This was the season of the Oil Crisis, the year in which we
paid the bill for US pro-Zionism. Remember the scramble for petrol, the shivering power
cuts and the three-day week? It did for Ted Heath. It almost did for a number of small
clubs, too. Floodlit games were only permissible if clubs provided their own generators
(Burnley bought their own at a cost of £30,000). With many clubs having to play midweek
fixtures during daylight hours, attendances plummeted. This was particularly hard on the
small clubs. For example, struggling Rochdale only attracted 450 spectators to their Third
Division game with Cambridge in February.
But it wasn't just the power cuts which cast the only gloomy shadow over the season.
England's elimination from the World Cup finals saw to that. It was the first time that
they had failed to qualify for the final stages and it brought Alf Ramsey’s reign to
an end. The warning sign had been evident ever since West Germany's masterly victory (1-3)
at Wembley in 1972. I was not unduly depressed, though. I, like many others, regard
England's success as no more than a bonus. For me, club always comes a long way before
country.
I remember the 1973/74 season for another reason. It marked the beginning of my
‘career’, for want of a better term. In July 1973 I began work in a Lancashire
cotton town. Frequently, I would be called out late at night to try to assist someone with
a serious mental illness. Typically, they would be holed up in a spartan flat in one of
those sprawling, faceless council housing developments. Broken glass usually littered the
dimly lit passageways. The stairwells invariably reeked of urine. Once inside the flat,
more often than not, there would be just the two of us. I would be perched on the edge of
some ragged chair, huddled in my great coat, my eyes pricking with fatigue, not sure what
I could best do. He or she would be stomping about, oblivious to the cold and the hour,
their manic energy firing their system. No other sound would be heard other than their
desperate ramblings and the litter rustling on the windy walkways. In these ‘concrete
jungles’, fear and isolation thrived. It was like 'A Clockwork Orange'. And I was
pretty hopeless in dealing with all that went with it. I blamed those herring bone flares
of mine. They simply oozed incompetence. I’ve still got them. As a mark of respect.
Well, uselessness like that deserves to be commemorated. Anyway, it was a small wonder
that I invested more and more in football during that year.
For a while this seemed to be quite a sound investment. Up until Christmas, Burnley
valiantly tracked Leeds' hot pace. Their emerging talent (Hankin, Flynn) as well as their
more established stars (Dobson, James, Newton, Fletcher, Stevenson) were surveyed in the
'quality' Sunday press. The crowds returned. Over 40,000 crammed into the three-sided
ground (The Bob Lord Stand was under construction) for the scoreless draw with unbeaten
leaders Leeds on November 10th. Also, 31,000 attended for the draw with struggling
Manchester United (0-0). They were en route for the Second Division.
Even the worsening economic and industrial crises couldn't daunt the resurgent
enthusiasm. Christmas was crowned with a glorious Boxing Day victory over Liverpool (2-1),
with teenage colossus Ray Hankin scrambling in a late winner. But despite a successful FA
Cup run, assisted by some fortuitous pairings, league form dipped alarmingly in the New
Year. After Liverpool were overcome in the Boxing Day mud, Burnley failed to register a
further win until March 16th, when Everton were defeated by an improbably late three-goal
riposte. And so I went to Leeds, on the following Saturday, only tentatively expectant of
a good time.
Leeds were very big, that year. They seemed to be running away with the First Division
championship. They didn't lose a league game until February 23rd, when Stoke beat them 3-2
at the Victoria Ground. They had experienced a hiccup in the FA Cup, though, when Second
Division Bristol City won the 5th Round replay at Elland Road (1-0). Despite that, Leeds
had only succumbed to Stoke and Liverpool in the League by the time that Burnley were due
to play them. Bristol aside, they were unbeaten at home. The prospects weren’t
exactly appealing.
Leeds were still in their prime. They still had well-established stars like Bremner,
Clarke, Madeley, Reaney, Cherry, Hunter, Jones and Lorimer. The absence of Eddie Gray and
Johnny Giles from the team for a large part of the season had been hardly felt. Their
defence had been enhanced by the signing of the composed but tough Scots centre-half
Gordon McQueen. He’d replaced Jackie Charlton, who had retired. Although Revie's
Leeds had been dubbed the 'nearly men', they had still managed to win all three major
domestic trophies and had enjoyed UEFA (Inter-Cities Fairs Cup) success.
Arguably, though, Leeds’ playing strength should have secured more silverware. At
their best, they were contemptuously destructive, as Southampton would grudgingly concede,
after the 7-0 drubbing in 1972. It was claimed that Revie's anxious superstitions
unsettled them when the tensions mounted. However, Revie seemed to have few qualms about
Burnley. He seemed fairly dismissive about their chances in an interview given prior to
the game.
Perhaps out of complacency, Revie’s programme notes made no reference to the
Clarets. He seemed entirely preoccupied with the spectre of crowd trouble. This had been
stoked up following an infamous pitch invasion during the Newcastle-Nottingham Forest FA
Cup quarter final. This game, which Newcastle won 4-3, had to be replayed at a neutral
venue. It is interesting to reflect what might have happened had the tie been awarded to
Forest. Anyway, perhaps Revie was preparing a sales pitch for the England job? In July, he
would begin his controversial period in charge of the national side.
Revie said in his notes, "The scenes we saw on television and in our papers would
have been more at home in South America or in some European countries where the Latin
temperament is always bubbling just below fever pitch." That's the way, Don, get your
stereotypes out for the lads.
"We saw vivid pictures of police with dogs trying to clear the pitch, of mindless
hooligans held down by the police as they tried to change the course of football justice
(after the dismissal of Newcastle's Pat Howard). Two seasons ago, Leeds United witnessed a
minor crowd invasion when around 20 fans ran onto the pitch to protest at the decision
which gave West Bromwich a goal in an absolutely vital First Division match. As a result,
we were heavily fined and our ground was closed. Looking back, I think that decision by
the FA helped football for it showed that the game was not to be destroyed and cheapened
by mob rule and the insidious behaviour of a mindless minority." I think my
creepometer is beginning to crackle.
Don ended his sermon by urging the Leeds faithful to "cut out the obscene chanting
and bad language, to turn the other cheek under provocation from visiting fans." What
price 'pots and kettles'?
Tiring of this drivel, I turned to the ‘today’s visitors column’. I
don't know why I bothered. It was the usual mixture of bland compliments and uninformative
pap. For example, (Burnley are) "One of the First Division's most attractive and
entertaining sides, they have re-established themselves back in Division One in fine style
this season... Scotsman Thomson had to wait some time before establishing a place in the
side. Now he forms a fine partnership in the centre of the defence with Waldron... Keith
Newton was signed on a free transfer and has done remarkably well now in his second season
with the Claret and Blues." And so it goes on and on and on.
I’ve often thought I could do better when it comes to ‘Pen Pics’. So,
perhaps I should put my money where my mouth is. OK, so here goes.
Goalkeeper: Alan Stevenson. Signed from Chesterfield. An England Under-23
international. A good shot stopper. Generally reliable, but his slight physique sometimes
disadvantages him in a crowded goalmouth. Not always assured on crosses. Looks too
straight to be true. Talented table tennis player.
Right full-back: Peter Noble. Signed from Swindon. Converted from a striker to fill the
full back berth, following Mick Docherty's injury. A clever footballer, neat and assured,
who has adjusted to his new role brilliantly. Resolute in the tackle. Incisive passer.
Strong on the ball. Competitive in the air. Not so much follically challenged as
follically wiped out. Exponent of the 'totally useless baldy disguise kit', patented by a
certain R Charlton. and one R E Nesbit. You know the one, comprising the sweep of a
solitary hair from one ear to the other. Called 'Uwe' by his devotees after Uwe Seeler,
the former West German international.
Left full-back: Keith Newton. Signed on a free transfer from Everton. England
international. A class act. Not pacey. In fact, quite slow now, but has excellent
positional sense. Composed under pressure, preferring to play the ball out of defence.
Exudes confidence. Rarely wastes the ball and links up well with Leighton James. Tall. Can
play in the centre of the defence. Teeth like Stonehenge. Hair like straw. Like Klaus
Kinski but nicer.
Centre-back: Jim Thomson. Signed from Chelsea. Honest, loyal, committed. Strong in the
tackle but a bit of a bollard. Arrows on his chest invite forwards to pass either side.
Malcolm MacDonald would cruelly expose Jim's lack of pace on the following Saturday. Might
have been a ship's engineer had he not become a footballer.
Centre-back: Colin Waldron. Signed from Chelsea. A combative centre-half with more pace
than Jim Thomson (Not hard. Jim had two gears: ‘dead slow’ and, er,
‘dead’). Scores important goals. Opened a restaurant with ex-Bury colleague
Colin Bell. Favourite food? Why steak, of course. But not your usual Berni Inn steak.
Colin’s choice was ‘steak au poivre’. Way above the riff raff was Colin.
Impossibly blond.
Midfield: Martin Dobson. Signed from Bolton. England international. A roving turret.
Elegant but strong player. Not easily dispossessed. Precise with his passing. Strong in
the air. Highly adaptable. Cool under pressure. Good finisher. Worth at least a new stand.
Hates gardening.
Midfield: Doug Collins. Signed from Grimsby. Slowish but energetic. A brilliant
distributor of the ball. Unlocks defences with shrewd passes. Works well with James. Crap
finisher. In front of goal credits gravity with preposterous powers.
Midfield: Geoff Nulty. Signed from Stoke. A scouser. Vastly under-rated link man.
Strong, determined and industrious. Good at helping out in defence and at scoring vital
goals. A fine header of the ball. Does the simple things well like an Open University
degree.
Attack: Paul Fletcher. Signed from Bolton. England Under-23 international. Mobile and
pacey. Shoots well with both feet and is particularly good in the air. Leading scorer for
the club. Plays chess.
Attack: Frank Casper. Signed from Rotherham. Two-footed. A skilful forward, creates and
scores goals with equal facility. Sweet right foot. First goal for the club was hailed as
a 'Rasper from Casper'.
Attack: Leighton James. Graduated from Youth Team. Welsh international. Left-winger
with blistering pace. Accurate crosser. Sets up over half of Burnley's goals. Scores as
well as makes goals. Has a fierce left foot shot. As short sighted as a bat.
Radar-controlled.
Now, it might be OK for me to take the piss a little. Sorry Jim and apologies to anyone
else who is a little miffed by this. But don't run away with the idea that it's open
season here. Any criticisms of my heroes will be firmly rebuffed. 'Jim Thomson? Fine
player. Magnificent positional sense. Lets his head do the running. Coming forward, he's
like Franz Beckenbauer. Throbs like a Harley at full bore. Truly formidable. The total
footballer.'
And while we're back on the subject of player profiles, can someone tell me why dross
about footballers' likes and dislikes sticks in the mind, while the really important stuff
of life disappears from view? I can still remember who drove a Capri, whose wife was a
hairdresser, who had been to Malaga and who’d been to Ibiza. When it came to TV
programmes, I can still make a stab at who liked 'The Persuaders' and who preferred
'McMillan and Wife'. But did someone really have a wife called ‘Scampi’ and did
they really have a child called ‘Chicken in the basket’? Possibly not, but
it’s so easy to confuse convenience cuisine with children. Wives, I can’t
account for. Nevertheless, I’m rock solid certain on one thing. I distinctly remember
Martin Dobson once saying that he hated gardening. Now, this 'once' was over a quarter of
a century ago! So what is it with the brain? When it comes to birthdays, anniversaries,
commemorative and special occasions, hospital and school appointments, shopping lists,
telephone, digipad and pin numbers, can you rely on your brain to do the bizz? Can you
hell!
Anyway, let me tell you about my theory. I reckon there's a panel of scrutineers at
work in the brain. It's a bit like Room 101 in reverse. So when something of practical
value or personal importance turns up on the sensory channels, it gets binned. However,
present the panel with something like 'The Partridge Family', Pearl Carr and Teddy
Johnson's 'Sing Little Birdie Sing' or Vesta Curries and we're immediately talking
posterity big-time. Let's face it, God didn't put us on the earth so we could memorise the
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. No, he put us here so that we can remember every single
compere of the Golden Shot, while not having a bloody clue where we've left our car keys.
Going back to March '74; as kick-off approached, Wings' 'Jet' came over the PA. I've
never been much of a Macca fan, even in his Beatles days. His stuff seems a bit thin and
honeyed. None more so than 'Mull of dire Kintyre'. I don't know why Jet should be stamped
on this game. They played other sounds, of course. God knows what. Some dreadful pap from
the likes of the Bay City Rollers, Paper Lace or Suzi Quatro, I expect. But just 'Jet'
remains from the day.
Work had been crappier than usual in the week before the game. I reckoned I needed a
bit of a lift. So as the players came out I muttered exactly what I required of them.
Amazingly, it seemed as if my message had got through. Burnley started really brightly,
attacking the Scratching Shed end in the spring sunshine. In the first fifteen minutes
they gave more than they got. They looked sharp and nimble, finding one another with
quick, precise passes. James was giving Leeds full-back Reaney a hard time. Just after the
quarter hour mark, Reaney fouled James as he tried to break through on the left. Doug
Collins floated the resulting free-kick into the Leeds area. Hunter fluffed the clearance,
allowing Casper to head back across Leeds' goal area. In nipped Fletcher to score from
close range.
I punched the air with exultation, oblivious to the sour faces around me. After all,
Don had told them to turn the other cheek. I was sure that they would. All the goal seemed
to do was to spur Leeds forward with more aggressive determination. Roared on by their
incensed crowd, they threatened to score with each attack. Somehow they were repelled.
That is, until six minutes from half-time. A left-wing corner, taken by Bremner, was
half-cleared by Noble and Clarke clattered in, his header just crossing the
heavily-defended goal-line. The place seemed to tremble with the power of their crowd. I
expected the worst. Having milked my earlier moment of glory, I was now made to pay. I
became totally surrounded by a flurry of two-fingered gestures. I affected the implacable,
slightly disdainful look but it looked as if serious suffering was now on the menu.
What happened next threw me entirely. Almost directly from kick-off, Noble made
progress on the right. His centre was contested by Nulty and McQueen; the ball flicking
off both their heads into the path of Fletcher, who had his back to goal. Despite Hunter's
close attention, Fletcher performed a perfect bicycle kick. The ball flew past goalkeeper
Harvey in a blur.
For a split second there was silence. Then I realised what had happened. Cue delirium.
This was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The natives were too stunned to react. So, in my
comradely way, I suggested, "You lot must feel privileged to have seen that." I
had to admit that Don had these lads better trained than I first thought.
Perhaps I should explain something here. I'm not always as wound up as this. It was the
'big club' syndrome which was responsible. I've no problem with the big club fans who have
hacked it through the hard times. It's the success groupies that get me. The ones who
indulge their flaccid egos by tagging onto the main event. I guessed there were more than
a few on show that afternoon. I certainly hoped so. Do I not love that odour of crushed
invincibility on those who deodorise with hubris.
Well, the second half was a breeze. After 62 minutes, Dobson dispossessed Madeley in
midfield. The ball was transferred quickly from Dobson to Casper to Fletcher and thence to
Collins on the right, who chipped Harvey exquisitely.
Doug, I take it all back. Your mastery of gravitational forces was unsurpassed on that
afternoon. With twenty minutes remaining, the Clarets really rubbed it in. Collins was
instrumental again, floating a right wing free-kick high across Leeds' area for Waldron to
head back. Nulty did the rest, positioned on all fours on the goal-line. This was sublime.
Waldron and Nulty thought so, too, standing in front of the massed bank of Leeds fans with
their arms aloft; totally unconcerned at the surge which was coming their way. Today, they
would have been stopped. But then, it was a moment of total domination. One which had to
be savoured.
There had been a lot of bad feeling off the pitch. Burnley's Chairman Bob Lord and his
Leeds' counterpart Manny Cousins had had this big row. It followed Lord's remarks, made at
a dinner in March 1973. Lord claimed that, "We have to stand up against a move to get
soccer on the cheap by the Jews who run television." Although Lord subsequently
apologised, his remarks understandably incensed others, particularly Cousins, who was a
Jew. Cousins reacted by banning Lord from the Elland Road director's box. In turn, Bob
Lord didn't allow anyone from the club to go to the game, except the team, manager and
physio.
There was terrible ill-feeling on the pitch, too. At least, that was the view of one
Burnley player. He reportedly said, "Don Revie used to wind the Leeds players up to
the point where they would put intense pressure on the ref so that they could manipulate
him. As we were coming down the tunnel we got a kick or an elbow. Throughout the game we
got comments like, 'If you want to play at Hillsborough, keep away or I'll break your
leg!' But as professionals we just got on with it. Unfortunately, we beat them too well
and gave them a real hammering. Then Norman Hunter snapped Frank Casper's cruciate. I
always think that that moment marked the demise of BFC. In the semi-final of the Cup, got
a great team, hammering Leeds. Then it all collapsed."
My timing of the crucial turning point was different. I placed it almost exactly a year
later, after Burnley's defeat at West Ham.
I suppose that the really pathetic thing about my euphoria was that it counted for so
little. Leeds went onto win the Championship. Burnley failed to qualify for Europe. And on
the following Saturday, they lost a match of immeasurably greater significance, an FA Cup
semi-final against Newcastle. But this is a day that for me will remain forever. It was my
'Dog Day Afternoon'.
On returning home, my family gave me a wide berth, until I could manage something more
conversational than a hissed, "Yes!" Why is it that women are constitutionally
more sensible than men? Surely it is not sexist to acknowledge real differences between
us. To think that the New Testament refers to the existence of three wise men. One would
be pushing things, surely?
