What game?
Coventry 3 Burnley 0, 8 January 2000
Firmo
As a fairly selfish person, it is my view
that the chief function of Burnley’s participation in the FA Cup is to provide me
with novelty. What I demand from the FA Cup is something new. I want new days out in new
grounds, new towns and new pubs. Looked at from this perspective, this season’s FA
Cup has been a remarkable success.
It gave me three games at grounds I’ve not
been to. Barnet came at a time when the only game I could have got to was something in the
south. The Rotherham home match landed nicely on a weekend when I really couldn’t get
to a game. Derby was a day out in one of England’s finest drinking towns, and of
course, a tremendous support-affirming occasion. Each time the draw obliged. And Coventry?
Coventry was a bonus.
It was a bonus for the London Clarets, who
gained several valued new members out of the scramble for tickets set off by
Coventry’s less than generous allocation. In the end, we managed to find about fifty
tickets good homes and took thirty odd people on our trip. It was good for Clarets of my
generation. The last time we played at Highfield Road was in 1983, so for us still
relatively young ‘uns, this was a tick. And there was, therefore, a challenge on for
the beer drinkers. The 2000 CAMRA Good Beer Guide lists a full ten pubs for Coventry. This
was virgin territory for even our most ardent drinkers. One day. Ten pubs. One football
match. Let’s go!
Quite a few of us accepted the challenge. The
first pub was in Canley, a suburb of Coventry reachable by rail, which is, I was told by
friend Ranulf, the centre of England's illegal firearms industry. Sounds ideal! So it came
to pass that we shot off the train, into the ticket hall to order fifteen singles to
Canley, then back onto Coventry station to catch another train. This confused the local
fuzz, who could not work out what a load of Burnley supporters might be doing catching a
train out of Coventry at half past eleven in the morning! Three minutes later, we were in
the pub, with me having beaten the bar rush by the simple expedient of phoning my order
through to Firmo junior, popped over for the day from Brum and meeting us there.
We ordered five cabs from a taxi firm which only
had two cabs but were prepared to offer an impromptu shuttle service – not that they
told us this – and four more pubs duly followed. We’d just about drunk up in the
next one when we were halted in our tracks by the sight of Football Focus, making our game
one of the main ones of the day. Quite a long feature, all about Burnley, and after the
mandatory mill chimney opening shots, pretty reasonable. This came in an excellent week
for publicity about matters Claret, what with the wonderful Jimmy McIlroy interview in the
Guardian, the Independent’s scary Ronnie Jepson feature and two things by Alastair
Campbell, in that day’s Sun – namechecking none other than Dover Claret Nigel
Bl*ckb*rn – and the following day’s Observer. What was actually said on Football
Focus passed us by, so awe-struck were we by the state of Mitchell Thomas’ collar. We
watched open mouthed as the bits of frayed denim hanging off his jacket collar flapped
limply in the breeze. What the hell was he wearing? Our defensive colossus had chosen to
appear before the nation in what could only be described as one of Dave Burnley's
cast-offs.
Onwards to the Old Windmill, a leaning
half-timbered building in a street of same. Apparently all Coventry was like this, before
the Luftwaffe had their way. This was the best pub of the day in my book, essentially a
narrow and crowded drinking corridor. It was the only crowded pre-match pub. It was
crowded with us – the bulk of the London Clarets team - and that's some bulk - plus
assorted camp followers and internet Clarets. Where were the Coventry fans? A couple of
pints here, then off to two estate pubs the other side of the ground. This was
weird. We actually went past the ground on the way. Look, it’s up there! It was half
past one. Clarets were already milling around. There was a whole football match of time to
go. What were they going to do? Anyway, we went past it, and onwards, then on, and on some
more. For miles we went, bladder bursting, finally to our next stop miles away for a ten
minute pint. Got phoned up while at the urinal. These phones can be a mite intrusive. Then
there was a twenty five minute top speed walk to the next pub. Shouldn’t have
bothered: grubby place selling nondescript beer. One Coventry fan – at last here was
a Coventry fan – told us how much he was looking forward to beating us. And your
point is, I replied. Peter Pike was in here, knocking back a quick ‘un before leaving
at 2.30. Apparently it was a twenty minute walk. So we left at 2.40. It seemed
particularly ill-advised that we had spent most of the pre-match hour walking, but we had
an agenda to fulfil, and we could be satisfied that, with five pubs down, five still to
go, we were half way through. We could go to the game now. And even if it seemed a bit of
a trail, was it any less daft than Burnley fans paying a quid just to get into a pub owned
by Coventry FC that didn’t sell beer?
The ground looked pretty full, there was a lot
of noise, and as the game kicked off we concentrated in ejecting people from our seats. I
needed my seat because it was ticket E17 and I live in E17, so it struck me as auspicious.
When we finally got our way, John Trippier turned up and told me I was sitting in his seat
E17. Apparently they’re numbered in blocks. Who’d have thought?
As for the game, well, the above should give you
some idea of the state I was in, and many details may have passed me by, but then, this is
not the match report, so I'll just say I thought we acquitted ourselves well and did what
was required, which was go out of the FA Cup before the season went on any longer. You
see, after Derby we had not played well. Although I had hoped that this version of Burnley
might be more resilient than most, it seemed that, like teams before it, this one
couldn’t get its head around the mundanity of the league while there was FA Cup
glamour around the corner. I felt we now needed to get this out of the way before it did
too much damage to our season. We already had two games to rearrange, and a promotion
seeking side doesn’t want to have games in hand turning into a backlog. This is not
the post-hoc justification it sounds; of course, another Derby would have been properly
celebrated, but I was selfishly happy with what the cup had given me and wasn’t going
to ask for anything more. The main thing now was to go out with honour.
And we played quite well. They were better than
us, but of course, that’s obvious. You’d expect them to be. Mid table two
divisions higher at home, you’d be surprised if they weren’t better. They were
sharper and faster. Of course, we were better than Derby on our day, but Coventry are no
Derby. They’ve got a good attacking side, Robbie Keane up front and the two
Moroccans, who look pretty handy.
So they scored. It was a belter, actually. I
almost applauded. There was no point beefing about any defensive lapses. A Claret player
who had done that would have been hailed a genius. Chippo’s hard, straight, long shot
crashed unstoppably into the top of the net. Game over?
Yet we didn’t fade. We held on 'til half
time, assisted by some poor finishing from Coventry, but also with Thomas effectively
shackling Keane – good battle that – and Cook probing intelligently against his
old club. Half time was made only one down and the battle not yet lost, plus, of course,
with Burnley having made all the noise.
At half time, after meeting up with more of the
internet Clarets, I went off in definite need of a piss and hopeful of a pie. That proved
to be the day’s most misplaced act of optimism. Taking a slash meant pushing one's
way past hordes of people and queuing for the privilege of standing in a lake of urine.
Nice! Food? Forget it! Veering towards tubby I may be, but I prefer it to be my choice
whether I start a New Year diet. Hmm, these must have been the much vaunted Premier League
facilities we had heard about. What a treat this was for us hicks from the lower leagues.
It emphasised what changes have taken place in football that a few years ago this ground
would have been considered modern. Now, with its posts and limited capacity, it looks
antiquarian. Ah well, soon they will move to a ground the look of which you can imagine
without opening your eyes handy for some motorway junction in the middle of nowhere, built
on a rubbish dump or gasworks.
Second half started and we got stuck in! We
attacked, got the ball forward and exerted some pressure. This was enjoyable, and the
crowd roared its approval. If I have one criticism, however, it is that Burnley at the
moment rarely force a goalkeeper to make a save. How often do you see the opposition
keeper sprawling to push one away? We got the ball forward and wide quite easily, but I
wondered how much Coventry were happy to do that, knowing that we couldn’t really
hurt them from there? Because there was no final ball to speak of. Mellon, Mullin and
Little made runs, but there was no ball into the box, not enough players in the box.
Little, of course, was handicapped by once again being played on the left. This bloody
nonsense really has to stop. We take the best attacking player in the division, then
neutralise him for the benefit of the opposition by playing him on his weaker side. And
it’s a lot weaker. Little on the left isn’t half the player of Little on the
right. But don’t take my word for it. Ask the Burnley public. By far the most
heartening chant of the day was one of ‘Little, on the right’. It’s always
good to know you’re not the only one.
By the time Little did get to play where he
plays best, the game was over. They had scored their second to finish it. A long range
shot bounced in front of Crichton, and although it did not deserve to, it went in.
Watching this again on TV, it looks like Crichton’s mistake, too far out, allowing
the ball to bounce over his body. That was the fourth game running that this average
goalkeeper had made a mistake that cost a goal. This goes to prove our point, that you
need a better than average keeper if you’re going to be successful.
The Coventry fans behind the goal celebrated as
though they were beating someone good. I suppose it was relief, but they attempted to
taunt us with the fact that, half a league above us and at home, they were beating us!
They must have been a bit worried. I was saddened, as I felt that, if Burnley were playing
their role to perfection – play quite well, get beat, praise the support – then
Coventry should play the game too. Their job was to be good winners, take their hats off
to the gallant losers and not make a fuss about beating a team they should expect to beat.
I suppose those Coventry fans just don’t feel secure enough about their team.
How I wished that, taking the game to them at
1-0 down, we’d brought on Jepson, moved Little to the right and really tried to give
them a fright. It was too late now.
But the third was undeserved. This was never a
3-0 defeat. We were just better than that. Yet people would look at their papers the next
day and all they would see would be a 3-0 win. They’d assume this was a
straightforward Coventry win. And it wasn’t, not quite. They did deserve to win, but
2-0 would have been a reasonable scoreline. Not three.
What happened was that Armstrong played a ball
out of defence without looking, straight to their player, who stuck it right back into the
box from where they scored. Cheers, skipper.
The clock ran down. A substitute was introduced.
Little even got to play on the right. Too late. Police got bored and started telling
Burnley fans to sit down. Coventry fans behind the goal were stood for ninety minutes, and
nobody did a thing. This was pointed out, but the law are never quick at picking up on
these ironies. We ran through a fair repertoire of songs. Time did its thing and the game
was over.
Not many left because we knew the script. We
sung and cheered our team. They came over, clapped, then headed towards the tunnel,
appeared to come to a decision, then turned round again and walked back to us to applaud
some more. It was a touching moment. I often find myself wondering if the players
appreciate the great support they are given. As times like these, it looks like they do.
The Coventry players also applauded ours, and the home fans in the main stand joined in.
all a bit corny, but they didn't have to do it, and it seemed to confirm they view that we
had played reasonably and emerged with honour intact. It had been a good game.
Right, game over, brains out, beer in. Time to
retire to the pub. Only one problem: where the hell were we? We had, of course, approached
the ground from the wrong direction, coming from the pubs on the far side, so we had only
the sketchiest of notions as to where the town might be from here. Pub Tsar Woody had
provided us with maps of bewildering complexity, but whatever street sign we might see
wasn't to be found on our photocopied pieces of paper. Our fellow travellers Buzzo and
Whitto (who had only come to Coventry because he'd heard that World of Curtains had a sale
on) had strong and forthright opinions about which way the town was. Unfortunately, they
thought it was in opposite directions. We quickly lost both of them and decided to follow
lots of Coventry fans (hoping they weren't going to the carpark), heading vaguely in the
direction of some large buildings we figured must be in the centre.
It worked! When we fetched up at a bus station I
thought we were lost, but then I found it on the map and it emerged that, not only were we
now but a short walk from the pub, but by pure accident had come the quickest way. Our kid
and girlfriend Jen boarded a bus for Leamington Spa. It had been a day of testing sobriety
for him. While all around had been pouring down the pints, he had taken no more than the
odd sensible half. Months back they'd been looking for a game to miss to go see a play at
Stratford on Avon instead. Gillingham at home looked very missable, and so with no thought
of the fourth round of the cup - well you don't, do you - tickets were duly booked.
Impossible to turn up at this pissed, so the cautious approach was adopted. But I still
reckon he landed on his feet. We could have been drawn to play anywhere. Coventry must be
Stratford's nearest league ground.
Me and Nic returned to the Old Windmill. We'd
been stuck into a pint and g and t respectively for ten minutes when Buzzo and Whitto
turned up, still arguing the toss on the quickest way.
You can guess how the rest of the evening went.
We still had five pubs to do. Taxis out to the first one, a big place and only the second
crowded pub of the day. Then four more all fairly close together. No Coventry fans to be
seen. In this respect, it was like Derby all over again. What is it with these premier
league fans? Do they all go home for their tea, 606 then settle down for a quiet night in
with Match of the Day?
Drink followed drink and it became time to
leave. I was impressed by how many of us had hung around 'til after nine. On the way to
the station I fell over! Don't know what happened. One minute I was walking, fast but in
full control, the next the rug had been pulled from under me and I was sprawling
earthside. Fortunately, real ale is a wonderful anaesthetic and I couldn't feel a thing,
although my Claret gloves had sustained a substantial tear. The next morning I discovered
grazes and bruises in the unlikeliest of places. I still have a beautiful scab on my knee,
but my left little finger has now returned to its normal position, which is a relief.
I think we made fairly merry on the train home,
and I have the faintest of memories that the Grimsby Fish Song, as
created by the Kilt Club section of the London Clarets in 1994, was dusted off and given a
rare airing. We arrived in London in a chaotic state at ten to eleven, and promptly
shambled to the pub. The journey home to Walthamstow is an utter mystery to me, and I
imagine it will always remain so. Next day wasn't spent productively, although I noted in
passing that the FA Cup draw had ceased to be the centrepoint of the day. But I couldn't
mind too much. I'd had a great FA Cup. It had been a hoot. Whoever said this competition
had lost its magic? Oh, and in case there should be any Man Utd 'fans' listening in, I'd
just like to say, you weren't missed, and if you want to drop out next year then please
do, as the rest of us have proved that we can have a thoroughly good time without you
miserable sods. Cheers!
Herald,
Gatehouse Tavern, Old Windmill, Caludon, Biggin Hall, Royal Oak, Chestnut Tree, Nursery
Tavern, Craven Arms, Malt Shovel, Exmouth Arms.
Match report
