I write after our game at Chesterfield,
when we have yet to score a league goal this season. Worse still, my brother has just
pointed out that I have not seen us score since Walsall in March. In only one game
I’ve seen since did we score, and I missed it. At worrying times like these it is
natural to look for explanations. So I have been doing, and after careful consideration am
forced to the conclusion that it is all my fault. I haven’t been wearing the same
clothes or taking the same path to the tube station or putting my socks on first. I am
sorry.
I was born without a religious bone in my body. I am a confirmed
rationalist who ridicules mystical speculation, yet in this one sphere of my life
superstition holds absolute sway. During my time in the claret cause I have willingly
embraced every passing fancy with complete faith in a way I should scorn. Now, individual
superstitions are fine; they can be controlled; you can wear that old scarf, eat that pie,
always get the first round in; you cannot hope to command all these together.
Superstitions combine and cut across each other, and any tiny variation can lead to ruin.
Logically, the failure of any superstitious practice to gain the result cannot prove that
superstition is meaningless; you must have done something else wrong.
Thankfully, I am far from alone in my mysterious beliefs. The
farther from the club you live, the more futile the act of following them seems, and the
greater is the opportunity for superstition to thrive. This was brought home to me one
cold Euston morning when our travel sec sent an emissary along for his customary coffee
while waiting for travel stragglers. It was the order in which the purchases had to be
made: first request the cappuccino, then take from the fridge to the counter a bottle of
Lucozade, then add a lemon cake. This pattern had been followed all season, so couldn't be
altered. This was the season we nearly ended up in the third.
Worryingly, I find this kind of behaviour utterly understandable.
The seemingly random and arbitrary nature of so many games can only make us this way.
Burnley supporters must be more superstitious than most. Witness the "unlucky away
shirts" debate a few years ago. Still, "not to be superstitious is a
superstition in itself." Who said that? Well, the bloke serving coffee, actually.
Free philosophy with every coffee: just what you need at eight in the morning.
When I started going to games, superstition quickly followed. First
came the lucky shirt, a fading denim garment past its best, the wearing of which seemed to
coincide with wins. In retrospect, a more plausible explanation for its magic powers
occurs: I used to attend all home games but hardly any away, and those were the days when
we never lost at home. But it was fraying badly and there was an imminent danger that the
buttons would pop; it became absurd to wear a shirt that I had to leave undone. The lucky
shirt was confined to the dustbin of history somewhere between play-off defeat and The
York Game. I didn't need it, see, they could manage without me. In any case, a multitude
of other quirks had sprung up to take its place.
For example, when I lived in Nelson, during the Championship season
we could go to no game without first playing The Fall’s Kicker Conspiracy.
This is true. Worst of all was the Pussycat Fashions superstition. Bear with me. There was
once a shop in Brierfield with that name. Presumably it had once sold clothes for they
still had the sign, but they specialised in the slightly different trade of motorbike
parts. It had a broken window, with cardboard stuck over the inside, on which was
scrawled, "the theives have been caught." Yes, spelt wrong. That sign stayed
there for years, even after the shop emptied and the building turned ever more
dilapidated. Somehow I grew convinced that as I went past on the bus to Burnley I had to
repeat this mysterious legend. The theives have been caught, I would mutter, then sit
contented in quiet expectation of a win. Occasionally I would forget and be anxious, and
decide definitely to take the subway from the bus station, because that too had a powerful
effect. I had to feel pretty confident before taking a bus over the tops, a different
route. Then I moved south, and I notice from a recent visit that the building has been
renovated. The sign has gone. The theives have no longer been caught. The sign was up so
long they had probably been released and reoffended and been caught all over again. A
stopped clock tells the right time twice a day.
I see people wearing the same old clothes every weekend. It may be
that we are a uniquely tight-fisted bunch who have spent all our money on football and
beer, but do I detect (as one who knows) the presence of an odd lucky garment here and
there? After many an unexpectedly good result, I have spent hours trying to remember
exactly what I wore that day so I could replicate it on the following Saturday. A
1970’s silk scarf single handedly produced a win at Charlton, but got so bedraggled
in the ensuing celebrations that I have not dared wear it since. I once bought a Burnley
badge that turned out to be cursed, so I misplaced it, and reverted to a faithful old
badge that proved to be much more reliable, particularly when carried in the pocket if I
forget to put it on. I make myself forget, when I remember to.
Not surprisingly, as someone who spends a lot of time on trains - a
home game means four hours in pubs and ninety minutes of "football" but about
eight hours’ travel - railways come into it. When I lived in South London, I found
travelling by bus to Victoria invariably produced better results than taking the train to
London Bridge. So what if it meant I had to leave earlier? When I moved north of the river
I left myself with but a single plausible way south to the stations, whereupon our form
promptly collapsed. Paddington used to be a lucky station, but then Bristol City beat us.
Marylebone (for Wycombe) is clearly the unluckiest of them all.
Superstitions thrive when knowledge is at its slightest, growing
mushroom-like in the dark when stuck at home. There is the peculiar torture of watching
games on teletext, where things just seem to happen, with none of the preparation one can
usually make at a game. At these times we fall back on tribal memory, offering sacrifices
to placate gods we cannot understand. I used to mix my Ceefax nights of misery with a
little ironing, but whenever I did we lost. I thought it might be coincidence. I laugh at
my naiveté now, but it was nice having a week's worth of freshly laundered shirts in the
wardrobe, a choice of more than Hobson's in the bleary morning. But the consequences of my
innocent actions went beyond mere chance, so now I sit there agitated and thumb-twiddling
as my rumpled shirts stay crumpled.
The other year we beat Port Vale 4-3 and, since no-one else was
playing, I had the treat of a Radio Five commentary to accompany the washing up. As I
moved on to some particularly greasy pans which had started to breed in their neglected
corner, we made the game "safe" at 4-1. I paused for celebration: surely that
baking tray could wait. I'm a fool, because I forgot the Golden Rule, that exception to
every normal law of football which reads, in full: "But This Is Burnley." Port
Vale scored a consolation and then another. At 4-3 behind and attacking, they were
considerably consoled. It was obvious: I had to keep washing up. If I stopped, they would
score again, and it would be my fault. Every obscure implement had its day. The wok
thought it was its birthday, the cheese grater and the egg whisk took on an unprecedented
gleam. Ten minutes left: the grill. The grill is scrubbed spotless. Five minutes: there is
nothing left to wash. The final minutes see me hauling from their cupboards clean items,
hurling them to the sink. Full time had me splashing wildly, abandoning once-washed mugs,
the result guaranteed. Minutes later my partner found me face down on the floor covered in
suds, utterly drained. It's so hard carrying the team sometimes. Notice how I crucify
myself for the bad things, but hardly ever stop to pat myself on the back for the
team’s successes. Perhaps Clive Holt was thinking along these lines when he said the
fans were to blame for poor performances.
I hope now that confession might be the first step in dealing with
all this, that I might be able to face superstition without fear of the consequences and
conquer it, in time. But then, writing this article was a superstitious act itself. The
inevitable time lag between writing and publication often means that everything I write
becomes wrong. So here I am writing about our rotten start to the season, in the hope that
this will finally get things going. Given that we have at least scored since I started
this article, I think the omens look good.
