Clueless Burnley crashed to an abject
1-0 defeat with a woeful display on a dismal day at the Manor Ground. After succumbing to
an Oxford goal in the 13th minute, Burnley never looked like they were going to
get back in it. Bereft of ability in midfield and with a misshapen team, it was our lack
of ideas that did for us as much as anything. Admittedly, late on we did at least mount a
few attacks, but these were long range shots and their keeper was rarely forced into a
save. This was too little too late, and our failure to challenge adequately a poor side
made for a terrible game, leaving the bedraggled Clarets following cold, damp and gloomy
on the shallow terrace.
That was going to be how the report started. And for
our friend Julian, who had to leave early, that was how it was when he left. 1-0 down,
finally finding a little bit of fight in a shockingly bad match, but not doing enough to
convince us that our dreams of automatic promotion were hopelessly naïve. Then we scored
two late goals and won 2-1 and left feeling euphoric. Funny old game? That doesn’t
even begin to cover it.
It was a long day. When we’d decided to tear round
all 13 of Oxford’s Good Beer Guide listed pubs (seven before, six after – sounds
extreme but we weren’t the only ones doing it) I’d had a mental picture of a
clear, crisp and sunny day as we skipped across the quad wearing our scarves. What we woke
up to was a wet and blustery day, cold with deep grey skies and rain varying from
miserable drizzle to a blinding downpour. This was a day for being caught in squalls as we
stormed from pub to pub. We could only be thankful that it wasn’t raining
particularly heavily as we got to the ground and entered the oddly sloping and uncovered
little terrace for which we had forked out £12. I marvel at the inflation which has
seized modern football, and wonder where it might end. Those in the know had ensured a
better view and protection from the elements by paying a £3 premium to sit in the little
stand at the side. £15 for temporary seating is of course the same price as Turf
Moor’s finest. Satire is still very much alive in studentland. As we huddled
unprotected in our little corner of the terrace, struggling to catch a glimpse of the
pitch from our lowly position, we noted that every time anyone wanted to go for a pie or
piss from the stand, they had to be let through a gate by a steward. To get back in they
had to show their ticket. Simply quaint.
I am therefore, ill qualified to put together an actual
report, of the kind that describes things that went on during the match. Partly I was,
frankly, pissed. This was one of my more flagrant contraventions of the law which forbids
football fans to enter football grounds in a state of intoxication. That foodless seven,
all at speed, had taken their toll. I’d accidentally been left behind in the last
pub, and had hurried up the inevitable hill to the ground – past a giant plastic
shark sticking through someone’s roof – in a distressed condition. I’d only
just made the 3.06 kick off – those arriving during the minute’s silence in
acknowledgement of the victims of Hillsborough had been held outside the turnstiles by
officials with a less than keen grasp of irony – so I’d have to plead ignorance
of at least the first ten minutes on grounds of diminished responsibility. And those
bloody fences. At times it seemed I was watching the match through the small slot between
the top two bars of the fence in front of me. It was like watching a film in widescreen
format on tv – or watching a game through a letterbox.
After about ten minutes I’d decided I’d had
enough and I’d rather get something to eat. Unfortunately, the food hut had no food.
Of the menu on the wall they sold not one thing. Apparently what food they had had been
sold before the kick off. We pondered how it was possible to achieve this at an all-ticket
match with strictly no cash admission on the day. I want to feel sympathy for Oxford, who
need to move and are being given a hard time in trying to do it, but this combination of
cynical over-pricing and bungling amateurism makes it hard. My complaints were met with
criticism from my fellow Burnley supporters, who naturally labelled me as a troublemaker,
a getter in the way and a bullier of the kids behind the counter. Every so often I am
reminded why I chose to broaden my horizons. Eventually a burly man arrived carrying trays
of lukewarm potato pies, as he did at regular intervals. Occasionally in the second half
we would see him running down the touchline with another rapidly cooling consignment.
Still, it was better than the vegetarian option – a chunky Kit Kat.
It was during my vigil at the food hut that
Oxford’s goal was scored. Sloppy defending was said to be to blame. I am aware that
this is an inadequate description, but as I didn’t see it, I couldn’t comment.
From what little I saw of the first half – my heart simply wasn’t in it –
it was clear that we didn’t deserve to be anything other than behind. The team just
wasn’t working. Replacing the suspended Little with West could only be interpreted as
a sign that we had come with a plan to defend, and how was his inability to pass the ball
to a Burnley player going to help us now we were behind? Smith looked lost as left
'wingback'. Branch up front had looked a good idea at Cardiff, but he wasn’t doing
anything here. Neither Branch nor Payton had service. Midfield was hiding, with the
exception of Johnrose, who with Davis, at least looked bloody bothered and willing to take
responsibility. More than anything, it was clear that we were missing the outlet provided
by Little, the possibility of inspiration and a moment of flash in the pan genius.
Little, of course, was absent because of his
sending-off at Cardiff. There, this had prompted a disagreement between me and another
supporter. I’d objected because the fellow actually seemed pleased when Little was
sent off, as it gave him an opportunity to hurl some amount of abuse at the player. While
not condoning Little’s reaction, which gave the referee no option, it saddened me
that anyone could feel anything other than disappointed and anxious about the loss of our
most talented player. Two weeks later, in the last and heaving boozer before the game,
this man approached me, and attempted to re-ignite the row. How sad. I told him I
didn’t have the time to talk to people I didn’t want to, and walked away. Even
as he left for the game, though, he couldn’t resist another parting shot. Fancy being
bothered to keep an argument up two weeks on. It is because of people like this that I
will one day succumb to the temptation to stop watching Burnley. However, I wouldn’t
have minded stumbling across him at half time, just to check his opinion of the
replacement.
Half time was one long session of bumping into people
and shaking mutual heads. The consensus in the bogs, better at least than those at Cardiff
because they had a roof, was that we were ‘crap’.
Ternent must have thought so, because changes came.
Smith gave way for Branch, with Lee taking Branch’s place in the attack. Naturally,
we might have all preferred Wright, but this is not the Ternent Way. One big lad to win
headers and one little lad to stick ‘em away seems to be his ideal. Without
necessarily looking any good, we did at least start showing a little bit of fight, but
chances were still meagre. The one or two we had tended to be long range shots, and
I’m always pretty happy when I see the other side taking long shots, because it means
they can’t get the ball or players into places of danger. Of the long shots, Paul
Cook, returning to something like mediocrity after a string of desperate performances,
came closest with a dipping attempt that almost dipped enough. Payton was put almost
through once, but as he stretched to reach it the keeper came and smothered it. Payton
looked to have hurt himself in the collision, but thankfully got back up and played on.
Meanwhile, at the other end, Crichton gave a fine display of his kicking skills. Three
times in a five minute spell he hoofed a goalkick into righthand touch. If we’d been
winning you’d have said he was doing a good job of slowing the game down.
Mellon was brought down when through, and the following
duly got indignant when only a yellow was shown. I thought it was fair enough. Unless you
honestly thought that Mellon was going to skip past the defender, draw the goalkeeper and
coolly slot the ball home, then it had to be a yellow. I suspect he was going to square it
any second. An earlier attack, involving Branch, West and Mellon, had resulted in all
three vying to keep the ball away from goal.
Bringing on Weller and Wright for Cook and West was a
positive act, and a public acknowledgement that we needed to get something from the game.
It was interesting that Weller came on. The player we would have all expected was Mullin.
Ternent clearly rates Weller, who undoubtedly has talent, and his decision to come off the
transfer list is timely; he might now get his final chance to show that potential can be
turned into reality.
It was from his cross that Davis scored. It was a
bloody good goal too, a header from the very edge of the box that took an age to go in but
was always on target. Davis picked his spot. We all went quiet and watched it curl in. It
is rare for a header to look every bit as skilful as a struck goal, but this was one. We
joined dumbstruck in the cheering – from our spot on the terrace we were unable to
see it nestle in the net, naturally – and told each other that well at least
we’d got a point, although of course it wasn’t enough, but it was still better
than getting beat.
The board of four eights had been held up with its
customary number three illuminated, and we were beginning to turn our minds to the evening
agenda. I should have known, though. I should have known that, this season at least, you
write Burnley off at your peril. We might sometimes be down, but we are rarely out. We do
not seem to know when we are beaten. Partly, of course, we are a lucky side this season,
but then in football it's hard to work out where luck begins and good habits end. Late
goals might be lucky goals, but they also come as a result of pressure, commitment and a
refusal to give in. These are not normal Burnley qualities, but that seems to be us, these
days. So to the list of late goals – just recently a stoppage time equaliser against
Bury, a last gasp winner versus Notts County, for example – was added another. A ball
pushed forward by Lee – who’d looked clumsy but willing, as usual – was
going out, but Ian Wright chased it all the same. It’s worth dwelling on this for a
moment. We’d all expected Wright to be the goalhanger, the egotistical finisher, the
star in an unstarry team, but here he was chasing near lost causes, working as a team
member, wanting to win as much as anyone else. My earlier criticisms were unfounded. Now
he has settled into the team, he has proved himself perhaps the thing we least expected
– a good squad player. He banged the ball over. I couldn’t see what happened
next. It was in that part of the goal that was obscured. But those who could see it went
barmy, so I joined it. It was one of those moments of pure pandemonium that only football
can bring. You slap anonymous backs and hug strangers. When the moment had passed I looked
around and I was on a completely different part of the terrace from where I’d been
stood, not knowing how I got there. I was told Weller had scored the goal. Apparently the
cross had missed Lee and fallen to him. I had to do the decent thing and tell Jules that
the 1-0 defeat he’d left had turned into a 2-1 win away. Another away win. I burbled
something down the portable but had to tell him I couldn’t hear a single thing above
the noise of the crowd so had to ring off.
There was barely time to kick off. The final whistle
blew moments later. The get out of jail card had been played again. This lot just
don’t know when to give in.
We surged off joyfully and full of song for a packed
evening’s drinking, trying to be kind to the Oxford lads who told us which bus to
catch. Only several pints in did it occur to us that we had won the home game, the last of
the century, in similar style. We’d equalised late and then won at the death. In the
two games combined, we’d probably had the lead for all of a couple of minutes. They
have been two of the season's stupidest games. Oxford must bloody hate playing us. I hope
they stop up. I hope we’re not playing them next season. And results like this are
enough to make you start believing in fate. Crap game, fine result, and if that’s the
way it’s going to be, I think medication may be required before the season ends, but
if we get where we want to be after this crazy a ride, I couldn’t complain.
