Home
Magazine - latest issue
Magazine - archive
Fixtures / results
Match reports
News
News archive
Player of the year
Meetings with Burnley FC
Firmo's view
Pub guide
Survey
Photos
Burnley FC history
London Clarets history
About this site
Credits
Site map
Site search
Contacts
E-mail us

The game had just started as we arrived home. But even before we'd unpacked I'd decided what to do. It wasn't until I began stuffing our dirty clothes into the laundry basket that I played my prepared hand. I said to Jude, "I suppose I'd better catch up with ironing. We haven't done any for weeks." I thought I said this quite calmly, being careful not to place undue emphasis on either 'we' or 'weeks'. After all, I didn't want to incite an angry take-over bid. If any dutiful weariness did come across, I swear that it was no more than a hint. Perhaps, just enough for me to scrabble onto a higher moral ledge; more the hang-out of scheming toe rags than the truly righteous. Yes, yes I know that I shouldn't have to resort to puerile subterfuges. Some of those bloody counsellors will tell you that open negotiation is always best. It's just that I seem stuck with guerrilla tactics. Anyway, the target was found.

"Do you really have to do it tonight?," Jude soothed. "You must be tired. God knows, I'm absolutely bushed. It's been a hell of a drive." I dispassionately put the case, careful to present the reasons without reproachment. The argument became sealed.

I continued, "I think I'll do the ironing in front of the telly. There seems to be nothing worth watching but it'll reduce the fag." I knew, of course, that Jude couldn't refuse. Her moral overdraft was now common knowledge.

At this point, I think I should say something about the house in which we then lived. It was oppressively small. It was not large enough to insert an anorexic rodent, let alone swing one. All of our possessions had become progressively stacked. Even in the one room, which some air circulated, most of the chairs offered comfy refuges for carrier bags, free papers, odd socks, even odder tights and half-finished paperbacks. The kitchen had been off limits since Port Stanley was relieved, or was it Mafeking? Only the microwave offered the prospect of hot food. We couldn't remember when the swing-bin last swung. Probably about half an hour after purchase. And just to confirm our monumental incompetence, our MFI furniture wobbled with pleasure at our various comings and goings. All in all, the place had the homeliness of a U-boat.

Ironing had become a seasonal activity. We only did it when it was no longer possible to conceal our crumpled shirts and blouses beneath some very overworked pullovers. For just as the 1991-92 promotion race began to heat up, so did we. I'd already decided that placing the ironing board in front of the telly had an ergonomic logic. Much more importantly, it hid what was on the screen.

But with the shirts collected and the board in place, I nearly blew the gaffe. I couldn't find the bloody remote control: my passport to Ceefax heaven. Exasperation flickered. Liz looked as if she might make an unhelpful suggestion; something like, "Use the TV controls. You're right next to the damn thing." Then I located it. "Ah, down the back of the sofa, as usual, entertaining some wax crayons, a crushed Tampax packet and a My Little Pony."

I surreptitiously paged the latest scores. Irritatingly, the numbers flicked twice past the place. My tension sharpened. "Now, remember," I told myself. "Behave sluggishly. You're supposed to be tired and ever-so-slightly put upon. You're not supposed to be excited or anxious. Keep calm. Maintain the moral momentum." Finally, the page appeared. No score. A subdued out-take of breath. "Now, what sound to put on? I must seem to be watching something. Preferably, an impenetrable documentary. Something like 'Androgyny in the fruit fly' or 'Which Carburettor'. Now, what's this? 'Care in the Pict community'. That'll do." Liz had settled to a book. I didn't want anything intruding. A sit-com wouldn't be any good. She'd notice when it was time for the nine o'clock news. Then I wouldn't have been able to take in the whole game.

But Liz's attention did wander, prompting her to suggest, "Isn't there anything we can both watch?" "No," I replied, almost too abruptly. I immediately re-adjusted. "No, this is good," I said, in a John Peelish sort of way, dampening any interest I might have mistakenly aroused. "I didn't realise that the Picts had an embryonic welfare state," pointing at a screen that she could not see. "Mmm," she responded, before returning to her book.

I silently urged a goal. Ceefax flicked between two pages of scores. On one page Rotherham, our big rivals, were playing at Wrexham. They were on a roll and were still in with a chance of the championship. 'Surely not,' I told myself. 'We're almost there. Even if the Clarets foul up tonight, they can seal it on Saturday, in their final home game. It's going to be OK. Someone please tell me it's going to be OK.'

I'm not sure who this 'someone' was. Probably, it was a throwback from my God days. In my teenage years, I did have a spell as a church-goer. My parents made me go, to start off with. Then, I found God could work results. At least, if I was pious enough. I may have scuffed my way to church with gruff discontent, but that was all a facade. For inside me there was a vortex of religious zeal. Woody Allen saw God as an 'underachiever,' but I knew better. No matter what else God had on his mind (the Cuban missile crisis, the assassination of John F Kennedy, the Aberfan disaster, the Moors Murders), he would still sort me out, if I hadn't been devout enough. It was in this way that Punnets Town reserves once became the unsuspecting instrument of His wrath. Of course, I'd stopped making spiritual deposits years ago, so I didn't expect God to do much at Bootham Crescent. But somehow those kind of habits remain. 'Someone please tell me it's going to be OK.'

With fifteen minutes gone, still there was no score. I started to mutter, 'Get a goal. Anything will do. Off a knee, thigh, bum. It doesn't matter. Just get a goal.' Staring at the white figures, it all seems providential, arbitrary, like a lottery. I tried not to look too often, feeling that we were more likely to score if I wasn't watching. I allowed myself one look after each shirt or blouse was ironed: a strict ration.

With thirty minutes gone, there was no change. I tried to think about the game. 'It's bound to be tight. It'll be tense out there. But the crowd will be right behind us. It won't seem like an away game, perhaps... Oh, shit, Rotherham are taking Wrexham apart.' Now there was more urgency.'Get a goal! For Christ sake, get a goal!'

Forty five minutes were up. No score. I waited for several more minutes before convincing myself that half-time has been reached without mishap. 'Oh well, we're still in there. Now relax for ten minutes.' But deep into what should have been half-time, the screen changed. York 1 Burnley 0. The scorer's name was given, proving that it wasn't an error. The white figures packed a heavy blow. I threw a shirt, almost bereft of buttons, onto the floor. Liz noticed, peering over her historical romance.

"What are you doing?" "Nothing," I said, far too quickly, simply inviting her curiosity. Her eyes fastened onto the beleaguered shirt. "Oh you're not keeping that thing are you? It's got no buttons. You've got plenty of others. Throw it out." I should have agreed there and then. But I didn't: a mega mistake. I won't be told about these things. She immediately picked the shirt up, preparing to emphasise her point. She then saw that Ceefax was on. The game was up.

"That's why you wanted to do the ironing, isn't it. So you can flick with that bloody thing," looking at the remote control with exaggerated distaste. My moral credit hissed out of me with the dignity of a cataclysmic fart.

To be fair, I had a very flickless evening up until then, having just taken in the whole Ceefax experience undiluted. As it happens, Liz's detestation of Ceefax interruptus is matched by mine, albeit for entirely opposite reasons.

She continued, "If I knew that before, I would have insisted that we did the ironing tomorrow. We could then have watched something decent."

"It's an important game," I countered, drawing upon all of my ten years.

She contemptuously dismissed this. "It's stupid. Staring at an empty screen like that."

I tired of the juvenile corner I appeared boxed into. "OK I'm a hopelessly sad specimen. I hereby renounce all claims on personal credibility."

Ignoring this, she demanded impatiently, "How long are you proposing to keep that thing on?"

"For another forty five minutes," I retorted defiantly, oblivious to all insults.

"Well, I'm going to bed then." As she clomped upstairs she shouted down, "Oh, and don't spend ages on that bloody Club Call either. Have you seen last month's bill?"

I really hate itemised phone bills but thought, 'That's an idea. I should find out how they're playing. Was it a fluke goal, against the run of play? Do they look like getting back into it?' I dialled the number. The call didn't reassure. Isn't it always thus?

The second half started. 'Think positive,' I told myself. 'Think success and it will surely come.' I started to conjure up images of blistering runs by winger John Francis, rifling shots from centre forward Mike Conroy, barnstorming tackles from midfielder John Deary, surging movements from the back by Steve Davis. It was all totally improbable, like a collage of best ever moments. But I tried to convince myself that the tide was turning. I could even see Conroy's pained expression as he narrowly missed again, his head thrown back, his arms half raised in a frozen groping gesture.

'Enough of this titillation!' I decided. In my mind's eye I converted the mounting pressure into a rasping equaliser. I waited for the inevitable confirmation. But nothing happened. Absolutely sod all.

Rotherham were stuffing Wrexham out of sight but Burnley continued to draw a blank. Stronger measures were clearly called for. I'd discovered an uncanny knack of bringing about important goals by ringing up in the course of a match. Like against Doncaster at home, in the previous year's doomed promotion bid. The phone call was then timed exquisitely as 'Rocket' Ron Futcher thumped in a header from a last minute corner.

I dialled the number. There was lots of crowd noise with urgent shouting nearby. It was all too audible. 'Shut the f**k up!' I yelled. 'I can't hear!' Then I could. 'THEY'RE LEVEL!! YEEEESSS!! IT'S WORKED AGAIN!!' 'Who's scored?' I had to wait. 'Sod the bill, they're level.' I heard, "Deary, the scorer of Burnley's equaliser," but couldn't make out much more.

I put the phone down and turned back to the Ceefax. It still showed Burnley as being 1-0 down. It seemed to take ages to change. Then, there it was. There was the proof. Deary's name was in white letters. I'd given up ironing by this time in order to give the screen my undivided attention. I was edgy still, but somehow I was beginning to think that it was really going to be alright. Out of curiosity, I tried out the ITV teletext, to see if it would give a different, better scoreline. It was the same, though, so back I went to Ceefax. It's a better class of teletext watching on Ceefax, really it is. I mean, whoever watched the Cup Final on ITV, when there was the choice?

The game was in the final minutes. 'Try the magic one last time?' I asked myself, rhetorically, of course. I dialled the number. There was more crowd noise than before but the guy next to the commentator had appeared to have shut up. I could clearly make out what was being said. There was no change in the score, though. But there was a bit more time left than I had reckoned. Never mind, I thought. I decided to hear it out. I deserved a treat. The game sounded frantic and pretty pinballish. It seemed nothing like my earlier space probes of fancy. Then I heard "York pump the ball forward, but Burnley's left back, Joe Jakub, intercepts. He chests it down and hits a lofted clearance down the inside left channel, near to us. Mike Conroy is onto it. Now what can he do? He takes on his man. He's got the pace. He's got to the by-line. NOW, CAN HE PULL IT BACK!!? HE CAN!!" (At that point everything became obliterated by an incandescent roar.)

It took the best part of a minute to hear who had scored, but I knew the result. There was only one result. Burnley were up as champions! I stayed on the phone, if only to hear that wonderful crowd, to feel a part of it. I finally put the receiver down in order to witness Ceefax's crowning glory. In fact, I decided to leave Ceefax on, long after the game had finished. I regarded it as a sort of a tableau, as I wandered around the house, tripping over rubbish, discarded clothes and shoes, not really knowing what to do with my excess euphoria.

The redundant cooker tried vainly to restore some meaning to its sad life by kicking 'Jane Asher's Blindingly Simple Recipes for Total Dickheads' under my feet. But I satisfied myself with a celebratory skip of Sugar Puffs. Sinking deep into the debris on the sofa, I announced to no-one in particular, 'Ain't life sweet!'