I'm not knocking Ray Simpson's 'Clarets Collection'. It's a
fine gallery of the good, the bad and the downright indifferent. But what we remember of
those Burnley vets is not always to be found in the main events; the glorious triumphs and
hideous failures. Sometimes what remains is blatantly idiosyncratic. Take Willie Irvine,
for example. During the mid-sixties, my estimation of him steadily rose. I studied his
goalscoring from afar like share values. I only saw him play once for Burnley. That was on
the tele in September 1966. He scored at the Stretford End, nodding in Lochhead's
knock-back. Certainly, Willie was up there with my vintage Clarets. But that's not the
point. My memories of Willie are tangled up with someone much more obscure; Baz. Baz was a
college acquaintance. A renaissance man from Preston. The connection came about in this
way. In 1968, Willie went west to Deepdale. There, he became the new love of Baz's stunted
life (although, Baz never really renounced his first love, drink). 'Fucking excellent' was
Baz's considered opinion of Willie. It was an opinion which he liked to share. Baz would
regularly lurch into girls' rooms, usually clasping a small tin of coffee, as if it was a
swipe card. There, he would reverentially announce Willie's fucking excellence, usually
just prior to collapsing on their beds in a stupefied state. Baz saw himself as Willie's
publicist. A down-at-the-heel Max Clifford. When he could be arsed to attend, Baz had no
qualms about interrupting lecturers, who might be deeply immersed in some labyrinthine
philosophical argument. "Forget that," Baz would growl. "I want you to tell
me how fucking excellent Willie Irvine is". A purely rhetorical device. Baz knew
exactly how fucking excellent Willie was. But to be fair, Baz would always help out the
bemused staff. And so it came to pass that Willie Irvine became more widely known at our
college than Ho Chi Minh. Once, I helped eject him (Baz that is, Ho could have stayed)
from some girl's room. The next morning we found the sprayed riposte, "Willie Irvine
is so fucking excellent, it's untrue." Tracing the culprit didn't tax the college's
detection skills too greatly. Baz once surprised us by joining a London-bound
demonstration against the Vietnam War. This seemed a new departure for him. And then we
twigged. Preston were at Chelsea in a FA Cup replay. We felt for the poor sod who was
unlucky enough to be seated next to him on that ten hour round trip. In fairness, Willie
gave Baz a certain coherence that he otherwise lacked. Because once Willie's star had
fallen at Deepdale, Baz became increasingly deranged. With the aid of four packs of Spar's
finest butter, he embossed upon our kitchen wall, "If Typhoo put the T in Britain,
who put the cunt in Scunthorpe?"
After that, I lost touch with both Willie and Baz. Then two
years later, by chance, I happened upon Willie at the Goldstone Ground. Here, he was
helping Kit Napier power Brighton's 1971/72 promotion bid. He had acquired these colossal
shorts. They could have easily accommodated half the team. There was even room for Baz.
But Baz was nowhere to be seen. Willie hadn't looked too 'fucking excellent' on this day,
but still nicked a vital goal. His hair was a mistake, though. It was a straggly mess. He
looked like a waif from 'Oliver'. In the early sixties, he had this short, sharp cut. It
bristled with intent. No surprise about the goals drying up, then, as shaggydom descended.
Reversal of the Samson syndrome, I reckoned.
Tim Quelch
February-March 1997
