Dedicated to Mrs T's Thumb

Last updated : 27 December 2012 By Dave Thomas

Seeing Leeds torn apart also made me appreciate just how good a side we had in 2008/09. It was such a shame that it was just the one season, with several of the side reaching their peak that year so that anything afterwards could never be as good once we’d beaten Manchester United.  Caldwell, Carlisle, Jensen, Blake, Alexander and possibly Elliott had the best seasons of their career.  Both Thompson and Paterson were at their best as well.

We gave some Premier sides some welly that season and on a wet miserable night at Turf Moor with the cold rain belting into their faces I doubt Chelsea would have put five past that Burnley side. This season’s side: now that’s a different matter.

A cricket fan and email chum, Harry Brooks, got in touch to challenge the suggestion in the last diary that Len Hutton was dour. Harry wrote:

“Len was self-possessed but sharply observant, very funny in a downbeat, droll Yorkshire way. I remember going to a splendid free evening at Burnley Central Library in 1958 when he spoke to slides of the 1954/55 tour, his delivery as polished as his batting, which was of course a gift from Heaven. Boycott wasn’t fit to whiten Len’s boots.”   

Out of action but a drink not far away

How can one club provide so much entertainment off the field? It seems Henning Berg is not having the start at Blackburn he would have wished and reports now say that at the Christmas party he was stitched up royally when on stage he was (it is said) persuaded to put a stocking over his head and then someone put a Jacko wig on top.  All this was all good fun and part of the attempts at raising spirits and morale at the club (forgive me if you hear the odd snigger). Anyway, Mr Berg was not apparently best pleased and stormed off the stage and left the party early. A stocking over his head: with or without a stocking some people might find it hard to spot the difference. Let us suppose the Venkys sack this manager, or Mr Berg leaves the building completely. Who on earth in their right mind would contemplate even attempting to manage this hilarious outfit? No doubt there will be somebody somewhere.

Birmingham had won only one in seven of their last games. Old heroes Steve Caldwell and Wade Elliott still plied their trade there and Elliott was close to clocking up 600 appearances. When Bournemouth came to Burnley in an FA Cup tie years ago I can still remember him giving a dazzling performance and giving Mo Camara a torrid time.  

Boxing Day games: love them, or at least I did when it was a full house, there was the smell of cigars in the air, the whiff of whisky from hip flasks, a feeling of bonhomie and Christmas plumptiuosness. This was different though. Times have changed. Plus Mrs T was incapacitated, arm in a sling, hand and thumb bandaged and trussed up like a chicken. It didn’t look damaged at all, but inside the hand, to cut a long story short, the thumb had come away from the rest of the hand. We’d been doing a nice 50 in the little Peugeot (it only does 60 downhill) along a dual carriageway heading to Southport. From the left at a crossroads someone pulls out a bit too close for comfort, so I moved out into the fast lane to pass him, except he changes his mind and turns and goes straight across the road. I hit him at 50, CRUNCH. Mrs T is knocked about and groaning. I get up and get out of the car unscathed - tough bastards us Clarets eh? She has mashed up hand, coccyx and sternum, bruises everywhere; ambulance, traffic police, paramedics arrive, flashing lights, sirens and all the trimmings. They say your life flashes past you in the nanosecond before you think the end is nigh.  All that flashed through my head was, OH SH*T will we ever reach the Premiership again?

“But I want to go the match on Boxing Day, I’m not missing that,” she said after surgery.  She used to be a sleek young dolly bird in the 60s when we were courting. Now she’s a tough old bird. I can pay her no higher compliment.

‘Do not use the hand at all,’ said the surgeon. ‘Keep it immobile, do not knock or bang it, keep it still.’ That was on Friday 21st and Christmas was coming up. Christmas Dinner, things to peel and prod, boil and baste, mix and mash, stuff and stir, toss and taste, and dice and slice. Seven people coming. The thought hit me like a hammer. Don’t panic Captain Mainwaring.

Mr T takes charge

A day of lashing rain and so close to a win at Birmingham but 2–1 up with minutes to go Birmingham equalised to force the 2–2 draw. By all accounts Burnley should have been out of sight by half time but Pato missed at least three decent chances so that it was Birmingham who took the lead. Ings and Wallace made it 2–1 and it looked like there’d be something for Mrs T to smile about. For the second game running the manager said something along the lines of Burnley are close to giving someone a drubbing but having clocked 4 draws out of 5; a narrow win 1–0 would be just as good, was the abiding thought.   

Surely she won’t want to go to the Boxing Day game, I thought. But she did; made of strong stuff is our Mrs T.

The weather forecast was dreadful, torrential rain in the north-west at 3 o clock. Gleefully I gave her the news. Surely she wouldn’t want to get a soaking. “We are going aren’t we?” she asked plaintively. The chances of a win I put at poor to awful. Recent results suggested a 2–2 draw at best. The Austin wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders. Wins had been hard to come by.

But off we set; the arm under various protective layers – everything we could find bar a tarpaulin. Stewards kindly took us an easy way up to the JH upper deck via the corporate area so as to avoid getting trapped in the turnstiles.  Mrs T sat back to enjoy the afternoon. I sat back and thought of teatime and eating Christmas Day leftovers. A little part of me thought that a win, any kind of win, would be nice on my birthday.

Credit those footballers for putting on any kind of performance in rain that belted down for 90% of the game. Pigeons made a beeline for the shelter of the back of the stands. Some of them looked like ducks. A couple of small flocks of geese headed over the ground for somewhere drier. It seems churlish to suggest that the first half was as dull as the weather. Pato was clean through in the first minutes and his shot cannoned off the keeper’s feet. He stood crestfallen. You felt for the guy. It was Groundhog Day. When your luck’s out, your luck’s out.

Derby were neat and tidy but did nowt. Burnley had more of the game but ditto did nowt much. McCann was booked for the most innocuous foul of all time. A yellow card for that I thought and it was the same punishment for the thoroughly reckless and blatantly dangerous, career-ending tackle on Trippier at Birmingham. Tripper was lucky to walk off with his legs intact. It was a vile challenge that sent Trippier three feet up into the air. So: a yellow for that piece of thuggery and a yellow for McCann’s soft bit of obstruction. Where’s the logic in that? Later in the game Derby’s lummox of a centre-forward who’d come on as a substitute violently clattered into the back of Duff going for a header and Duff was lucky not to have his neck broken. Red card ref, surely – don’t be ridiculous – it got the yellow. Sometimes you despair. This was a referee who gave free kicks for the softest of challenges. At one point I thought he was going to book someone for sneezing.    Grant was booked for timewasting. The time wasted was so minimal I hadn’t even noticed. How often do visiting goalkeepers come here and waste time so continuously and so blatantly and it goes unpunished?

I’d decided this had 0–0 all over it but when you least expected it just before half-time Charlie conjured up a goal out of nothing when the ball fell for him and with a fortuitous deflection in it went.

Half-time and the rain continued. Derby came out with a little more energy, just enough to make a game of it. They’d have been hard pressed to use less than they did in the first half. For a spell they dominated and Burnley passes went everywhere but where they were intended. Even so, Derby looked toothless, troubling Grant just a couple of times, and hitting the post once. And then Duff settled things with a headed goal from a corner in the 74th minute. He was deservedly man of the match. Burnley played out the game comfortably and from that point never looked like losing. The final few minutes saw a bit of showboating with some possession football and exhibition passing that received a cheer each time the ball went to the next Burnley player. When a Derby player touched it there were jocular boos. It was Christmas spirit at its best. We used to do this a lot in years gone by; so long ago in fact that I reckon it must have been the 70s when I last heard such a thing.

But the crowd was poor for a Boxing Day, under 14,000. Did I really see £30 above a pay on the day turnstile? What’s with all this Gold category rubbish anyway? This is the Championship for goodness sake. Who on earth at Burnley Football Club thinks Derby are Gold category and will pull in the crowds and it’s worth £30 when we’re all broke just after Christmas?  This is Burnley for gawd’s sake not Las Vegas. £30 on a Boxing Day; this was exploitation that backfired. There was nobody queuing up for that turnstile when we walked by – no surprise there then.

Anyway: the players may not know this but I dedicated the game and the win to Mrs T’s poorly thumb. Next up is to see how successful the op was and decide if the hand has to go in a pot for a month.

Bearing in mind the atrocious conditions not one single Burnley player deserved less than 8 out of ten. A couple deserved nines. Sometimes it’s worth the admission money just to watch the speed of Ings’ feet. Lafferty had his best game yet at full-back. Vokes, Treacy and Stock came on as subs and slotted in as though they’d been there all afternoon.

Well, surprise, surprise, a win and well deserved; the journey home to Leeds was cheerful and at the end of it was cold turkey, sausages, heated-up veg and plum duff and mince pies for afters; all that plus Bobby Ball on Christmas Special Come Dancing.  His little legs went faster than Robbie Blake’s ever did.

And for all of us a Christmas bonus: Blackburn lost and are heading downwards to the First Division just as remorselessly as they headed from the Prem to the Championship. Agent Berg is a worthy successor to Agent Kean. But wait: twitter was alive and buzzing with rumours of his dismissal. You could almost feel sorry.

And now I must stop. It’s time to help the old lady to her breakfast in bed. Then today I must make the traditional Turkey Pie. Is there no end to my talents? She says I’m like a fine Yorkshire pudding and never fail to rise to the occasion. A Happy New Year to one and all.