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Me and Mrs T have been away for a spell, longer than we thought, so there's a bit to catch up on. We knew we'd miss the Hull and Sunderland games, and then because of a cloud of ash from a piddling little lump of rock called Iceland, we missed the Liverpool game as well (stranded in New York and spending money like water). First of all Iceland messed up the worlds finances good and proper, then they f****d up international travel. Plus they gave us Gudjonsson. If I could, on balance, after considerable thought about the matter, I think I'd nuke the place.
Whilst away, I confess I found myself missing the instant news from Clarets Mad and the gossip from the vibrant message board and all the texts and emails from chums. In fact for a few days I had real withdrawal symptoms. I would have gone to see the doctor, but they cost a fortune over there.
Missing the stunning Hull game was a sickener and we missed the weekend in Sunderland with the Supporters Club who stayed in Newcastle. But then the magic of New York took over and the stresses and strains of being a Burnley supporter began to fade. From over 3,000 miles away it's far less subjective. For a little while I wondered if I should feel guilty because I wasn't fretting about results and relegation and if anyone would leg it to the 110 Club for a swift lager halfway through training. But then the first breakfast in a splendid old-style diner near Central Park, yellow cabs, honking fire engines and lights-flashing police cars racing by the windows, eased away the memories of all the games I'd seen us lose at home, especially Blackburn and Citeh. And even the possibility of a trip to Millwall or Doncaster in the new season didn't seem too horrific.
We made plans for the week… looked forward to getting back for the Jimmy Mac dinner and the Liverpool game (the volcano hadn't yet erupted), the usual sightseeing stuff, a Broadway Show, jazz at the Lincoln Centre, B B King's nightclub; hot dog vendors on every other street corner and policemen twirling batons on the others, and a day driving round Brooklyn where Mrs T's father was born and her grandfather buried. The cab driver for the day was called Johnny Nunez. With a name like that you'd expect him to at least play for Wigan.
Just before we went away the Mail had suggested Brian Laws would be sacked, In fact he wasn't, but that didn't surprise me since the Chairman has a long history of loyalty to those he appoints and no-one could ever accuse him of being trigger happy. The day after that, another piece appeared in the Mirror saying much the same stuff.
I got a reply from a well-known national journalist I asked about what was going on. Let's just say this is genuine 'horse's mouth' stuff, but don't forget this was three weeks ago… and three weeks is a long time in football.
"There's a lot of black publicity being put around now, mainly by people who want the job. I have a fair idea where the Mail story is coming from. One of the guy's mates fancies the post. The players are low, but not in revolt. These players are good pros. Blakie did not hit the manager. I heard there were words, but you would expect that. However they are still on speaking terms - I know that for a fact too. I have been checking all week. The Sun story came from someone close to a manager who wanted the job too. It's like everything else in football; people are quick to put the boot in. I don't think Laws was the answer when Owen left, but who was? The big issue is what do they do in the summer?"
Food for thought there, and on the long plane journey over, I did think about it. Stick or twist? Have faith in Laws and trust him with the new parachute payments? What the reply showed is that there certainly are other guys out there who are after this job, which answers the question: would anybody else really want it? With possibly four parachute payments to come and no debts (we are told) it's still a plum job despite the rebuilding that is needed as one by one the Wembley heroes and the peak they reached slowly fade or leave.
We packed the suitcases with the Hull game on the radio in the background. The picture on the website of the game live flickered and buffered and stopped and started. I abandoned it. McDonald was not in the squad - presumably he was on drinks duty on a very hot afternoon. Hull went one up inside two minutes. Bloody hell, I thought, 'ere we go again.
"I can't believe what I saw defensively… Hull want it so much more than Burnley… three Burnley players just pulled out of tackles there… the two goalkeepers trying to outdo each other in the worst kicking competition… were the early comments.
Good Lord we equalised… Paterson… 35 minutes… Good Lord then we got a penalty… dear God Alexander scores… Good Lord and then we got another penalty… and Alexander SCORED AGAIN… the first penalties for an age… the first luck we have had for an age… the first decisions to go our way for an age… Phil Bird on the web going berserk… since the equaliser only one team in it says co commentator Darren Bentley… Hull fans leaving with 20 mins to go… fit again Caldwell on for an exhausted Duff… Bikey on for the exhausted Fletcher… one minute plus extra time away from the first away win… Time dragging… GOAL… ANOTHER F*****G GOAL… ELLIOT… And it's 4 bloody 1.
THE DEATH KNELL DOES NOT TOLL YET… said the co commentator. Amen to that.
And we weren't there. What a stupid weekend to go to New York. The smiles and hugs as they came off the pitch were a treat to see in the highlights. Morale must have rocketed sky high instantly. There's this theory that you have to hit absolute rock bottom before you can make a recovery when things are really going downhill. Maybe the City weekend was that rock bottom and collectively they took a long hard look at themselves. And, maybe as well we had some luck at long last. The Sunday papers went on the plane with us. We were halfway across the Atlantic before I stopped reading them.
I took a Burnley scarf with me just in case any fellow New Yorker Claret was out and about. I knew there were a few over there in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Stranger things have happened than bumping into one in Times Square. Mrs T insisted I didn't put a post on CM offering to arrange to meet anyone at the hotel. "I draw the line at that," she insisted.
I've gathered pen pals in Texas, Seattle and Washington over the last year. "Come and see us," said the guy from Washington. It was a fair trek when I looked it up so we passed on that one. The one I do fancy sometime is an invite from the guy who lives in Texas in a place called Driftwood somewhere between Houston and Dallas. He's a Burnley bloke (they all are) made good and has the Double G Ranch where he rides his horses wearing his Burnley shirt and scarf. (Not to be confused with the Burnley stuntman bloke in Los Angeles who trains horses and was featured in the Burnley paper). The Driftwood guy emailed to ask could he buy every one of my books. I liked him immediately.
The Double G Ranch in Driftwood, Texas, can you picture anything more quintessentially Wild West than that. The website blurb said that Driftwood is the kind of place where the most popular pastime is driving round aimlessly and dodging the tumbleweed. I say the names and see John Wayne saddling up and cowpokes hoopin' and a hollerin'. The Seattle guy said it was quite surreal to be sitting with Paul Fletcher and Brendan Flood out there chatting and gossiping all things Claret when they played those American friendlies.
We stayed at the Blakely, great name, near Central Park. "Burnley were big news in New York," said the hotel concierge. "They had such a good start to the season and beat Man Utd. It was all the news out here." You tip everybody for anything in the US and I did wonder should I tip the guy for just for speaking to me. "Not so hot at the moment are they," he added. He hadn't heard the Hull result. The 5 bucks went back in my pocket.
New York is a terrific place, our third trip, not as overpowering and intimidating as you might think. I met a bloke in an Everton shirt at the top of the Empire State Building. A week before we visited, someone had jumped from a window halfway up. Could well have been a Burnley supporter who'd just heard the Citeh score. At the top of the Rockerfeller I met a bloke in an Arsenal shirt and on the boat to the Statue of Liberty a bloke in a Newcastle shirt. "I fort you was gonna do alright," said the Arsenal bloke. "Proper little football club, great 'istory. That Coyle geezer stitched you up proper. Yeh I fort you was gonna do alright."
They all wanted us to stay up - "then we can get 3 easy points off yer." I had my picture taken in the gigantic Long Island cemetery where we found Grandpa Woods' gravestone, just a small stone set in the ground that probably nobody has visited for 90 years, and probably no-one will visit again.
In early April Christian Kalvenes left the club to return to Norway having featured in only a handful of Premiership games. In the Championship he scored the only goal at Blackpool in 2009, on a night when all sensible people should have been indoors in front of the fire. Those who were dedicated enough went to Blackpool to support the Clarets on probably the wildest, windiest night ever. It was maybe that goal that restored belief that the play-offs were still possible. But for a lack of pace, Kalvenes would certainly have played more games than he did. It held him back from being the recognised and permanent left-back in the side and one of the best recently seen at Burnley. Defensively he was tough, gritty and uncompromising and his name will be forever remembered as one of the band of brothers who achieved the near-impossible as a part of the Wembley team that did something that none of us thought possible - a year in the Premiership. He is the first of that group to leave. It would have been a nice gesture if he could have appeared before a game or at halftime so that we could have shown our appreciation.
If we remember Kalvenes with thanks, how shall we remember the little Icelander Gudjonsson? Just when you thought that Burnley, the team, the results, the manager et al had reached rock bottom after the City game, up piped our mini warrior to snitch on Laws and what was allegedly happening at Turf Moor.
"He lost the dressing room long ago. I think all the players have lost faith in him, the performances say all that has to be said.
It's hard to think of many sterling performances that this not-very-good player provided. One stunning 35 yard goal against Preston perhaps stays in the memory, but so too do the dozens of shots that hit the Stand roof and the wonderful passes that he sprayed like missiles to the touchline, unfortunately straight over the touchline. He missed a sitter at Wembley that would have made the score a safe 2 - 0. He fell out with Cotterill as well. Funny that. He comes under the heading of 'awkward bugger'. Iceland has a lot to answer for, Gudjonsson is one of them.
And then the volcano blew up. It delayed our return considerably, instead of the 21st, the 29th. Virgin stumped up for the hotel. What the hell we thought; make the most of it, a free hotel and breakfast in New York for a week doesn't happen that often. So I settled to watch the Liverpool game in a bar on 7th Avenue at 54th Street. The game was almost a microcosm of the last few months, play well for half a game and then blow it. Play a team off the park for 45 minutes but not capitalise. And then concede a goal with yet another deflection. At this point I felt for Brian Laws. How many deflections have there been since Christmas. And then we hit the post at the other end.
I left the bar with the uncertainty over. That was it. The Premier season done and dusted and the Championship heading to a stadium near you again. It was an Irish Bar, there's just about one on every street, this one with a Cockney guy in charge. A horde watched Chelsea on one screen. Just little old me watched Burnley down the other end of the room - here's me, I thought, watching Burnley in the Premiership in a bar in New York. It's a funny owld world int it?
The only English paper I came across over there had a piece by Mark Dennis. It was pretty scathing stuff, and very critical of the Chairman, Barry Kilby. "He planned for relegation and that is what he got… Burnley did have a decent manager, but Owen Coyle was more determined to stay in the top Division than Kilby and so realised he had to leave."
The local Telegraph had some cringeworthy stuff from Coyle himself. Words pour out of him at breakneck speed, faster than any three party leaders put together. The Mirror summarised it: "I think about these boys and everyone at the club every day." (He does sincerity very well). "I still believe they were good enough to stay in the Premier League. I left them in 14th place and on 20 points."
Funnily enough, or am I reading this all wrong; since relegation was successfully achieved and I got back to reading the Clarets Mad MB; supporters, despite continued questions about Laws' team selections, seemed much calmer and displayed far less angst than when there was still the faint hope that Burnley might survive. The deluge of wrath that appeared after the City humiliation seemed far, far away. Objectivity seemed to have replaced anger. Maybe there was more recognition of the appalling lack of luck, as well as the poor decisions by linesmen and referees that have blighted results since Fulham. There seemed to be a resigned and sad acceptance of the bottom three place. Nevertheless, no matter how fair or objective you try to be, the thought remains that the Premiership place was surrendered so tamely, and the rationale behind the Brian Laws appointment was so utterly baffling.
There are two questions about the future, however. Firstly, do the Chairman and the Board really have the ambition to get back into the Premiership? If so; is Brian Laws the right man for the job?
With eyes propped open with match-sticks the day after we got home, the Birmingham game was on TV. The first goal conceded was yet another Burnley comedy routine. The cross came over almost unopposed, Mears leg cleared the ball against Jensen's shins, he couldn't get his legs out of the way, and into the net it trickled. You could make a Christmas video of Burnley gaffes and goofs this season. The second goal was the result of a generous linesman who decided that Caldwell's excellent tackle was a foul. All you can do is shake your head. What good is all the possession that Burnley have, the neat football, if goals like that go in at one end, and at the other you cannot capitalise on the spells of dominance you have. Birmingham's big and ugly defenders got there first every time. And yet, before those two soft goals were given away, should there not have been a penalty when Mears was tripped? It looked blatant enough on MOTD.
I the season began with Robbie's wonder goal; so much passion, adrenalin, incredible team spirit, fervent united support and enormous pride, it is ending with barely the glimmerings of a whimper, and the breaking up of what was a truly remarkable bunch of players. We may well have banked the Premiership money, but sadly, this season cannot end soon enough.