This was nice and easy. Most of the time we even played
football, and against a side possibly only slightly less bad than Oldham, we didn't have
to work too hard for the win.
This was always a game that we had to win if we wanted to look serious about promotion.
All Clarets beforehand were utterly convinced that we would do it, and it is nice to have
that confidence restored at what was once and may yet again be Fortress Turf Moor. (But
then, we had known ever since Crewe. You see, we always win when we see a Deltic.
Unfortunately for the Claret cause, this particularly class of diesel locomotive was
withdrawn from service in the early 1980s, but at least we now know where the preserved
ones hide.) Anyway, Colchester were duly despatched with the minimum of fuss. It was odd
to think that when we played them at Easter we were both fighting relegation. On this
evidence, we've become better since then, while they've got worse, and we could now be
heading in different directions.
In the face of a wind that inevitably gets described as 'swirling', the team did their
best to put us at ease with the required early goal. After a handful of early attacks it
was Glen Little, celebrating his new status as a father, who provided the killer ball.
Paul Cook was sharp enough to push Mellon out of the way to take a quick free kick to
Little out wide. He planted a perfect cross onto Payton's head. Andy, having made the run
unmarked into the penalty area, accepted the gift, finishing effortlessly. It was telling
that he immediately ran to share his celebration with Little. It had been a smart and
simple move.
That was the end of anything resembling a contest. Play was entirely one way.
Encouragingly, Little enjoyed easily his best half of the season. If his play was
unspectacular, it was tidy. He rarely lost the ball, and time and again played neat passes
to Burnley players. He linked up with West a few times, but West looks limited going
forward, and should have done better with so little defensive work to do.
Paul Cook, not a player I've always had time for, had a magnificent half. He ran the
game from midfield, making countless perceptive passes, bringing Little and Smith into the
game. This was in contrast to Micky Mellon, who put on his usual anonymous display.
Perhaps one day we will get to the bottom of why he never, under any circumstances, passes
the ball to Little. Shortly before half time he actually tied himself in knots when Little
was out wide calling for it. He ran round in a small circle, desperately looking for any
other outlet, until his own feet got in the way and he lost the ball. Ternent, you may
replace this buffoon with a proper midfielder any time you wish.
At least by then we were 2-0 up. It had been a while in coming, and was tinged with
fortune. A ball played diagonally towards the box shifted in the wind, leaving a defender
flat footed and Branch just in front of him. Branch sped towards the box. We instinctively
covered our eyes and nominated the row into which the fop would blast it. Thankfully, fate
intervened on the edge of the box in the form of a luckless defender, who stuck out a
foot. Branch gratefully hit the deck. The referee bought it. It was perhaps harsh. There
was some contact, but Branch's dive was positively Burlesque. Not that I object to this,
of course. Given a straight choice between a Branch one-on-one and a chance for Payton
from the penalty spot, I know which I would choose. Branch had extracted the very best he
could from the situation. And it wasn't as if the decision made any material difference to
the match, as we were going to win anyway. As one of the worst away followings ever seen
at Turf Moor attempted to launch a half-hearted chant of 'Cheat!' Payton expertly placed
the ball into the roof of the net. The game was now over, and we could face half time
looking forward to results from elsewhere in the league.
The message at half time must have been to take it easy. This caused some frustration
among the faithful, who were desperate to see us rip some poor side apart. Colchester
fitted that bill. They were there to be killed off. As it was, we played neat and
contained football, but lost some of our cutting edge. Once the third had been scored
early in the second half, we slowed down. Payton was the beneficiary of another great ball
in, this time from Smith. Sure, the marking was negligible, but Payton’s positioning
couldn’t be faulted, and the ball from Smith was perfectly weighted. Incidentally, I
thought this was Smith’s best game in his new role; he took advantage of the lack of
opposition and strode forward.
Payton met the ball, controlled it and, once again, placed it into the corner of the
net. No need to bury it, just work out where the keeper isn’t going to be and put it
there. It marked Payton’s first hat trick wearing the colours of the club he
supported as a boy, and as such it was a moment for the sentimentalists in the crowd
(which is, of course, most of us). We can only hope that there’s more where that came
from. Payton has started the season in ominously precise form, and he recently told a
journalist with some nonchalance, "you know what my targets are." This is a man
for whom scoring goals is a way of life; if he doesn’t get twenty in a season, he
doesn’t think he’s done his job. Keep at it Andy, and you may not have too long
to feel slighted for not winning our player of the year award.
We will draw a veil over the opening game at Wycombe, which he started on the bench.
After that, we nodded off somewhat. Cook and Little both lost interest in the won game.
Branch’s foppish tarting around along the forward line became almost amusing. He
doesn’t exactly have an attacker's instincts. He didn’t seem to know when he was
offside, for example, and at one stage carried on playing when all around him had stopped.
Did he not wonder why? Davis and Thomas were by this stage thoroughly bored through having
so little to do, and took to wandering forward in support of attacks by way of exercise.
It gave us a chance to enjoy those Davis surging runs from defence which have been
curtailed this season, and the sight of Thomas in the box for all free kicks and corners
suggested that our latest cult hero was keen to get on the scoresheet. Davis could have
scored. He smacked a header onto the bar. Payton leapt onto the rebound, but was denied by
a brilliant reaction save from their wrongfooted goalie. I felt sorry for him. It was an
unnecessarily good save for a side losing 3-0.
I had time to feel sorry for the Colchester fans too. In an attendance of 10,090 I
suspect they weren’t the 90, but they had come a long way and, as most of them were
on coaches, couldn’t even leave before the end. The sight of them wearily furling
their large cross of St George’s was poignant. I like the town, and I shall drink
fully and freely when we go there, for I might not get another chance for a while.
Back at the game, Lee replaced Branch, but struggled. He looked every inch a beginner,
and I fear that his confidence is not high. The only thing he did was to kick someone.
Mullin came on for Little, and this was about the first time ever I’ve agreed with
substituting him. Little must have been knackered, and I couldn’t see any point in
making him more so with the game won. I might even have taken Payton off. He’s our
most valuable asset right now, with no one else scoring goals, and although everyone in
the strangely atmosphereless Turf was after grabbing a sackful, I couldn’t see the
point in anyone risking an injury in pursuit of goals we didn’t need. Of course I
hanker for us to give someone the hammering we’re capable off, but I’d hate us
to go to Bristol City with anything less than a full team. And in the main we played good,
confident, joined-up football, holding possession, playing balls into space with some
thought for where they might go and keeping the passing close, composed and trim.
Colchester looked almost lively for a few minutes when their subs came on. They
included the somewhat over-named Lomana Tresor Lua Lua, that scourge of the duplicate word
check who made such a mess of this game last season. They quickly faded. Meanwhile for us,
Mullin looked a bit more with it and might almost be recovered from a bad run of small
injuries, and Johnrose made one late run forward where he got quite a long way down the
pitch in his odd ungainly stride before he tripped over the ball.
It was left for the wind and a fat bloke to entertain us. The wind, blowing stiffly
across the Turf and stretching the new flag taut, intervened when we won a corner. Cook
spotted the ball. It blew away. He placed it again. It rolled away again. After a few
attempts, the ref lost patience, and with the look of a man who believes that if a job
needs doing it's best to do it yourself, strode over and dug it in with his heel. He
placed the ball in his homemade hollow. It promptly blew away. He dug further. It rolled
again. At this point, in the interest of making sure we all got a drink that night, Cook
took a meek short corner, which we instantly lost.
Actually, he was a good ref, who didn't see the need to book players to assert his
masculinity. Perhaps he could give Hill of Royston a few pointers.
The clownish fat bloke was of course Warren Aspinall. He's played against us in a few
incarnations, and always returns looking broader and older. Hairless and wide, he looked
preposterously ancient, almost old enough to be Ronnie Jepson's dad. Oddly enough he's a
talented player, but games against him always go like this. We call him a fat bastard, he
rubs his stomach in happy agreement, we call him sumo, he affects the posture of said
Japanese fighter. All very amusing at the time. Falls as flat as a Cannon and Ball
Christmas special when regurgitated on the page, but it passed a few minutes in a match
which had seized to serve any purpose. Really, they should end these early.
Except to do so would have denied Paul Crichton the chance to pull off a spectacular
late save. Colchester actually mounted a late attack (perhaps they were feeling guilty
about their travelling fans - I think we've been there a few times) and would have scored
had not Crichton produced a sprawling reaction stop of high quality. I was pleased to see
that attitude. The nil was important to him, and for us there's a world of cool between
3-1 and 3-0. Perhaps Gordon Armstrong, still rumoured to be captain, could learn from that
sustained concentration. I found it disgraceful that in the 89th minute of a
match like this a senior player like him could think it acceptable to hoof the ball
pointlessly down the pitch. Quite why we don't yell 'Wooooosssshhh' at this non-footballer
baffles me. Better players have got the bird for less. Does anyone else think that, with a
central defensive partnership of the highest calibre, we don't actually need a sweeper at
all? There's bugger all to do, and if the position is superfluous, couldn't we make better
use of the extra man somewhere else, like up front? Armstrong has nothing to do, which of
course makes people think he must be having a good game, on the grounds that if you don't
notice someone playing you always rate them seven out of ten and conclude that they had a
quietly effective match. Maybe they just didn't do anything.
But we won 3-0 and went top of the division for at least a whole long and luxurious
week, as opposed to the few hours of before. I intend to enjoy every minute of it, and the
league table still has the same glow sober as it did in the drunken haze of Saturday
night. We could have had more, one or two players could have played better, but let us for
once not be churlish. I still suspect we're capable of more and believe we have more than
a little powder kept dry for use in the future.
Much more of this and I may have to change my mind about Ternent. Again.
