All seasons bring frustrations. I
look back on 1991/1992 as a halcyon season of pure pleasure, and will doubtless come to do
the same about 1999/2000 as the years slip by. Of course, they weren’t; there was
still, there will always be, much to gripe about. But this was a more enjoyable season
than most. The highs outweighed the lows, and it was nice to be able to celebrate staying
in the same division for the right reasons. What follows is my look back on some of the
bits I haven't forgotten yet.
Llama llama ding dong
From a personal perspective, this was a season brimful of highlights. For
me it began, of course, with the glorious Barry Kilby’s Coat day for the opening game
of the season at Bolton. I think I’ve gone on about this enough times, so I’ll
spare you the details now. It made for a day I’ll not forget. I learned a few things
too. I learned a little of how newspapers work, as on a quiet day my story exploded onto
the front page of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, complete with a photo
‘borrowed’ from the London Clarets site and an article that used uncannily
similar language to my own. I learned that, if a photographer tells you to do something,
you generally do it. So it was that a remarkably tasteless photograph of me opening the
coat in flasher pose appeared in the official club programme. I learned again of the
crucial difference in savoir faire between London and the rest of the country. Londoners
are simply too cool to acknowledge strangeness; there is nothing they have not seen
before, and nothing sufficiently outlandish to make them bat an eye. In fact, I knew this
already. In 1994, I was part of a small and confused band who dressed in kilts for the
final league game of the season, to honour Ted McMinn, at Exeter. At 7am on a train to
Waterloo, my fellow passengers yawned with disdain at the boredom of seeing this sort of
thing all the time. Simply too commonplace for words. So it proved again. At the crack of
dawn on the Victoria Line the sight of me in a heavy and ill-fitting baby Peruvian llama
hair coat over a t-shirt and shorts did not illicit the slightest flicker of interest. Cut
to a few hours later and a couple of hundred miles north, and in Manchester with my Fozzie
Bear pelt I possessed the ability to stop traffic simply by walking down the street. As I
cut my ridiculous swathe through Deansgate, passers-by stopped and stared. Of course, this
was not without is drawbacks. After the game, you have a choice between catching a train
that is about five minutes short of being well-timed, or hanging around the curious
enclave that Bolton have made their home, not getting into pubs that don't serve beer. So
we resolved to dash for the early train immediately after the game's end. This calls for
running through scary Bolton ranks while trying to appear inconspicuous. I didn't quite
blend in.
I didn't learn, because I knew it already, what a thoroughly decent sort
Barry Kilby is, prepared to take time out on the day we played our first game back in the
first division to play along with some daft stunt. His only disappointment was that it
wasn't really hot enough, not being the customary opening day scorcher. I thought I
sweated plenty, to be honest, but I may yet decide to make the coat an annual event, so a
hotter day could come.
All this and more
An eventful season stretched ahead of me. At Crystal Palace, not only did
we record the season’s first away win, but I sat on the away end next to Ralph
Coates! And what a nice bloke he is, even signing my rare 7" copy of 'Grease Your
Ralph'. This was later to become the subject of a Radio 5 programme, featuring Ralph and
our own Phil Whalley. To provide contrast, a few days later I was thrown out of a football
ground for the first time, as my complaints about Fulham’s heavy handed stewarding
were vindicated by a heavy handed response. Such highs and lows tend to come side by side,
although on the night I claimed a moral victory of sorts by defying threats of arrest to
sneak onto the home end and watch (most of) the game. I don’t mind not having to go
there next season, and I wonder what the premier league will make of it.
There was also the small matter of a visit to watch a game in the Turf
Moor Director’s Box. Against Blackburn. Unfortunately. In marvellous hindsight,
perhaps this wasn’t the wisest choice of fixture on which to blow my AGM raffle
prize. An innocuous encounter against anyone else, where I might have concentrated on
exploring the posh surroundings, eaten all the free sandwiches and napped through the game
in my padded seat, might have been an enjoyable occasion. But, in removing two from
Buzzo’s unfeasibly complex ticket equation, I was trying to do the decent thing. Even
if it meant that a six o’clock on a Sunday morning I had to climb into a suit, itself
as inappropriate an item for watching football in as a huge hairy coat. Of course, the
result was everything. I will never forget the deadly hush around the Sparrow immediately
afterwards, when my brother and I had forsaken the post match hospitality for fear that we
might lamp someone. Okay, so in retrospect it was a smidgen worth it for the nose-to-nose
confrontation with the Blackburn bench, which delivered the clinching proof that, yes,
Sourness is every bit as much of a tosser as you might expect. Again, I've gone on enough
about that in the match report, so I'll leave it. That, and the sharp intake of breath
when I phoned up Turf Moor and told them which match I wanted the seats for.
There was also the occasion when we got locked in a pub in Birmingham as
the police marched all the Burnley supporters past. Really. Post-Christmas was a little
quieter, but there was still, of course, the absolute hoot of our 25 years celebration
events to come. Chief of these was the glorious day out at the House of Commons, where
about 100 of our members turned to dine in historical surroundings, and I got to complete
the set of Kilby coats. It was also a wheeze bumping into Bazza prior to the Wimbledon
game and persuading him to come to the pub. Always a pleasure, but shame about the lager.
And I didn’t even mention the naming of Harry Potts Way…
Trains, boats and planes
This season also saw the first time I went to a game by air, and even
better, the match in question was the glorious 3-2 away win against the justly relegated
cheats of Tranmere. Perhaps they'll start trying to win matches by kicking a ball about
now instead of through throw ins. Just a thought. The subsequent night out in the late
drinking city of Liverpool was also a joy. So, we always win when I fly to matches.
Compare and contrast to the subsequent experience of the Burnley e-mail group members, who
flew down for our match at Watford, which was of course postponed at 3.15: a somewhat
chaotic decision, albeit probably correct in retrospect, but terrible for them.
There’s never such a thing as a good postponement, I suppose, but
this season we had some rotten ones along the way. I wasn’t in the hardy group that,
having missed the last pre-match train from Preston, were halfway to Burnley by cab when
the match was called off, but I felt for them. A worse decision still was Wimbledon’s
to pull our post Christmas game during a thaw after a coldish spell with a day left to
clear the pitch. Selhurst Park may have been home to two Premier League clubs, but it
seems nobody could be arsed to make a Burnley style investment in the heating of their
pitch. This trashed advanced plans for what would have been an immensely jolly New
Year’s Eve Eve party, which is pretty hard to forgive. It should be noted, of course,
that at both Watford and Wimbledon we extracted our revenge by winning the rearranged
matches. So we are actually allowed to win at Vicarage Road, then. Only against lowly
Scunthorpe was a wasted journey left unfathomably unpunished.
Returning to transport spotting, this was a season in which we embraced
all forms, from the by now customary boat trip to Gillingham to the strange collection of
school buses and clapped out charabancs that escorted us to Deadwood Park. But the less
said about that day the better.
And don’t get me started on Virgin trains. Although, come to think
of, it isn’t always terribly easy to get started on Virgin trains…
Virgin - they don't go all the way
Oh, if I must. The huge fly in the ointment of this season was, of course,
the collapse of what we once called our ‘national rail network’. As
post-Hatfield psychosis descended on the badly managed and unconnected series of companies
who now run the railways, it was the passenger who suffered. To mix metaphors, speed
limits gave rail companies the green light to stop even trying to run a service. Train
operators gave up the ghost, and not surprisingly, the excuse-based Virgin Trains were the
worst of the lot. Getting to Burnley for three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon became a
near impossible feat. Getting back to London before the underground stops became a
lottery. It says something when you set off before half past seven in the morning and feel
the need to carry the phone number of a Preston cab company. Arriving at Turf Moor via
such a cab ride five minutes before kick off and stone cold sober was a personal low.
But all train companies were terrible at first. I recall coming back from
Forest, just after the limits had been imposed, on a train that took twice as long as it
should have, and St Pancras looked like a scene from a war, full of desperate faces daring
not to hope that they might get home that night. If one thing spoilt the season, it was
this, and it was bloody annoying that so many of our eagerly awaited visits to new places
were limited by dreadful transport. I don't keep a Benyon beer count, but if I did, this
season would be way down on most. Particularly depressing, of course, was that all this
happened under a government of a political hue closer to my own, but one which wasn't
prepared for a second to consider a radical solution to the crisis.
But yes, hats on for Virgin, because months after our experiences on other
lines seemed to suggest that they were recovering, Virgin were still frustrating us. Their
excuses were lousy and transparently thin for anyone with an ounce of knowledge about the
railways, although that does, of course, exclude many of their staff. They moved the
goalposts more times than… oh, I don’t know. I suspect I'm not really doing
justice to the sheer absence of service they offer. It was rubbish in October and it was
rubbish in April, even when they claimed it was no longer rubbish. Never has a gap between
PR gloss and grim reality been more pronounced. I really want them to be no more than
usually incompetent come August, largely because I like to think I live in a developed
country. Even in the summer, the sight of a Virgin train that I don't have to get on can
fill me with joy. They almost spoilt my season, but I didn't let them.
Groundhoppers anonymous
Looking forward to next season, one thing that strikes me from a personal
point of view is that, for the first time in the years I’ve been doing it, I’ve
been to every ground in the division already. Each season, one of the basis on which I
choose which games to go to is novelty. I’ll do the grounds I’ve not been to
before. Those coming down and coming up offer no new thrills. Still, I can’t grumble,
for what a luscious year of ground ticking it was, with fully thirteen new grounds
tackled, from the wacky ‘Reebok’ to the less than palatial Selhurst –
although after three visits I now feel I know my way around there only two well – and
many points in between. It didn’t matter that we did nothing in the cups, for I had
no need of them. This season coming, I could do with at least a cup jog, although early
signs are not promising, with the Rushden and Diamonds League Cup tie simply being, as
Woody put it, 'the wrong way round'.
Sticking with the statistics, it appears that this season I went to 29
games, one down on last season, unless you count an ill-advised jaunt to the Isle of Man,
which I prefer not to. Sadly, it only seven of these were home games, exactly the same
number as last season, as I utterly failed to live up to my usual promise to get to Turf
Moor more often, being unable to resist the lure of all those exciting, new places.
For next season, the only Burnley games I will feel obliged to go to are
those taking place in the South East, which for the purposes of this division stops at
Portsmouth and Watford: not too bad a radius. It never seems right to miss Burnley when
they’ve done most of the travelling. Given that I generally decide what other games
to go to on the basis of what constitutes a good day out on the beer, this may at last be
the season when I get to more than seven Burnley home games. After all, Burnley, combined
with Preston, offers a pretty good day out on the beer. Against that should be set the
ludicrous decision to finish the season three weeks prematurely – wonder who thought
that one out? – which, along with the awful prospect of Thursday and Sunday night
football to satisfy the bored greed of fat arsed dish owners, must mean fewer three
o’clock Saturday kick offs than ever before. Clarets fans will be well advised to
ensure they know the location of their local B&Q, as Saturday becomes less and less
the day of football.
We're proud of you
My player of the season was, on balance, Ian Cox. Of course, he didn't win
many post-season plaudits because he had a rather thin end to the season, but in those
crucial months, he was outstanding. He was one of several players who played better at a
higher level. All doubts about whether Glen Little can cut the mustard where it matters
must be cast aside, while Davis batted himself into majestic late season form. Nik the
Greek exuded laid back charisma, and I could watch him catch the ball one handed and pat
the ball down dismissively all day. Meanwhile, what more about Paul Weller can possibly be
said? This man was a revelation, a star, and almost instantly one of my favourite players.
Once, again, I was wrong.
But Stan has a knack of proving us wrong. I've said before, facetiously,
that if you work on the permanent assumption that the Burnley manager should resign, most
of the time you will be right. Not so now. The interesting thing about Stan is that I've
changed my mind about him. Several times. He's also forced me to change my mind about any
number of players. So I now have a new philosophy. Work on the basis that Stan is always
right. If Uncle Stan does something, it's usually right. You might not like him as a
person, you might not like his ways, you might not like the things he does. But that does
not matter. You do not need to. The important thing is that he knows what needs to be
done, he does it, and he's normally right. Trust Stan, and all will be well. And, going
back to the distant days of 1999, how right the Chairman and Board were to stick with him,
when most of us thought they should get rid.
Here's something to keep your eye on. What Stan's started to do now, which
is interesting, is to get rid of players. Look at this list: Cooke, Brass, Smith,
Crichton. All players who've played a lot of games, all good enough for a second division
first team, all capable of playing some games in the division - but none that you want to
see in the first team on a week in week out basis. More will go. Others will come. It
looks like there's a plan.
The best bits, and the Room 101 moments
The season was awash with personal highs, of which enough above. Best
performances must include our exuberant destruction of a then on-form Wimbledon away - how
easy did we make that look? - Nik the Greek's spectacular debut masterclass at
Huddersfield, and the Norwich away romp. I missed, naturally, the home wins against Fulham
and Preston, which would presumably make a list of most peoples' highs. We even had that
rare thing - a defeat you enjoyed because it was such a good game - at Birmingham. Most
undeserved defeat (all wins are deserved) was probably the ill-timed one before an
overwhelming Burnley presence on Boxing Day at Barnsley, which is, incidentally,
objectively the least interesting day out in the division. This brings us, almost
seamlessly, to the bits we want to forget. Oddly enough, the first heavy defeat, away to
Forest, wasn't that bad. No one will believe it for a 5-0, but we didn't get the breaks
and then we crumbled once already beaten. Far worse in my book were gutless capitulations
at Portsmouth and Sheffield Wednesday, the latter more bewildering because it followed a
jolly win at Watford. We used to get a lot of that from Burnley, and I suppose it’s
some sign of progress how bloody annoying it is the rare times it happens now. Crewe away
was just inexplicable, thanks to the bizarre Alan Kaye of Wakefield, who awarded a mere
four penalties. No need for further discussion on the season's worst ref.
Need I even mention what the most crushing games were? I never would have
dreamed I could ever feel happy about a Blackburn promotion, but I'm very pleased not to
have to play them next season. I want to play our rivals when we can compete, and last
season proved that this isn’t the case yet. Oh, but this is hard to say. In a normal
season, if as newcomers to a division you’d lost both games, one badly, against a
resource-rich side which went on to win automatic promotion, you wouldn't feel too
disappointed, but with them, all perspective is lost. Those two games distorted our
season. The first sent us spinning, although interestingly, the second, much heavier
defeat, produced a magnificent response. I don't know if that means anything. All I feel
is that this would have been an even better season if we hadn't had to play Blackburn.
There are enough other riches on the table. We don't need the (false) promise of those
impossible games to jolly us up, and distract us. I look forward to them, when we're
ready. For me, this season finally proved our obsession with our rivals unhealthy. We must
never define Burnley only negatively.
The Deadwood trip would have seen a rare application of the by now
venerable Three Goal Rule, except of course we weren't allowed out. We didn’t really
do it properly this season. Okay, so I walked out on Forest, but even then I waited for
the 4th; it's true we left Hillsborough at a mere 2-0 down, but that was
because it was crap. I may never have heard so many final whistles.
Most pundits had Ian Moore's superb curler at Preston as their goal of the
season, but of course we lost, and I always want it to be a winning goal. I therefore
plump for the brilliant turn and precise finish from John Mullin, a great piece of
individual skill, that won us the game at QPR.
And here we go again…
So we look forward to 2001/2002. It's not going to be easy. We might not
make the play-offs. Be happy about that, if it happens. If we don't go down, it's another
good season. All we ever asked for was to be a solid first division side. Well,
ridiculously quickly, we're there. Now we must persist, and see whether it's possible to
go higher. Last season I predicted a dour, if ultimately successful, battle for survival.
Shows what I know. I'll lay off the predictions now. All I know is that there'll be some
great days out and some miserable trips, some rare victories and grim defeats, and some of
them will be where we expect them least. Which is, when it comes down to it, why we keep
going to football. I'd also like to predict the trains will run on time, but I'm
unfortunately sober.
