t cope with City’s swift, powerful
counter-attacks, what hope did three have? City should have scored at least ten. Only
Crichton’s brilliance, two incredible misses and the woodwork prevented this.
But as much as I am infuriated by the kind of
incompetence that Burnley have shown all too regularly this season, I don’t expect
the manager to throw the players into a public lynching, as he did at half-time against
Gillingham. If Stan was really accepting his part in this debacle, he should have gone out
there with them.
For the record, Burnley were in last
night’s game for seventeen minutes. They even played neatly through their midfield
and Branch had a half chance to take the lead. But City looked menacing going forward with
their slick, one-touch movements. Terry Cooke duly punished Crichton’s poor clearance
just past the quarter hour. He centred quickly and accurately to find Horlock with ample
space to fire just inside Crichton’s left post. A sweeping counter attack involving
Ford and Mellon gave Branch our best chance of an equaliser but Weaver beat his shot away.
Just before half time, Goater flicked on a left touchline pass to take him past Reid and
in on goal, but Reid recovered magnificently to find a saving tackle in the nick of time.
Alas, it was to no avail because Cooke’s corner found Morrison’s powerful
forehead and the ball flashed past Crichton’s upstretched arms.
Within ten minutes of the re-start it was 0-3.
Taylor’s headed flick put Goater through the centre with only Reid for company.
Goater had space and time to blast a fizzing daisycutter past Crichton. Game over. The
rest was a total embarrassment apart from Little who refused to die. Time and time again,
he took on the whole City defence alone. He deserved better than one chipped cross that
clipped the crossbar. Goater duly completed his hattrick (in 15 minutes) with two tap ins
and Allsop applied the final touch as Burnley continued to defend prairie style.
The Man City fans were exultant, chanting,
‘Let’s all laugh at Burnley’, ‘You’re not very good’,
‘Can we play you every week?’ and paradoxically ‘We’ll never play you
again’. This hurt, as it should do. I’m sure it hurt Stan badly, too. But
he’s got to learn to manage his feelings if he’s going to get things right. For
all his bravado, I’m not sure he can hack it. I hope I’m wrong and that he
proves we’ve misjudged him.
In the meantime, we’ve got a desperate
relegation battle, which looks lost at this stage. On Sunday, I fully expect Nogan to fill
his boots while Preston fans go through the same wearisome repertoire. Only Doncaster have
suffered like this and they didn’t have £1.3million to spend on new players or
indeed the best part of £2million (rapidly depreciating methinks) in existing playing
assets.
In the pub at the top of Manchester Road we
drank long and hard, going way beyond closing time. Perhaps it was us but the tele
highlights displayed the Burnley team with cone heads and swat Noel Edmonds’ bums
(legs were considered irrelevant). I said to Andrew, ‘Perhaps, that’s why.
It’s because their bums have gone pear-shaped. Their heads, too. Should we tell
Stan?’
‘No’, said Andrew with quiet
authority. ‘We’d be wasting our time. Stan has his own idiotic theories. He
needs no help from us’.
On the way home I passed a lorry with 'Wanker
1041' scrawled on the back. It was quite reassuring to be one among so many.
Team: Crichton, Moore
(Maylett 44), Morgan, Mellon, Davis, Reid, Little, Armstrong, Payton, Ford, Branch. SNU:
Williamson, Vindheim
Links - Jojo's and Rob Slade's reports plus the away game
