Oh fluffy sheep are
wonderful
The true story of Wrexham Away, April 1996
Alright, so here we go for the last time this
season, for me at least, unless... hmm, might need to go to Walsall on Tuesday night, so
might everyone else judging by the talk on the train. It's the 8.53 from Euston, somehow
going slow and frustratingly cutting in to our estimated two hours drinking time in
Chester, but then I've been off work with something hideous and should be careful not to
drink much today. Sure. So here we are late in a horrible pub drinking freezing Cain's at
the start of five pubs in under two hours, each one better than this, in each of them left
the sacrifice of my half-finished pint. Then the Wrexham train looms, suppose we have to
go, and is it me or are most Burnley supporters thoroughly unpleasant people? But here we
are in another pub, everyone's here, and suddenly it's quarter to three and time to go,
however, there is a certain snag: our train back leaves at four fifty-six, so we mustn't
get locked in, so we explain things to some nice gentlemen of the law who tell us
everything's going to be alright yet somehow we don't believe them. We clutch one
consoling thought to our collective breast: we're bound to be losing heavily by then, we
may even be able to activate our long-held pledge to leave any game at 3-0 down after
coming so close a few weeks before at home to Bradford, we should at least be able to
leave before the end, after all we're going to get stuffed today, aren't we, no Geddo, no
Swan, no chance. The game kicks off, we're sat right at the back of the terrific view
seated bit which is now less expensive than Turf Moor, and after about ten minutes, yes,
we've worked out that must be Paul Smith there, and I am not inspired with terrific
confidence, but as they say, we are holding our own. At what time do we usually collapse?
It must be about now, twenty odd minutes into the game, at this moment when the
soon-to-be-buggering-off-back-to-Barnsley Bishop clears a Swing Low Sweet goal kick and
Smith puts a pass to Robinson and WHAT'S THIS? OH NO, HE'S ONLY GOING TO TRY TO CHIP HIM!
DON'T DO IT! DON'T... YES! YES! YES! UNBELIEVABLE! THERE JUST AREN'T WORDS, and I collapse
stunned and breathless into my seat, thinking I cannot believe what I have just seen, as
independent eyewitnesses confirm that, yes, the one we have called 'Lame' did indeed chip
the ball over the advancing goalkeeper WITH THE OUTSIDE OF HIS RIGHT FOOT from an
impossible distance of however many yards that by the end of the evening will have become
about fifty bloody yards. I make a mental note to set the video correctly for a change for
the middle of the night when they will show the goal. But let's not get carried away,
we've got a game on here, let's try and hold it. You know we can't do stuff like that.
They're getting a lot of corners, they're ahead on the corner count. Why do you always
read that? I take my half time toilet stop early and return to sit in my seat watching
cars go past on the distant road. If only we can hold it to half time, as the crowds sing
Ingerland Ingerland, though I've never felt we represent anyone other than ourselves and
anyway, don't they know we've got Wales' number ten? Free kick now, waste time, Thommo
takes and impossibly, unbelievably, King Kurt rises MAJESTICALLY above their not-moving
defenders to head the ball home for 2-0, which I have to have described to me during the
half time which almost immediately follows as I was still looking at traffic at the time.
Good goal too. Now half time confirms the splendour of Robinson's first goal, close your
goal of the season polls now, for already the goal acquires the status of capitalization:
it becomes Liam Robinson's
Goal At
Wrexham. Second half, rather unfocused pressure
from Wrexham and we appear able to cope, time elapses and it begins to look unlikely that
they might score two, But This Is Burnley. To be honest I can't remember anything that
happened in the second half, standing at the back half the time at least, and of course
this bastard ref wants to play on into train-missing time, already we leave our seats and
stand behind the fence at the top of the shallow away terrace singing like everyone else
but desperate for the end when all else would probably happily stay all night if we can
play like this: composed calm collected cool unruffled and PROFESSIONAL, really something,
and finally the whistle blows with about five minutes to catch the train and we run out of
the ground even as we are shouting the valedictory YES! honed at Bournemouth,
Peterborough, Swansea and Bristol, and who knows how good it must feel just to hang around
in that ground for a few minutes as the players come over to applaude, but these are the
crosses exiles must bear. We're first out of the ground, and our small group must walk
alone up a street one way with thousands of Welshmen coming the other way. TRY NOT TO LOOK
TOO HAPPY, oh yeah. Now here's the station, where's the bloody platform, wrong platform,
how do we get to the other platform, I'm not made for running upstairs, thankfully our
burly chums are holding the door and not for the first time today I collapse breathless in
a seat, hmm... and is it me or are most Burnley supporters thoroughly unpleasant people?
But anyway, there's Chester, beer, carry outs, train, Crewe, train, beer, songs, London,
beer, Walthamstow, beer, home, pizza, I've lost my voice, and collapse into exhausted
sleep. STOP. NOW THIS HAS BEEN A TRULY DREADFUL SEASON. DON'T EVER LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.
Firmo
1995
