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There were reports that money had something to do with this playground-of-the-stars location. The list of affluent Premier players with a fancy pad there is endless. There were reports too that Capello might turn back to that well-known, grim-faced, curmudgeon Gary Neville as a solution "to the problem right back slot." Fortunately he didn't. He could have done worse than look at Mears, folk were saying, whose forays down the wing at Burnley added a new dimension to the team and provided something we hadn't seen since… well I can't think of when. Dean West used to make overlaps down the wing… but at about half the speed. If Jordan had this same attribute in his armoury on the left side, by gum we'd have a team and a half. Of course the Sunday papers were full of the Phil Brown angle after the win over Hull City. Coyle sympathised. They were team-mates at Bolton Wanderers and he is yet another of the vast network of people that Coyle seems to know from his playing days and involvement at a long list of previous clubs.
So, there we were, slipping into the new month, feeling well pleased (and relieved) with one of the best home records in all the divisions. Wigan meanwhile who had walloped us earlier and looked an exciting and powerful outfit, then went to Portsmouth, (don't forget in the bottom three), and were themselves thumped 4 - 0.
MOTD2 on Sunday night featured the 'Ladies Day' at Burnley. This was where 150 females of all shapes and sizes, ages and hue, splashed out in the European Suite on champagne and lunch and dressed to kill. Sales of spray-tan in the Burnley beauty parlours allegedly doubled in the week leading up to this extravaganza. On the spot they could enjoy all kinds of pampering and beauty treatments. By the looks of things some of them needed it. The older ladies, a few of them won't see the good side of 40 again, probably used WD40. One outstanding lass exposing a very nice cleavage said she'd been in there since 11.30 and before that was in the pub for a few stiffeners.
Guess what… it makes loadsa money for the club and Harvey Nichols splash out big time up there. Also in attendance were American Crew (no idea what they do) and Humberstones (sounds a good name for a dodgy car dealer). This event is where the top tottie totter about on heels so outrageous and uncomfortable you wonder for the safety of those who wear them. You can see more flesh in there than Bob Lord's meat factory.
Highlight of the MOTD feature was the reaction when Burnley scored. Never have so many half-bare bosoms bounced so high, enthusiastically and invitingly. Anyone standing underneath some of them might have suffered severe concussion (or died happy). Indoors in the dining area Alastair Campbell looked well pleased with himself as various cuties sidled up to him, claiming later to have been groped and having both buttocks squeezed simultaneously. Brian Easton, David Edgar, Chris McCann and Jay Rodriguez were the lucky players (or unlucky maybe) in the firing line of all this mascara and deadly perfume. Maybe Patterson was there as well but was out of sight - probably below the bosom line somewhere, jumping up and down for a better look.
After the game as we queued in our cars to leave, two of these skimpily clad, young Burnley beauties stumbled outside into the night wobbling precariously on their designer shoes. You could read their lips. "Bloody 'ell me feet," said one. "Eeh ah'm well pissed," said the other. "Tell yer what… that McCann can give me one any day." Who said charm is dead?
The Manchester Citeh game sort of slid up on us. It was Thursday evening before I thought much about it. Toure and Adebayor we were told would be fit. Bloody hell, we wondered, does that mean another 4 - 0 tonking. But in truth, the win against Hull and the three points, plus seeing Blackburn Rovers in the bottom three (after West Ham won in midweek) gave us the cushion to be able to go to Citeh without the anxiety of worrying about a defeat. Who cares as long as we win at home, we surmised. At the beginning of the season didn't we all assume anyway we would go straight back down and decide to enjoy the ride visiting all these new places. Didn't the pundits and TV experts grin and nudge each other and expect us all to go to places like this in fear and trepidation, wide-eyed and doffing our caps as we went in.
Could you have had two more unevenly matched teams? A visit to the respective player car parks would answer that. The Princes versus the paupers; the Sheik Mansour's Middle East millions and unparalleled wealth Citeh have at their disposal, the star names, the expectations heaped on them, the spanking stadium - versus the little Band of Brothers at Burnley with the smallest this, the smallest that, the lowest income, and the littlest town ever to host Premier Football.
On paper, if this was a boxing match, it wouldn't have been allowed. But, Citeh had only drawn their last four games, goals had been hard to come by, the natives were getting just a little restless. And, at the end of the day, Citeh are still Citeh, and didn't Stuart Hall christen them, 'The Theatre of Base Comedy'?
It was over 30 years since the last top flight visit to Man Citeh and it was the last game for Rodney Marsh. The last Burnley win there was 5 - 2 in 1963. I was there in the 70s and saw us lose 7 - 0. The more intelligent Citeh fans were generally welcoming and pleased to see us, with a respect for our achievements on a shoestring and brand of football. Like us they've been long-suffering over the years, low on achievement and living in the shadow of their neighbours. The only Cups they have won recently have been Cups for cock-ups. In truth there's a degree of empathy and on their blogs there was an acknowledgement for our past and history.
There was, however, no expectation or even half a hope on our part that we might win; but still just that tiniest feeling lurked that however slim the chance; the law of averages says that one day we would win an away game. I stuck my neck out before the game and said I fancied a draw in the next couple of games. Something made me think the City game would be high scoring. I settled for 2 - 2. The day had that feel to it and Citeh had drawn their last 4 games.
It was the £160million team versus the £6million team, or £140million versus the £8million team depending on what paper you read. Whatever the difference, you would never have known by the final whistle. We listened to the City team being read out before the game and our mouths dropped as we heard each glitzy name… Tevez, Barry, Toure, Adebayor, Bridge, Given, Wright-Philips, Bellamy et al… a who's who of mercenaries, sorry, millionaires, sorry again, dedicated athletes. Dear God we thought what price have we? But by the end of the game we were ecstatic with a 3 - 3 draw. And here's how good we were, there was the feeling that this should have been a win, never mind a draw. It made the news from the New York Times to the Calcutta Telegraph. The simple fact is - money ain't everything.
Manchester City 3 Burnley 3: The opening paragraph from the Sunday Mail summed things up perfectly the day after the game. The unpredictable nature of the Premier League was displayed in all its glory yesterday when the richest club in the world were held to a 3 - 3 draw by Burnley, the smallest club to play in the top flight since the League was founded in 1992.
To our astonishment the smallest club raced into a 2 - 0 lead, the first a penalty put away by Alexander (when will he ever miss) and the second a delightful move of the highest quality; Blake a through ball to Eagles, and then Eagles diagonally across the box to Fletcher unmarked who slotted it home. 47,000 spectators were stunned, the City fans by the ignominy, the Burnley fans by the sheer unexpectedness and audacity. Thoughts danced in my head that this might be a 4 - 0 fantasy win, then the more practical realisation that this, don't forget, is brittle, soft-centred Burnley, and that a 2 - 0 lead was no safe cushion. Keep 'em out until half time we thought and the game can be won. "Wife," I said, "If we are 3 - 0 down I can relax but 2 - 0 up and I'm on pins and my nerves are shredded already. I need a brandy."
The fantasy win wasn't to be. Before half time, Wright-Philips wriggled and sort of stumbled/fumbled his way past Blake's half hearted challenge, hopefully shot, the ball glanced the static Jordan's ankle and the merest deflection put a spin on the ball that curled it inside the post. "Bugger" we all groaned. "They'll go on and win now." Not long into the second half referee Attwell, inconsistent all afternoon gave the softest of undeserved free kicks to City. We screamed our rage and indignation. Of course they equalised courtesy of Attwell. Next, with Burnley now reeling, Jordan failed to stop a cross, the ball came over, Mears and other defenders were sort of AWOL, and there was Bellamy to slam home. "Game over," we moaned.
But no: Coyle made changes. The by-now, tiring Blake was replaced. Bikey, probably to save him being red-carded was taken off and so too was Eagles. The latter had indeed had a storming game. City missed chances, for a while we looked helpless, shapeless; but then just 3 or 4 minutes from time, Nugent won possession. He dinked a perfect cross to the far post Fletcher; Fletcher deftly cushion-headed the ball across to the incoming Big Kev. Unmarked he neatly side-footed/half-volleyed the ball home over the diving Shay Given.
From despair one minute, to utter exhilaration the next for the huge Burnley contingent. "A McDonald Takeaway" was one headline. Citeh fans were silenced and Hughes smote the air like a demented Inspector Clouseau, his face a mask of total dismay and anguish. Even then we were not finished. Again the bustling Nugent won possession, raced to the corner of the box, but no-one was anywhere near him in support with City defenders nowhere to be seen. One pass to one player in support would have snatched a 4 - 3 win with just seconds to go. This was greed perhaps on our part; we wanted the win even though the draw itself was an outstanding result. Oh how good and proud it sometimes feels to be a Burnley supporter.
Home on the coach from the sparkling stadium set in the flat, featureless drabness that is Droylsden. It's a stadium that in spite of being new build has a great atmosphere rather than the sterile, plastic, sanitised lack of soul that is The Emirates. It was smiles all the way home, and better yet, back in the car again we stopped at the Stubbing Wharfe pub in Hebden Bridge for a meal. Boy do I recommend this place. It's an old canalside pub that once served the 'navigators' and bargees. Real Camra Ale and great pub food says the blurb. As pubs all over the UK close for lack of trade, this one thrives and prospers. Test the beer, sample the homely atmosphere, sit by the open fire, try the huge meals and you'll see why. This is a place for beer experts with beards and large bellies who say hmmm as they taste the first sip and nod their heads sagely, walkers, story-telling poets and long-haired hippies (and hungry Burnley fans on their way home). They even have their own little barge that chugs up and down the water. Three points at Man Citeh and then a monster plate of gammon, eggs and chips at the Stubbing Wharfe. Now that's what I call a good day out - no, correction - a bloody good day out.
The weekend of November 14th was set aside for the England game. Burnley sat in tenth place with 16 points. I looked at the fixtures to see if there was anything on TV to watch during the week. "Ooh good, there's Leeds on Tuesday and then Southampton versus Charlton on Wednesday, that'll be OK," I thought. Then I saw it was the Johnstone Paint Trophy. Ye Gods I thought the Johnstone Paint Trophy, what in God's name is that? We weren't in it and it didn't bother us any more did it? And it was only in the last week or so of October I remembered to stop looking at the Championship results to see how we had done. "Are we in the FA Cup draw?" said Mrs T. "No," I answered, "We are BIGTIME, we are Premier League." Even though we'd been through August, September and October it was still taking some getting used to. We are Premier League, we are Premier League I went round the house chanting - and still I had to pinch myself every now and then to remind myself that we really were.
Margaret Potts' funeral took place in the small church at Read on a beautifully clear, late autumn blue-sky day. How fitting that was, for her personality when I knew her was filled with sunshine. It was a rare day when there was no smile. Family, friends and ex players filled the church and the service was short and dignified. The eulogy was given by the Reverend Alan Reid a Potts family friend for fifty years since he first knew them in Brierfield. Alan told the story that when Harry was desperately ill and the end was near in the nursing home, he had a premonition and for some reason felt that he had to stop what he was doing, drive over and visit Harry. The family were there, and Alan arrived just in time to see Harry quietly pass away. Margaret, too, passed away peacefully, missing the birth of her great grandson by just days. Her life was well lived, she saw and did so much and experienced so many exciting and wonderful things.
A funeral is a mixture of things (we wrote in her book about Harry). It is a day of sadness and loss, but it is also a day of happiness and memories. It is a final celebration of a life lived.
Margaret always felt, strange as it sounds, that Harry would have enjoyed his own funeral and been surprised at all the fuss. I like to think that Margaret would have enjoyed hers. The church looked at its best, the surrounding countryside and views of the hills beautiful, the flowers that she loved so much were perfect. And up above, there was that beautiful, endlessly blue, wonderful sky. Her beloved Read where she grew up, and then lived and walked in later years for so much of her life, could not have looked better for her.