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All the week before, my mind had been beset by small worries. Mostly it was about the tickets I’d sent off for the week before that, and whether they would come by Saturday morning. The lack of sleep can’t have helped. I hadn’t got over the excesses of the last weekend, when we took on all that Poole, Bournemouth and Winchester had to offer, and then there was Oldham. That was a never to be forgotten and nearly brilliant night, where we were the best side I’ve seen this season in the first half, only to have to blow it in the second due to waddle’s tactical intervention. I didn’t get to bed till four and went to work on three hours’ sleep. Of course, I’ve done it on none before, but that was after Plymouth in the play offs when I had euphoria to keep me going, and now I was low. I was convinced we had thrown it away, finally, that we had hammered one last and decisive nail into our heavily metallic coffin. Whatever scenario I constructed, I couldn’t see us doing it. Surely Oldham was the chance to seize control of our destiny, and we’d messed it up. I could just about believe that Bristol Rovers would beat Brentford, but I couldn’t see us doing the same to Plymouth. I spent much time looking at spreadsheets. At the back of my mind there was also the lingering fear of contracting pneumonia, so thorough was the soaking I had got at the same time we had let the two goals in.

Well, I got the tickets on Friday, which I took as a good sign. We’d sent off for them purely to avoid queuing, which might cost us a pint, but now we heard stories going round that parts of the ground had been sold out, so it looked like a smart move. Then that lunchtime at work we had a wine tasting. The rest kind of writes itself. I saw The Big Lebowski then went drinking round some crappy Fitzrovia boozers. When I got home I found I couldn’t sleep, and sat up to a soundtrack of the Lovin’ Spoonful and Pavement too loud on the headphones, and when I did manage it, at about two, it was only to wake up at five. This relegation thing was getting to me. I just wasn’t equipped to cope with this, having experienced it once before, and then it had been different: predictable, early. This time we’d managed to drag it out and prolong the agony. I got up, wrapped a blanket around me and gazed at twenty-four hour news while contemplating putting things in bag. I was on the weekend trip, along with pretty much the usual suspects, because London Plymouth were on the day trip, and I wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to get revenge for my triumphalism on the train back after the play offs.

Finally got myself together, got out, got to the station. Used my lucky cash machine at Euston. There are at least three machines on the station, but only the Midland has special powers - or rather had, because now by revealing the magic I also dissipate it. Previous visits to that particular hole in the wall had seen us beat Northampton and Bristol City. I got out far more money than I would need for the weekend.

There were lots of us on the way up, but the journey was weird, the humour forced and coarser. The Plymouth lot seemed in high spirits. Optimists thought this a good sign, I thought it bad. We arrived in Burnley before twelve, unexpectedly making the connection, and the town was strange too. Pubs which were normally open appeared to be closed. We had to beg our way into one pub with the help of familiar faces and northern accents. The side door of the Sparrowhawk was shut, which is always a sure sign of a significant game. I met the old folks in there, and our kid, who’d come up from Birmingham for the day. The pub rapidly filled up. I don't think I’ve ever seen it that busy, and it seemed that virtually every Burnley supporter I know was in there. It was too busy to contemplate lunch. The beer was good, and although it went down slower than normal, at least it went down. This was better than Plymouth in the play offs, where before the game we had lost the ability to drink, so sure were we of the defeat that was about to enfold us. This was therefore a good sign, as it meant I still thought we had a chance. Plus we had the magic power of Tiger Feet. Played before games it spelled a win, and when it wasn’t on the jukebox, it meant defeat. We played it lots today. (We imagined the jukebox company rep finding with incredulity that an old Mud song was the most played.) We had to do what we could. Unlike Portsmouth in ’95, we had no umbrella with us to kick the shit out of afterwards.

People started to leave early, fuelled by rumours that the game was completely sold out. Our club had maintained its customary Trappist vows. This left many of our regular travellers unsure whether they would get into a game they had come up for the weekend to see. I patted my pocket, where the tickets were safe, another time.

The ground was busy, but it wasn’t full. The away end let the side down a bit, but it was still a good following. We seized seats near the goal, working on my theory that there are only two places worth watching football from: high above the half way line, where you can adopt an Olympian perspective, or at the front behind the goal, where you can’t see much, but what you can is big and exciting. There was an atmosphere. And yet this was only potentially the most important game of the season; it might instead be the most meaningless, depending on someone else’s game. A lot of people, I noticed, had radios.

Then the game kicked off, we won 2-1 and stopped up.

There’s no point in describing the actual events of the game. I’ve tried recalling them and my memory is deficient. I need a video, although that would prove disappointing, as did the one for that other game against Plymouth, where what I remembered as a thrilling encounter turned out to be a dull hoof-fest. We nearly scored a couple more times than we did and they could have had one or two. The flattened perspective from where we sat meant that every time they crossed the half way line my heart travelled about one foot north. It’s unfair to single out any of the players, so I will, and say that Neil "the lollipop man" Moore had the most shocking game so far of his mystifying career, and by way of balance, that Glen Little was easily magnificent.

Looking back with a little hindsight, the wonder is that we coped. Twice during the game I had to go to visit the toilets, not out of urgent need but just to stand quietly for a few minutes away from the game. The trio of seventies rockers to my right quickly grew tired of standing up for me. The man with the radio on the next row gave us updates from the Memorial Ground, according to which our moods either soared or plummeted. I didn’t over-celebrate either of our goals, but simply stood, applauded and, of course, looked at my watch. I felt overdoing it would be tempting fate. Pessimist that I am, after neither of ours did I feel we were safe, but when they equalised I was sure the game was up.

I tried to feel calm at half time and just savour the day, because whatever happened this was it until August, but as soon as the second half started it was worst than before. My watch face must have got worn out with looking. Sometimes whole seconds passed between glances. My brother had reached a place beyond language, and every time they attacked let out long wordless sounds. I managed to mumble, "I’m having a heart attack. Fetch help." I had a Walkman with me, although I normally frown on those who take radios to games, but I couldn’t get it together enough to work it, and the man in front was doing a good job keeping me informed. From time to time I slipped my earpiece in and comforted myself with blasts of Arab Strap. The radio man reported a goal by the utterly splendid Barry Hayles, then stoppage time. The last ten minutes actually weren’t as bad as the half hour before, where we really looked like we would lose it. We regained a little of the initiative. My radio man reported it was all over in the other game. Then ours, too. Later I heard that our game finished before theirs, and even while we cavorted on the pitch we didn’t know if we were safe. That wasn’t my impression at the time. As far as I knew it was all over.

Of course, the club, showing its characteristic ability to utterly misread the public mood, had warned that anyone who trod the battered turf would be arrested and banned for life. As a coward, I waited for unanswerable numbers to make the trespass before I followed suit. I generally like to get on the pitch at least once a season, but it had been a long time since I had the chance, since Home Park in 1994 of course, until Oldham on the Tuesday where it had been more of an act of necessity to get into a less crowded stand. After such a long time, here I was getting my shoes muddy for the second time in a week. Once on the pitch, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t have the energy to make a mad dash for the tunnel, as others were doing, so I merely ambled across, trying to keep track of my brother and keeping an eye out for anyone else I knew. My brother touched the sweaty shoulder of the magnificent Andy Payton, while I encountered a Plymouth player lost amidst the crowd, trying to find the tunnel. I patted him on the back, said "unlucky mate," enjoying the opportunity to be patronisingly sporting. He really would have been within his rights to turn round and hit me. I don’t think I’d have minded. We gave similar not particularly heartfelt applause to the Plymouth supporters, who after a while got fed up and returned rather more than insults.

I took the opportunity for a good look around the ground, thinking how it would be months before I saw it all again. Before the game I couldn’t wait for the season to end, but now I felt wistful. You get a different view of the ground from there, get a feel of what it must be like as a player, particularly as the stands were so full. The top tier of the Longside looked impressive. I can report from first hand that the pitch, scheduled for replacement, was every bit as bad as it seemed, particularly after people started ripping up chunks of it to take home. The club later announced they would sell it to supporters. My brother got his for free, and then, unsure what to do with it, gave it away. I’d have liked some for my lawn, which is in about as bad a state as the pitch was, but it would never have survived the evening.

Amongst others - stand up a balding shambling teacher who should know better than to prance around a football pitch at his age - I met the radio man. We joined in a manly hug. "I’m too old for this," he said. "I am, now," I said.

By now things at the Cricket Field End had started to get a little tense, and a line of dogs, horses and police had formed. The denizens of the Longside upper, jealous at their lack of access from their lofty perches, started to shout to us to leave the pitch, so the team could perform a lap of honour. A lap of what? We decided to do our own, at a gentle pace. In doing so we walked past the home dug out, empty, inviting. There aren’t too many chances in life to do this. We climbed in, me, my brother and a person unknown and indulged in Mullenesque bouts of gesticulation at an imaginary team. Our kid wanted to take the bucket and magic sponge, but I dissuaded him, thinking that might take the tolerance of the watching authorities too far, and speaking of which, hadn’t we just compromised the anonymity we had on the pitch? I climbed out. That day will always be the day I sat in the dugout and ordered around my team.

Eventually we were marshalled to the sidelines and the team came out in bits to take our applause. Little, Harrison, Cooke, the only three players who’d earned it, got the most cheers and chants. When our then manager waddled out, a man next to me shouted "chrissy waddle’s claret and blue army." I looked at him. "No," I said. "No," he agreed back.

We ambled to the pub and the rest of the evening was predictable. Drinks were taken. Tears were shed. We ran out of happy words. Between pints I went with my brother to his Manchester bus; outside the town centre pubs groups of people were signing Burnley songs. It felt good to be a Claret, if you could make yourself forget what had happened to make things come to this. The rest is a blur. At one point I found myself in a taxi and figured I must be going home. There I’m told I talked incoherently, repetitively and contradictorily. The next day’s hangover was fierce. I also found I’d run out of money. It was worth it.

Now can we make sure we don’t have to do this again?