And so our date with destiny dawns. All timings are
approximate.
7.00 I am jerked from a sleep troubled with
vague dreams by the alarm. Feel terrible. Begin going through the motions of preparation.
7.30 Should be getting dressed, but cannot
resist a final check of e-mails. Log on and find a fellow Claret from Birmingham (Jo),
without a ticket for Scunthorpe but off to Turf Moor to watch it on the screen.
8.00 Get dressed. In solidarity with Wrexham,
try to find the most Welsh item of clothing I have. Settle on a Gorki's Zygotic Mynci
T-shirt. Dust off a little worn jacket commonly known as the 'potato sack': oatmeal
coloured, unstructured, shrunk in the wash, falling apart. I try to wear this once a
season, and have neglected to so far in 1999/2000. Can't recall if it's supposed to be
lucky or not. Also secrete around my person the essentials of a football trip: money,
phone, camera, inhaler, map of Scunthorpe in my back pocket with the four CAMRA Good Beer
Guide listed pubs marked. I wanted to take a tape recorder to capture some impressions of
the season on the way back, but the potato sack's pockets are inadequate, so that plan is
ditched. I also fillet the wallet for the essentials and leave the rest. Proudly attach
the London Clarets badge (away version) to complete my attire.
8.10 Leave for the tube ten minutes later than
I'd have liked. Nothing about Burnley in the paper I buy. The tube down to King's Cross is
uncertain, halting. Stops in tunnels are frustrating, although of course I always allow
for this.
8.45 Arrive at King's Cross. As I emerge from
the tube, I am beeped with a message from Nic asking whether I intended leaving my wallet
at home. A number of our party are already there. I am travelling with a minority on the
9.10 train, forming the advanced drinking party. Most will travel on the 9.30. So many of
us want to go that the original train was full, so we had to book these extra seats.
Everyone seems quite tense. I normally buy food and fluids, but for some reason I seem to
be stuck to the spot on which I stand and don't get round to doing it. John is wearing a
frayed denim jacket, in tribute to Mitchell Thomas' seminal Football Focus appearance
before the Coventry game. Phil is wearing the oldest Burnley shirt I have ever seen, from
which the sponsor's lettering is peeling off.
9.10 The train leaves, with a dozen of us on
board. We are picking up three more at Stevenage. We have heard of delays that may be
caused due to emergency engineering work, so we shall just have to see what happens. Our
connection at Doncaster is a tight one, and any delay means we will miss it.
9.30 The train glides to a gentle halt just
north of Welwyn Garden City. There it stays for the next 25 minutes. As we look at nothing
out of the window I send a text message to Rob, a Welsh-based Claret who is going to
Wrexham v Gillingham and has promised to supply updates on the score.
10.30 We are now running between 30 and 35
minutes late, with our train at Doncaster thoroughly missed. Paul comes and gives us our
valuable tickets. These are like gold dust. I hope others realise how fortunate we have
been to get them. Two people cancelled last night so we put a message out on Radio
Lancashire offering the spares. The two lucky fastest fellows will meet us in the first
pub. Paul takes our bookings for the play-off games at the same time. He has already
reserved a block of 30 seats in the Harry Potts Longside.
11.25 We arrive in Doncaster half an hour late.
Just as we pull into the station my brother, Lee, rings. He is on Doncaster station. He
was supposed to be on the 9.17 from Manchester, meeting us in the first pub in Scunthorpe,
but they cancel his train from Liverpool, so he is forced into a circuitous route via
Sheffield. One other thing he mentions. In today's Guardian birthdays section (he's had
plenty of time to read the paper) Greame Souness is described as 'a former football
manager'. No need for a correction there!
11.30 The people from the second train, the
9.30, turn up. I mean, what was the point in being on the earlier train if we're not a
pint ahead of them?
11.37 The 11.37 to Scunthorpe would appear to be
running late. I realise by the time we eventually get there I will not have a chance to
eat, so I head to the 'quick snack' station buffet. It's stuck in an early 80's time warp,
but with prices from a few years in the future. I buy the most processed looking thing I
can find - a slice of processed cheese and a slice of processed ham on white processed
bread. It's the worst thing I've ever eaten. The bread sticks to the roof of my mouth. I
remember to give Lee his ticket. Instantly a stranger sidles up and asks if I've got any
spares.
11.50 And we are finally underway to Scunthorpe.
Lee points out that he has been travelling for four hours and has only got as far as
Liverpool to Doncaster. This train is full, and some of our lot get to sit in first class,
including the other John, who resembles an eco-warrier. En route we make a policy decision
to skip the Honest Lawyer, a central Scunthorpe pub, and leave it until after the game. By
this stage I am incredibly tense. Although in retrospect these problems seem minor, at the
time I was convinced that everything was going wrong and it was not to be our day.
12.15 The train goes past Glanford Park…
and then keeps going… and keeps going. Bloody hell, this is a long way out.
12.20 We finally arrive in Scunthorpe. There is
a heavy police presence at the station. They are kind enough to photograph us all
individually, but thankfully they do not attempt to take us direct to the ground, as we
had feared. The serious drinkers dive into the two available cabs without hesitation. As
we cruise through Scunthorpe, I note for the first time that it is a gorgeously warm and
sunny day. My worries begin to ease. Scunthorpe looks lovely too. This is unexpected.
Based on no evidence whatsoever I had anticipated a dour industrial landscape. Here all is
green and leafy. Flowers bloom everywhere. It is a veritable garden city. Perhaps it's
only the name after all. We book the cab from the pub after this one. We seem to have got
a decent cab firm here.
12.25 We're in the pub! We storm into the Queen
Bess in Ashby. Something of a locals' pub and we are initially concerned about the lack of
staff behind the bar, but the pint of Sam Smith's when it comes is perfect. Stood at the
bar, Benny and I let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. My cares fade away. Also relieved
are the two people picking up the spare tickets. We were supposed to be here half an hour
ago. They were thinking we'd not turn up.
12.30 That went down well. Time for pint number
two. We just manage to get them in before the rest arrive, in the extra cabs we asked to
be sent to the station. Apparently while waiting they chatted to the police, who advised
them to go to the Wetherspoon's. Wonder what Wetherspoon's think about that? This pub
miles from the ground is now mobbed with Clarets. The landlord can't believe that in his
quiet saloon he now can't pull them fast enough. Second pint accordingly not as good as
the first, but still acceptable.
12.45 The second pint is taken slower. I'm
determined to hold myself at five before the game for this one. Off to the next pub, a ten
minute walk down Ashby High Street in the sun. On the way we have a serious discussion
about how to allocate play-off tickets if it's Bristol Rovers away and we can't get as
many as we want. We also discuss post New Den escape strategies. We bump into Becko,
Trippo and Fell Walking Pete from the Manchester train, emerging from a butcher's shop for
unexplained reasons.
12.55 Arrive at the Malt Shovel. Not my kind of
place. Rather a food-oriented pub. Families abound, one wearing Scunthorpe shirts, the
Claret and Blue of which is initially confusing. Grim pint of John Smith's had here.
1.20 Out to the cabs. Sterling service. They've
all turned up. Off to the Riveter, passing the Honest Lawyer on the way and noting the
Manchester train trio drinking inside. In the cab, we persuade the driver to pick us up
after the game. We had earlier been told there would be no pick ups from the ground on
police advice, but we arrange a rendezvous at the nearby Berkley Arms. Result.
1.30 Arrive at the Riveter. I think this is a
great name for a pub in a town famous for iron. It's described as being 'close to Safeway
supermarket' and 'near Scunthorpe's old ground'. The two sites are one and the same. The
Safeway is what replaced the Old Showground. I search in vain for some faint resonance
that there was once a football ground here. The Riveter is quiet. It must have been
heaving in the old days. They seem to be doing some work to the pub, and the lights
flicker on and off. The Old Mill Bitter is disappointing, coldness masking its delicate
flavour. Still, Seabrook's crisps are served. I chat to a reader of the website from
Castle Donnington, and also spot Trevor, who's driven up from Portsmouth having got hold
of a ticket on Friday night. The day's fifth pint is forced down ahead of the taxis.
2.15 The taxis arrive. Initially we crawl, but
then magically the traffic clears and we breeze downhill towards the ground. We shout the
walking others as we speed past.
2.25 We arrive at the ground. This must be the
earliest we’ve been at a football ground all season. What on earth do we do next? We
can’t see any pubs about. There doesn’t seem to be anything around here. As our
driver pointed out, we are now technically outside Scunthorpe. He also said that Safeway,
as part of the deal that let them build their supermarket, were responsible for the
construction of Glanford Park. Don’t know if that’s true, but the two are
remarkably similar. You could drive past this without knowing it’s there. It's a flat
and featureless building. The fact that we’re a tad premature is not simply down to
reasons of excitement. We wanted to give ourselves enough time for the half hour walk if
the cabs didn’t turn up. With nothing else to do, we decide we might as well go in.
We amble to the away end, where a policeman checks our tickets. I ask him if he is
checking for forgeries. There have been rumours that some 500 forged tickets are in
circulation. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve never seen a ticket easier to fake.
They don’t possess any security features whatsoever. Any kid with a home computer and
a supply of blue paper could run them off. The policeman replies that he is indeed doing
precisely that. Wouldn’t it have been easier to make the tickets harder to forge, I
ask. You’re telling me, he replies.
2.30 We’re in. First priority is the
toilets, naturally. There is an impressive queue outside the ladies. Do you think when
Glanford Park was built they assumed women didn’t go to football? But Burnley have
always had a large female following. No such trouble accessing the gents, although it
smells horribly of fish and is a dark place of gloomy breeze block construction with
exposed pipes. We then go to claim our seats, and for once don’t have to throw anyone
else out of them. I was worried two big lads with forged tickets could have grabbed them.
2.35 I go to talk to some of the e-Clarets
I’d clocked on the way in: Big T, Jojo, Tony, and then Holdo. We pose for photos in a
just before the summer holidays mood.
2.50 Back to my seat as we prepare for kick off.
Others along this row, one of a few London Clarets enclaves in the away end, are the
Barbara and Joan twins plus daughter, three of the Blow family, the perennially irate
Jules, the two Hegos, Cozzo and Steve.
2.55 A team runs out in Claret and Blue and we
all cheer. Then we realise it’s Scunthorpe.
2.56 Our team runs out in their white shirts.
The white shirts that the players are said to think ‘unlucky’. But we don’t
think this at the time. We just concentrate on making as much noise as possible. Same XI
as the Saturday before. I turn to one or two people and say, 'I can’t believe
he’s not playing Little in a game we need to win.'
3.00 Kick off.
3.02 Andy Cooke bangs over an excellent cross.
Payton’s there where we expect him to be, in front of goal, but he somehow gets
underneath it and scoops it over. This is a golden chance of the kind you don’t often
get and everyone knows it. Are nerves getting to the usually clinical finisher?
3.11 What starts as a murmur around the away end
builds into a roar as news passes round that Wrexham have gone ahead. This is one of those
surreal moments that football occasionally offers. Nothing is happening on the pitch, yet
we are shouting and cheering because of events on the other side of the country. The
players must be aware of this; they can’t have missed the significance of our cheers.
Bad to think this, but if it finishes how it stands now, we’re up.
3.12 From Rob, a text message which
reads, simply, '1-0'.
3.15 I call Rob, and apparently it was a wonder
goal from miles out.
3.21 The consensus is, however, that we still
need a win here, as we can’t imagine Gillingham won’t score at least one. And
we’re not playing well when what we might mistake for disaster strikes. A ball
isn’t properly cleared and Scunthorpe’s Hodges lashes a shot straight back at
goal. We watch helpless as it hits the bar but bounces in. 1-0 to Scunthorpe, and now if
it finishes like this, we’re in the play-offs. I lose faith instantly. I can’t
believe we can do it. The reaction of the Scunthorpe supporters to our right sickens me.
They are loving it. I know, just know, that in the same circumstances, we would do the
same. We delight in spoiling someone’s party. They are delighting in the fact that
they’re beating us, flaunting it. They dance and sing and gesticulate. They seem more
interested in watching us than watching the game. Every time we look across, they are
looking at us. One fan in particular attracts our ire: dressed in a dark top, pale
trousers, wearing shades, he seems to be taking this very personally. He stands on the
wall in front of the stand and invites us in. He frequently seems to need to go the
toilets or the food hut, a route which coincidentally takes him past the fence which
separates those facilities those from our own, bringing him into close but safe conflict
with Burnley supporters. Quite a few enquiries are made to the law along the lines of what
exactly someone has to do to be thrown out of here. Occasionally he is taken to task by
police or a steward and a mate comes and drags him away for a few minutes. By the end of
the half he has four policemen sat around him, watching him. This constrains his movements
somewhat. This must be a shame for him, because Burnley go to pieces after the goal. Paul
Crichton comes bombing out of defence trying to cut out a ball and ends up somewhere near
the half way line. We point him back towards goal, with the advice that he stays on his
line. It doesn't improve. I turn to Hego and say, 'we've just lost our heads completely'.
Do I mean the team, or us?
3.30 The team just isn't doing it out there. We
divide our time between getting incensed about the obnoxious home fan and counting the
number of non Scunthorpe shirts in the home end. We count two Arsenal, one Manu, one
Liverpool, one Chelsea, one Rangers. We ponder the feeblemindedness of anyone who can wear
a shirt of a side that is not playing at a football match. We allow ourselves to feel
superior, but it's a hollow feeling. We need the team to make the point for us. What are
they all doing here if they don't support Scunthorpe? Oh yes, they've come here to watch
us not go up. Somewhere in this time, Jules' brother, watching on the screen at Turf Moor,
sends a message to say they've lost vision.
3.41 Salvation can come from the unlikeliest of
sources. So it proves when a Paul Cook corner is inadequately cleared. The ball bounces
out to Micky Mellon. It's at the far end of the pitch so we can't see much. He hits it
first time and we think it takes a deflection. With hindsight it goes straight in. We go
mental. In the truest of clichés, I hug any number of complete strangers, vigorously
pounding on the back the man in front of us whose girlfriend has hair in Claret and Blue
ribbons. When we come to, everyone asks who scored. By consensus, it is Mellon. Reactions
are disbelieving and unrepeatable. And if you'd asked me, and people have, who is my least
favourite Burnley player, I would and have said Mellon. I’ve spent a season
criticising him. But right now, I take it all back. I think he's great. If I ever met him
again, I'd try to apologise, shake his hand, buy a drink. We remember to invite our
unloved home fan to respond to the equaliser, but he sits quietly.
3.46 Half time reached without any further
scares. I realise now I am in a bad way. I am all at sea. Theoretically, we should be
grateful for the break, but everyone just wants to get through it now. Let the second half
begin immediately. Let’s get to the end. I try to act positive, and express the view
that, with 45 minutes to go, our season's still alive, and that is not a bad position to
be in. I stumble to the front to see who I might find. It's ridiculously congested. Becko
suggests that we could just skip the second half and call these the final scores now. At
the moment, we are up. I agree, and wonder if I should leave. We consider if any other
side would have a player in the PFA divisional team and not pick him for a crucial game.
Surely Little will come on at half time? Jojo is worried that if we score again people
will invade the pitch and the game will be abandoned - there was a small incursion after
Mellon's goal. Andy is trying hard not to look like a bag of nerves.
4.00 I return to our group. I agree with
Lee’s suggestion that, as the experts often opine, the football season is indeed too
long and, in order to assist our Euro 2000 preparations, it should end now. We run out,
unchanged. After this I lose track of time a bit. I remember nothing from this period of
play. The impression I have is that we are playing a bit better. The goal seems to have
settled us, and the half time talk must have been positive. I think it is at somewhere
around this point that the first of the rumours go round that Wrexham have gone two up. I
get no text message from Rob. I try to ring him but am not the only one; he is engaged.
When I do get through, he confirms their score is unchanged, and I quickly convey this to
the masses. Also making their way around the stand are the tales that Gillingham have had
a goal disallowed, Gillingham have missed a penalty. I only find out these never happened
the next day.
4.10 The mobile beeps with a text message.
Stomach in my shoes, I open it. It could be a Gillingham goal. With relief, it isn't. The
message is, however, ominous. It reads, 'Wrexham under siege'. I show this to one or two
people. Why suffer alone?
4.15 Nerves fraying by the minute, I go to the
gents to avoid the game for a bit. As well as the fishy smell, there is now a large and
serene pool of urine covering most of the floor. When I emerge I note that a handful of
people are queuing for food. How can they think of food at a time like this? I
couldn’t eat a thing. I stand at the bottom and watch an attack come to nothing,
before running up the steps in a bid to expend some energy.
4.20 Glen Little comes on for Graham Branch.
About time too, and further proof that we are going for a win. Branch has done nothing
wrong, playing as a defender, and applause is generous. It's technically a standing
ovation, because everyone is standing up by now and has forgotten that we have seats and
are supposed to sit down. I rove around the aisle. We worry that Little will go on the
left, but he stays on the right touchline next to the bench he has just departed, and
Mullin goes left instead. Mullin's having another good game, no lightweight any more, but
an eager, twisty turny player with drive and balance. Another one I called wrong, I
happily concede.
4.22 Confusion is rife when Jules' brother
messages that it really is 2-0 this time. This spreads quickly. People cheer round our
bit. Once again I get through to Rob and it is still 1-0. Rob says it’s end to end
stuff. It seems to be my job to disappoint people. And it's rather hard holding a phone
conversation. The noise here and the noise there mean you can't hear much. Conversations
are short, consisting of key words shouted and repeated. It is an inelegant way to
communicate. I've noticed this change from two years ago, the last time we needed a win
and result elsewhere, albeit in different circumstances. Then it was all radios pressed to
ears, but now the mass growth of the mobile seems to have brought that tradition to an
end. It hardly feels like progress.
4.29 Mullin's forceful run towards us down the
left is checked not much short of the box. It is unquestionably a foul. But our kick is
disappointing, easily cleared. The ref, as it happens, isn't happy with the Scunthorpe
wall, so he blows his whistle and makes us take it again. It's crossed, cleared, and the
ball comes out as far as Little, running in on the edge of the box. Around me people hiss
'Hit it! Hit it!' He hits it. His shot is straight and true and in. Pandemonium follows,
just absolute bloody barking bedlam. We go bonkers, basically. Our group nearly collapses
down the steps. For a few seconds, I have absolutely no idea what I was doing. It could
have been anything. We were beyond sense. Then I pull myself into a semblance of composure
and pick up the contents of my pockets, scattered around the floor. ‘Super, Super
Glen, Super, Super Glen, Super, Super Glen, Super Glenny Little’ has never sounded so
sweet.
4.30 In the chaos surrounding Little's goal - a
pitch invasion, bigger than the first one, needs to be cleared, and we urge them back to
their seats - it takes us a couple of minutes to notice that Wright has come on for Cooke,
who will now, unusually, not score the last goal of the season. I phone Rob, because it's
only fair, and shout something down the phone, although I can't hear my voice.
4.32 Is Wright going to mark his maybe last
appearance with a goal? No, as it happens, although he does come close at one point with a
good tear through their defence, in which only an unkind bounce defeats him. It becomes
clear that Scunthorpe are not simply going to collapse now, as we might hope. In fact,
they're clearly going for a face-saving draw, committing men into attack. We play some
nice stuff around this time, before the nerves start to set in, with Wright and Payton up
front and Little and Mullin wide. I might even start to fancy us to hold the win now, were
it not that I dare not. People around me are getting cocky and running through their
anti-Bastard repertoire, but I take Hego as my barometer. Like me he paces the aisle
nervously, anxious, often looking away from the game.
4.35 Around me people have started singing
‘the Clarets are going up’. Jules and I spontaneously do the same thing, making
hushing sounds and motions. Never tempt fate! I say this can all change in the blink of an
eye. It would only take two goals. Scunthorpe could score, Gillingham could score. I
can’t believe Gillingham won’t score one at least. And if one, why not two, like
the goals they scored in quick succession to finish Cardiff off? The tension is not as bad
as Plymouth two years ago, not as bad as Wembley in 94 even, but it is still hard to live
with. I just know that if we celebrate prematurely fate will twist the knife. Haven’t
I spent the last week informing the confident internet Gillingham fans that they
shouldn’t count their chickens yet and it isn’t over until the fat lady sings? I
think I can hear her warming up, though.
4.40 ‘Bring on the Bastards!’ Even I
am starting to suspect that we would have to go some to stuff up now. All I ask is for the
whistle to blow, here and at Wrexham.
4.44 ‘The referee’s signalled two
minutes of normal time left’ says Jules. Crowds begin to mass at the front of the
stand.
4.46 Big fat Ronnie Jepson comes on for Andy
Payton. We salute Payton, one of the absolute, undoubted heroes of the season. We are
defending then; we have given up the pretence of doing anything else. Actually, for the
last few minutes I think we play quite badly. Nerves are getting to us. Wright holds the
ball up in the corner for a while, but increasingly we rely on the huge punt downfield to
eat up the time. I’m not complaining. It seems to work. The board of four eights
indicates that there are three minutes of stoppage time to play. From where?
4.49 Ian Wright’s last act on a football
pitch might well be the thumb down gesture that signals the relegation of Scunthorpe with
which he responds to the usual stuff from the home fans. They go ballistic. We think
it’s a hoot. Then, just when we’re enjoying this cameo, the whistle blows. The
players sprint to the tunnel to escape the pitch invasion. The grass is quickly covered
with Clarets. I am never at the front of these things, never sufficiently fast or brave to
lead an invasion. I wait until many are on. We stand there for a minute, taking in the
fact that, while this game is over, Gillingham are still playing. Word somehow quickly
gets round. Then we agree, we need to be on the pitch. This is where we will be when we
find out one way or the other. We amble down to the front. It’s hardly a huge
journey. They’ve even left a gate open for us. So what do we do now? We follow
everyone else and walk up towards the middle of the main stand, where the directors' box
is. We soak up the sunshine and warmth after the darkness of the stand. It only occurs to
me afterwards that, as is a tradition for the season’s last home game, the Scunthorpe
supporters would have been expecting to invade the pitch. At the time I’m oblivious
that we’ve spoilt their bit of fun, but really, how else could it be? I don’t
mind telling you, at this moment I feel pretty good. Out of superstition I refuse to
celebrate. Gillingham have five minutes left, apparently. I tell people stranger things
have happened – they happened to Gillingham last season. But really, I don’t
believe any of this. I’m going through the motions of caution. I now believe
we’re up. I know, just know, that a stout-hearted team like ours this season
doesn’t get this far and blow it. If any team in this division was going to triumph
with a late strike, we know it would be us. We simply wait for the formalities to be
completed in Wales.
4.53 A roar like the sea coming in washes over
us. That’s it! We’re up! Now the celebrations can start in earnest. I’ve
never seen so much hugging in my life. I set a personal best in back-slapping. We’re
in pretty good voice, too. ‘Burnley are back!’, ‘the Clarets are going
up!’, songs of praise for Stan Ternent and lots and lots of tunes about our rivals,
who it hasn’t escaped our notice, we will play next season. Somewhere inside, I still
can’t help feeling that celebrations aren’t quite as wild as I might have
expected. Joy is not absolutely unconfined. There are damp eyes, mine included, but if
you’d asked me what state I’d be in if this happened, I’d have guessed
collapsed on the pitch unashamedly blubbing. Yet here I am, still standing, grinning from
ear to ear but in control. I put it down to the unreality of the moment. This is not what
we expected when we set off this morning. Clarets to the core, we naturally hadn’t
dared hope. I don’t think it has quite sunk in yet. It is hard to believe that next
season’s fixture list will pit Burnley against clubs like Sheffield Wednesday and
Wolves. It is unreal for people of my generation who have enjoyed an unconsummated rivalry
with Blackburn that we will actually play them as equals next season. After the odd
Lancashire Cup ‘friendly’, here’s something to anticipate. Perhaps
I’ll believe it when the fixtures come out.
4.56 It’s a little ludicrous. We’re on
the pitch straining for a view of the directors’ box. The sun is right in our eyes,
main stands generally being built to have the sun on their back during the game.
We’re staring up and there’s a lot of suddenly much taller people in front of us
and we can’t see anything at all. Just like at York in 1992, the irony is clear: the
stands are meant for people doing the watching, not the people being watched, while the
pitch is perfectly designed for what we want to watch, yet this is where we watch from. I
phone Nic. ‘I’m on the pitch…’ How many chances do you get to do this?
Nic says she tried to follow it on Ceefax but had to turn the tv off for the last ten
minutes. Couldn’t stand it. I insist that she must come out to meet us when we return
to London. I say I think we’ll be quite good company tonight. I think we might be fun
to be with. I want her to share in a bit of this, grab a little part of the atmosphere,
even second hand. Naturally, the noise around overwhelms any attempt at a prolonged
conversation. I agree to phone later from the train. Then I wander around and take a few
photographs, for the purposes of posterity. There seem to be quite a few people doing
this. I don’t take many, because I always feel there’s a choice between
participating in something and photographing it. I’d rather be part of the
celebration than stand to one side taking pictures. But we need something for the front
cover of the next magazine. Can’t keep using those Derby photos forever.
4.58 Something stirs up in the Director’s
box. A chant of ‘One Barry Kilby’ goes up. I think I can just about make him
out, if I squint hard against the sun. Permanent retina damage seems a small price to pay
at this moment. Instantly Cozzo and I remember the coat, the Peruvian baby llama hair
monstrosity that I promised to wear on our first game back in division one. We launch into
a two man chant of ‘Kilby, where’s your coat?’ ‘Ingleby, Ingleby,
Ingleby’ indicates that our Vice Chairman has joined the party. Woody says later that
he looked rather embarrassed.
4.59 To a bellow Stan Ternent emerges. He stands
precariously perched, thumping the air. He’s done it, and for all those that doubted
him – and I did – this is his moment of unanswerable vindication. He was right.
Whoever doubted him was wrong. End of discussion. This is his triumph. He’s fairly
thrown about by Kilby. He leans backwards and I think, I hope he doesn’t slip, it
could be nasty. He doesn’t slip. Those closer say his eyes are damp and he’s
very emotional. He’s then joined by the players. I can’t make out who, apart
from the unmistakable chunky red haired figure of Jeppo, who’s clearly well up for
it. He leans over the edge, shaking his fists in delight. The throng punch the sky back.
There seems to be some bottles of bubbly involved. I should bloody well think so too. This
is brilliant. This is worth seeing. This somehow makes up for the heartbreaks and
humiliations the last few years have forced us to endure. This is York 92.
5.05 I have that empty feeling in my stomach you
get when you’ve been cheering and singing too much and forgetting to breathe. Hego
suddenly pronounces, ‘time for a beer’ and this strikes us as an inspired
suggestion. We’ve only been on the pitch about ten minutes, but it feels like ages.
It would be nice to stay longer, as few have yet left, but we have that blasted 6.04 to
catch, and we’re an unspecified but long distance from the station. We don’t
know if the cabs we booked will have waited for us this long, and we’re faced with a
long uphill walk in the fearsome sun. Oddly enough, this doesn’t seem to bother us.
We take a last look and breeze out. Outside the ground I bump into a few people I
didn’t come across on the pitch. Time for another round of hugs and backslaps.
We’re up, you know!
5.10 We make the Berkley Arms rendezvous.
Miraculously, two cabs remain. Suspect the others were opportunistically borrowed. Feeling
philanthropic, I let others take the seats. We shall walk. Time for a quick pint? The pub
is very closed. One or two Scunthorpe fans around the car park congratulate us and wish us
all the best. I’d like to think we’d do the same. One jolly decent fellow asks
us how we plan to get back and then points us in the direction of a nearby bus stop.
It’s got to be worth a try. We glide to the stop, free of cares.
5.15 One of those cute little buses turns up.
It’s bound for somewhere we’ve never heard of but it stops in the centre. We
pile on, going for the hot seats at the back of the bus. Other Clarets fill, then overfill
the bus. It’s jam-packed. Once everyone is shoehorned on, we set off, a mobile
celebration, a happiness roadshow. As we roll along, the whole bus sings. Our party on
wheels goes past other joyful Clarets, who wave and beep horns, and past a few Scunthorpe
fans, who make futile finger gestures, bless ‘em. The man in the street might mistake
this for football hooliganism, but there is no malice here. We’re are simply
overflowing with joy, and so sing.
5.30 That said, things threaten to get a little
out of hand when we stop at lights and a few more Clarets try to board the bus. The bus
stays put and some police appear from nowhere to force the newcomers off. A couple of
officers stay with us. The next stop is ours, for the pub, but just as we’re
wondering how we’re going to get off with so many people stood in front, it becomes
clear that the bus isn’t stopping. On police instructions it’s now next stop
railway station. We fear a Cardiff situation, but in the circumstances we’re pretty
mellow. The police have hijacked our bus! So we cruise past the Wetherspoon’s, now
shut, and then past the Honest Lawyer, where we want to go. Not only is it open, but loads
of our lot are stood outside in the sun merrily drinking beer. We press our faces to the
glass in envy. Admittedly, between the two pubs there is a little bit of what might be
called a situation. A group of Scunthorpe fans stand at the corner of the street, shout
and indicate that they’d like to have a fight with us. I find this amusing. If it
wasn’t for the police and the fact that we’re on a bus, they’d have us!
What do they expect us to do? Have a go back at them? They’ve missed the tone by
miles. Nothing could be less appropriate. No one is interested. Who could be bothered at a
time like this?
5.35 We reach the station. There is a police
presence of substance. We deftly manoeuvre ourselves from the bus by means of the rear
emergency exit and adopt an elegant and innocent curve away from the station. We are
nonchalance personified. One officer indicates that the railway station is that way and
asks us where we’re going. We say we’ve a little while before our train goes and
we thought we might go for a drink. Ridiculously, this seems to work.
5.38 Around the corner we run into a more
determined set of police. They block our path and do not seem eager to let us pass.
Nevertheless, they're pretty reasonable, and seem prepared to engage in a discussion. This
is not something we're used to. At Cardiff they'd simply threaten you with the back of the
van. At Millwall they just look through you with a glassy stare. They advise us that they
do not think it wise for us to proceed up the road, as they believe the Scunthorpe lads
are serious thugs out for trouble. We respond with polite incredulity. Would that be the
pub we just went past on the bus where all our friends were outside drinking beer in the
sun? We’d be in there now if you lot hadn’t hijacked the bus! They persist,
saying that they’re moving police out of the area and can’t offer us protection.
The whole conversation is very civilised, conducted in quiet and amused tones. They tell
us they know we’re not trouble makers. Throughout the conversation, Woody can’t
say the one thing he’s really bothered about: ‘Look, I’ve done the other
three GBG pubs and I need this one!’ I tell the officers that we’d like to go to
this pub and don’t think we’ll be coming to Scunthorpe for a while. Me neither,
says the officer, pleased at the thought. It ends with them saying that their advice is
not to go up the road. We say, thanks for your advice, and now we’re going up there.
Remarkably, they let us through.
5.45 We’re in the pub! Everyone wonders
what took us so long, and wouldn’t it have been easier to get off at the bus stop? I
order a pint of something and wander outside. People say the Scunthorpe fans looking for a
scrap buggered off when they realised no one was interested.
5.55 The one officer outside the pub says
he’s off now and if we stay we will be unpoliced. We point out we’ve got a train
to catch anyway, drink up and go. In an ideal world there would be an off licence by the
station, but if there was it would be closed, and I reckon we’ll get enough to drink
by the end of the day anyway.
6.02 As I enter the station a policeman checks
my ticket. I tell him I think it’s terrible the things they make them do these days,
as in the old days British Rail employed ticket men to do this kind of menial work. Coming
over the bridge onto the station I realise the gathered Clarets on the platform below will
make a splendid team photo. Just as I am pressing the button, someone’s radio gives
our score and there’s a roar and a punch of air. Magical.
6.05 The train turns up and we fill it. We look
up and see one or two short haired men running across the bridge energetically pursued by
police. Known yobs, Benny says. Doesn’t look like we’ll be leaving on time.
6.10 With the police having decided it might be
a good idea to have a presence on the train, we depart. And once again the mobile party
starts. We run through a repertoire of classic texts, waving at the odd dogwalker on the
way. I chat to some Ipswich (?) Clarets. We have a whip round to buy champagne in
Doncaster.
6.40 Arrive Doncaster. There is a serious police
presence on the platform. This lot have got themselves organised today, no question.
Burnley train platform six, they seem keen to tell us, pointing. (But this wouldn’t
be a direct train, and I wonder where it was going. Was it a case of get them out of here
on the first available train, as at Cardiff?) We say, thanks for telling us, and head down
the indicated subway, cunningly intending to turn left and not right, towards the exit. We
turn… and hit a solid wall of policemen stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the
exit. Goodness knows what any civilian catching a train makes of this. They’d
probably assume we were yobs. We just want a beer. Burnley train platform six, say the
police. But we’re going to London, we say. The train’s not for half an hour, so
we thought we’d go for a drink. Show us your ticket, is the response. So for the
second time in an hour I have my ticket checked by an officer of the law. It seems to do
the trick and he lets us pass. I realise I’ve lost Lee and look back to see his
policeman is uncooperative and seems disinclined to let him pass with a Liverpool ticket.
I go back and say he’s with me. ‘And who let you through?’ ‘Your mate
over there’. And magically, this seems to do the trick, and he lets him through.
About three times today we’ve been in a position which could have developed into a
repeat of Cardiff, but each time we’ve reasoned and won the day. Who’d have
thought?
6.42 Woody, Lee and me sidestep the crowd into
the Railway. This is not a young person’s pub, rather traditional. Excellent pint of
John Smith’s Magnet.
6.52 Into the nearby Leopard to catch up with
the others, for a quick pint of Ridley’s something. We seem to have been taken over
by a warm and mellow happiness. Long may it last! Joanne and Jane have gone for the
champagne, so there’s every chance it will.
7.04 Storm out of the Leopard to the station for
the 7.10 to London.
7.08 Arrive at the station. The police have
disappeared. But no train! The train is running an unspecified number of minutes late.
Thinking about it, we have not had a very good day on the transport front. Everything has
been late. The only difference now is that we don’t seem to care for some reason. On
the platform, people have ‘Green Uns’, the local Saturday results paper. We
carefully check the table. Yep, we’re still second. This is the first written
confirmation of our promotion. Perhaps it really happened! We scan the other results.
We’re saddened that Bristol Rovers have missed out on the play-offs, as they’re
our friends and we like going to Bristol once a season. Briefly we consider our home game
against them a few months before, when they were the side going for automatic promotion
and we were hoping for the play-offs. This was the last thing we expected then. We also
note with disappointment that the spawniest side in the world, Carlisle, have somehow
escaped consignment to the non league again – by goal difference. The Carlisle going
down party is duly postponed for another year.
7.10 John, in his role as Travel Secretary,
ascertains from the very helpful man on the station that our train is still in Leeds and
will not be here until half past. Only one thing for it: time for another pint!
7.13 We repair to the Railway for another
excellent pint of Magnet. I am phoned mid-pint by Kev, who is purchasing champagne in
Basildon and just wants to share his joy.
7.25 Back to the station. There’s just time
before the train comes to pop into the buffet which sold me such a very bad sandwich what
seems like a long time ago and make the far more sensible purchase of four bottles of
Beck’s (at a price somewhere over £10). I suspect the champagne won’t last that
long. Lee, along with Becko, Trippo and Fell Walking Pete, are to catch the Manchester
train. Hugs and sentimental goodbyes for the season follow. It’s strange to think
that the season’s over. This was not something we anticipated this morning.
7.30 Train arrives. We board. After some initial
confusion, which leaves us spread around two separate carriages, we grab a load of seats
together and let the party continue. We are at our nosiest and most exuberant now.
Champagne corks pop and every song we know is sung. Most of the champers seems to end up
on the tables. The Beck’s was clearly a sensible investment. We quickly clear the
carriage of others. The conductor can’t mind. He offers to open my beer for me!
7.45 Nic rings to tell me she’s setting off
to meet us. Above the din I explain we’re late but she should definitely come and
share our euphoria at 9.30.
7.48 Cozzo suddenly produces Ray Ingleby’s
mobile phone number from somewhere and declares that it would be a good idea to phone him.
I indicate that I am already a bit too drunk for this sort of thing, so pass the phone to
Cozzo. He dials, gets through and chats to Ray, asking him to pass on our congratulations
to all at the club. Then, ‘is Barry there?’ Ray apparently says he is, and would
he like to speak to him. Cozzo: ‘No, but I know someone who does.’ So I find I
have the phone in my hand and I am trying to chat with the Chairman of Burnley FC.
Naturally, my main concern is that Barry should take the coat in to be dry-cleaned. Barry
assures me that the coat is ‘in pristine condition’ and adds, ‘we’re
really going to have to do this now aren’t we?’ I cheerfully burble and then the
Chairman of Burnley Football and Athletic Company Ltd announces his plans for the evening.
‘I’m going to get well hammered tonight,’ says Barry, a true Claret if ever
you could have doubted it. I respond that, oddly enough, that seems to be our agenda too,
and one we seem to be pursuing with remarkable success.
8.00 The party is well and truly rocking and
rolling, and does so until we arrive in London. Everyone has to ‘give us a
song’. There are people all over the place, stood on seats, sprawled across the
aisles singing at the tops of their voices. This is indecorous behaviour, but we are
allowed it. The train is awash with joy and booze. Every so often, in a brief interval of
calm, a new treat from next season’s fixtures list pops into our heads. Like we
don’t get to go to Notts County, but now we have Forest. Or QPR should make a nice
change. And always, always, the delicious icing and cherry on the cake, or perhaps the
cake itself, our outing to see the forces of good vanquish fat Jack’s bankrolled
failures at Deadwood Park. We also think of what we’ve left behind: High Wycombe,
Oldham, Reading. Brilliant. The last bottle of Beck’s is drained as we pass Finbsury
Park.
9.30 We arrive in London and my guarantee to Nic
that she would be happy to meet us is called into question by the fact that we are walking
down the platform singing ‘Burn-erley, Burn-er-ley, Burn-erley’, which is not
our normal sort of behaviour. But our personalities are so winning, who could fail to warm
to us? We cross the road to the Euston Flyer. We decide to forsake our customary pints of
beer. There is only one thing we want to drink tonight: champagne. Unfortunately, Paul
tries to order it and is now so drunk that pronouncing his own name would present a
challenge. The barman refuses to serve him. Fortunately, as if further proof was needed
that this is indeed our day, his superior overrules him and, pound signs flashing in his
eyes, sells us the cheap bottle at over £20. Paul has been sidelined so that the
relatively sober Nic can undertake the transaction, and she very generously proclaims that
we shall have this on her. Cheers! Admittedly, she then goes on to glug approximately two
thirds of the fizz, but then she has a lot of catching up to do, it is rather wasted on us
and I am close to reaching the point of saturation. It is the champagne that finally does
it for me, as it happens. It is these meagre glasses that tip me over from very merry to
out and out drunk. After this the evening is at best a blur. At some point some friends
from Su’lan’ London supporters turn up, and we are very happy to be
congratulated by them. The last clear memory I have is of Paul deciding to go home, but
finding it very difficult to stand up, let alone walk. I hope he took a cab. I hope he got
home somehow.
10.30 I haven’t eaten since the
morning’s horrible Doncaster sandwich, so we agree it really must be time for
sustenance. Onwards to the King’s Cross Tandoori, where the food is fast and cheap
and they don’t seem to mind drunks. En route Woody persuades Smiffy that he really
needs to go home. I’m not sure who was still left standing at this stage. I know we
get to the KCT, and are ushered to a quiet table by the window. I wonder what we looked
like? Is this the image they wish to convey? I recall that, this being an unlicensed
premise, Woody is despatched to buy a bottle of Claret, and returns some time later with
Australian shiraz. I am poured a glass, unable to believe that I am being asked to drink
more booze. I nurse it carefully. I have some idea we might have bought too much food and
then realised we couldn’t finish it, because that is the sort of thing we do.
11.30 It is clearly time to go home. I am aware
that in Burnley people will be partying through the small hours, but we have had a long
day of it, are shagged out and now need to collapse gratefully. I know, because I have
this confirmed the following day, that between KCT and King’s Cross tube Lee phones,
having got home, but neither of us can recall what we were talking about. I realise I am
beginning to lose my voice. Outside the tube we buy some of Sunday’s newspapers, with
their rather mealy mouthed reports. They were all expecting a Gillingham win! Of the
journey I can remember little. I know there was an extraordinarily long wait for a train,
and when it finally came I doubtless slept through the journey’s latter stages. Nic
would have woken me at Walthamstow Central and helped me get home.
12.30 I know that, whatever state I am in when I
return, I do exactly the same as everyone else does: turn on Ceefax and flick instantly to
page 325. There it is, indisputably in green: we are second in the table having played 46
games, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. A quick flick to 307 (NB, 305/306 next
season) for the other scores and 315 for the crowd (noting with disgust more at Turf Moor
for the big screen than in Glanford Park), thence back to 325 and press hold for at least
half an hour. Gillingham v Stoke and Wigan v Millwall in the play-offs, I see. Hope
Gillingham prevail despite the Schanenfreude I feel after their midweek cockiness, but we
don’t really care that much for second division affairs, do we? Drink a glass of
water in a feeble attempt to mitigate the worst effects of tomorrow’s hangover.
1.15 Collapse into bed, tired but delirious at
the end of a sensational day.
