OK, I admit it. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool
pessimist. I’m not sure whether this is the cause or effect of following Burnley over
the last 22 years. But in truth, my pessimism takes two forms: a full-blown sort (always a
close and trusted companion) and a calculating kind. I haven’t called much on the
latter this season. After all, it’s purely a ploy to sucker fate into dealing me and
my favourite causes, a better hand. Well, you know how fate preys on the green shoots of
hope. Like a bloody swarm of locusts. Look at our Easter results last year, after all the
optimism generated at Brentford and Walsall. Following the 5-0 mugging by the Adams
family, I vowed never to contemplate hope again.
Maybe having no expectations is to be expected. But I have something
else to confess. I was actually disappointed that the New Year storms didn’t prevent
the Gillingham game. Well, I was quite happy going through my Christmas CD haul –
Erykah Badu, Spiritualized, Prodigy, Eels and Iggy and The Stooges. The fire was burning
brightly and the coffee tasted good. The fierce wind was rumbling in the stack. It would
be a crap showing and I would come back miserable. What did I have to go out for? I knew
it was no good, though. I’d only spend the afternoon padding back and forth to the TV
for some Ceefax succour. I wouldn’t settle. Besides, I’d told Andrew I would go.
Sometimes I think I should replace my brain with a random
decision-making machine. At least I could expect a few good outcomes, that way. Going to
Gillingham was another bad decision, of course. It wasn’t that they played that
badly. Not like they did in the Wycombe (’96 and ’97), Notts County (’95)
and Rotherham (’97) debacles. Some of their approach work wasn’t bad, but there
was no cutting edge without Creaney and the defence was as crap as ever. Gillingham were
gifted both goals by powderpuff defending. The first was particularly diabolical. Talk
about ‘defending awful against no attackers’ (Emlyn Hughes). Whatever do they do
in training? My guess is that a tackle at Gawthorpe is as rare as an Osprey. Anyway,
you’ll be delighted to know that my twin tabbies have offered to play in central
defence. They’re utterly fed up at being kicked on Lee Howey’s account. Chris is
said to be thinking it over, but he doubts whether Frank will stump up the juggernaut of
Gourmet Dinner that would secure their services. I never give them any, see. It’s not
just because I’m a mean bastard, it’s just that I like to keep my pets in touch
with Third World issues.
Josef Masopust once likened his midfield role for Dukla Prague and
Czechoslovakia to ‘playing the violin and doing the washing up’. Playing
midfield for Burnley must be like attempting to unblock the U-bend. And good approach work
won’t save them. They produce too few killer balls. Substitute Paul Smith supplied
one, but, alas, it glanced off Cooke’s forehead. While Vinnicombe and Williams
centred with more hope than accuracy, Gillingham made much more of their limited
possession. Their crosses were consistently dangerous and Howey and Moore looked
uncomfortable in the air. They were as bad on the ground. In fact, the only place where
they’ll look comfortable is beneath it.
It’s difficult to know what Waddle can do. He has no money to
buy. His defenders are not up to it, either individually or as a unit. As the Robins’
brilliant flankman Greg Goodridge showed, they cannot cope with nimble attackers who are
prepared to run at them and ping quick passes around. Having said that, Harrison has
turned in a series of doggedly committed performances and Ford has become a good link man.
Waddle is short of effective playmakers, too. He seems reluctant to
play himself now, although he and the fitful Weller remain as the most likely Clarets to
really hurt the opposition. Matthew is no good in a scrap and doesn’t travel too
well, either. Smith is frequently crocked (and on his way out?). Eyres was discarded
prematurely (no, his transfer was bad business, Chris). The front two can’t score
without good service. Neither Cooke nor Barnes can take defenders on where it matters.
On their day Burnley can play, of course. They looked a good side in
the second half against Northampton (helped by the visitor’s loss of a key defender).
They even looked a classy one in the first half at Ashton Gate. They also shook off a
dreadful opening fifteen minutes at Fulham, to dominate the game, notably in the second
period. But while they continue to ship goals as carelessly as they’ve done all
season, they’re not going anywhere but down.
Before the game I listened to the Gills manager Tony Pulis on a
local radio station. He was preparing his alibi; cataloguing his side’s injuries,
suspensions, clutching at passing clichés. You know the sort of thing. But he did stop to
predict that Burnley would enjoy a better second half to the season. He considered them to
be in a ‘false position’, remembering how they hammered his lot 5-1 last year. I
know he wasn’t being patronising but it pissed me off. This is a club that nearly
became extinct three years ago. Now they were patting us on the head. Of course, it was
sour grapes. Despite their in-out form this year, the Gills’ programme bubbled with
optimism. How sad was the contrast with the downbeat mood of our fanzine, 'Kicker
Conspiracy'. The editorial was particularly despairing. Now, it appears to be us
who’ve got the cash problems and mounting ones, to boot, although Frank was
dispelling rumours of the bank’s disquiet. Nevertheless, the Boxing Day AGM
didn’t seem to reassure. Indeed, it was castigated as a shambles in the local rag. As
I read all about this, the Kent wind seemed to blow even colder.
On the return journey, I couldn’t bear to put up with
Mellor’s talk-show. I don’t know about you, but all these bleeding hearts from
Arsenal, Everton, Newcastle and Spurs really irk me. They haven’t got a bloody clue
when it comes to suffering. It was the same when I saw the film version of 'Fever Pitch'.
Just a downright indulgence for over-indemnified tossers. Like Dirk Bogarde staked out in
'Modesty Blaise', affecting dehydration and calling pathetically for champagne. If there
was any justice there would be summary indictments for these disappointed success
groupies. Like an instant ten year remand to Belle Vue or Boothferry Park. Christ, it
might also be Turf Moor at this rate. Still, we’d give them a warm welcome,
wouldn’t we?
Shunning the radio, I played my latest home compilation. It all
seemed to fit. First, there was Garbage’s 'Only Happy When It Rains' (yes, very
probably). Then there was Placebo’s 'Bruise Pristine' (what do you mean,
‘pristine’?) and Therapy?’s 'Misery' (quite). But suddenly the sullen mood
was interrupted by Chumbawamba’s 'Tubthumping.' "I get knocked down but I get up
again. Nothing’s ever going to keep me down." With that, a brilliant shaft of
light emerged from the black, rushing skies, creating a circle of stillness amidst the
rabble of the M25. Out of this celestial light an Orson Welles sort of voice boomed,
"Keep the faith, for the Lord, thy God, is greatly pleased with his anointed son, who
is known as Chris. It is written that he shall smite the turnips from Watford and lo,
there will be great rejoicing in the hills of the North!" As if…
