A night out with Barry and Sonia
or: I'll get me coat
The
evening got off to a less than promising start. Our meeting pub, the Shakespeare’s
Head on Kingsway, was jammed, hot and unpleasant. It was a relief when we crossed the road
into the cooler surroundings of the New Connaught Rooms, already influenced by several
beers.
The occasion was the 25th Anniversary
Dinner of the Association of Provincial Football Supporters’ Clubs in London, which
long-winded title is generally shortened to the unlovely acronym of APFSCIL. Such dinners
have been held more or less annually in the past at the Kennington Oval, but for this
special celebration we had moved upmarket and into the heart of London. These functions
are never less than well attended by the London Clarets, who normally muster one of the
largest followings, as we did here. Included among this number where two special guests:
Barry and Sonia Kilby. Barry we already knew, as he had joined us before, at last
summer’s AGM and after the December Parliamentary visit. Sonia, however, was an
unknown quantity.
Coat deposited, I ambled upstairs, looking for
the Kilbys. I had a headful of questions to ask them, about the team, Ternent, the
official website and how the fans might get more involved. Last time, Barry had taken me
to task for advocating a defensive approach at Derby after spending the whole season
complaining that we didn’t attack, but I felt I was on pretty safe ground this time.
I hadn’t said anything controversial for ages, and I’d even decided to start
liking our manager. Drinks were purchased – how could they possibly charge sixteen
quid for four pints and two shorts, but at least it was Whitto’s round – prey
sited, zoomed in on, hand extended, "Barry! And this must be Sonia!"
"I’ve got a bone to pick with
you," were Sonia’s first words.
To cut to the chase, Mrs Kilby was less than
happy with my description of her husband’s coat. I foundered. What coat? Little by
little the story fell into place. Back on Boxing Day, we’d officially opened Jimmy
McIlroy’s stand, and Barry had taken the pitch to preside over the proceedings,
wearing a coat which was best described as large, brown and very, very shaggy. I had
reported on the game, and in passing said:
"The only thing I could find to criticise
is Barry Kilby's appalling shaggy brown coat which he wore on the pitch. Perhaps it was a
Christmas present and he felt obliged to wear it."
Barry had always told me that he was an avid
reader of the reports on the London Clarets site, and here was the proof. This throwaway
remark, long forgotten by me, had apparently cut him to the quick. "He’s not
worn it since," Sonia went on. Barry looked hurt. It transpired that, far from being
an unwanted gift or even the consequence of a gentleman’s wager, said coat was a
highly prized item in the Kilby household, having cost the extraordinary sum of £1,800.
Further, the coat was made of llama hair. And not just any old llamas, no, but genuine
100% Peruvian llamas. Not adult llamas either; for this coat, only the purest, softest,
finest baby llama hair was good enough. Imagine how many baby llamas it had taken to make
it. Now this coat was lying unloved and neglected at the bottom of the Kilby wardrobe, not
having seen the light of day for months, however cold the weather got and however hard the
wind blew. I duly and profoundly apologised. The last chairman would probably have got his
solicitors to send me a letter.
I don’t quite recall how we got from this
stage to the next, but somewhere along the way as the beer gave way to wine and the great
coat debate rumbled on, a deal was struck. In the event of our promotion, I was challenged
to wear the coat for the first game back in the first division. I readily assented. Barry
reminded the gathering that this was always one of the hottest days of the year, and hoped
for a long journey. So, if you find me in August sweating under a brown South American
carpet as the mercury strikes 90 on the train to Blackburn, at least now you’ll know
why.
This was no idle promise, as this was made at a
time when it just looked like automatic promotion was on. Not so now. However, I am a
believer in destiny, and I now know that it is my fate to wear that coat at the head of
the Nationwide League. It will be done.
As may be gathered from the above, Barry Kilby
is not your ordinary Chairman. It’s been hard for people like me, who spent much of
the previous decade criticising the then incumbent and sending letters straight to his
waste paper bin, to adjust, but he really does seem to be the genuine article: a true
Burnley supporter who seized his opportunity to lead the club and with the business sense
to make a go of it. We really landed on our feet there.
Although it sounds daft in retrospect, one worry
that I and I know others had was what Sonia Kilby would make of us all. I’d wondered
if she’d find a night of Burnley chat utterly dull. Needn’t have worried. Sonia
turns out to be every bit as Clarets mad as her husband, having even apparently got into
trouble in one or two director’s boxes for being over-vociferous. In fact, the only
thing I could say against her is that her favourite player is Graham Branch.
Quote of the evening. Sonia to Barry: "I
thought you were an anorak until I met this lot."
The evening progressed merrily and my list of
probing questions vanished from my mind amidst an ocean of Burnley chat. Only the food was
unspeakable. Thankfully, London Clarets Chairman Cozzo had his wits about him and was able
to solicit various titbits, which he may pass on. The only other piece of information I
can remember eliciting is that Barry is a serious tie enthusiast, and the cupboards of
Chateau Kilby are full to bursting with attractive silk neckwear. (For the record, while
we’re on a sartorial digression, can I just note that I thought Barry’s suit was
excellent, stylish and sharp, and accompanied by a very smart tie. No hint of llama here.)
Peter Pike, MP for Burnley and London Clarets
Honorary President, shouldn’t be forgotten. Peter is a regular at these dos as our
guest, but this time was called off the subs bench at the eleventh hour after the main
speaker let us down. No points for Tony Banks! Peter did a sterling job at such short
notice, the only downside being that he had to sit at the top table and couldn’t have
a drink until afterwards.
Eventually we spilled out into the night and
made slow progress home, Barry and Sonia off to their sumptuous London flat (it’s
always been my ambition to write for Hello magazine) and the rest of us to undertake vague
tube and taxi journeys. Finally crashed headlong into the arms of Morpheus at 2.30,
awaking less than five hours later on the grounds of feeling simply too ill to sleep any
longer.
The next morning at Liverpool Street, at the
uncustomarily late hour of 11.45, you could tell the people who’d been there last
night. Friends, we were struggling. The fact that we were able to open our eyes and walk
without support was considered a sign of better times to come, but we were trying not to
get too ambitious in our plans. I was leaking pure alcohol from my forehead. Although
we’d quaffed sizeable amounts, we are drinkers of some experience, and we
couldn’t quite put our fingers on what it might be that made us feel so ill.
And then we remembered the whisky.
When the raffle came, despite complaining that
Barry always, always won these things (Barry, have you read that chris waddle book yet?),
it was Sonia who had to go up to claim a prize. The bounty in question was a bottle of
Laphroig whisky. Sonia immediately commented, "I’m not carrying this home,"
and disappeared, returning a couple of minutes later with a tray full of empty wine
glasses. She then proceeded to fill these with ample measures of the whisky and insist we
get them down ourselves. Now, I’ve been known to have the odd drop of the stuff, but
most of our lot never drink whisky, especially not on top of beer and wine. Suddenly the
mystery of our next day condition was solved. I reckon that took two pints off my normal
pre-match ritual alone.
So there you have part of the story of our night
out with Barry and Sonia. Doubtless lots I’ve forgotten, but if I remembered more it
would be because I’d drunk less and then there’d be less worth remembering, if
you see what I mean. Impossible to come away from it thinking anything other than that the
club is in the right hands. It was a night for optimism. Now I just have to wait until
August to do my Fozzie Bear impersonation.
Firmo
March 2000
Llama links - Photos from this night
The Day of the Llama at Bolton, August 2000 - page 1, page 2, page 3 and page 4
The full story of the llama coat
Coat photos from the AGM page 1, page 2, page 3, page
4 and page 5
The Oxford match report that started it all
