Let us consider each of their credentials in turn.
Jim Thomson was
a faithful servant to the club for over ten years. His total dedication to Burnley's cause
will be warmly remembered. But lest this commendation can a too rosy hue, let us not
forget his mobility, or lack of it. For it has to be said that he was terminally slow. At
Hillsborough in April 1974 he was wasted by Supemac's pace in conceding that killing
second goal. Dennis Waterman's arbitrary review of the seventies recently resurrected the
pain of this lost hope of glory on that perversely bright spring afternoon. For Jim, a
Flat Back Four meant a horizontal one. He had two gears: dead slow and... well, dead,
actually. With Jim an action replay was just a freeze frame. He had a turning circle the
circumference of the M25 and his partnerships with Colin Waldron, Rodaway and anyone for
that matter ensured that the centre of the defence was a skill-free zone. But you
couldn’t accuse Jim of being vicious. To be vicious one has to first catch one's
prey. This was generally beyond Jim, as were most opposing forwards. He was something like
a quadriplegic lion marooned on the Serengeti, where the feast was only too movable and
gazelles and antelopes skipped past with gestures recommending self abuse.
Jim was a rather eccentric bollard, too. He did not
just have one directional arrow to point the way to goal. The arrows on his shirt invited
the opposing forwards to take any direction they pleased, and they frequently did. But
with Jim you knew where you were. Guessing his player's profile was a doddle; favourite
food: STEAK; car: CAPRI. Nothing fancy, Jim’s tastes were straight, simple and
honest, unlike Colin Waldron. I remember being cheated out of a full house on 'guess the
player's profile’ by Waldron’s insistence that his fave food was steak au
poivre. My wife refused to concede my appeal that steak au poivre was still basically
steak and that au poivre was a minimal qualifier. I mean, the au poivre would look bloody
silly without the steak, wouldn’t it? My fond memories of a love then young and
unblemished are distinctly soured by the savage altercation which ensued between us on
that afternoon. Fortunately, neither of us felt the need to resort to violence, as we had
both brought our matching claret and blue meat pie holders with us. (If I ran the club
shop I would immediately re-launch the meat pie holder. After all, it's so damn useful!
You can hold your pie in comfort and it stops you leaving nasty grease stains on your
programme.)
The next contender is Billy
Rodaway, whose faith in the lunge method rested ludicrously upon an
exaggerated concept of the length and speed of his legs. He was bow-legged as if trained
on Texan cow pushes. His cuboid physique did not suggest athleticism either, but whilst
not as slow as Jim, he apparently preferred to stand and lunge, much as a fencer might do
but without the faintest whiff of finesse. In his defence he was perhaps an elective
bollard. It has been claimed, somewhat apocryphally, that as a schoolboy Billy was lusted
after by Holly Johnson, formerly of Frankie Goes To Hollywood. It must have been Billy's
thighs. A certain case of the thighs have it (er, possibly?). Perhaps Billy was that
obscure object of desire who inspired 'Relax’? (Oh, come on!) Nevertheless, he was
one of those last ditch heroes who secured survival in 1987. This alone exempts him from
full bollard status. The same must apply to Joe Gallagher. (Bugger!)
I remember making a similar exception in the case of
Keith, a relic from my footballing first love. Rigamortis offered better prospects of
mobility than Keith. Nevertheless, some of us failed to recover from Keith's departure
from the club almost thirty years ago. The sense of grief was all pervasive. I can
distinctly remember alighting at Southampton one winter evening in 1967 AK (After Keith)
following an ignominious defeat in Dorset (as always, a tautology. Yes, Dean Court awaits
), when one of our travelling party espied a threadbare stuffed dog in a glass cabinet.
After only a momentary hesitation, he cried, 'Keith is it you? Yes it is you!', and flung
his arms around the cabinet. Now, we weren't so sure. True, the dog had Keith's spindly
legs but I could only remember Keith having one pair of these, at least when fully match
fit. The dull eyes and slightly pained expression were uncannily Keith-like though.
Irritated by our scepticism, our friend attempted to enlist support from other travellers.
Their reactions were also equivocal. Some said, 'Yes, I see what you mean.' Others said,
‘No, Keith was much hairier' or more portentously, 'Care in the Community is not due
for another 25 years.’ So let us be clear about this, bollards can and do command
enormous affection.
The last contender may only be remembered by a few. In
fact, he only played three times for the club, but one of those appearances, his second,
was, memorably, against Everton in 1975. You may consider the criterion to have been
applied inconsistently in this case. Although also characterised by arrested motion, this
defender merits consideration for a singular talent which the contrary world of football
has not seen fit to recognise. Richard Dixey
considered that the conventional art of defending was unreasonably narrow in vision and
should encompass the whole gamut of unwelcome sexual advances if the opposition were to be
repelled effectively. That way, only opposing forwards fond of a rapacious genital mauling
would venture into your field of operation. Now, I know that under certain circumstances
there may be more than a few forwards who would put their hands up to this preference, but
perhaps it is a different matter when over 40,000 are looking on, unless you are into
menage á multitude. Dixey (no pun intended, even if it does appear to be a refugee from
the Benny Hill University of mirth), therefore, perpetrated his unconventional theory with
the utmost vigour against Bob Latchford on that spring evening at Goodison. Now Bob took a
wide view of the world. He was both politically and socially correct. In fact, he was so
concerned about the prospect of global warning that he attempted to recreate the receding
rain forests on his face. He needn't have bothered, of course. After all, when the forests
are gone we can always get Keanu Reeves or David Bowie to act them and Sting can be relied
upon to warble something pompous about their demise (I suspect even God couldn't possibly
be that patronising). But Bob was unaware of all this. He was also cool about consenting
adults, but not versed in defenders who wouldn't take no for an answer. For all their
incessant pressure, Everton failed to make it pay and Burnley came away with a point,
thanks in part to Dixey's frantic groping.
However, it would not be right to award this coveted
trophy to someone whose contribution was so limited, albeit spectacular. Therefore, by
process of elimination, I am compelled to recommend Jim for the prestigious prize. Now you
may have your own nominations for bollard del a bollard in this position or any other. Who
deserves the title of ultimate Claret supineman, or Fixus Prostratus to give the full
Latin definition? You, the people must decide the outcome of this fascinating boll poll.
As Jim might have said, 'watch this space’.
