It's really happening

'But in reality they exist in separate universes. They may on occasion share the same space but not the same air', wrote their feature writer.

Whilst clubs like Chelsea and Manchester United travelled in private jets, Burnley's party of 34 had no such luxury and the story goes (according to the New York Times) that one of the buses, not plush luxury but extended vans, on the two-hour drive from airport to Ventura, was driven by Robbie Blake.

The promotion and relegation system 'inevitably leads to Cinderella stories and the glass slipper last season belonged to Burnley'. How true that was and the words fairy-tale had been used so often by fans and everyone connected with the club that they were in danger of serious over-use. It was way back in 1960 that Burnley were featured in the New York newspapers when the title-winning team played in the 'New York Tournament' and the comparison with Cinderella was made then for the first time.

Even in the final pre-season week immediately leading up to the two opening games, Stoke City away and Manchester United at home, when we had our season tickets, our Premiership badges, constant features in the media, the proof of black and white fixture lists; there was still a feeling of pinch me is this really happening and we shook our heads in wonderment. "The Ferrari and diamond ear-ring brigade," is how CE Paul Fletcher described the Premier League. Some of the pampered superstars would get a big shock in the tiny dressing rooms and communal baths. Not much has changed in 33 years in there. "Even the soap is the same," said Fletcher.

The land of make believe and sums of money so large as to be unreal, is how I saw it, but here we were. Members of the global elite with games shown in something over 200 countries so that the name of Burnley would be known worldwide bringing all manner of exposure and business potential to the town. But, membership of the elite would be temporary and short-lived the experts and most other people thought, with just a small sprinkling of those who thought we might just survive. No-one knew what the new season would bring but the stories of 2008/09 were, and still are, etched into our minds.

[i]It's a memory now, the panic for tickets, queuing, phoning, and more panic. The excitement after the Reading play-off games, the slow build up to London. There was that unfathomable surreal feel about all of it. Games that we should have won and didn't, too many goals conceded, the League table being constantly analysed; harking back to the majestic Cup games, so, so close. A fifth spot finish, genuine fear about witnessing and experiencing defeat against Sheffield United, just how sickening would it have been for us all? Then, there it was, Wembley, numbness, disbelief, unable to fully comprehend just how truly massive an occasion it was to become; thousands of different tales and all of us coming together for the main event. The day made me speechless, the fabulous staggering goal, and the agony of the remainder of the game. Time will tell whether our dreams were justified but we were all part of something incredibly special that day. (Clarets Mad Message Board)[/i]

In the build-up to the day it was pleasant to sit back and think of how far we had come since the bad old days. It was both amusing and boring to watch the Premier League stories about various other clubs emerge and repeat themselves on SKY and in the media until we thought please no more of this.

I listed a few stories that went on and on that slowly began to drive me insane. Ferguson's ongoing rants about Man City and Tevez and the city centre billboard. Darren Bent's protracted move from Spurs to Sunderland… who on earth cared about an over-rated, over-priced Spurs failure that our 'Arry famously compared to his wife; Alonso's yawn-inducing move from Liverpool to Madrid that had no-one on the edge of their seat. John Terry, Man City and the will he move or will he not move saga that dragged on for an age. In the end he stayed at Chelsea as we all know he would.

The Man City attempts to sign Joleon Lescott from Everton with bid after bid and page after page in the Press; Arsene Wenger thinking about signing the ageing Patrick Viera… will he won't he we all didn't bother wondering; Harry Redknapp trying to sign everybody on the planet. Phil Brown at Hull with the perma-tan and the number of times players who turned him down until at last he found Stephen Hunt from Reading who probably had nowhere better to go. And finally the tale of Lady Bracewell-Smith's 10% shareholding at Arsenal and would she, or would she not sell them. Just sell the bloody things I mouthed at the newspaper.

And then there was the story that shook us all to the core. It came from Alan Nixon who some think is Owen Coyle's other assistant manager. And it was the bombshell news that we were interested in signing Andre Bikey and that bids had been made. Andre Bikey! The guy who helped us win the two play-off games against Reading with his sending off at Turf Moor.

He'd given away the penalty that won the game, and then for good measure stamped on Robbie Blake. In the sending-off process he went ballistic, gnashed his teeth, clenched his fists, did a fair impression of the incredible hulk, tore off his shirt, flung it around, displayed a temper tantrum that a toddler would have been proud of. It was an unparalleled display of anger, fury and temper none of us had ever witnessed before at any football match.

Of course, as a result of the red card, he then missed the game at Reading. How they missed him and Burnley scored their two wonder goals. But temper apart, he could certainly play, and the news of the attempted signing was well received. Figure of fun one minute, potential hero and cult figure the next - if he arrived.

The week before the game we read in the national papers all manner of pieces about Burnley Football Club back in the big time. Pieces by Jim White in the Telegraph and the one by Chris Wheeler in the Daily Mail were superb. The one by Oliver Brown appalling, filled with clichés, stereotyping, and blatant inaccuracies.

The night before the first game at Stoke City (like Christmas Eve said one fan) we all watched the Alastair Campbell TV documentary 'Burnley Are Back'. What a superb half-hour programme cramming so many Claret moments into its 30 minutes. Glimpses of the fabulous team of '59/60, a couple of minutes of David Coleman in 1960 in good old black and white praising Burnley, gruff old Bob Lord, Butcher Bob, not everyone's favourite but the man who built the years of greatness, in his grand car and entering his Butcher's premises; clips of the incomparable Jimmy McIlroy ball-juggling, the Orient Game, the Scunthorpe game, Stan Ternent in tears, the chairman's wedding, and views of the town and surrounding landscapes that, for a change, didn't show whippets, cloth caps, mill chimneys and cobbled streets.

And of course a string of interviews, the best of them with Wade Elliott the man who, when he is well past 70 will be a feted Burnley hero, invited back to events and functions and will never have to buy his own drinks again. When he first arrived he and girlfriend really did think they were coming to a place that looked like Coronation Street. And now he loves it. Who cannot fall in love with those wild and wonderful landscapes that surround the town?

And then Barry Kilby in his interview said that by the end of the season Burnley would be debt-free. Never have just such a few words sounded so good. Barry just quietly beavers away, without fuss or any publicity seeking. Director Brendan Flood's new book covers his two extrovert years at the club. The book I would like to read (and write for him) is the story of Barry's ten years at the club. Now that would be a story; of one man's dedication and determination, through sometimes dreadful times, with the club close to the edge on several occasions. "I thought I could make a difference," he once said about why he took on the position. It took him ten years, but a difference he certainly made.

I'm lucky, I live far enough away to be able to look at the town and the club objectively from a distance. Yet at the same time I am involved enough and there enough to be able to cherish it and love it. I wish I could bottle and sell that rich, warm homely accent that Burnley folk have. It helps being one of the lucky ones who was able to see the title win of 1960 and all the great years. But 50 years ago how different things were; season tickets went on sale only a week before the season started. You could buy them from the secretary's office in the club or from Mrs Blakey across the road who kept them on her sideboard. There was one practice match at Turf Moor when the first team beat the reserves 5 - 1. They were innocent, uncomplicated times in a game that was not yet tainted by greed, and clubs were pretty much all on a level footing because of the maximum wage. But in August 2009, there we were, part of a mammoth set-up where the sums of money involved are beyond comprehension.

On the coach to Stoke there was a mix of people. Some had been around 50 years ago when Jimmy Mac et al went on to win the title. Seeing the ball juggling skills of Jimmy Mac in the Campbell programme had some of them in tears. Others began their allegiance in the seventies when Dobson and crew played their brand of lovely passing football. And others had begun their support in the seven lean years of Fourth Division dross. The younger ones who had begun in the nineties knew of Jimmy Mullen and then Stan Ternent. It was the ones who had followed the Clarets since 1976 and before, however, that perhaps relished this day the most; for they had been there in the good days, even the glory days, and for them the next 33 years had been long and often painful. For them, Burnley really were back.

Then: 3 o clock, Saturday August 15^th, it all began, pre-season over, away to Stoke; the land of Delilah, the Britannia wind tunnel, long throws, Pulis's peaked cap; and the land of the giants. "The smallest budget, the smallest squad, the lowest wage bill," said manager Coyle of his own club.

Every away ticket sold, bar a handful, and those of us there held our collective breathe. There was a bizarre paradox. 3 o clock meant reality kicking in and we didn't want it to come. During the summer of 2009 we had lived on the memories of Reading and Wembley; the Elliott moment and the crazy after-match scenes of joy and unbridled emotion. It was a summer of dreams and re-living a fantasy over and over again. We thought about it all the time and nobody really wanted those dreams and memories to end. But 3 o clock and kick-off meant we had to let them go. 3 o clock was now, summer was over, survival and maybe cruel exposure the new name of the game.

"A nightmare start to the season" one pundit said with four of the first five games against Man United, Everton, Chelsea and Liverpool… four of the very best teams around. All of us knew deep down that the days of joy and ecstasy and a summer of walking-on-air, might well be over very soon.

Unless… a point at Stoke, a surprise win against Manchester United, catch them cold; a more likely possible win against Everton… seven points… and then it wouldn't matter too much to lose at Liverpool and Chelsea.

But there was no point at Stoke, even though we played well, and the journey home was sober and full of conjecture. The fairy tale summer was indeed over; the grim reality of the new Premier League demands starkly evident. The TV men, pundits and sages all; nodded their heads knowingly. "We told you so," they reminded us. Sod 'em; there's still 37 games to go, we thought. We are Burnley. We don't give up after just one game.