The Grim Reaper has a Nice Day

Last updated : 14 November 2002 By Peter Heywood

Mark McGregor - put through his own goal
The 3-2 scoreline in Barnsley’s favour suggests a close game; in reality it was anything but, as for long periods the Reds ran the Clarets ragged.

For once, Stan elected to field some of his fringe first-teamers. Without exception, they each turned in a performance which displayed exactly why they are that.

Burnley, in 4-4-2, lined up: James Salisbury; Andrew Leeson (Liam Eves 63), Earl Davis, Gordon Armstrong (capt.) (Sean Blakey 85), Mark McGregor; Brad Maylett, Joel Pilkington, Andrew Waine, Alan Moore; Andy Payton (Mark Rasmussen 63), Matthew O’Neill. Subs not used: Damian Hindle, Stephen Richardson.

An air of foreboding seemed to engulf the Turf before kick off, as the fans trickled in. It didn’t help that the PA announcer had chosen to play a cd of some bloke with a guitar wailing through a series of miserable songs. By the time he got to his funereal version of Nothing Compares 2 U, several Clarets fans were seriously contemplating ending it all, and had to be forcibly restrained from stringing themselves up by their scarves from the girders of the Bob Lord Stand.

The gloom was compounded during the game’s first couple of minutes as only two of the floodlights seemed to have been switched on. Thankfully ground director Clive Holt dispatched some steward with a bagful of 10p’s and behold! light ensued.

What followed in the next 45 minutes was remarkable. Barnsley, with nine of their eleven players from the U-19 Academy side, proceeded to give the more-experienced Clarets an object lesson in how football in the twenty-first century should be played.

They were a delight to watch, zipping the ball around like a controlled pinball, leaving their leaden-footed and bemused opponents for dead. To paraphrase a former regal flunkey: "Burnley played in black and white; Barnsley played in colour."

In the first fifteen minutes Burnley had had one attack, Payton just failing to convert a Moore cross. Barnsley, in contrast, had scored twice and could have had more. The Clarets couldn’t even see the ball, let alone get hold of it. The defence, with Armstrong having one of his more eccentric games, was a shambles, the midfield non-existent. Payton was doing lots of running but little else. Only Matthew O’Neill was showing anything like the technical skill and awareness that each of the young Reds seemed to possess in abundance.

The abject humiliation was compounded just before halftime when Mark McGregor achieved the dubious honour of scoring the Avon Insurance Premier League’s first own-goal of the season when he headed past Salisbury in what can only be described as Keystone Cops style.

As the Clarets trooped dejectedly off to the eerie strains of the Specials’ "Ghost Town" (the Grim Reaper on the PA in fine form again), the paltry gathering of 278 heaved a collective sigh of relief that it was only 3-0 and was left to muse on what it had just witnessed.

Not for long though, as before the last of Terry Hall’s ululations had finished reverberating around the empty stands the Clarets re-emerged, shaking various items of broken crockery from their hair, followed minutes later by a grim-faced Supremo, incongruously attired in shorts and mittens.

No substitutions, but now our one creative player, O’Neill, was to adopt a deeper role in what seemed to be a 4-5-1 formation, designed to smother Barnsley’s three-man midfield. This would presumably glide effortlessly into 4-3-3 when attacking, with Maylett and Moore moving forward to support Payts. (It can only be assumed though that our two wingmen had spent so much time dodging the teacups in the dressing room that they were exhausted, for both remained largely anonymous.)

After much Batty-esque huffing and puffing, commonly referred to as "workrate", the Clarets did begin to regroup. Knocker O’Neill had a great run and shot superbly saved, and Pilkington and Waine were beginning to look more like their usual selves. However, most of our play was also imbued with a Batty-esque lack of imagination, and Barnsley dealt comfortably with all that came their way. In fact, only a superb Salisbury save from Jones midway through the half stopped it from being 4-0.

With 20 minutes left, the substantially less-than 278 were aroused from their slumbers when the unimaginable happened and Burnley actually scored. A Moore cross was handled, and after it became clear that no-one was prepared to take the penalty now that Payton had been substituted, Andrew Waine assumed the responsibility and duly recorded the Clarets’ first home reserve goal of the season.

It would be an exaggeration to say that the Clarets then laid siege to the Barnsley goal, but they did enjoy lots of possession and actually produced the goal of the match in the 81st minute. Waine won the ball well in midfield and played the ball wide to Moore. His cross was whipped in for the onrushing Pilkington to meet it with a thundering header ten yards out for 2-3.

This scoreline was never a true reflection of the game, and the Clarets did little else to get what would have been a wholly-unjustified point.

So three home games, and three defeats with three goals conceded each time. At least the few remaining fans could console themselves with the fact that the reserves have at last achieved a level of consistency.

And what of Mr Reaper? What mournful tune did he deem suited to match our downcast spirits as we drifted silently away into the drizzle? Only the Stereophonics and "Have A Nice Day"!

Bastard.