It wasn’t that many years ago I suppose, but it sure feels like it. We’ve been through some drab times since that season have we not? My chum Bob is a diehard Chelsea fan and never expected that night to return home having lost. Mind you, we never expected to drive home that night having won. What a night it was. Every time we go down there we talk about it, including the sausage sandwiches on the way up, and the bags of chips on the way home. It was he who organised the tickets so that we sat in the Chelsea ranks and to our right was that unbelievable sight of the Burnley end and the 6,000 who were packed into it.
Said chum was not in the least surprised by the sacking of di Matteo but utterly open-mouthed at the appointment of Rafa Benitez as replacement…albeit only until the end of the season. Chelsea fans regard it in the same light that we regarded the appointment of Brian Laws as our Premier League supremo with incredulity – back in the day. Whilst Chelsea supporters booed and abused him on his first appearance; we Burnley folk were rather more gentlemanly and gave Laws a warm welcome, despite our astonishment.
(‘Back in the day’… a quaint but likeable Americanism that means long ago… I like ’top of the hour’ as well).
We drove home on the day of the Hull game and as the game neared its end we were nearing Leeds. Listening and waiting for bulletins and scores passed on a dull hour and a half at the top end of the M1. Our ‘Arry’s appointment as QPR manager was no big surprise but the car almost swerved across into the opposite lanes when he said he was really interested in the Ukraine job. Yeh Harry, we believed yer.
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| Hollingworth Lake - destination for the Adamson family in their A35 |
When we got back, amongst the endless rubbish emails was a delightful message from a guy in Newcastle – Claret of course. He had seen something about Jimmy Adamson I’d posted and replied to say how as a Littleborough lad in his younger days he had bumped into Jimmy A at Hollingworth Lake. In the drab 50s and then the improving 60s this was a good afternoon weekend trip when families treated themselves to a drive in the car on quiet roads if they had any petrol. If I remember rightly there was a decent strip of sand and you could pretend it was the seaside; there were boats and across the road a couple of cafes, shops and pots of tea and limp salads. Anyway John wrote:
‘Turning to Jimmy Adamson and my recollections of seeing him and his family at Hollingworth Lake, Littleborough one August in the 1960s, wife and two daughters, driving in a basic A35 Baby Austin car, I was reflecting on his modest life-style and how the relative affluence of current professional footballers was sadly not shared by our championship-winning side of ‘59/60. Jimmy was unmistakeable to us Burnley-supporting, Littleborough kids with his long legs, angular features and telescopic legs yet he was slightly embarrassed by our recognition of him. Notwithstanding, he quietly reflected our presence, looked gently pleased with the recognition bit then got on with life as a proud family man taking his family for a local day out in the summer. No Mediterranean sunset for the Adamson family but just a view of the Lake, the pleasure boats and the Pennine Hills over Blackstone Edge’.
That certainly brought back some memories for me and the days of short trousers; knobbly knees and a bumpy old Morris Ten we used to have that did the Sunday drive from Todmorden with mum and dad. The Baby Austin A35 was a tiny car and I can well imagine Jimmy having to contort himself to get in it with his long legs almost sticking out the front end.
On the day of the Barnsley game Mrs T and I went into Leeds and I was a very naughty boy in Waterstone’s. There are shelves and shelves of football books in there, half of them Leeds United. Down in a lowly place on the non-Leeds shelves amongst all the rest was a very lonely looking Roger Eli book. Hmm … I’m not ‘avin this I thought and while no-one was looking re-arranged the Leeds shelf that was at eye level and put the Roger book (don’t forget he started at Leeds) in pride of prominent place with the cover standing facing the front. I avoid going into Leeds like the plague and this was only the second visit this year. Waterstone’s is where I see all the books I’d love to buy and can’t afford. It will be 6 months at least before I go down again and see if the Roger book is still there where I put it.
Mrs T wanted to go the Barnsley game but with pay on the gate tickets at £20 a time, there are cuts in the Thomas Towers budget as well. Shame: we’ve been to all the away games there since the days of Stan T. By all accounts we didn’t miss much on a miserable night with a below-par display and some poor individual performances. Of note was Charlie Austin’s 21st goal of the season and a crowd of something over 8,000 of which over 1,000 were in the Burnley end. Ings hit the post and it all ended 1-1. The defence that let goals in for fun is considerably better but the side that was averaging two goals a game, and the division’s top scorers, not too long ago is struggling to score more than one a game these days. The last five games have seen just four goals scored, but only four conceded. “I don’t expect a goalfest on Sunday,” I said to Mrs T. “1–0 will do just fine.”
The day of El Classico and “the world stops at 12.30” said someone. I wouldn’t put it quite as dramatically as that although traffic stopped that’s for sure on various roads around the town as police bikes whizzed here there and everywhere to enable the cattle wagons to get to Turf Moor safely. We got held up behind one convoy on Tod Road and then as we followed them in it was great fun watching and listening to the abuse hurled from pub doorways as they made their way by. Overhead was the police ‘copter, and outside the ground, was it just me being paranoid, but was there a higher than usual number of genuine-looking hard cases loitering both in and outside the ground. Cauliflower ears and squashed noses, shaven heads and big boots seemed noticeably prominent – or was I just seeing the same three or four blokes all the time?
Elsewhere a carnival atmosphere was trying its best to break out with bright yellow chicken costumes, chicken hats, rubber chickens, Father Christmases and painted faces. The most splendid of the lot was a large group of fans dressed in full Indian regalia with turbans and darkened faces. This was the spirit of football at its best – unless I was mistaken and it was actually the Venkys. With the game in progress the obligatory real live chicken appeared on the grass at the Blackburn end and happily pecked away until it seemed to wander up the tunnel possibly to become someone’s Christmas Dinner. Just how do you smuggle a live chicken into a football ground? There’s only one place you could really shove it – and walking would be rather difficult I would imagine.
21,341 crammed in with Atle and his Norwegian gang near us and with them a Swede for good measure. According to messageboards folk had flown in from all over the place for the game. From somewhere an extra 6,000 Burnley fans had decided to attend for this special fixture, the commercial department milking it for all its worth.
Up in the Jimmy Mac after the game where we headed to while away the hour while the sheep were loaded into their transport, opinions about the game were divided. There was huge disappointment that Burnley had not won. Because of that, opinions were expressed that it was a poor game. Me and Mrs T (how civilised having a glass of house-white after a game) thought it was a terrific game; sure the final result was disappointing but put that aside, and the game itself was a corker that seemed to flash by. Some games feel like you’ve been sat there for three hours they’re so tedious; but not this one. T’ Classico was indeed a classic.
Burnley should have won no question, Wallace, Trippier and Shackell probably the pick of the bunch. It should have been sewn up in the first half when they were by far the dominant team and Blackburn were all over the place. Three good shooting chances went unrewarded and Robinson in goal made three superb saves, one of them with his fingertips from a shot, corner-bound, that had goal written all over it, another from an Austin header that he palmed away. Defenders got in the way of shots with blocks and tackles constantly. Robinson was in continuous action; Grant at the other end could have brought the Sunday paper to read. Alas with the score 0–0 at the break you just knew what was in store.
Blackburn came into the game more. Burnley passes began to go astray. And Rhodes was left unmarked to score with a diving header - Jordan Rhodes 1 Charlie Austin 0. The Blackburn centre backs won everything in the 6-yard box and it was clear that Vokes was needed. It was a disappointment that Dyche didn’t introduce him and Stanislas earlier. With a minute remaining the two of them combined to provide the thoroughly deserved equaliser with Vokes heading home the wicked Stanislas free-kick from the left. Our chums in Towneley say they heard the roar; a roar that was long, loud and strong enough to shake the stands under our feet. Within a couple of minutes Burnley might even have snatched a winner when another flashing header went just over the bar.
A 0–1 defeat would have been hard to take and undeserved. The equaliser was merited; the result maybe just slightly flattering to Blackburn who had been so outplayed in the first half. But as someone said on the way out: “We still can’t beat the bastards.”
The day was crisp and sunny with a blue sky, for those of us in the James Hargreaves the low sun in our eyes; a win would have been something to dedicate to the memory of Janice Fretwell who passed away recently. Her fight for years against cancer had been courageous and smiling and following Burnley had been one thing that gave her fortitude and something to look forward to each week. A regular with the Burnley Supporters Club, I’ll remember her laughing and joking in the front seats of the coach on away journeys. It wasn’t a win for her, but at least it wasn’t a defeat. It’s always sad to lose a Claret that you know, but Janice, whenever we met, because of her indomitable spirit and ever-present cheerfulness, was always someone I thought was a very special person.