Now where's that massage parlour number?

Mark Hughes - sacked by the Arabs

It continued with John Terry allegedly taking money for private tours of the Chelsea training ground; Spurs players defying Harry Redknapp to have a secret Christmas Party in Dublin, and the same Harry Redknapp facing charges of tax evasion. And those were only the things we knew about. We weren't allowed to know the identity of the Premier Manager who had been visiting a Thai massage parlour. Not that I know anything about Thai massage parlours, you understand.

Meanwhile at the oasis of good-sense, the centre of sanity, Turf Moor Towers; seven-games-without-a-win Burnley were slowly going off the boil, the adrenalin in short supply and points desperately needed. Championship sides have looked up to us since the season began seeing us as the yardstick to aim for and the example to follow. "Doing a Burnley" became a regular soundbite. Sadly those of us who follow Burnley know that "doing a Burnley" usually came to mean losing from Christmas onwards most seasons.

If memory serves, were we not in the middle of a run of five defeats in December 2008? Did we not think oh gawd 'ere we go again? But then what a year 2009 turned out to be - Carling Cup and promotion glory and would any of us have predicted such a thing at the turn of the year. It's a funny old game and if the real Burnley turned up, we thought on Boxing Day, rather than the one that capitulated at Wolves, then 6 precious points in the next two games was possible.

And so we turned up still filled with Turkey and Christmas pud. For football fans it's one of the great Christmas traditions; a good Christmas Day with all the trimmings, the evening feeling totally stuffed (but still a turkey sandwich for supper), Emmerdale, the Royle family, Poirot and then a good Boxing Day game the day after. If it's a home game it's a bonus. If it's an away game at Crewe (like it used to be in the bad old days) it's more of a duty than a treat. But a home game - it's just one of the great things about Christmas. In the old days you could smell the cigar smoke and the tots of brandy or whisky being swigged from hip flasks, and the sound of wooden football rattles. Now in the sanitised world that is football, the smells and sounds are gone. "Please remain seated during the game," came the tannoy announcement. There was a full house for this game. Why is it that people come on a Boxing Day and don't bother the rest of the year? "I'm glad I came," said one bloke on the way out. "I really enjoyed it." The gist of his conversation was that he comes once a year.

The weather was bitter but snow had been cleared from the areas around Turf Moor. Out came my fabulous massive overcoat, the one that comes down to my ankles, the one I got from Spitalfield market from the back of a lorry, sorry, a stall that sold end-of-line clothing. People with no fashion sense think it was once an old horse blanket in a former life. All I can say is you won't see anything similar in Marks and Spencers. You can laugh; it would keep an Eskimo warm.

At half time, warm as toast, I sat with my head in my hands inwardly screaming at the floundering performance from the home side. Only Jordan and Bikey distinguished themselves. Bolton were dreadful, a collection of donkeys and carthorses in a football kit. Against this collection of equine dross, other than a brief passage of pressure we exerted around the 30th minute, Burnley's play was pedantic, inaccurate and toothless. When Bolton took the lead from a generously given free-kick, the signs were there that this was going to be another defeat. Bad as we were, their goal came as a complete surprise. I suspect they were stunned as well; the guy who scored certainly was. The free kick was 90% Davies backing into Bikey and they fell to the ground in a heap. 99 times out of a 100 the decision would have been the other way. Again and not the first time we got the referee who was the odd one out. It's not unreasonable to say that the big decisions did not go Burnley's way in December resulting in a poor harvest of points.

When the referee missed a damned good shout for a penalty for a nudge in the back on Nugent as he raced into the box; when Fletcher missed an absolute gift of a chance with only the goalkeeper to beat; the first half simply got more and more depressing. Fletcher's work rate, his skill and flair can make him an exciting player to watch. But all that is useless in a centre-forward if chance after chance is missed in consecutive games. Another one in the second half from just eight yards out was blazed over the bar when it should have been so easily smacked home from a pass from Eagles.

With Caldwell and Carlisle both missing injured, Bikey took one of the centre-back spots and strode the pitch like a colossus. This is his best position. At best he is awesome. Nugent started the game alongside Fletcher and ran around and made himself a real nuisance. It was he who got the deserved equaliser in the second half from an Elliott cross when he rose high and powerfully headed home. It was nothing less than justice as Burnley, transformed in the second half, swarmed all over Bolton and could have had a comfortable win if chances had been taken. The stats are significant - 14 attempts on goal and 10 were off target. It told you all you needed to know about Burnley's wasteful finishing.

At half time I would have said relegation was beckoning with performances like this. At full-time the glimmer of hope remained as the real Burnley turned up for the second 45 minutes. Bolton were battered and the last 20 minutes was simply one way traffic and how this game was not won by two or three more goals remained so frustrating. Near misses, great runs, lovely moves, fast passing, constant forward movement, players who had been leaden in the first half sprang to life and played like we know they can. McDonald hit the bar with a superb strike; the goalkeeper made three super saves and then had us tearing our hair out with his time wasting and slow motion goal kick preparations. It was blatant, merited a booking, and in truth had started as early as the 5th minute.

Eight games without a win then on my 65th birthday and we left frustrated and disappointed. But exactly a year ago we'd lost 1 - 2 at home to Barnsley in the Championship. Let's remember, we reminded ourselves, that 1 - 1 against Bolton in the Premiership was almost a minor miracle. And, somehow thanks to other results Burnley were still three points above the dreaded drop zone. December saw us playing four teams, who, when we met them were in the bottom three, Portsmouth, West Ham, Wolves and Bolton We took just two points. Perhaps our brave lads needed to learn to relax and unwind before a game.

Now where's the number for that massage parlour?

We had a house full after the Bolton game for my birthday. Goose Pie and all the Christmas Day leftovers, lots of fizzy and then the dreaded party games. Mrs T insisted. I would have been quite happy sitting quietly contemplating my new pension and counting the new grey hairs that appeared during the first half against Bolton. At 10.15 a few of the chaps snuck out of the games room and settled to watch the Burnley game on Football First. Skilful editing made it look like a good first half. It even made Bolton look good - well - ish. It illustrated that the free kick they were awarded from which they scored was a joke. It showed how inconsistent referees are with penalty decisions. The one awarded to Hull City against Man Utd, the day after, made Burnley's claim a stonewall cert. No amount of editing could disguise the fact that we were terrific in the second half and so unlucky not to win. The Payton Padiham Predator or someone similar would have had a field day sniffing and snapping up the chances.

On the coach to Merseyside we wondered which Burnley would turn up for the first half. Would Duff and Bikey continue at centre-back? They did a damned good job on Boxing Day. Would my coat of many colours receive acclaim or more mockery? What's wrong with a coat big enough to double up as a tent?

The Toffee Lady ahead of our game at Everton

This was a trip with family connections. My Uncle Arthur, bless him, 90 in February, is an avid Evertonian. He used to give me all the programmes he brought home when I used to stay with them as a nipper. Once or twice I went with him and remember the toffee lady in a long blue dress who went round before a game lobbing toffees into the crowd. In those days there were no such things as health and safety and ground safety officers spoiling everybody's day out and telling the toffee lady to stop throwing sweets at people. Uncle Arthur never missed a game, followed them everywhere, was a pretty good footballer himself and would have had a trial there but for WW2 - and was once nearly blinded by a toffee from the toffee lady when it hit him in the face. He never imagined that Burnley would ever again roll up there in a top fixture. My last trip there was in the 70s in a Division One fixture. Can't remember the score but I do recall the ref gave a dodgy penalty against Keith Newton for a handball when he instinctively flung his arms up to protect his face from a bullet cross that would have given him a new flat nose.

I couldn't help thinking before the game that either Everton or Burnley, having very similar seasons, could put six past the other, if either hit top form from the first minute, or, if the luck and decisions went their way. Wondering which Burnley would turn up for this game dominated conversation as the coach chugged its way to Goodison. "It is a truth universally acknowledged" began Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice… that Burnley will lose away, also preyed on our minds.

Within a few minutes we knew the up-for-it Burnley had arrived. Both teams were in good form from the start and produced a terrific game. The first half was outstanding end-to-end stuff, with Burnley and Everton standing toe to toe, trading moves, goal attempts, thrills, saves and individual skill. A half time score of 2 - 2 would not have been unreasonable. Burnley fans could have been forgiven for thinking this would be the first away win. Nugent had a great opportunity to make it 1 - 0 when he found himself through after a defender's mistake. He fluffed it; similarly in the second half when he hit a post shooting across goal. Both sides had penalty shouts ignored. Burnley had a second when Nugent was bundled to the ground. Both Jensen and Tim Howard made superb saves.

Somehow referee Webb contrived to make Burnley look what one Everton fan described as "the dirtiest team to visit Goodison." The foul count of 18 Burnley and just 7 Everton gave a totally distorted view. Five bookings and a sending off for Burnley, but two of the bookings (on Bikey and Mears) were unwarranted; two belonged to the hapless Jordan "surely the dimmest duffer of the decade" said Stuart Hall on Sports Report, when he was sent off for the second yellow for almost removing an Everton shirt. It was the turning point of the game.

Down to ten men Burnley produced a heroic rearguard action, even managing to create more chances and attempts on goal. But the pressure in this fantastic game mounted and with just 7 minutes to go Everton scored when James Vaughan scored with just about his first touch after coming on as sub. Coyle roared with anger claiming offside but in truth the ball could have been cleared when Kalvanes somehow, off balance, got the ball stuck under his feet and the ball rolled to Vaughan. Yakubu the alleged offside player was in fact played onside by the distant Mears' outstretched leg. Such is football and the way of the football gods who I am forever convinced decide who will win before a game begins.

Maybe the gods decided that referee Webb would produce decision after decision that infuriated the Burnley support: Five bookings for a team that when the game began was almost top of the Fair-Play League although Jordan can have no complaints. And the gods certainly selected the injury-ravaged Vaughan to score in his come-back game rather than the prodigal Nugent returning to the ground of his boyhood dreams.

We came away feeling drained, despondent and crushed. No Burnley player gave less than his all, including Jordan until his moment of madness. Bikey and Duff were again outstanding. Fletcher twisted and turned, Eagles was superb, McDonald strode the midfield, Alexander mopped up, Mears ran and ran; Jensen was a rock. But all to no avail. The minute Jordan left the field, the game was up.

It isn't that far from Burnley to Goodison, that throwback to a previous age of football, but it was a long, long journey home and felt like 500 not 50 miles. After this game we wondered just where the next win would come from - to play so well, outstanding in fact, and to come away with nothing; and yet again, the feeling that not just profligacy, but referee decisions were costing us games. I can't recall bellowing the word 'outrageous' at a referee quite so often, Webb's home biased display was so infuriating. A perfect example, Fletcher, at Everton, was brought down to the ground in just the same way as Davies fell on top of Bikey against Bolton. Davies won a free kick and Bolton scored. Fletcher's claim for a free kick was ignored. The fouls were identical. Where was the consistency?

We might also have asked the age old question "what if". What if Nugent's shot had rebounded in and not out, off the post. The margins between success and failure are so close. What if Jordan had been able to show that modicum of sense, albeit in the heat of the moment, when adrenalin rather than logic rules one's reactions? "If only" manager Coyle, who allegedly warned Jordan to be careful in the second half, had substituted him at half-time as a precaution. But then do you replace everybody who has received a caution - probably not.

The signs and omens at the turn of the year, despite great games and great fighting football, pointed towards an eventual undeserved place in the bottom three. This was the ninth game without a win. But hope remained. After the Everton game we might well have been forgiven for fearing the worst but three points still kept Burnley heads above water on December 28th.

And so the decade ended with a defeat in the Premiership. The last one ended with an Andy Payton hat-trick against Oxford United at Turf Moor. The period in-between saw just one chairman and three managers, but no end of drama. Within just a few weeks of each other two events dominated club history in April and May of 2009. Promotion was one, but just prior to that a cash injection came from four of the directors. That injection saved the season and financially took us through to Wembley. It's perhaps a tad melodramatic to say, but the Wembley win saved the club from financial disaster. It might have taken a little while longer to manifest itself but real adversity was very close. We might well have felt gloomy at the end of December, but better a defeat in the Premiership, than playing catch-up in the Championship after a ten points deduction.