During 1973 a colleague and I were sent over to
North America to see how they did things over there, the 'things' in question being
opencast mining. My itinerary took me via St Louis and Tucson, to Spokane and then across
the border to meet John in Vancouver. He had come via Salt Lake City and had appeared to
find the Mormon-dominated culture less to his taste than I had found Arizona's frontier
spirit.
Vancouver, from what I saw (and I freely admit that was not much,
because it was only a 48-hour rest cure before hitting the trail again to Trail (geddit?)
in British Columbia) was not itself that likeable. What was worst about it was that, like
all good North American cities, it was laid out on a grid pattern.
Where we stayed I cannot remember, nor do I much care; my only
memory of the hotel was seeing trolleybuses from above (as a kid I went to school on
trolleybuses, but then they hadn't invented buildings any higher). But someone – the
bellhop no doubt – had recommended a restaurant. It was called the Blue Horizon, sat
atop a skyscraper, and was aptly named. Each evening, we sat there and watched the blue
– well, let's be honest, brown and purple – smog rolling across the Bay.
The Blue Horizon was several blocks away, and diagonally at that.
Vancouverian blocks can look very different on each side. The second night, while walking
back to the hotel, we must have made a 3rd right and 4th left rather
than a 2nd left and 3rd right and ended up going in the right
general direction but via the city's dirty washing. In a warehouse doorway was leaning a
young girl who looked, to me at any rate, half asleep. She must have heard our passing,
for she stirred slightly and asked us for a joint. I was fumbling with my kneecap while
John admitted we couldn't assist. Then she asked for a cigarette, which was easier: even
the backside of the wrong block is Marlborough Country. Then: "Got any money on
you?" "Sorry, 'fraid not." (Thank goodness). She sagged slightly and
appeared to be thinking: "Oh well, do you want a freebie?"
Reporters on the News of the World are supposed to make their
excuses and leave at this point and we followed their apocryphal examples. It was the
first time I had knowingly heard the word 'freebie' although, even in that pregnant (if
that's the right word) pause its meaning was instantly obvious. As I thought later, the
term must have come from or via that cult film, Freebie and the Bean, a
‘clowning cops’ genre offering, although that was not released in Britain until
1974.
A freebie is the obverse of ‘there's no such thing as a free
lunch’, a telling phrase which I first came across around the same time. And so,
having given you free virtual non-sex, I now arrive at the point to give you free virtual
non-football.
It all started with a phone call, closely followed by a letter. I
had apparently won the London Supporters Club draw and would soon be the proud owner of
two free tickets for the Macclesfield game.
Now, only those who know me can imagine my stupefaction. I have
never lost a bet or a draw for the good and sufficient reason that, knowing I shall lose,
I never go in for them. Indeed, the only things in life I have ever got – jobs
included – have been those I have never applied for. I stroked my lucky rabbit's foot
and resolved to put off the transplant.
I would take my son, Alan, meeting him at Chester and driving
onwards on what turned out to be a Sunday – and I cannot imagine why our home games
are so often switched. Were Burnley's noble boys and girls in blue so needed at Wembley
that we had to play Bournemouth on Friday night? We seem to suffer ridiculous switches of
dates for no good reason, indeed no bad reason either.
Anyway, the upshot was that, because I always try to allow ample
time for long journeys, and because driving (and also, it would seem, trains from
Llandudno to Chester) goes better on Sundays, I found myself in Burnley town centre at
11am on the fateful day. Maybe those born and bred would find it less daunting. For me, an
outsider, consider the background. We had not won a game since Millwall and had got just
three points out of 24 since then. New Chairman Barry Kilby, stratospheric transfer fee to
bring Steve Davis back from Luton, every thing rosy, and next to bottom of the division.
Barry Heagin's letter enclosing the tickets ended, "Enjoy yourself if you can,"
the sort of "Have a nice day now" once routinely offered by the screws at
Wormwood Scrubs before the last long walk. In this funereal atmosphere, convinced as
always (and tried and tested, too) that my very presence at a match brings defeat, we
trudged the street, the canal, the Café Claret – well, you name it, we trudged it
– filled with gloomy foreboding.
There is no doubt that Turf Moor's new face has its attractions,
but atmosphere is not obviously one of them. As we prowled the new stands and admired
their finely wrought plastic coated tin accoutrements, I at least felt a sense of yet more
depression. Apart from a slight colour change, I could have been behind Anfield's
Centenary Stand. Instead, I was faced with looking for the North Stand. Which the hell way
does Turf Moor face? Had I been a boy scout, moss on the walls might have told me which
way was north, except that the brickwork is too new to have grown any yet.
(Afterwards, I learned there was some dispute about the naming of
the new stands, but the answer seemed – still does seem – obvious. You name your
stands after the most deserving servants of the club. If someone wants to sponsor a stand,
then it can become the 'Asda Harry Potts stand', the 'Harry Potts stand sponsored by
Asda', or whatever is appropriate. Sponsors come and go, but the great names should live
for ever.)
Eventually, time to go into the hospitality suite, to meet a small
but welcoming band of London Clarets (thanks, chaps). I don't propose to review the match,
for all the obvious reasons, but I will review the facilities. Terraces are old hat, seats
commonplace, but I have never in all my years penetrated a hospitality suite.
The first thing to strike one is the spaciousness, followed closely
by the cost of around 5,000 square yards of heavy-duty carpet. The bars stretch for most
of the rear wall, and a vast picture window the length of the pitch with a bit over. The
area is then divided by portable screens or partitions into whatever sized areas are
required for each sponsor. The arrangement illustrated one of many stupidities of the laws
around football: no alcohol in sight of the pitch. The partitions are supposed to prevent
the bar being visible from the pitch (or of course vice versa) so, for much of the match,
a significant minority of viewers – that word seems more appropriate somehow –
were draped around the front of the screens, their pint glasses stretched behind them at
arms length.
You can of course get access to the outside seating areas, but for
me the point was to enjoy the hospitality from inside. It proved a weird feeling, a bit
like the world's largest landscape format camera, or an infinitely giant cinema screen.
The actual view of the play was excellent and I did not feel nearly as cut off from it as
I had expected. Indeed, in some ways, it enhanced the spectacle. The crowd reaction was
still palpable and, also contrary to what I had expected, the hospitality crowd was not a
bunch of champers-swilling nellies but was just as articulate and a lot easier to hear.
Outdoors is still preferable, perhaps, but indoor viewing of this quality has a lot to
commend it.
