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At Sunderland in midweek Bolton had been trounced 4 - 0 and a superb photograph flashed around the message board. Directly behind Coyle and his dugout two lads in Burnley tops had unfurled a long Judas banner. Sympathetic Sunderland fans joined in the abuse. His crass desertion and the feelings that it generated will hound him for months to come, if not years, in and around Burnley. Unfortunately it looked like he was turning things round at Bolton despite the Sunderland thumping.
The story did the rounds that Coyle's mobile phone bill, when it arrived at Turf Moor, showed phone calls between Coyle and Gartside in early December. True or not - I couldn't possibly comment. The discerning fan will recall that allegedly no conversations took place until after the Burnley home game versus Bolton. I can also reveal, allegedly again, that Mrs Coyle did not want him to leave Burnley.
March 13th might well have been the day we said goodbye to the Premiership. On a bitterly cold and windy day Burnley lost 1-2. The fortress that is Turf Moor is no more and Burnley looked like what they were - a Championship side that had somehow stumbled into the wrong room, even though it could be argued they were unlucky to lose and came to life in the second half after the 54th minute substitutions.
Loud boos rang out and clear during the game at the moment manager Laws took off Eagles in the second half. Losing 0-2 at this stage it did not go down well with the baying mob who saw him as the one threat Burnley had. In truth, he had achieved little and any end product was invisible. Laws in fact could have taken any one of half a dozen players off, in particular the old warhorse Alexander, who sadly in this game looked like age was finally catching up. With Bikey rarely out of second gear there were times when I wondered if there was any midfield at all.
The goals Wolves scored were of the pantomime variety which Burnley do so well. The first, from a dreadful Mears error allowed the nearest Wolves forward to nip in, take the ball round Jensen, and quietly score. The second goal came from a shot outside the box of no great power that struck the static, almost mesmerised, Carlisle on the leg and was deflected home from about 10 yards out. Without that ricochet the ball was heading for the corner flag. Up until this point following a reasonable first 15 minutes Burnley had been collectively poor, and individually out of sorts. Wolves without really trying quite extraordinarily found themselves two goals up.
Laws probably had the last laugh after the booing. On came Blake and Thompson (the struggling Bikey also went off), and Burnley lifted themselves off the floor, with Blake having a sparkling game and Thompson scoring the Burnley goal. It became the proverbial game of two halves, a poor first half performance and a decent second. There was a good shout for a clear penalty in the second half but the luck that sides need deserted Burnley before Christmas. It went unpunished. In the first half Nugent hit the crossbar. In the second half Blake hit the post. Stuttering as we were, the stats show we had 21 shots, something that hadn't happened in a game for a long time, and hit the post twice. For 40 minutes of the second half we deserved more. Wolves had just five shots and created little but contrived to score 2 goals. But stats, like Eagles, can flatter to deceive. This was a result that Wolves clearly wanted more than Burnley and once they had those goals they clung on to the lead in reasonable comfort, usually by getting to the ball first, winning the headers and putting themselves about aggressively.
For Burnley, before the passages of good second-half play, the problems were all there to see: players off form, some players short of Premiership quality, a player giving away a goal through an individual error, another goal the result of a player wickedly deflecting the ball; and this same goal, the result of absent defending before it ever struck Carlisle on the leg. Where were the defenders to close down the Wolves man who struck the shot? There was not a Burnley player anywhere near him. Bikey was nearest and unforgivably turned his back on what was really just a powder-puff shot.
The grumbles and criticisms rained down after the game and the depressing result. It seemed that relegation was assured was the general opinion. Most people at the beginning of the season would have expected nothing else. Staying up was seen as a miracle way back then. After the Wolves game, it seemed like Brian Laws might be the undeserved, unlucky fall guy. The websites and message boards hummed with undeserved criticism. Plenty of folk saying he was out of his depth, and it was all of it his fault.
But, dealt a rotten hand on his appointment, and arriving at a club in turmoil, plagued by injuries, deserted by Coyle, abandoned by lady-luck, is it any wonder there was just one win in his first ten games. In truth he was given command of a ship that had already been sinking since October. And then on leaving, Owen Coyle as good as admitted he thought Burnley would go down and that was why he was going.
After the game, Brian Laws referred to Burnley's bad luck. It was a fair point. Usually when managers talk about bad luck, it is a sign of frustration - but in this case it was 100% understandable. To be fair, other than the West Ham game there has been a total absence of the good fortune necessary to getting results. Call it run of the ball, call it what you like, it vanished completely from December onwards, possibly even before that. The penalty claim was a case in point. From where we sat the view was perfect, TV replays confirmed it. It was arm to ball, a nailed-on, bang-to-rights penalty. And the woodwork twice saved Wolves.
"Their luck was beyond cruel," wrote top reporter James Mossop in the Mail on Sunday.
It was thanks to this game, however, that we probably had the comedy moment of the season. It will undoubtedly feature in a future edition of Question of Sport (what happens next). The long punted ball was played down the right flank. Doyle hared after it like a greyhound. Jensen came out like a train from his box and raced to the touchline to intercept. "What in God's name is he doing," we wondered mouths agape. At about 90 miles an hour, the cult took aim and dived head first, presumably to head the ball. But, in horizontal mode, homing in like a missile, his trajectory was far too low, and instead of heading the ball (don't forget this is out by the Bob Lord touchline) he head butts Doyle. Except, it wasn't really a head butt, it was a hip butt as he belted into Doyle's nether regions and sent him clattering over the touchline in a crumpled heap. The earth shook. The Bob Lord Stand visibly trembled. Jensen meanwhile, all 15 or 16 stone of him, lay prostrate on the turf and the whole ground went briefly still and quiet.
"Bloody hell, he's killed himself," we all thought as he lay there face down, without even a sign of a twitch. On rushed the medics; collectively we held our breath, as well as simultaneously laughing ourselves silly. A few minutes later the Danish giant moved and wobbled, and then slowly sat up. No doubt the stadium looked like it was revolving as he surveyed the scene through blurred eyes.
"Welcome back to the world, glad you're OK but you're an idiot, that's the daftest thing I've ever seen," I expect referee Steve Bennett said, as he held up a yellow card. He was lucky not to receive a red which is surely what he would have got if he'd dived in feet first and taken Doyle out. Bennett must have decided to be generous because it was just so hilarious. In the history of the game there surely cannot ever have been a tackle quite like it.
"Good job it was his head," we all chuckled and probably his manager too. It was one of those you-must-see football moments that was probably shown on every TV sports programme around the globe. In this one magic moment the guy achieved true celebrity status.
For this game there was another 21,000+ attendance. Ah, the impact of the Premiership label; what will the same game be in 2010/11, with both teams likely to be back in the Championship? I'll guess at 13,000. In the Monday Press centre-forward Steven Thompson slated the fans that had jeered and booed, claiming they were not helping the side. "It certainly doesn't help when you're on the pitch. It's not going to help anybody when players' confidence is low. We're trying very hard to get out of this situation and everyone is on a learning curve. We might only be here once so let's just try and enjoy it." Steven was absolutely right. God knows what those players thought when they heard the boos on Saturday.
The programme listed the ticket prices for the 'Official Club Player of the Year' Awards. I gulped. £80 to sit by the players in the 'gold' seats nearest the stage; £60 to sit in no mans land, and £40 to sit half a mile away down by the toilet doors. Mrs T and me decided this year we'd stay in and watch the slightly less expensive Emmerdale and Coronation Street on our 'gold' sofa. Think of it as £800 for a table of ten and it's mind-boggling. Jimmy McIlroy used to be paid less than that for a full year once upon a time. The blurb said we could take part in the glitz and the glamour. Sorry lads but there were nowt glitzy or glamorous about Burnley in February and March. With what we've been watching recently, I said to the Mrs, they should bloody pay us £80 to go and throw in a Corum watch as well.
And so to Wigan, wondering which Wigan team would turn up. The side that beat Liverpool, or the side that in the next game were walloped comprehensively 4-0 by that Bolton lot. At Burnley early in the season they looked a damned good side and on one of their 'good' days played us off the park. Pessimistic as we were about the prospects of survival, the head still said the points were there to be won and four wins from the last eight games might just do it. Of course, most people who said that had usually had a few drinks.
But what did Jimmy Greaves always say? "It's a funny old game innit?"
And Alex Ferguson: "Football, bloody football."