Despite the shameful fact that so few London Clarets bothered to make the trip, our recent visit to Edgy Park proved to be a most enjoyable day out and provided us with much food for thought. It was pleasant to stand in the sun and observe as though from a distance the sheer amount of unrequited hatred hurled ours (and, literally, Tin Man's) way, our objectivity sharpened by our recent experiences of Division One football, with its big games that needed no hype and its assortment of truly scary places.
Today, we probe this bizarre phenomenon, and pose the question: who are these people, and why do they hate us so much?
We're a little confused as to how this whole thing started. It's true that in these mostly lean years we've tried on a few fake rivalries to tide us over until the real one starts up again, but we've never had any need to choose this club from the far side of Manchester, since there are plenty of teams much nearer. Unlike 'the Cobras' there's always been some kind of credible - I use the word loosely - opposition to hand, such as Blackpool, Preston or even Bradford. For the last few years they haven't had anything so handy. Stuck forever in the shadows even of Manchester City, they haven't been able to come up with a semblance of a local rivalry, even, hilariously and unsuccessfully, being forced to appeal to City fans to help make up the numbers at Wembley. On the one hand the Manchester sides have been too good for them, and on the other, plausible rivals like Crewe and Chester have tended to play mostly in the Third.
In any case such local rivals would not suit the purpose; they would not feed the myth, would not support the Frankenstein's monster that has been deliberately created. Stockport need to feel that they are not just another lower division club with an undistinguished history and a hardcore support of a few thousand, although of course that is precisely what they are. A top psychiatrist we spoke to confirmed this theory: "They are in a state of denial. They must believe in this myth to postpone the awful moment when self-realisation sets in and they see their club as it really is. Unfortunately for them, denial can't be sustained indefinitely, and so they are only putting off the dreadful hour."
So professor, why did it have to be us?
"On the face of it, you could say it didn't have to be. If you look at the chance combination of circumstances, such as the relatively easy journey between the two towns and the disproportionate amount of cup games played, you could conclude that Burnley were merely unlucky to attract the attention of these fans. But I'd say there was more here than first meets the eye. They needed a big club. By deliberately stoking up a rivalry with it, they could, if they tried hard, convince themselves that they were a club of similar stature, were worthy opponents. Glamour by association: it's the oldest trick in the book."
Thank you professor. Isn't it reassuring to know that we fulfil a need, on however basic a level, for these deprived Cheshire people?
What particularly impressed the few of us who were there that day was the attitude of the Burnley supporters, who had clearly prepared themselves beforehand for a bit of an ordeal and were disposed not to take it too seriously. It was as if, after the comprehensive final word at Wembley, followed by a season of big matches against big teams, we could see this lot for what they really were: a small club desperately trying to make themselves seem bigger. This is what lies at the heart of the one-sided rivalry: they need us, but we certainly don't need them. That day in August it was as if the scales fell from our eyes. For us, this was just another lower division game to confirm we'd slipped away from the big time once more. For them, it was, as the cliche has it, their cup final. Some cup final: big rivals though they claim to be, for this, their biggest game of the season, the attendance didn't scrape a feeble 9,000. They were even letting kids in for free.
Wasn't not letting them win fun? They wanted it so badly, and clearly the thought of this game had kept them going through the sad days of their mid-table season. Imagine the half time cheers at Edgy Park last season when we were almost invariably losing. It might just have diverted their attention away from the fact that their one good player had left them, their manager had disappeared, and even the chance of losing at Wembley again had gone by the way. Charitable as ever - we are, after all, also the club that provides relocation packages for homesick northern footballers - we provided them with succour in their hour of need. With what relish they must have practised their chants. "This'll get 'em," they must have said in the pubs and clubs of the Manchester suburb, as they rehearsed their devastatingly witty song "Always look on the Turf Moor for shite." But really, after a year, was that the best they could come up with?
Of course, as it turned out, that wasn't all that they'd been planning; we also had the missiles thrown at Tin Man ("thistle get him," they must have said.) It would take great naivety on our part to think this wasn't pre-planned, and it showed great naivety on theirs to think they could upset Tin Man. This man who has played in Glasgow derbies and braved the hothouse atmosphere of Seville was unlikely to be unduly upset by a few coins, although consider the example it set the children encouraged in for free. Characteristically, the great Tin pointed out that you couldn't stop people taking coins to games, because they wanted a drink afterwards (even though, in our case, this meant a substantial walk before we could find a pub that didn't suddenly 'shut' the moment we crossed the threshold.) The question is how many 'isolated incidents' does it take to form a pattern? I assume those residents of the new small-but-nice stand who were so generous with their small change were the same ones who couldn't take defeat at Wembley. How else should you react when you lose at the national stadium but by tearing up the seats and throwing them on the pitch? Then there was the pie thrown at Mullen that time (and they were lucky to get that, for our away end was a pie-free zone.) Clearly, football just isn't the same when you don't get to throw things. Add in the player-threatening pitch invader a couple of seasons back and the consequences of hyping up a 'rivalry' would seem clear to all.
In this context it was hypocritical to say the least for Stockport fanzine The Tea Party to have spent all last season building the fixture up only to (vainly) appeal for calm at the eleventh hour. How ridiculous to think that they could simply walk away from the war of words they waged and abandon all responsibility; this is a situation substantially of their making. Their fanzine has consistently and consciously attacked Burnley and portrayed all Burnley supporters as hooligans. I think it was in the issue they were selling on the day that they inaccurately described the relationship between the two clubs as one of 'pure hatred', only getting it half right as ever. And if we're hooligans, why did even our die-hard Burnley shirt wearers decide it was best to leave theirs' at home?
In a brilliant example of pettiness, their fanzine editor reviewed our fanzines in the programme, but missed out the best-selling Marlon's Gloves, apparently because of a disagreement between the editors. Those they did touch - the two worst (we're a big club, we have four fanzines) were accused of being obsessed with all things Wembley. Classic pot and kettle stuff this. On that very morning over breakfast I had glanced through an earlier edition of their fanzine. It contained the usual page after page of Wembley whinges, Tin Man moans, Elleray attacks, and so on ad nauseam, and this from the middle of a season when they didn't even play us. Oh, and to clear up a couple of misconceptions apparently common to 'the Hatters': Tin Man didn't get two sent off at Wembley. One of their players spat at him, the other kicked Les Thompson. It's easy to mistake the blond figure of Tommo for Tin Man. Secondly, I've read that Tin also got the Plymouth player sent off in the play offs. His powers clearly extend to the supernatural, because of course Ted wasn't on the pitch when Burrows was dismissed, having been kicked out of the game and subbed at half time. And finally in this demystification session, I saw it suggested in The Tea Party a bit back that, for the sending-off in the Bolton game last season, Ted had 'been up to his old tricks again.' Once again Tin Man manages to amaze us all with his ability to control events from the touchline, as on that occasion he had been subbed after about fifteen minutes.
Thanks to such misguided hype, we left the ground prepared for a reaction. The friendly pub we had drunk in before the game was suddenly a lot less welcoming when we approached it. An irate local shouted abuse at us. Expletives deleted (which cuts his sentence by half) the gist of it was "get back to your ... hills you ... hillbillies and go and breed your ... whippets." Good of them to provide after-match cabaret, we thought, although I was a little at a loss to understand which hill he meant. Denmark Hill, Tulse Hill, Forest Hill? The saddest sight as we were led down the road by our man who knew pubs was a back car seat full of kids jeering us with the encouragement of their grinning (presumed) father in the front. The saddest comment shouted at us? "Lucky you had a goalie." Yes, I suppose it was. Good decision, Jimmy.
Stockport is, of course, a thoroughly pleasant drinking town in the normal course of events, and I've passed many happy Saturday evenings there, but only when we've played somewhere else. To go there on a matchday is to exchange nice Robinson's bitter for bitterness, vitriol and sour grapes. How tiresome it must be for them to feel like that all the time. Imagine a day in the life of a typical Stockport supporter. Let's call him Dave. Dave gets into work one morning, and his boss calls him in. He'd like to give him a pay rise. "Oh," Dave responds, dejectedly. "Why aren't you happy?" asks the boss. "Cause Burnley won last night," Dave answers, "I hate Burnley." It's Dave's birthday. What would he like? "If I could have one thing in the world," he says, "it'd be for Burnley to lose. I hate Burnley." Dave finally gets that date of a lifetime with the girl of his dreams. It's going well. "I love you," she says. "I love you," he replies, "but I hate Burnley more." See what hard work it must be keeping up this one sided rivalry in the face of our indifference. You'd think it would be easier just to get a life.
I was even reluctant to write this, because the danger of such articles is that they could add to their inflated sense of self-importance. So let this be the last word on our would be 'rivals': we don't hate you, but we think you're very sad.
