You know how we keep flicking the light switch, even when
it’s clear that the light has blown? Well, following Burnley in 1975-76 was a bit
like that. It wasn’t filling a gap in my life, anymore, and it certainly wasn’t
giving me much pleasure. But far from withdrawing from the failing remedy, I went to more
and more games. I must have been desperate for some sign that the fortunes were changing;
that football would once again cast its optimistic glow over the working week.
After an awful start, there was a temporary autumnal recovery much as there was
this season. We even beat Liverpool in the League Cup. Casper signed off with a late,
rasping free kick that did for title-hopefuls, QPR. But the team was not clicking as
before, despite the additions of Mike Summerbee and Willie Morgan. Relegation rivals
Wolves stuffed us into the Turf Moor mud (1-5) in November. Then, worst of all, we lost
our main asset, Leighton James, to ambitious Derby. Nevertheless, up to the turn of the
year, I still clung to a wispy hope. On Saturday, 3rd January 1976, even that
fragile faith was ripped away on the Blackpool wind.
The previous night was wild. A violent gale rampaged across the country, causing
26 deaths and a £100 million worth of damage. In parts of Surrey, gusts reached 80 mph.
We were staying with friends in the West Country. Throughout the night the wind buffeted
their windows and growled in their chimney. In the neighbouring gardens, loose gates and
shed doors groaned and slammed.
We rose early on that sunny Saturday morning, unrested and irritable, with a
long drive ahead of us. The debris of the night’s torment lie everywhere: fallen
trees, torn branches, broken fences, overturned dustbins and scattered litter. The sky had
a deep blue hue as if scrubbed clean of any impurity.
Holding the FIAT on course was a struggle as we blasted North. Despite having
time on our side, we did the journey in one hit, arriving in Blackpool just before midday.
With my eyes gritty with the lack of sleep and concentrated driving, I took to the prom.
There, I stood, braced against the rusting railings, taking in the sea’s fury. The
towering, wrinkled, grubby waves lurched in and out of the flitting sun, their frenzied
race for the shore urged on by an icy Nor’wester. Only the booming sea wall arrested
their charge. With seething resentment, each wave clawed back its glinting hostages from
the streaming beach, before all traces were lost beneath a following surge.
I normally loved days like this. The west wind would usually stir my spirits,
lifting me out of my customary torpor. But on this day, I felt out of sorts. I remember
returning to the car, slumping in the driver’s seat and staring dully through the
saline-smeared windscreen. The wind had been briefly refreshing, but my eyes smarted with
the salt as well as the tiredness. My skin was clammy with the spray and my hair tugged on
the comb. I felt a mess. A hotpot and a pint were called for. I sensed that we would need
considerable fortification for what awaited us.
As we approached the ground, snippets of Bohemian Rhapsody were wafted
erratically in our direction by the gusting, eddying wind. In the surrounding streets, the
chanting could also be heard, whisked above the rooftops in waves of variable volume. I
caught a snatch of what I first thought to be ‘Seaside air’. Let’s have it
one more time for the ozone factor! I hadn’t twigged that they were chanting
‘Seasiders.’ I was always hopeless at deciphering lyrics. Like the first time I
thought Scott Walker was singing, ‘Dry your eyes with cellophane.’ I was even
prepared to give it a go, until someone pointed out that the real lyric was, ‘Dry
your eyes, we’re celebratin'.’
I reckon that the lead-up to game is often the best bit. You know, the chirpy
chatter in a cosy, smoky pub, heaving with fellow supporters. But the walk to the ground
shouldn’t be underestimated, either. I once recall an Evertonian describing his first
game. His grandfather was taking him. Excited by the noise of the crowd as they crossed
Stanley Park, he wanted to press on. But his grandfather held him back, refusing to
increase their slow, measured pace. Reflecting on this, thirty years later, this
Evertonian reckoned that his grandfather had a perfect grasp of the principles of
foreplay. On this stormy Blackpool day, only foreplay was on offer.
The game was a third round FA Cup tie. Blackpool were then an average (old)
Second Division side and Burnley were, well, a poor First Division outfit. I’m not
sure whether it was because of the lack of quality, or whether it was the crushed morale,
but the game was truly grim. It wasn’t easy for the players in that wind, which
twisted, swirled and surged, carrying away fluttering programmes and sweet wrappers,
turning the corrugated stand roof into a didgeridoo. Long balls were all hostages to
fortune. There was some good approach play by both sides but the ball was usually conceded
before an effective attack could be mounted. Chances were fewer than hardy beachboys.
Before the floodlights put a seal on the fading day, the sky began to clear. The remaining
fragments of cloud, still fleeing from the North Western Approaches, provided crimson
reflections of a bitter sunset, which was entirely unappreciated.
I had settled for a 0-0 draw. Even then, I was always ready to revise my
expectations downwards. Then, it fell completely apart. Hankin, Burnley’s only
striker of substance, was dismissed. Immediately after, Blackpool defender Bill Bentley
thumped in a free header from a corner. There was no way back. The game was lost.
It was a lugubrious journey home. Liz drove. We hardly spoke. The branches of
the over-hanging, roadside trees still thrashed wildly in the stiff wind. The remaining
piles of fallen leaves were whipped up into twirls and spirals by the passing traffic.
Outside, there was irrepressible energy. But inside, I felt flat and empty.
Unknown to us, a savage dressing room row had resulted in Jimmy Adamson’s
departure. Somehow, Burnley wasn’t Burnley without him around. His assistant, Joe
Brown, was appointed in his place. It was a totally inadequate measure. As in 1970-71, an
effort was made to right the listing ship. Tony Morley was signed from Third Division
Preston, for a record £100,000, to fill the gaping gap left by James. Morley was a
talented winger, but needed time to adjust. He didn’t have it. So, despite the
occasional sop to hope (e.g., a 3-2 win at Everton), the season followed its inevitable
course. Bloody Man. U delivered the coup de grace on April 19th. The Indian
Summer was over.
