That fateful day. I remember it well. I
was at 30,000 feet when the final whistle went.
Following the Clarets from London to as many matches as
possible it soon became fairly obvious (or so I thought) that the end of the season would
only lead to relegation. So I booked a holiday of a lifetime to California, flying from
Heathrow at roughly kick off time on that Saturday afternoon.
As the day got nearer and nearer the implications
became clearer and clearer: the most important match in Burnley’s history, in my
lifetime, and I wouldn’t be there to see it.
I couldn’t find out the result until the early
hours of the morning (GMT). Imagine my feelings as I tried desperately to phone my Dad
from Los Angeles airport. He was expecting the call. It took what seemed like an eternity
for him to relay the news... but what a celebration, me and my mate jumping for joy,
hugging each other and shouting our heads off.
No wonder we were known as the crazy Brits.
