This is a question I often
ask when I meet a person from a place with no obvious affiliation to Burnley at all, who
supports the Clarets.
Take Olaf, for example, from Norway. His story goes
like this. As a young lad, nine or ten, in 1962 (ish), he picked up an English newspaper
and saw Burnley at the top of the First Division. One week later, he'd have been an
Ipswich fan! Now that's fate.
I know several of the South West Clarets. Dave (or
Pugsy) from Bristol told me his sorry tale. At school he played in the school team, who
wore Claret and Blue. Forsaking the obvious Villa, or even the more fashionable West Ham,
he plumped for Burnley. (His brother is also a fan - played in the same team, no doubt).
Remember this was an era - mid 80s - when Burnley were, to put it politely, not of the
highest calibre. Strange, eh?
Simon (Torquay) and Lenny (Taunton) are exiles, but
Frank (also Torquay) was born and bred in Devon, and is a mad keen Claret. In one article
he was described in the Plymouth Echo as the South West's number one Burnley fan.
To extend this analysis, let's now consider those
moments in life when fate lends a hand and out of the blue you find a kindred spirit in
the most unexpected of places.
The aforementioned Simon told me an excellent story
that I hope he won't mind me repeating. Some time ago his wife arranged a holiday as a
surprise with another couple (her best friend and her husband). As the two lads had never
met the girls hit upon a plan to introduce them, break the ice as it were. A meal was duly
booked, but Simon was apprehensive. What could he, a self employed plumber, possibly have
in common with the computer programmer husband of his wife's best friend?
As he suspected the evening got off to a slow start as
he struggled to find some common ground. Simon's wife came inadvertently to the rescue
with an innocent remark…
"Simon goes to watch football sometimes on a
Saturday."
"Oh really," said the computer programmer, "Torquay?"
"No… Burnley," said Simon
"You're kidding."
"No really."
"You'll never believe this but…"
The girls looked at each other with that 'Don't you
just hate it when that happens?' expression.
Simon's recollections of the Greek sojourn are somewhat
blurred (he spent two days in hospital with acute alcohol poisoning). It appears the lads
spent the entire time continuously reappraising the 'Best Ever' Clarets team and, much to
the delight of the locals, re enacting classic goals in the bar complete with slow motion
action replays. Brilliant. Thanks Simon.
John Flynn, a London Claret, now exiled in Crawley, is
another rich seam of such stories. The most recent he related to me before the ill-fated
Charlton game in January 1994. A few days earlier he started a new job and was introduced
to a new colleague. Guess what? That's right, his name was also John Flynn!
Hours later, as our John was placing his BFC mug by the
coffee machine, John No. 2 produced his mug form its hiding place. They wept in each
other's arms (OK I made that bit up), but you get the picture. (Cue twilight zone music.)
