It's sods law, is it not, that any game
you make an almighty effort to attend will invariably be dreadful? So it proved for the
pre-Christmas fixture which would turn out to be, though we did not know it then, the last
chance to see the Clarets `in action' in their annus horribilus, 1995. I should
explain that December 23rd is my partner's birthday. Yes, I did feel like a bit of a
Blackburn, but after assembling a persuasive package of lunch, gifts and assorted promises
of future favours, I secured precious permission to go. Never have so many hard won
brownie points been thrown away on something of so little value. I should have realised it
was not to be my day over lunch at the White Bear, Barrowford, where the beer on offer was
of course Fuller's London Pride. Then there was the high speed car chase to Turf Moor,
with my uncertain driver pitting her wits against my inadequate directions. We were
cutting it fine, the late Centre Spot rendezvous had already gone, and 2.50 saw us
speeding up the hill in the wrong direction, away from Turf Moor. Luckily, the
traffic and queues caused by the big crowds of yesteryear are but a fading memory these
days. There was only time now for the panic of remembering I had not got to the
anticipated cash machine. A quick check of the wallet yielded a mere fiver, but the
pockets gave up the requisite change, and it was with immense relief that I sprinted up
the Bee Hole to our lofty perch just as we kicked off.
To see... what exactly? Would it be an exaggeration to place this
desperate display in a personal top ten of worst ever games? Well, no. It was quite awful,
a performance devoid of all the things which make football good: little things like skill,
flair, passion, commitment, a sense of urgency. Yes, doubtless all these were on show
somewhere else. They certainly weren't going to be seen around here. The after-match
`highlights' on Welbsy tv for once summed up the game perfectly. Could they show anything
at all, we had wondered? They managed to scrape together a ludicrously mishit shot and a
soft punt into the goalie's arms, both by Bristol City. They hadn't missed anything out.
Ironic cheers all round.
It was, you won't be surprised to know, freezing cold. These sort of
days always are, aren't they? At least we could move about a little to relieve our
boredom. The trouble when we go all-seater is that it's far worse to sit and freeze than
stand, particularly when you have to watch such rubbish as this. For us, it soon became
apparent that to keep warm, and to find something to fill the yawning chasm of time the
match would take, we would have to make our own amusement. Luckily for us, the Bristol
City supporters had clearly acknowledged their lack of sanity by sporting a certain amount
of fancy dress. Aside from the predictable smattering of suitably coloured santas we
beheld the far less prosaic sight of Darth Vader. It was he, arch baddy and enemy of Luke
Skywalker and all decent people everywhere, from the seminal Star Wars trilogy.
Bizarre it may seem, but when you come to think of it was not the wearer of that costume
in the films a west country man (not the voice, which was someone else's, but the body).
It's just plausible that Vader was indeed a Bristol City fan. Imagine the fun it must have
been playing opposite incomprehensible and unreliable droid R2D2, who was of course a
Burnley fan (but that's another story).
Oh, on the pitch it was the usual story. Why do they save the worst
matches for my most sober days? Without the aid of records, it's hard to recall who
actually turned out for us. Whole games, whole seasons like this one drift off into a
meaningless blur. This one should be remembered, however, for in years to come it may be
seen as a momentous occasion: the first truly midfield-free game in the history of
football. City had no players of any discernible talent, and we had a 'midfield' of, er,
Joyce and erm, some other equally pointless people, probably. Up front Nogan and Cooke
experienced a come down of colossal proportions after the highs of Swansea the week
before. It was to stop them getting over-confident, one presumes, that they were made to
play with neither support nor service for the whole game. But best of all, Mullen, in his
infinite wisdom which it is not for us to question (note to ed: will this do?) had
persisted with what he obviously sees as his lucky player, Bloody Hoyland, at the back,
even though the inspirational Swanno had done his porridge and was once more available.
Bad move. Hoyland flapped about, occasionally pointing or moving his arms, like a useless
fat panda. Bristol City looked hopeless as well. Friends, this was not a good game, and I
didn't even have cash for a pie.
Half time didn't last long enough. Before we knew it we were being
forced to watch again. You know the new half brings with it optimism that it surely can't
be as bad as what has passed before and hopes that the proverbial half time rocket will
have woken up the players? Thirty seconds such optimism lasted before it became evident
that we were to be served the same sad fare as earlier. Jimmy ekes out his diminished
motivational skills these days by careful rationing, and he clearly had not a drop to
spare. You know the game is bad when the main topic of debate for this set of supporters
was, if that's the real Darth Vader, who did Luke Skywalker kill at the end of Return
of the Jedi? The two children were more amused impersonating Bjork than by anything to
do with the game. Firmo Junior, unbalanced by a lethal cocktail of alcohol and cold cures,
produced the game's choicest comment. Where had Darth Vader gone? "Darth Vader's over
there, behind the yellow Pink Panther," he answered. Yellow Pink Panther. Of course.
Meanwhile, a quick quiz for all budding managers: what do you do
when your strikers have had no service? Take one off and bring on another, obviously. And
what do you do if strong rumours are circulating that you and your summer signing, the
inspirational centre half, have had the customary bust up and he is soon to be sold? Leave
him on the bench and pick a panda instead, naturally. So when it's time to swap things
around? Bring the disaffected centre half on in place of the centre forward. It makes
sense, no? Thus we saw the one other thing that would stick in the memory: for the first
time ever, a triple substitution by Jimmy. Caution to the wind and all that. As we spent
the rest of the game trying to work out who was now playing for us - a tannoy announcement
would have been nice, but what the hell, we're only paying customers - it became clear
that this `bold' move would make not the slightest difference. The great Ted (in his last
ever proper game?) stood isolated on the wing as our players proceeded to direct
everything through the middle, which proved the usual piece of piss for their defenders.
Appallingly, the referee was to give us no early release, persisting in playing this game
long into the early evening. At five to five we were finally set free. If we go up with
Mullen this season I'll eat these words.
The only thing to do now was to seek solace in a few excellent pints
of Moorhouses in the Sparrowhawk, and there to meet the long-suffering Nicola to plan the
evening. I admonished her in no uncertain terms: look, the next time I ask anything like
that, just give me a firm but fair no. I promise, I will understand.
