Room 101 - Clarets Nightmares
Some personal Betes Noire by Firmo
Mark
Kendall
AKA Satan’s chosen goalkeeper. There is a
convincing argument that the Kendall was put on this earth for one reason and one reason
only: in a last, desperate bid by the forces of darkness (HQ: Deadwood Park) to scupper
our Lazarus-like ascent from the depths of Division Four. The promotion bandwagon, which
hitherto had been happily a rolling, teetered for a moment on cliff edge, as we went to
the never sunny seaside and got walloped by Blackpool (then allegedly a ‘going
places’ kind of side – no sniggering, please) 5-2. What lingers in the memory,
apart from the slippery hands, was this man’s sheer brass neck. After each goal the
hapless one, having allowed the ball to squirm from his grasp, fall from his hands and,
for one, seemingly pass through his entire body, ran out and remonstrated fully and freely
with defenders, linesman, referee, and anyone who happened to be passing. I expect he is
convinced to this day that none of it was actually his fault. Every time we gave ourselves
a glimmer of getting back into the game, the opposition was duly obliged. Kendall had only
come in as goalkeeping coach (what could we possibly want him to pass on?), but that was
our year of many goalkeepers, so he was bound to get his turn. Sensibly, Mullen promptly
sent the alleged keeper back to the depths of south Wales, and the rest is history. Mullen
would later prove less adept at spotting a donkey at ten paces. As for Kendall, he was
never heard of again, although I broke into a cold sweat when I recently learned that son
of Kendall has also embarked on a goalkeeping career. I think we know what history has in
store for us here.
High Wycombe 5
Burnley 0, 15th April 1997
I still occasionally wake up screaming at 4 in
the morning with this night on my mind. I suppose it’s all in the past now, but
that’s little comfort; it still happened. What needs to be remembered was that this
was only the second time we had stepped out in the hell hole that is Adams Park. While it
may be easy to say now, ‘what do you expect, this was Wycombe, this was bound to
happen’, this wasn’t then a bogey ground. Indeed, it was this game as much as
any that served to cement this place’s grisly reputation. I lavished an afternoon off
work on this pathetic farce. Expectations were high. A hippie-who-will-remain-nameless
turned to me on the train and said, "You know, I have a feeling about this
game." I arrived late. I didn’t arrive late, but no one ever gets into that away
end in a hurry. Before half time I was pub bound. I had seen something less than forty
minutes of the game. The frightening thing is that it could have been more. Wycombe missed
a fair number of chances. I sat behind the goal, and watched our defence part like the Red
Sea. Every time Wycombe attacked a goal looked not just possible, but probable. At three
goals down I counselled for the suspension of the customary Three Goals Rule. It
didn’t seem sensible to come all this way to the edge of an industrial estate and
leave so early. I had just about won the argument when the fourth went in. I shot out of
my seat, vented some random spleen at the hopeless alleged eleven on the pitch and
attempted to make a rapid but dignified exit. And couldn’t find the exit. I shot into
the hot dog stand, then the toilets. After finally barking at some blameless steward,
"How the bloody hell do you get out of this place?" I was shown the right door.
When we returned to the pub we had stupidly left to go to the game, the bloke at the bar
asked, "Match off lads?" "Err, kind of," we replied. Please don’t
tell me not to dwell on the past now that we have emerged from High Wycombe clutching a
precious and beautiful point. I still bear the scars from this night.
The Swankypants
Performing Dog Troupe
The sequence of events that led to us being able
to use the above selection of words in the context of Burnley FC is still something of a
mystery. At least Barry Kilby had the grace to look embarrassed when this ugly subject was
raised at the AGM. During the dark days of last season, when we stared in panic at the
chasm below us, some (at best) half wit decided that what we all needed was cheering up.
Presumably working on the assumption that the football couldn’t be relied on to do
the trick, they set about reprioritising leisure arrangements on the Titanic. Viz., they
decided to let a bunch of Afghan hounds ponce around the edge of the pitch in the
previously sacred Claret and Blue. We had hoped that this embarrassment, under the eyes of
SKY, was an end to it, but it was only the beginning. For the next home game our
entertainment - saluting girls leading dogs bearing military badges - was tastefully timed
to coincide with the start of the Serbian bombing campaign. One dog was in camouflage.
Fairly unsuccessfully, I thought: you could still see the mutt. They came back a third
time, marking Easter Monday with what could only be called a freeform interpretation of
the ‘Ugly Duckling’ theme. As said cheesy tune played, dogs wearing white to
look like swans but resembling sheep shuffled around the pitchside track. One girl carried
a sign pointing at her canine companion, carrying the legend ‘Ugly Duckling’. I
think this was the day I realised that satire was dead. How could they ever criticise us
for invading that pitch again after they’d let these animals desecrate it? At least
that day, when they departed with the boos of the faithful ringing in their floppy ears,
was their last. A spokesperson for the troupe revealed they would never set foot in Turf
Moor again, having allegedly been on the receiving end of a number of missiles. They
should consider themselves lucky to escape with their bloody lives.
Chris Waddle
I have occasionally been accused of being
obsessed with chris waddle. Not so. I just want him to know that I’ll always be
looking out for him, that for the rest of what we may as well for the sake of convenience
call his ‘career’, I will be watching what he does and waiting for him to slip
up once again. I’ve calmed down a lot these days. Although anything like forgiveness
is obviously out of the question, it is now a rare night when I take out my waddle voodoo
doll and lovingly spear it with hatpins. I still believe that for a man who nearly
destroyed Burnley, the waddle got off rather lightly. Some fools still maintain that he
might ever one day have got to grips with the job of being a football manager. I have
heard it said that he might have turned it round given another season. What evidence there
might be to support this vague assertion is hard to say. I draw your attention to the fate
of his summer signings, with Howey relegated, Blatherwick benched and Ford, Moore and
Williams seemingly vanished off the face of the earth (hurrah!). Then there were the
players the slope shouldered one didn’t rate: Gerry Harrison and Glen Little. But
then, he was an inexperienced manager. He was bound to make mistakes. It isn’t really
the one million or so things he got wrong that stick in the craw; it is his bloody-minded
lack of humility in the face of his failings that really hurts. Here is a man who, despite
all contrary evidence, refused to concede that any of it might have been his fault. I scan
his public pronouncements with a jeweller’s eyepiece, and I have yet to find in them
anything that might be taken for an admission of culpability. Waddle, it seems, still to
this day nurses the delusion that he really could make a go of this management lark. He
appears to believe that he failed at Burnley because the fates were against him, not
because of any intrinsic lack of talent. His most recently stated opinion was typical:
John Barnes, on taking over at Celtic, would fare well, said the wadster, for he was
starting at a level consistent with his talents. How unlike his good self, who was clearly
a genius lost amongst fools at Burnley. For emphasis, the dim ex-meat handler added that
he would often play a blinding pass at Burnley only to find none of his charges had
anticipated it and made the run. Call me Mr Picky if you must, but wouldn't true
genius consist of playing accurate passes to the place where players actually were?
Oh well, I follow his stealthy rise up the ranks at Sheffield Wednesday with no small
interest. Their poor start to the season could be more ominous than their supporters might
think.
Those are my
personal Claret nightmares. Now why not tell me yours?
Firmo
August 1999
Links - More on that High Wycombe game
