 
## Got To Be There

© Dave Burnley 2009

Published by Dave Burnley at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior consent of the author.

Cover photo: Ecstatic Burnley fans including the author (circled) invade the pitch after the 2-1 defeat of Orient on May 9, 1987 which preserved the club's Football League status. Cover prepared by Clare Brayshaw

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# Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Ralph Coates

Introduction

Some Highlights of the Second Half

1. THE BIG KICK OFF

Don't mention the war

My first school uniform

Attila the Mum

Pussy Galore

Non-uniform days

2. DESTINY CALLS: 1964-66

Pick a team, any team

Choice cuts

A particular school of thought

I get my kicks on Route 66

The first trip to the Turf

3. THE BURNLEY BUG BITES: 1967-68

Follow your feelings

The secret diary of Dave Beeston aged 133/4

Like it or lump it

What's in a name?

The 'Holey' Shroud: My 33 piece suit

Thrashed out of sight for free

A lorry-load of trouble

4. THE MADELEY MAFIA

Teenage kicks

Bovver boys

The style council

Hollywood nights

A clash of cultures

5. THE BEGINNING OF A LOVE AFFAIR: 1969-71

A squirty pie is tamed before tunnelling in

Establishing a bond

Young Guns, Go for It!- Tests of loyalty

Almost boring Arse-nal!

I don't want to go to Chelsea

An explosive finale

6 ODDBALL ANTICS

The first cut is the deepest

A love supreme

Fancy a dance?

A hair-raising experience

What a coincidence

Good morning, vicar? Perhaps not

The untouchables

7. FOUR WARNINGS AND A FUNERAL: 1973-74

The problem

The best laid plans

Doctoring the truth

An 'auntie'-climax

8. CHARMED, I'M SURE: 1973-76

Superstitions, foibles and lucky charms

The lucky pump quartet

Drinking to success and excess

Meet the Burls

Some 'guys' have all the luck

Tears on Tyneside

Bear baiting

100 per cent Burnley

Read all about it

9. THAT MOURNING AFTER FEELING: 1975-78

Dark days

Carry on 'copping'

Respect

Do not disturb

A triple blow

10. OVER LAND AND SEA

Norway to behave, Pre-season tour to Oslo/Bergen 1974

Let the train take the strain

'Ave you got a light, boy?

An appointment with Oslo's Fred Scuttle

This year, I'm off to sunny Spain, Pre-season tour to Majorca 1979

Inca inconvenience

Davey's on the road again

Room for one, sir?

A passport to the match

A perfect moment

11. THE AGONY OF DECLINE: 1976-1981

Trust in your own

The third degree

Pottery cups

A travesty of justice

Interest wanes

12. ENGLAND EXPECTS

For England and St George

He's got a gun!

Tears for souvenirs

A rumble in the Ramblas

Truncheon meat

13. ONE STEP FORWARD AND ONE STEP BACK: 1980-83

A bit green around the Gills

Big Billy

Hair of the dog

Kaiser's tours

Not bikini weather

Getting tattooed up

Just visiting

The Ewood riots

14. INJURY TIME

The smartest monkeys?

Sing something simple

The savage Seventies

A double whammy at Cardiff

Remember Preston

Savaged by Wolves

You'll never reach the station

15. COMIC CAPERS

The runaway bike

Pyjama palaver

The fruit and 'The Veg'

A real sickener

16. WE'VE NOT BEEN EXPECTING YOU, MR BOND

Breaking with tradition

Goodbye, Mr Bond

Old King Coal

A dressing down in the dressing room

Delayed shock

17. DOWN AND OUT IN BOMBAY AND BURNLEY: 1985-1987

Around the world in 70 days

Ravaged by illness

I can play better than that!

18. BECAUSE OF BOXING DAY

Strange but true

A cycle for Christmas

Sheikh, rattle and roll

A family Yuletide

19. GETTING THERE

On the streets

Get on yer bike!

Hitching a ride

Always expect the unexpected

That one missed game

A phoning frenzy

20. THE APOCALYPSE COMETH

On the brink

May Day! May Day!

Unchain my heart

The longest day

A doomsday gathering

Escape to victory

It's party time

#  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My grateful thanks are due to the following, without which my experiences, and therefore this book, would not have been possible.

My mother Herta Maria and late father Percy, who never fully understood my total commitment, but eventually just let me get on with it.

Tamar Hodes and the Keele University Creative Writing School for their encouragement in this project.

Phil Whalley, a friend and fellow fan, for his help and immense patience in reproducing my handwritten the text.

Tony Dawber, another avid Claret, for having the faith to publish my autobiography on the life of a football fan.

'Ralphy' Coates, a Burnley FC all time great, for inspiring my nickname and writing the foreword to this book.

And last, but certainly not least, Reggie Bradshaw, for helping me determine my chosen team.

# FOREWORD

The word 'fanatic' is often used in the football world. According to the Chambers Dictionary, a fanatic is someone with an extreme or obsessive enthusiasm for something.

That description falls far short of the feeling Dave Burnley has for Burnley Football Club and the players, both past and present, who have worn the claret and blue shirt.

My first experience of this fanaticism came after a 1-0 victory at Chelsea on my 25th birthday, April 26, 1971. It was a depressing time for the club as we had already been relegated from the old First Division.

Coming off the pitch, I was grabbed by a young lad who said he was worried I might be leaving the club. National newspapers were speculating over my departure, so I could understand his concern, but I had no intention of leaving. As far as I was concerned, I was staying at Burnley and intended to play even harder the following season to get the club back into the First Division.

This I told the young lad, who of course was Dave. As it turned out, the decision was out of my hands. The club decided to sell me in the close season in order to relieve financial pressures, leaving me with little choice in the matter.

During my football career, I have obviously met many supporters of all ages and walks of life, all dedicated to their chosen clubs.

But never, ever, have I met a more loyal and dedicated supporter than Dave.

It is therefore with great pride that I write this foreword for his book, in which you will realise that Dave is also a Ralph Coates fan, to such an extent that I feel very humble that one person could admire another in such a way and not be afraid to show that admiration so openly. Thanks Dave.

May I take this opportunity on behalf of Burnley Football Club to thank Dave for all his support and devotion, the like of which I doubt will ever be equalled.

Through the good times and the bad, your loyalty to the club has never wavered. You are a credit to the game.

Ralph Coates August 2009

PICTURE CAPTION

Hair We Go: March 20, 1971; Burnley 0, Spurs 0. Ralph Coates gets a 'full head' of steam up against Tottenham. Within six weeks, he would be signing for them.

Photograph by Howard Talbot.

#  INTRODUCTION

ABOUT DAVE BURNLEY

Dave Burnley lives in an isolated village around 10 miles from the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and 75 miles from his beloved 'Clarets' Turf Moor home.

Though he has never driven he has not missed any competitive Burnley game, home or away, for over forty years.

He changed his name by deed poll to that of the club in 1976 when they were relegated from the top tier of English football. As a further show of allegiance his daughter is named Clarette in honour of the club's nickname of 'Clarets'.

But this is not just a book for Burnley fans. Its aim is to inspire supporters of any club.

Through all weathers, and no matter what life has thrown at him emotionally, physically, financially or health wise, Dave Burnley has just 'Got To Be There!'

GOT TO BE THERE!

To all devoted football fans anywhere in the world, but particularly to those supporters whose loyalty remains strong when their team becomes weak, for to stand the test of time is to stand the test of faith.

And especially for Clarette, a wonderful daughter, named in honour of the Clarets.

Keep the faith!

Dave Burnley

REMEMBER THIS

You can change your mind, your car, your home, your job, your partner, your religion, your name, or even your sexuality. But you can NEVER change your football team.

This book is written for all the fans over the age of 50 who will remember it, and all the fans under the age of 50 who won't forget it

# 1 THE BIG KICK OFF

In order to fully appreciate, and indeed, to some extent even comprehend all the true tales in this book, a little potted family background is necessary. This will help confirm the sometimes unlikely authenticity of what, for most people, would not qualify as normal day-to-day activities.

PICTURE CAPTION

No Pussy Cat: My 'Ma' firmly grips Ginger, one of her prized felines

Don't mention the war!

Born on October 13, 1953 - I'm assured it wasn't Friday the 13th - at the City General Hospital in Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, less than a couple of miles from Stoke City's old home the Victoria Ground, I was the eldest son of Percy Beeston.

At the time, my dad was a farm labourer from the Wrinehill area, near Betley, which was located just inside Staffordshire, a mere two miles from the border with Cheshire. We later moved from Wrinehill to a small village called Basford, near Crewe, before finally settling for a council house on Brassington Street in Betley.

My mother's full maiden name was Herta Maria Sigmund, and she was a 23-year-old au pair from eastern Berlin. She fled her home in the wake of the Soviet occupation, which saw her parents lose possession of their farm immediately after the end of hostilities, and she and her family relocated to the Allied-controlled Western sector of the city.

A few years later, she passed the relevant child care examinations at college to qualify as a nanny, and recruitment through a German employment agency found her amongst a select, hand-picked group at Victoria railway station, London.

From there she was seconded to a Mr and Mrs Moore's farm at Wrinehill, looking after two young children.

The nearest public house to her workplace was The Blue Bell, about half a mile away. It was also the hostelry used by my father. The customers, the vast majority of which were men in those days, were intrigued by the female visitor from their former adversaries – my father more than most.

Their eyes met across the crowded bar, and diplomatic Anglo-Saxon discussions were held. There were no hard feelings – about the war at least – and after a relatively brief courtship, a European union was established. Marriage was proposed, and baby made three, thereafter being christened as David Beeston.

In 1955 I gained a brother, Shaun, who like me had asthma in his early life, but to a more severe degree. This resulted in many sleepless nights, since we both occupied the same double bed. Incidentally, due to a combination of a lack of finance and restricted living space, this arrangement would last for more than 30 years.

I always blamed this inconvenience on my first sister, Susan Mary, who came along, after another two-year intermission, in September 1957. I distinctly recall her getting her own bedroom just because she was a girl.

In between council houses, we lived at my grandparents' cottage for six months. My grandad was, for some intriguing reason, termed 'Chubb, who couldn't pitch a turnip in a tub.' Perhaps this was a reference to his underlying large bulk and consequent lack of mobility. I well remember him in later years as a giant of a man who was partial to a bottle of beer at breakfast.

During our short stay at my grandparents', Shaun was the victim of a particularly cruel act. On this day we had our emergency childminder, Auntie Mabel, taking care of us as my grandmother did her shopping at the local Co-op, a good mile walk away.

Unbeknown to us, our dear auntie was a few cards short of a full pack, and she decided that because Shaun had got his sticky jam butty all over himself, he needed a wash.

She proceeded to place this two-year-old into a 'dolly tub,' which was a predecessor to a modern day washing machine. With a demented grin implanted across her face, Mabel then physically spun the upturned wooden hand grips first clockwise then anti-clockwise to agitate the warm water she had poured into the open topped container. After Shaun had suffered several revolutions around the vessel, my grandmother fortunately returned from the shop and quickly intervened.

The ensuing commotion was on a grand scale, with all the neighbours converging in our kitchen. The result was Shaun was left shaken and definitely stirred, while Aunt Mabel was committed to an institution from which she never returned, with the 'dolly tub' incident a deciding factor. As for myself, at the time I thought it was great entertainment, although I've been a fastidiously clean eater ever since.

As the brood grew, so did the needs of the family, and the damp-ridden walls of our Betley house were terrible for Shaun's health. So, a bit like the Beverly Hillbilly Clampetts, we loaded up the truck and moved to the village of Madeley, though only after a long wait on the council house list.

The relief this would bring Shaun was of little comfort to me, however, and when my mother dropped the bombshell about the move the night before we were due to leave, I ran down the yard to the freezing cold outside toilet and cried uncontrollably for what seemed like hours. We were only moving three miles up the road, but after starting primary school and making friends from the area, we might as well have been emigrating to Australia!

But the decision had been made, and in 1962, we took up our new residence, located alongside the picturesque Madeley village pool.

My first school uniform...

A young child is, of course, totally reliant on his or her parents throughout the early stages of growth and development for the basic necessities, such as like food, drink, clothing and protection. It's the first, inescapable factor in the lottery of life, and it dealt me one particular dodgy number.

It came about because during these formative years of my mum's marriage, her own mother and sisters in Germany were all understandably concerned for her well-being. After all, my mum's assignment in England was supposed to be just the first part of her ambition to travel the world, financed through her role as a children's nanny. It had, however, begun and ended at a remote, insignificant hamlet with a population of around 50 human inhabitants and a similar number of animals.

Consequently, to allay their fears, my mother used to take Shaun and I across the English Channel on a regular basis to visit our foreign aunties, uncles and grandmother. The arduous journey by coach and ferry took us to a small town called Worms, near Frankfurt and from there we would go on to a small village called Oldenburg.

Once there, we would hardly hear another word of English as their native tongue took over every conversation. The only German words I came to learn were those that sounded much like our own. Marmelade, wasser and brot, for instance, translated to marmalade, water and bread.

More significantly, a sad legacy of one of our trips to Deutschland was the gift of a pair of lederhosen each. These were leather shorts, complete with turn-ups, as well as bib and brace-like shoulder straps. My mother translated Auntie Rita's opinion of them to what I feared: "You look fine boys, and they'll last for years!"

With the new autumn term starting at the Sir John Offley Primary School, there was good reason for my trepidation.

Under duress, we were kitted out in our stiff 'uniforms,' paraded through the streets, and duly laughed at and ridiculed. The only way we could have been upstaged was if a parent had taken their son to an Army & Navy surplus store and dressed him up as a Japanese general! But no one had, so we sheepishly took our seats among 30 other seven-year-old classmates, who were staring incredulously at these bizarre outfits.

When asked by the girl sitting in front, "Why are you wearing those funny pants?" I shyly replied, "'Cos they'll last for years!"

As a toddler, I had been taken to my German gran's farm, and vividly remember the chickens and geese hastily scurrying along the sandy ground. She was a stereotypically large fräulein with an austere stare, the sort a young child did not feel at ease with.

Some days, my mum decided she wanted to go out shopping on my grandma's old bike, which had a wicker basket attached to its handlebars. To avoid the problem of taking me with her on such trips, she would come up with the most transparent deceptions that even a toddler would be hard-pressed to believe. Excuses to substantiate her absences for anything up to a couple of hours weren't given a great deal of thought. They ranged from the inane, "I'm just going to the toilet," to her favourite, "I'm just nipping out to feed the chickens."

However, all her statements would be undermined by the lingering "Byeee!" imparted at the end, obviously intimating a much longer departure than she was making out.

So, this six-year-old would dash after her, only to see a cloud of dust as she turned the corner of the powdery road. In a vulnerable child's mind, my callous mum had ridden off into the sunset never to be seen again, leaving me in the hands of a wicked grandmother, to live forever in this strange country where no-one spoke my language. Who would feed me? Who would wash me? Who would even take me to the toilet?

I was a devastated, abandoned child in floods of tears, and the gifts of chocolate and ice cream on return were scant compensation for the trauma I had suffered.

The completion of our family came on September 30, 1963, with the unplanned arrival of our second sister, Rosemarie. Because she was to be a home birth, it turned out to be quite a celebratory time.

We children were shipped out to Mr and Mrs Krauzer's house just down the road, so as not to be in the way of the job in hand. The Krauzers were also German nationals who by coincidence had settled in our street and befriended my mother.

However, it wasn't the arrival of our imminent sibling we were excited about – it was more the rare sight of lovingly prepared salmon and cucumber sandwiches stacked high on a silver tray that took our attention. The bread had been cut in a triangular fashion, so we just knew it was a special day. Alongside this offering was a layered cake stand brimming with multi-coloured fairy cakes and iced fancies. It was thoroughly appreciated, testimony to which were the vestiges of crumbs upon the embroidered, white tablecloth. We left after six hours, albeit reluctantly, because we had tasted the good life and liked it.

We eventually met our new sister Rosie just before midnight. After that feast, we all hoped that we could have a baby delivered every week, but she was to be the last.

Attila the Mum...

People say I never seem to be embarrassed by anything I do or wear. There's a good reason for this – my mother.

With four children to bring up, our family had little money to spare, but this didn't stop my mum taking us out and about in a rather unorthodox fashion.

She'd turn up at the local children's playground, immediately ushering the other kids off the swings and roundabouts so that I could have a go. As you can imagine, I didn't make many friends through these 'Attila the Mum' style incursions, and I'd end up in many scraps sticking up for her. The disgruntled, sidelined kids would just stand and scowl as my guardian pushed me to and fro. They knew they could all too easily exact their revenge at school the next day.

Getting into the horticultural show at Betley Court Farm was another annual ordeal. My mum would accompany us both through the queue and up to the pay point hut, and then forcefully push us through the open wooden gateway entry to save a few shillings. As a result, both myself and Shaun would have to pick each other up before wiping ourselves clean after landing face down in the regular mix of mud and cowpats. If apprehended by concerned security men, mother would claim we were both under 10 years old and qualified for concessionary rates, and she did this right up to our 15th birthdays.

Her pidgin English often got lost in translation, as was the case each time when we caught the bus to our previous residential village of Betley to visit Mary Harrison, who remained my mother's best friend right up to when she sadly passed away at the ripe old age of 90 in February, 2008.

The nearest stop to Mary's house was 'The Black Horse', so called because of an adjacent pub of the same name. I was only about 10 years old, so as my mum was paying for both fares I would go to a seat as instructed near the front. I knew exactly what was coming, so I would focus apprehensively on the lower deck passengers as they watched my mum ask for the tickets in her strong accent and very own inimitable loud voice.

"One-and-a-half returns to The Black ARSE, please!"

The driver would look up open-mouthed, before querying her request. The younger travellers would burst out laughing, gleefully clapping both hands, their parents would gasp in astonishment, whilst the elderly would look away and pretend they hadn't heard.

I'd just sit there, waiting for the commotion to die down, smiling to myself. My mum had been told the correct pronunciation loads of times, but she simply chose to interpret it in her own particular way.

Pussy galore...

We've never had a dog for a pet, as my mum prefers feline company. They'd usually be kittens, descended from a large litter and given away by a local villager. Over the years I'd say she has provided a home for around a dozen such creatures.

And as soon I saw a new incumbent in the cat basket, I'd know what to call it, as my mum employed simplistic titles based solely on appearance. So we'd had a Blacky, a Whitey, a Ginger, a Stripey, and a Spot, on a rotating basis.

However, my mother did stray from this tried and trusted formula on one occasion with alarming consequences.

That particular time, she'd taken in no less than five unwanted kittens solely to prevent them from being cruelly drowned by their callous owner. They were duly dispensed with the obligatory nicknames, but this time there was a slight dilemma. There were two identical cats of either sex.

The male was given the predictable tag of 'Whitey', but what of the other? We couldn't have two Whiteys as it would lead to cat confusion, so for hours mother infuriated me with the same question.

"David, what shall we call it?"

She was severely testing my patience and eventually I snapped back. "You can call her Aunt Fanny for all I care!"

"That's nice," replied mother. "Yeh, we'll call her Fanny," she went on, instantly dropping the 'aunt' prefix.

So from then on, we must have been the only family in the whole country with a pussy called Fanny.

At least it satisfied my mother, who carried on as normal, blissfully unaware of the connotations of the word. She'd dutifully call in the cats one by one each day for their regular feeds. I think the control she exercised over them gave her a feeling of power, and they even seemed to understand her broken English.

This was in direct contrast to her downtrodden employment as a toilet cleaner at the local Keele motorway services, where, until the late 80s, she would earn no more than £60 for a 40 hour week on a three-shift, five-out-of-seven day working rota.

Little wonder, then, that the cats were a comfort to her. That was until the day one of them went missing.

"I can't find Fanny!" she informed me worriedly.

"I know the feeling," I thought to myself.

Without further ado, she was charging out of the front gate in search of her favourite moggy, and she accosted the coal delivery man who was innocently passing by.

"I've lost my Fanny!" she exclaimed.

"Sorry luv, I can't help you there," replied the startled coalman, hurriedly.

She carried on regardless down our street, repeating her plea at the top of her voice.

"HAS ANYONE SEEN MY FANNY?"

Now, my mother was a large, strong and fearsome woman who meted out her own physical punishment to anyone foolish enough to cross her path.

A few years earlier she had chased and apprehended one of the local teenagers who had been playing 'knock and run' on our front door. After a frenzied verbal onslaught, she proceeded to turn this tubby lad's arm up his back with such force that she broke it. To my enraged mum, it would have been like snapping a chicken's wishbone, such was the ferocity of her temper. He never knocked on our door again though, and didn't press charges because he knew he was in the wrong.

So you can imagine the reaction of the locals as she made her way down the street, demanding an answer to her question.

People were scattering in all directions, cars accelerated away, windows were slammed shut, curtains drawn and doors firmly bolted. It was as if a dangerous outlaw had ridden into town. Thankfully, she eventually found her precious cat, and life in our locality slowly returned to normal.

Non-uniform days

As we grew older, myself and Shaun got in a few scrapes, but even the police were wary of approaching our house after being routinely run down the garden path by my mother in hot pursuit with a yard brush in hand.

A threat of "You'll get a bucket of water over you next time you come here, you bloody swines!" was usually enough to prevent further questioning. Of course, they could have arrested her, but they were well-aware of my mother's over-protective tendencies towards her dependents, and so tolerated her excesses.

A case in point occurred when Shaun had been sentenced to three months' imprisonment for his part in a drunken brawl which had involved an assault on a police dog. It was left to a plain-clothed WPC to inform my mother that Shaun would be going on his 'holidays'. I listened, sat on the stair well, as the young officer put in her request.

"We'll be needing a few of Shaun's overnight things, such as toiletries, underwear and pyjamas."

"Why, where's Shaun?" asked my mum, clearly agitated.

Before the girl could give her an answer, she continued apace.

"Shaun hasn't done anything! Some loonies have put some drugs in his drinks and they keep buying him beer all night to get him drunk," was my mum's unlikely defence.

Trying to diffuse this volatile reaction, the police constable reassured her.

"It's nothing to worry about, we just need to keep him a little bit longer to help us with our enquiries."

That seemed to do the trick.

"Will you give him a lift home in the police car when you've finished with him?"

"Oh yes, we'll bring him home alright," replied the cop, sensing a breakthrough.

So my mum obliged, got Shaun's things together and handed them over. As I looked through the front window, I saw a wide smile spread across the policewoman's face as she discreetly punched the air, a signal to her male colleague in the nearby police van that the mission was accomplished and she had remained unscathed. By the way, Shaun returned home early, after six weeks, for good behaviour.

Then there was 'Founder's Day' at Wolstanton Grammar School.

Each and every pupil was obliged to wear a smart white shirt for this special, photographed event. It was the highlight of the school year, and the day before I had been ordered to get my hair cut too.

Under my mother's regime, there was no spare cash for such luxuries, so I cut a few chunks out myself using two mirrors to view the back of my head. As for a white shirt, I only possessed a pair of longer lasting grey shirts that were acceptable at any other time, but certainly not on this occasion.

Predictably, Deputy Head Jimmy White was not impressed, especially after he had inspected my hair.

"It looks like some rats have attacked you in the night, Beeston boy!" he thundered.

He added that my grey shirt was totally unacceptable and so out of a total of 680 pupils, I was the only one sent home.

There have been countless other instances of, let us say, unconventional behaviour on the part of my mother that have left me shaking my head in disbelief. But this may go some way, perhaps, to explain my own reluctance to conform to certain accepted customs associated with modern-day society.

# 2. DESTINY CALLS: 1964-1966

I'll never be a 'Potter', a 'Valiant' or a 'Crewy', but I'll always be a 'Stokie' by virtue of my birthplace. But fate decreed that I would fall in love with a club far away from home. Most fans can remember that all-defining moment which leads to a lifelong commitment to their chosen football team. This was mine.

PICTURE CAPTION

Not Amused: A typically cantankerous pose from former Burnley chairman Bob Lord

Pick a team, any team

Ra-ta, ta-tattat tat! There was a knock on the door – I'd been expecting it.

Instantly recognising the characteristic rhythm of the knock, I realised who it would be, and the purpose of his visit. It was Reggie Bradshaw, my footballing pal who, at 11, was a year older than me.

He was on a mission, calling to pledge his devotion to yet another football team, a frequent ritual during every schoolboy's youth. It seemed to establish a recognisable identity, a sense of belonging, much like being asked if you were a mod or a rocker in the mid-sixties.

My primary school was The Sir John Offley in my home village of Madeley. The vast majority of pupils here either supported the higher placed local team, which at the time was Stoke City FC, or they went down the path of the 'glory hunter' by attaching themselves to the most successful clubs.

Today, I knew that this latter course of action would be Reggie's intention, but I had decided that this time he wasn't going to get his own way.

I had confidently deduced his preference and fully intended to counter it accordingly by preparing myself...or so I thought! Even before fully opening the door, I began to hastily announce my ready greeting.

"Eyup Reg! I'm supporting..." But my rehearsed statement went unfinished.

Reg, determined to have first say, loudly and purposely interjected mid-sentence to deliver his undertaking of football faith.

"Hi Dave! I'm supporting Liverpool now!" he cheerfully chirruped in a deliberately hurried retort.

Reg then waited for me to finish my own proclamation as he stepped back a pace, smugly folded his arms and fixed me with a self-satisfied grin, totally aware of the position he had put me in.

I stalled – it was the announcement I had feared.

He had beaten me to it again! Before being rudely interrupted, I was going to take Liverpool as my latest preferred choice, solely to get one over on Reg for once, but now it was too late. Reg had pre-empted my strategy by staking first claim.

I couldn't let it be known that I was following someone else's inclinations. My sense of independence and personal pride was coming under scrutiny.

"Are yer?" I asked with indignation. "Well, I'm supporting..." I paused to reconsider.

"Burnley," I replied, firm of voice but hesitant of mind.

Reg's frowned reaction and initial surprise soon turned to acceptance. And so the seeds were sown. Perhaps in a few months time our temporary allegiance would change again, but for the time being at least, from today Reg would be following Liverpool's results and I would be rooting for Burnley.

The year was 1964, and there was a certain inevitability regarding Reg's preference. The previous night, March 30, which was Easter Monday, Liverpool had defeated Spurs 3-1 to go top of the Football League. So, as kids did then and still do today, his team was selected to suit the fortunes of the day.

A major team wasn't always selected. We had previously vowed casual passing loyalties to Crewe Alexandra , Port Vale and Stoke because they were our local clubs, Fulham for their gallant FA Cup exploits, and even Bradford Park Avenue, as they were so bad that we truly felt sorry for them. They had frequently applied for re-election, a procedure that the bottom four clubs in the Fourth Division had to endure annually, where Football League status relied on the votes of the other 91 clubs. Bradford Park Avenue finally lost their fight in 1970, being voted out of the Football League by their fellow members in favour of Cambridge United.

However, my choice of Burnley was different. They finished in ninth position in Division One, so it couldn't really be counted as a glory hunter's selection, although they did have an illustrious history.

So why Burnley? I am often asked this question, and my stock reply is a flippant, "I was just born lucky," so as to provoke a reaction.

This does get the occasional chuckle or even raucous laugh from knowledgeable football supporters, because the sad fact is that in the 30 years preceding the new millennium, Burnley had been involved in relegation battles of varying degrees throughout half of this period, and had spent the last 20 years in the bottom two divisions of the Football League for all but two flirtatious seasons.

Choice cuts

The true answer to the question 'Why Burnley?' lay in circumstance.

When my mate Reg called for me on that fateful day, I had been reading the sports pages of the Daily Express. On the back page there had been a prominent portrait of a football club chairman.

His comical, bulbous face resembled a pig's head in a butcher's shop window. He actually was a butcher by trade, and one with an appropriately bullish disposition who held very outspoken views.

In this particular article, he was systematically castigating players and officials alike about the way they conducted themselves on the pitch, as well as categorically denying there was a financial crisis at Turf Moor.

His attitude was unyielding and his comments provocative. Subsequently, this manifested itself the following season in an unbridled tirade of subversive accusations directed at Leeds United Football Club after a 22 man brawl seriously disrupted proceedings during Burnley's 5-1 defeat at Elland Road. As a consequence, both clubs' directors and guests initially had all hospitality withdrawn at their rivals' ground before eventually being banned completely for a time.

To the chagrin of the Fleet Street media, this larger-than-life figurehead had also had the temerity to claim that the then-feared Manchester United were nothing more than "a bunch of Teddy Boys." This was interpreted as being a direct and contemptuous reference to certain roguish elements among the United players.

He was my kind of rebel, not caring whose feathers he ruffled as the interests of his club were proudly defended.

His name was Bob Lord, and his club was Burnley FC. His contentious remarks had left an indelible mark in my head, and so when pressed for an alternative football team, I instantly thought of Burnley.

In his autobiography My Fight For Football – a typically belligerent title – Lord revealed his side of the 'Teddy Boy' saga. He claimed that the comment was actually made to him by one of his directors, Frank Kay. It had been a private aside to Lord following an incident in which the Burnley chairman had been spat on by a United player following a 3-0 defeat at Turf Moor. The comment had been overheard by, in Lord's words, "a trespassing press man," and the comment was nationwide news the following day.

But whatever the truth of the incident, there can be no doubt that Lord did not hesitate to incur the wrath of anyone if it meant defending the interests of Burnley Football Club. He governed the club in a dictatorial fashion and was either tolerated or hated. Sadly, towards the end of his reign as chairman, the majority seemed to fall in the latter category.

Nonetheless, he remained devoutly loyal to his home town until his death on December 8, 1981. The name of Bob Lord is still respectfully synonymous with that of Burnley Football Club to this day, testimony to his enormous influence on the game throughout the country.

A particular 'school' of thought

The summer of 1965 was significant to the next six years of my educational life as it was then that I received my 'Eleven plus' results. These would determine whether I attended the village secondary modern school at Madeley, or qualified for either the Newcastle-under-Lyme High School, six miles away, or its rival Wolstanton Grammar, a nine mile trip.

It was also going to be a critical year for determining my football club preference.

The results eventually dropped through the letterbox to confirm a place at 'Woolly' Grammar, as it was colloquially called in Stoke-on-Trent. At the time I was elated as I thought it would open all sorts of career opportunities and, in hindsight, perhaps it should have done.

This development also galvanised my mother into immediate action. She personally informed most of the village, proudly knocking on doors from street to street.

"I've only passed an exam, not won an Oscar!" I reasoned.

But in my Mum's eyes this was far more prestigious – the first Beeston to reach high school! From then on I was known as a 'Grammar Grub.'

However, after my first term in short trousers and wearing the compulsory black and yellow hooped cap, which was an obligatory piece of headwear right up to the fifth year and 16 years of age, I decided to make a stand. I rejected the philosophy of attempting to memorise historical dates, Pythagoras or the theory of relativity.

Instead, I wanted to know who played at Sincil Bank, who were nicknamed 'The Grecians' and which team beat Liverpool 1-0 in the first FA Cup Final to be watched by royalty, namely King George V in 1914. OK, the answer to the last question was Burnley, but this was the real world as I knew it, and to all my football-mad mates at Madeley Secondary Modern, footy carried far more street cred and was infinitely more interesting.

I may have graduated to a school for budding University Challenge contestants, but my 'die' had been cast. My all-consuming passion was going to be football and NOTHING was going to surpass it.

Playing 'footy' had always been a regular Sunday morning or afternoon activity in our locality. Teams were picked from whoever turned up at the village hall, local school or Madeley College playing fields.

The latter two were the best pitches with proper goalposts, but were located on private land. We would therefore sometimes have to pack up and go part way through a match due to the local householders complaining to the police.

Whilst on this subject, I have always believed that every town or village in the country should have a designated 'grassroots' public football ground for those that just want to work off surplus teenage energy in a constructive manner. This would benefit all participants in the form of healthy exercise as well as keeping the kids off the street for most of the day. In addition, they would probably be too exhausted for mischief-making after so much concentrated exertion.

As youngsters, in traditional fashion we invariably had to use items of clothing to replicate goal posts on the village hall grass, and the games would end up about 13-a-side with the winners the first team to score 10 goals.

Some games lasted for three or four hours until the inevitable 'next goal wins' call. It now seems quite ironic that this rudimentary way to conclude a match was recently briefly adopted worldwide as 'the golden goal' to decide some international cup matches.

Besides the kick around with the lads at weekends, every possible daylight opportunity was spent determining how many consecutive touches I could keep a football up in the air. This was commonly termed 'keepy uppy.'

As a testimony to my intense practice of this pastime, my genuine and staggering personal best was 1,362 contacts before the ball hit the ground. I remember the exact moment I attained this record on the road outside my house because after deep and exhaustive concentration, and many meanderings to keep control, my attention was shattered by my mother's shriek, booming around the twilight silence of our little cul-de-sac.

"Daaaaaay-vid! Your tea's ready!" she said, and the ball dropped harmlessly to the tarmac by my feet.

She never did understand why I created such a fuss about her interruption, but then again, why should she? To her, me having my tea on time was more important than something she assumed I could do any day. Of course, it was a one-off and I never came anywhere near achieving this feat again.

Because of our shared interest in football, my two best mates were Paul Lukic, whose cousin John was to become the regular Arsenal custodian of the 1980s, and the previously mentioned Reggie Bradshaw, whom I travelled with to the odd Crewe Alex or Port Vale game. Clive 'Crogger' Read would also join us at Crewe's Gresty Road ground in order to add to his extensive match programme collection. As one, we'd scramble across the decaying wooden railway sleepers that formed the terracing to get first 'bags' at the goods in the penny programme hut in the corner of the ground.

These teams, however, were discounted as teams to support because the differential between Division Four and Division One was, even then, vast and these lowly sides simply did not attract. Indeed, our own successful village side, Madeley White Star, would have given both a fair game at the time.

Now Stoke were the other local team, and they had recently won promotion to the First Division during the 1962-3 season. After watching them with my brother Shaun on more than a dozen occasions, my overriding memory was the way the disgruntled locals, although passionate, grumbled unfairly even when their side was victorious – and indeed still do!

Things finally came to a head in 1966 after a 0-0 draw at home to Leeds United, when the players were jeered off the pitch though they had played well and maintained an unbeaten run which they now stretched to six games. Even though I was there as a neutral, I was astonished at their reaction and remonstrated strongly with a group of the discontented fans stood behind me on Stoke's famous Boothen End terrace, who were keeping up a relentless barrage of insults.

"Why do you bother coming on at all?" I inquired disparagingly.

As time went by, it was a question I would repeatedly be asking myself.

I get my kicks on Route 66

Reg and I kept going to the odd local league game, which was all we could afford on our pocket money, while as the months went by, we learnt all we could about our respective adopted teams.

The 'Match of the Day' television programme was into its third year, but initially it was broadcast on BBC2 and only in the south of England, so we had to rely upon the written word for our coverage. Every match report was eagerly read, each victory savoured. We also purchased every edition of the original and excellent Charles Buchan's Football Monthly.

But if I had to point to one single deciding factor that physically activated my football interest, it would have to be England's glorious 4-2 defeat of West Germany at Wembley Stadium in the World Cup Final of 1966, surely one of the greatest sporting moments of all time. I defy any true Englishman over 50 years of age not to remember where they were when the Jules Rimet Trophy was jubilantly raised aloft that day by the captain Bobby Moore.

Even today, I don't believe the ball crossed the line for England's crucial third goal, but it was given, and we were football's World Champions. The usually busy main A525 road to Whitchurch passed directly through our village, but I can honestly say that I didn't see or hear one vehicle drive along it until the final whistle blew at the end of extra time.

I was euphoric. England – my England – had done it! My German mother just shrugged it off, saying that her country would win next time. How very nearly prophetic – they didn't win it the next time, but they did in 1974, then again in 1990.

But this moment was ours. I looked over to my dad, but he was typically underwhelmed as a lifelong armchair supporter, and stayed in his seat as the rest of the country began partying.

I however just had to go outside to share my joy with someone – anyone. Every time a car drove past, I found myself leaping up to punch the air, desperate to herald the triumph in attention-grabbing fashion. The passing occupants either laughed or tooted their horns in acknowledgement. I simply didn't care. For a 12-year-old, this was heady excitement indeed. I was hooked on this wonderful game and wished to participate even more by seeing my adopted team, Burnley, who lay a full 75 miles to the north of my isolated village.

The first trip to the 'Turf'

Almost 29 million people watched Football League matches the season following England's World Cup triumph, the best aggregate since 1960. Football was back in vogue, the place to be seen – and I wanted to be there!

And on Boxing Day, 1966, my objective was achieved. I had booked a place on a coach trip to Burnley to watch their clash with the local team Stoke City. There was a group of half-a-dozen others from Madeley village also making the journey north, and the transport departed from Newcastle-under-Lyme bus station.

Before boarding, we decided to make use of the nearby public toilets. You had to walk down a steep flight of steps to get into this dingy basement convenience, but it was the regular haunt of two people.

One was the standard, miserable-looking attendant who had his own tiny dwelling within the toilets. I remember feeling sorry for him, thinking anyone would be downcast working in such an unpleasant place at Christmas. Nevertheless, he did have a home to go to at the end of the day. The remaining occupant didn't. This was his home!

He was 'Francis the Tramp,' to give him his full title. A well-known vagrant whose bed was a floor in one of the cubicles, he was tolerated by the 'keeper of the keys' on humanitarian grounds. His weathered, unshaven face was badly scarred, and he reminded me of Abel Magwitch, the escaped convict I had seen in the TV version of Great Expectations. A disconcerting sight, he was the first real tramp I had ever met.

He came over to us and asked for a cigarette, which he duly received. We had a 'whip round' between us and managed to collect about a half-a-crown's worth of small change, which we substituted for that one coin, and handed it to him. A very grateful Francis jokingly bit into it, his wide smile revealing a part-set of large, yellowed, rotten teeth, sited like tilted tombstones in a forgotten graveyard. He celebrated by taking a large swig from his own half-bottle of whisky, leaving a noticeable band of saliva around the rim. He offered it to us graciously, but not surprisingly there were no takers.

We all sat at the back of the bus, this area always being regarded as a prime spot, and certainly the most boisterous sector. There was the usual football banter, the telling of dirty jokes and the singing of songs.

Without warning, Vince Magee, one of the Madeley party, pointed towards me and bawled, "He's a Burnley fan!" This triggered the 'empty heads' amongst the assemblage into a forceful attempt to de-bag me, but I managed to put up a fierce enough fight to keep my jeans intact.

In addition, the subject of the Burnley fans not being too welcoming was brought up.

Although the small East Lancashire town had only a third of the population of Stoke-on-Trent, there were a number of matching characteristics between the two. Economically, both relied heavily on a staple industry – pottery in Stoke, cotton in Burnley – and in each town the sky was silhouetted with scores of structures as a testament to this ie pot banks in Stoke and mill chimneys in Burnley. Both towns were low wage areas, and suffered from high rates of heart disease, drunkenness and divorce.

But more relevant to that day was the fact that each town bred traditional and very committed football followers, who were thus fiercely territorial.

When we finally arrived in Burnley, the coach parked up in a back street of the town and we made our way to the safe, side-enclosure area of Turf Moor, under the old Brunshaw Road stand.

Burnley lost unluckily, 2-0, but this disappointing fact was negligible when compared to the sheer vibrancy of the Turf Moor experience.

The home side had played attractive, attacking football and their supporters generated a pulsating atmosphere. From start to finish they roared their team on, never giving up hope. When the final whistle did eventually confirm the defeat of the home side, the Burnley crowd loudly applauded their team off the pitch. In addition, under the incandescence of the stylish floodlight pylons, the players had looked resplendent in their claret and blue shirts.

All in all, I was well impressed! What a difference, I thought. This is how it should be. Passionate, almost frenzied, all-embracing. I knew I had found that magical missing ingredient I had been looking for.

As the gates opened, we were split up in the 30,000-plus crowd and so had to make our own way back to the coach. It was a tricky passage, as the disgruntled home fans were taking Boxing Day a little too literally by attacking the travelling Stoke contingent, and as far as they were concerned, I was one of them. The dark, cold night and the cobbled, dimly lit back streets made me feel even more vulnerable.

The sanctuary of the Potteries Motor Traction coach was finally reached, and though tales abounded of run-ins with the locals, it appeared as though no one had been hurt.

However, after a head count, it was discovered one person was missing.

It was Pete Blaise, my next-door neighbour. Pete was a gangly 15-year-old who, on the journey up, had been proudly wearing his long woolly scarf, hand-knitted in red and white and a Christmas present from his grandmother.

After the streets had cleared, he eventually turned up, beaten and bruised. Apparently, he had nipped into a corner shop for a bottle of 'dandelion and burdock' – a favourite soft drink in those days – and a large block of Cadbury's Fruit & Nut chocolate. But on leaving the shop, he was set upon by the rival supporters who stole his new scarf and his bottle of pop in a vengeful attack.

It was a frightening ordeal for a young lad, but Pete had managed to keep hold of his chocolate bar and, after taking his seat, proceeded to break it into pieces to share out.

"Burnley bastards!" he uttered furiously, visibly and violently shaking with a mix of shock and rage. Then, fixing me with an icy stare of complete hatred, he handed out a piece of chocolate to all of his village friends, except for me. I had instantly been castigated as the enemy within by that simple gesture of supporting the opposition.

It was quite a few weeks before Pete got round to talking to me again. On reflection, I could see that I was the only connection to his suffering, an outlet for his anger. He went on to become a fully qualified teacher and we are now the best of friends. The Burnley incident is now recalled with humour and with no personal malice attached, but I will always remember it as the 'Cadbury's Fruit and Nut case.'

# 3. THE BURNLEY BUG BITES: 1967-1968

The formative, pubescent years of a teenager's life are also the most influential in ascertaining an individual's level of support for their football team. Both are part of the sometimes painful growing up process.

PICTURE CAPTION

A Bit Scruffy: The once a year '33 piece suit'

Follow your feelings!

After witnessing my first live Burnley game, the following two years spluttered rather than sped along as far as attending matches was concerned.

There were several genuine reasons for this. Primarily, I lacked the necessary funds to pursue my pastime, a situation that I was determined to do something about. Secondly, Burnley's outpost location in North East Lancashire – nestling just a few miles from the West Yorkshire border – was very problematic, as there was no direct travel route to the town from my home. Neither was there any laid-on transport to whisk me off to my desired destination, as I knew no one who went to watch Burnley from the Stoke-on-Trent area.

It was a difficult venture for a 13-year-old to undertake. The wearisome return journey could easily involve up to eight hours travelling time, and necessitate catching four buses and up to eight trains.

Even the most accessible and economic circuit involved transfers at Newcastle-under-Lyme and Stoke-on-Trent, followed by a journey on foot between Manchester Piccadilly and Manchester Victoria, then a change at Bolton for a train to Blackburn, and a final change to alight at Burnley. All this had to be negotiated both there and back.

This 150-mile round trip clearly required much forethought to enable me to successfully attend Saturday afternoon matches, but for 7.30pm evening kick-offs it needed a plan of military precision, since a school appearance was expected the next day. If this wasn't enough, I also had to cope with my mother and father's scepticism about the why and wherefore of me travelling such a distance to see a mere 90-minute football match.

"All that way to watch 22 blokes kick a pig's bladder about!" was my father's well-versed interpretation of my proposition.

"But it's the way they kick that bladder about," I countered accordingly.

"Waste of bloody money. You can see that down Stoke."

"It's not the same," I argued brusquely. "And anyway, I can go down there anytime!"

My father 'tut-tutted' loudly and turned away, and I retreated upstairs, not wishing to become involved in an even more heated debate. I resigned myself to the fact that my father was never going to be a convert to my newly-found cause, but this little spat served only to stiffen my resolve to attend more games.

Generally, I believe there are four main criteria that influence an individual's choice of which football team to follow.

They are what I personally term the four 'TIONS,' namely locaTION, relaTION, posiTION or situaTION.

The first, location, is plainly predetermined by the proximity to the place you are brought up in.

Now in my particular case, the long held belief that you should support your nearest team does not stand up to scrutiny.

To begin with, I have a trio of options that are all around 10 miles equidistant in Stoke City, Crewe Alexandra and Port Vale, so there's no definitive resolution to be found there.

Also, to insist on this as a valid reason for commitment is like saying you must fall in love with a partner from your immediate area, which is clearly restrictive.

It could additionally be argued that picking a local club is not only an easier option but a much more economical one with regard to travel costs.

No! Like love, football has no boundaries. To ensure your final attachment is genuine, you pledge allegiance with the same care and consideration you would when selecting a potential bride-to-be, but even more so. Why? Because unlike many marriages, your football club is for life.

The second inducement occurs when a relative takes a dependant to a first game, capturing their enthusiasm to attend further.

This was a non-starter for myself as none of my kindred ever bothered with footy.

As for my English born father, he only took a passive interest in the sport each weekend to check his treble chance pools coupon, whilst my East German mother claimed loyalty to Dynamo Berlin and Locomotiv Leipzig! Enough said.

Then there's the 15 per cent or so who will 'cherry pick' a winning outfit unashamedly. No matter how far away they live, it magically becomes their match day pastime. Exuding smugness and immediately revelling in their predictable success, they gleefully bask in a counterfeit reflected glory without attending even half a dozen games a season.

All the big four of Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester United attract these imposters, with the latter the clear winner in attracting these 'sheep' by a country mile.

I refer to them as T.W.A.T.S which, to coin a phrase, stands for 'They Win All Trophies Supporters.' Certainly not to be taken seriously, they should maybe be pitied for their shallowmindedness.

Finally, in the minority are the few like myself who's choice was governed by the situation they were placed in when asked for their favourites. That situation saw me choose Burnley and the rest, as they say, is history.

For the moment, I was watching from afar, but subconsciously I was falling ever deeper under a claret mist, as these subsequent diary extracts from the following few years go on to reveal.

The secret diary of Dave Beeston, aged 13 1/4

Saturday, January 28, 1967

Today it was the FA Cup Third Round. Burnley drew 0-0 with Everton. We were lucky because Gordon Harris cleared a shot off the line for us. As I was reading my 'Look and Learn' magazine, Reg Bradshaw called. We went down to Smith's chippy for some supper. I bought 'six o'chips' (6d old money - 2½ pence decimal) and a penny pickle. Reg had the same, but also asked for, and got, a bag of spare batter bits for free.

These were the excess fried morsels that dropped off the fish into the fryer, and were scooped out to be disposed of at the end of the night.

We ate our chips by the large, picturesque pond that sits in the centre of our village, watching the customers going for a drink at the nearby Offley Arms pub.

"Ey, Dave," piped up Reg, "I bet you a tanner (an old sixpence) that if we asked everybody going into the pub which football team they liked best – Burnley or Liverpool – most would say Liverpool."

I disputed this, and so we sat opposite each other in the porch recess and conducted our own snap poll. It lasted until closing time at 10.30 pm, and Burnley won by 24 votes to 22. It was a good laugh, because we wouldn't let anyone go in until they gave us an answer.

Perhaps the final result of our vote would be a major surprise nowadays, but it was a reflection of the high regard in which Burnley were held at the time. The 1960s had been a good era for the club. They were League Champions in 1960, European Cup quarter-finalists in 1961 and FA Cup runners-up in 1962, losing narrowly to Hamburg SV (5-4 on aggregate) and Tottenham Hotspur (3-1) respectively. They had also, at the time of our snap poll, qualified for that season's Inter-Cities Fairs Cup, the competition which later became the UEFA Cup, after finishing third in Division One the previous year, meaning more European fixtures.

Anyway, I won my tanner and got another 'six o'chips'. When I got home, my mum asked me where I had been. I said that we had had to wait ages for the fat to heat up, and offered her some chips. She swallowed both my story and the chips!

Thursday, February 9, 1967

Yesterday, Burnley played Napoli of Italy in the Third Round of the Fairs Cup. They drew 0-0 in front of a crowd of 60,000. Harry Thomson, the Burnley goalie, stopped everything that Napoli threw at him, and even saved a penalty to become a real hero. The newspapers have dubbed the match 'The Battle of Naples', since the game boiled over into violence as the Italians had lost 3-0 on aggregate, because we won the first leg of the tie 3-0 at Burnley. Our copy of the Daily Express stated that both the players and supporters had to have a police escort back to the airport. Wow!

In celebration, I decorated my cream-coloured, zip-up, canvas rain jacket. I wrote each of the Burnley players' names on the back in thick, black marker pen. And so, laid out in team formation, were Thompson, Smith, Todd, O'Neil, Miller, Merrington, Morgan, Lochhead, Coates, Harris and Latcham. With a little Union Jack personally stitched into one corner, it became my trademark coat, and was both a talking point and a source of puzzlement in the village.

Saturday, March 18, 1967

Division One: Burnley 1 (Latcham), Liverpool 0. Attendance: 29,389.

Today, I record this as the best day of my life so far. I went with Reggie Bradshaw on the train to see Burnley play Liverpool. We decided to go the more expensive but quicker way to Preston. A half-fare cheap day return cost us 8/- (40p decimal). Reg brought his plastic Woolworth's football, as we were due to arrive in Burnley at 12 o'clock. We had a kick-about in the train corridor and also played 'shove ha'penny' on the tables.

This game involved sliding an old penny, which was about the size of a £2 coin but wafer thin, against an old half penny, which was similar to a new 10p coin but also thinner. Goals were scored between two improvised chewing gum posts.

We arrived at Burnley station, and I noted how tiny it was. There were quite a few Liverpool fans about, and we started playing football outside the station, since we would never get into any pubs. Two older Burnley fans came over to us and asked us for the ball. We refused and they followed us into the station entrance. To deter them, I went to the ticket office and asked for the price of a ticket to London. The clerk simply said he didn't know. Perhaps no-one travels to London from Burnley, I thought. Anyway, it did the trick – the two menacing youths presumed I was informing on them and they left.

After a wait of about of 20 minutes to ensure these youths had gone, we decided to make our way to the ground. We had reached the end of the first back street facing the train station when the same pair came at us again. They were carrying claret and blue painted walking sticks, but certainly weren't intending to use them for this purpose.

We went into a nearby corner sweet shop where the woman owner asked us what we wanted. Reg told her that we had only come in so that he could hide his red and white scarf from the locals waiting outside. To her credit, she went outside and told them to move on, threatening to give their names to the police if they didn't. The locals retreated, and we thanked her and carried on to the game. It was a cracking match, with Burnley victorious 1-0.

On the train back, I found a magazine called 'Carnival' in one of the train's toilets. I was shocked because it was full of nude women, and anyone could have stumbled upon it. But luckily it was me! I put it in my inside jacket pocket for safekeeping and, of course, to look at later. We caught the bus back to Madeley from Crewe station.

During this journey, I said to Reg, "I need to get a Burnley scarf. That's the second time I've nearly been attacked by my own supporters!" Reg laughed, and reckoned he might be able to get me one on the cheap.

Tuesday, August 1, 1967

Today I won 7/6d (about 38p) betting on a horse called Miss Pinza. My dad put the bet on for me out of my pocket money. I gave the money to Reg, who got me a great claret and blue bar scarf.

Saturday August 5, 1967

As I had been with Reg to the Liverpool v Blackpool game at Anfield, which Blackpool won 3-1, it was Reg's turn to come with me to the Stockport v Burnley pre-season friendly. We arranged it this way for company as well as safety. It was a good game, and the Burnley supporters were banging on the tin shed at the back of the enclosure. They were singing, "We've got Willie, Willie, Willie, Willie Morgan on the wing, on the wing," and repeated it even louder to the tune of the popular 'Ging Gang Goolie' Boy Scout song. I was joining in, and when Willie 'the Wisp' Morgan, as he was known, who bore a strong resemblance to George Best, came over to take a throw-in, he blew kisses to the crowd, who cheered wildly.

After the game, it was my turn to hide my scarf, as we saw some supporters coming towards us carrying chains and pieces of tin with nails pushed through that were attached to sticks. As we didn't know who they were, I thought it better to be safe than sorry.

Monday, October 23, 1967

My nickname is now Willie, not after Willie Morgan, but Willie Irvine, Burnley's number 9. He holds the club's post-war scoring record, netting 29 League goals in the 1965-66 season. My schoolmates have christened me with this name because every time I score a goal against 2B in the playground, I shout "Irvine!" in recognition of our most prolific striker.

Even now, amongst my old schoolmates, I am still referred to as Willie Beeston. Willie Irvine's post war scoring record still stands to this day. He broke his leg against Everton in 1967, and was transferred to Preston a year later.

Friday, November 24, 1967

I had to wood plane every table top desk in my class during my dinner hour.

This was because my Maths teacher, Mr. Jones, chanced on my pre-determined accomplishment of writing 'Burnley FC' on each one. To be truthful, I thought it was a fitting punishment and made sure I did a good job.

I went down to Mr. Close's newsagent's shop today and secured the job of delivering morning newspapers and the local Evening Sentinel on a daily basis. I'll now have two wages coming in to pay for my football trips and to buy more football programmes, which I have started to collect with Reggie Bradshaw from the penny programme hut in the corner of Crewe Alexandra's ground.

Friday, December 1, 1967

My mum had seen me kicking around my old burst football last week and she asked me if I wanted a new one for Christmas. After I got back from school today, she gave me a full-size leather 'casey.' I had got the 'casey,' as footballs with leather panels were always known, earlier than planned because my mum was pleased that I had got two jobs to earn some money. "Don't let anyone borrow it. That thing cost me £3-14/11d out of the catalogue," she warned.

Now, actually possessing your very own casey was today's equivalent of owning a pair of the latest designer trainers complete with a pumped up sole and flashing heel lights. Reg soon got to know about it, and by the time it came round to our 15-a-side Sunday afternoon kick-about, it was my ball that took pride of place on the centre spot.

Like it or lump it

New Year's Day, 1968

My dad welcomed in the New Year a little too much last night, eventually arriving home at 5 am. according to my mother. He had been to a house party and slipped whilst carrying some drinks, resulting in three stitches being put into his ear at the local outpatients' department. I knew there was going to be a row when he woke up, so I decided to make myself scarce by going to the village hall field for a game of football. I had a bad game. In fact, I was so ashamed of my performance I am reconsidering being a footballer!

Now that was quite a stark statement for a schoolboy to come out with.

You see in those days, most kids' ambitions were to be either a footballer, a steam train driver or a singer with a band like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones or The Monkees. However, being able to juggle a ball in the air more than a thousand times from one foot to the other didn't qualify you as a possible professional footballer. You also needed fitness, power and strength as basic prerequisites.

I didn't possess strength as an asset, even though I had recently invested in a 'Bullworker' through the post to remedy this, and started to follow the Charles Atlas bodybuilding course.

The Bullworker was a contraption which took the form of two green, moulded plastic hand grips, one at each end of a hollow, chrome tube, about three inches in diameter. Strong elasticated cord went through each handle to provide the resistance. When compressed for the mandatory 20 seconds or so for each of the different exercise routines, it was supposed to tone up your muscles. The only problem was that you needed the body of Charles Atlas to operate the thing! At around seven stones, I was representative of the weakling in the adverts for the Bullworker, getting sand kicked in his face.

I was well underweight for my age of 14, and my mate Paul Lukic, although younger than me, was a good two stone better proportioned.

One of the primary reasons for my slight physique was that I never seemed to feel like breakfast in the morning, a practice I commonly maintain to this day.

In addition, my teatime sustenance was generally a rotation of three dishes. There was locally shot rabbit, an offering from Bill, my father's workmate, that I ate through necessity rather than choice, secondly simple egg and chips, and thirdly 'lobby', a Potteries stew consisting mainly of potatoes, carrots, turnips, onions and chopped meat. My main gripe with the latter was the dubious quality of the local butcher's meat. As soon as I tasted the inevitable piece of fat or gristle, it put me off so much that I would down tools and refuse to eat anymore.

My dad used to take this gesture as an insult to his personal standard of cooking, his method being to turn each cooker ring on to maximum heat, place a saucepan of vegetables upon them and boil out the life, and taste, completely from within. So as well as being scolded, I also went hungry on a Monday and Tuesday night. There were no alternatives though, so consequently I must have been one of the few children that looked forward to school dinners!

Saturday, February 24, 1968

On Thursday, I finished fourth out of a field of 120 third and fourth formers in a cross-country run. Because of this Mr. Todd, who took us for this period, asked me to run for the school today. I tried to get out of it by writing my own 'skive' letter, but he would have none of it. "Mark my words Beeston, you'll finish in the top ten if you perform like you did today," he enthused.

That was just what I was afraid of, but I had to be there for the 10am start, and no excuses. To make matters worse, I would be running against some of my mates, as the challengers were Madeley Secondary School, with the event to take place in the same village.

Now, I did used to run barefoot 10, 15, or sometimes 20 times around our block of streets on a dry night. In fact, all through the previous summer I had disciplined myself in this way. With the absence of any type of footwear, I did get odd looks from some of our neighbours. They used to stand by their front gates, arms folded, indulging in a customary evening chat and, in all probability, reasoning that our family must be a lot worse off than they had first thought.

My inspiration for this peculiar behaviour was a group of African tribesmen I had seen on a television documentary. The presenter's words left me spellbound: "They wore nothing upon their feet, which toughened the sole over a period of time to a vulcanised consistency." Besides, I had never seen Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle stop to pluck out a splinter.

However, Tarzan didn't have to use a public footpath. After the frequent removal of slivers of glass, pieces of gravel and the odd thorn, I was getting disillusioned. This, combined with the ever-present avoidance of dog mess uppermost in my mind, I came to the sad conclusion that I resembled a limping slalom skier as opposed to the serious athlete I was trying to become. Even after all this torturous application, my feet still blister more readily than most.

In the race itself, I had inexplicably finished a laboured 36th out of 40 runners, and the second-last out of our school. Every time I passed 'Toddy', my games master, I made a point of looking sufficiently troubled. Madeley School had won, and he took the hint. I never did impress again in cross-country running.

I felt no guilt, as I had been browbeaten into participating, and after this little hiccup, Saturdays were my own once more.

What's in a name?

Saturday, March 16, 1968.

Division One: Liverpool 3, Burnley 2 (Coates 2.) Attendance: 41,114

I went to the Liverpool v Burnley game today at Anfield. I travelled by train with Reggie Bradshaw and his friend Alan Domagalski, another Liverpool follower. Even though we lost, it was a good game.

With my former hero Willie Irvine having been transferred to Preston North End, Ralphy Coates – the scorer of both today's goals – was fast becoming my new idol.

He played in a wide midfield role, and his thin, wispy hair was combed over a prematurely balding pate, a wrapover hairstyle that was to become known as the 'Bobby Charlton'. Possessing seemingly boundless energy, Coates rarely stopped running. I christened him 'Mr Perpetual Motion.'

From then on, each time I scored a goal down on the local pitches, I assumed his name in celebration, as kids do with their favourites around the world. A few of my mates had remarked and even mocked that it was an old-fashioned name, something your grandad would be called.

It didn't matter, because I found it endearing and insisted on the title. As a result, to this day my village nickname remains 'Ralphy,' and as a consequence is tattooed in large, signature-style lettering on my upper left arm.

However, my 'Willie' pseudonym at school had, by this time, become well established and couldn't be changed. To confuse matters even more, I was meeting an ever-increasing number of Burnley supporters as I attended the matches. When they asked who I was, I of course replied with my given name of Dave, because it wouldn't have made sense not to. The relevance of the other names was only significant either where I lived, or among schoolfriends.

So within quite a relatively short period of time, I had taken on a triple identity.

The 'Holey Shroud': my 33 piece suit

Sunday, October 13, 1968

It's my 15th birthday today. For a present, my mum has bought me a new blue denim jacket that has been manufactured in the USA by the Wrangler company. This brand is named after the American cowboys who wear them when riding their horses to round up livestock on enormous cattle ranches.

As I had become a nightly member of the 'Madeley Mafia' street gang, this apparel was as necessary as the fashionable, close-cropped 'Mod' hairstyle that I now sported.

The jacket was practical as well as stylish. It came with four useful pockets, ideal for the safekeeping of train and bus tickets, as well as pound notes and 'fivers'. There were two press-stud compartments at the top, with a diagonally slit, open pouch on either side.

This was much preferable to the rival Levi Strauss option which, although more presentable, only provided a pair of upper pockets. The Wrangler also faded a lighter shade of blue after every wash, giving it an authentic 'lived-in' appearance and gaining its owner some vital fashion kudos.

This garment became an integral part of my tours, and with a pair of jeans completing the outfit, it represented my first informal suit.

During harsh 1970's winters, this denim second skin was my only guardian against the cold, wind and rain as I zig-zagged up, down and across the country to follow my team's fortunes. It attended the vast majority of games from the start of my consecutive run on Saturday, January 18, 1969 (Queens Park Rangers at home, drew 2-2) to the single match I didn't travel to in more than 40 years, at Newcastle United on Wednesday, April 10, 1974, (won 2-1). My Wrangler had been a nostalgic reminder of this personal achievement, as well as all the trials and tribulations that went with it. It remained a regular companion right up to the early 80's.

As each hole appeared through general wear and tear, denim patches cut from old jeans were stitched over them until they numbered 30 plus. Understanding girlfriends were recruited to carry out running repairs, and if the young lady was also a sewing machinist, it was an added bonus.

However, the various girlfriends did seem to get less compliant as the seasons rolled by and doubling up of patches was required on the worn material. This necessitated the use of heavy-duty needles to pierce the thick layers. Tales of mothers' broken sewing machines abounded as the bulky jacket became ever more difficult to mend. In addition, a foot wide extension had to be inserted into the back to accommodate my continual upper body growth. And eventually, after a period of 10 years, the ends of each arm resembled frayed tentacles that finished just below the elbow.

The material also displayed dried-in bloodstains, a legacy of numerous assaults by opposing fans during the savage Seventies, when football violence was relentless and largely uncontrolled. A defiant '1st SAS' claret and blue regimental sew-on ensign was purchased from a military memorabilia store in a futile attempt to ward off would-be assailants. It proved totally ineffective as most of my delinquent aggressors probably reasoned that it stood for 'social and security'!

This 'Holey Shroud' still gets an airing once a season to the very next away fixture after the April 10th anniversary of my one missed game. For instance, in the present season of 2009-2010, the league computer decreed that the KC Stadium, home of Hull City, will be the venue for the latest reappearance of my ensemble. Ironically, that fixture will take place 26 years to the day after my last missed game on April 10, 1974, and a full 45 Easters since Reg knocked on my door to determine my footballing loyalties.

To me, it represents a symbolic testimony to having seen every single competitive first-team game for the last 35 years, and it will continue to do so as long as this 100 per cent attendance is maintained.

Along with my denim shirt and shredded jeans, I term this my '33 piece suit', contrasting with the traditional three-piece version. Although the jeans are not the originals, as they eventually disintegrated completely, the present pair has been worn to hundreds of matches over the years.

Scruffy? Definitely. Eccentric? Certainly. Cranky? Perhaps. Nevertheless, if you happen to come across this particular character, don't be too judgmental. With his rear cheeks hanging out like saddlebags on John Wayne's horse, divided only by a stitched denim seam, shabbily topped off with a bedraggled patchwork jacket combination, just remember – it will simply be his personal way of celebrating watching his team for another 12 months!

Thrashed out of sight for free

Saturday, December 7, 1968

Division One: Manchester City 7, Burnley 0. Attendance: 31,009 and me.

I travelled on my own by train to Manchester today. I arrived early and asked a lot of people the way to Maine Road. One man that I asked said he was going there. He turned out to be a turnstile operator, and he got me in without paying. He gave me a tour of the home players' dressing room, in which the kit was already laid neatly out, before I was taken up to the home supporters' Platt Lane stand – a seating area. Two Manchester City officials approached and asked me what I was doing in the ground before the gates were opened. I told them I was a friend of one of the turnstile operators, but didn't know his name (not wanting to get him into trouble for letting me in). The kindly officials told me to keep my head down until one o'clock, the time when fans were generally allowed in.

After waiting for over two hours for the game to kick off, Burnley were soundly drubbed 7-0. It could easily have been eight, but Francis Lee blasted a penalty high over the bar, almost in sympathy I believed. The kid next to me was laughing and shouting insults at Burnley. I was fuming and would have said something, but he was with his dad, so all I could do was stare angrily. We had already been totally humiliated and he had absolutely no right to make matters worse by adding insult to injury. After the match I reflected on the fact that this was the first time that I could have quite easily thumped someone over a game of football! The ground was in a rough looking area of the city called Moss Side, and I was glad to get back to Piccadilly railway station for my train back to Crewe.

That night I met Paul Lukic down in the village and told him that I couldn't believe how bad Burnley had been, that being our second 7-0 beating of the season. Tottenham, Paul's team, had beaten us by the same scoreline at the beginning of September.

I cheered up a bit when I saw Harold Shufflebottom, the landlord of the Offley Arms. I cheekily asked him if he had any work we could do for him. To our surprise, he said we could 'bottle up' the crates in the cellar once a month if we wanted. Great, I thought, more money to watch Burnley. But after today's performance, did I really want to? The answer: a most positive YES!

A lorry-load of trouble

Wednesday, December 18, 1968

League Cup Semi-Final replay at West Bromwich Albion

Swindon 3, Burnley 2 (Thomas, Casper). After extra time. Attendance: 20,000.

I skipped school today as I desperately wanted to go to this important game, and besides Jimmy White, our Deputy Headmaster, usually applied a Christmas amnesty on detentions for 'bobbing' the day off. The prize for the winners was a trip to the twin towers of Wembley Stadium for the League Cup Final. I caught the train to Birmingham and then, from a huge shopping centre called the 'Bull Ring', a bus to West Bromwich. I had to take this form of transport as I couldn't find my destination on the New Street BR timetable.

In later years I found that the reason for this was because, to my knowledge, there has never been a rail station titled 'West Bromwich'.

Once in the 'Hawthorns' ground, I went to stand with the Burnley chanters who were shouting on their team. A lot more had come from Swindon, since it was only half the distance to there from Wiltshire as it was from North East Lancashire.

There must have been more than 40 people carried out injured because of the crush on our end, and I saw another 15 taken away by the police for various alleged offences. The atmosphere was charged and the game itself frenetic.

Burnley had gone two goals to one down, but then equalised in the last minute of normal play. I jumped around deliriously and the bloke next to me wrapped his arms over my shoulders and danced with me. Even though I had never met him before, it didn't seem to matter. We were united in our cause.

After the long celebrations had subsided, I began to slowly make my way to the exit gates, but wondered why hardly anyone else was doing the same. Were they all still stunned by that last goal?

"Are yer not staying f'th extra time?" asked a broad Lancastrian, who spoke the way he looked.

"Is it extra time? I thought it went to another replay!" I replied.

But no, extra time it was indeed, and in a pulsating climax it was Swindon who scored in the last minute of the game to avenge Burnley's late strike in the standard 90 minutes previously. The scorer was Peter Noble, who, ironically, would later play for Burnley.

Totally dejected after thinking we had earned the right to a replay, I caught a late train back to Crewe. There were no buses at that late hour, and so I had to hitch-hike a lift the 10 miles back to Madeley.

A lorry stopped for me, arriving in my village around 2am. I thanked the driver and got out to trudge home, and crept up the stairs to my room so as not to awaken my dad, who didn't know I had gone to the match. My mum knew though, and had told my dad that I was already in bed when he had arrived home from his noon work shift at 10.30 pm after a stopover at the village pub, The Bridge Inn.

Too late – the creaking wooden steps had given me away. On came the lights to show my dad silhouetted against the wall at the top of the stairs. After a short pause, a look of realisation appeared on his face, followed by a bellowed, "Where the bloody hell have you been till this time of night?"

"I've been to the football," I replied in a matter of fact manner.

"I'll give yer bloody football!" he replied, scuffing me hard behind my ears. "I bet yer've missed school an' all, haven't yer?"

Just in time, my mum intervened, coming between us to shepherd me into my bedroom. My father's ranting continued in their sleeping quarters long after.

For the first time, I had experienced an intoxicating cocktail of football's highs and lows. Both the euphoric and the devastating in a rollercoaster of feelings, finally culminating in emotional, and as it happened, physical pain. It was a potent mix, like splitting from your first love, heartbreaking, but unforgettable. To top it all, I later found out that I'd mislaid my treasured two match programmes jumping from the high door of the lorry that had transported me home!

# 4. THE MADELEY MAFIA

Most adventurous kids today, as in times gone by, forge long term relationships with mates during their pubescent years. This time of life sees friendships sealed and adulthood being obtained via a mix of secondary education, youth clubs and congregating in groups at a chosen night time location within their area, just a place to chat, flirt with the opposite sex, smoke a fag or drink illicit booze. The alternative was to stay in, read a book or watch whatever your parents were viewing on television.

PICTURE CAPTION

Meet the Mafia: Presentation night for Crown Villa FC, most of whom had been in our street gang

Teenage kicks

Now, in our village just happened to be the second largest physical education college in the country behind Loughborough in Leicestershire. Built in the early 1960s, it accommodated close to 1,000 students. Meanwhile, three miles down the road was Keele University, which housed a similar number.

Between them, these two establishments provided a generously sustained income to the few shops, pubs and chippies in the area.

However, we were to discover that at every induction at the beginning of the academic year, the 'freshers' were warned not to approach or mix with the village youths under any circumstances. The reason given was the ongoing reputation of a troublesome minority. This situation created an attitude which was clearly apparent on both sides whenever the groups met, so much so that a wedge had been placed amidst any social gathering from the outset.

At the weekend college dances, for instance, the floor would clear as we requested Northern Soul records in an attempt to further ostracize ourselves from our so-called 'superiors.'

The position inevitably bred resentment resulting in regular confrontations culminating in mass brawls and a police visit to the aggressors.

But we local youths inevitably stuck together. During the summer months, we gathered under the stairwell shelter of the Greyhound Court Flats, and though we didn't damage anything, the residents felt intimidated by such a show of force and the police would move us on time after time.

When the weather turned colder, we found our very own drop-in centre.

The harsh winter nights were spent inside the village laundrette, with 12 to 15 of us maintaining the use of one washing machine between us. This constituted our passport to warmth against the wishes of the owner who would regularly call round and try to kick us out by insisting the premises were for customers only. All of us would claim to have a share of the mixture of socks, hankies or tee shirts in the spin and he had no way of proving otherwise.

Bovver Boys

In the late Sixties, the 'Mod' movement was superseded by the 'skinhead' cult, the' two main characteristics of which were its members' shaven heads and high-ankle Doc Marten boots, a combination which portrayed instant menace. With an aim of causing trouble, or bother, they would become known nationally in slang speak as 'Bovver Boys.'

The England World Cup bandwagon was still rolling along and it was becoming increasingly apparent that these groups were attaching themselves to their favoured football clubs. Their predisposed mindset yearned to claim fighting supremacy by invading rival towns and cities to take over everything from the opposition's pubs to the home fans' terracing.

It became the catalyst to spawn the fermentation process that would activate the spectre of raw, unrestrained football hooliganism, a ticking bomb that threatened to explode 'big style' throughout the United Kingdom for years to come.

Every district seemed to have its own instigators of this nationwide phenomenon which had started down in London. Madeley was no different.

Our cool kid on the block in our group was a charismatic, streetwise figure popular with both the lads and the girls. What he wore today, his followers would wear tomorrow. Being both funny and intelligent as well assured him the position of leader.

Now we just needed a name, and he put forward his offering which was instantly met with enthusiastic support.

And so 'The Madeley Mafia' were formed.

Trev Morrell, or 'Trev's Kid' as he became known, was the name of our leader and provided the inspiration for this title by suggesting the name of our gang should sound suitably sinister. That it certainly did!

A few years in, there would be a breakaway group formed by self-appointed leader Brian Elliott, who had always been nicknamed 'Nessy,' not after the monster of the loch, but Eliot Ness, the renowned American crime fighter.

This splinter group termed themselves the 'Madeley Family' and would gather on the benches across the road from us, their only distinguishing feature being the red socks they sported as opposed to our white ones.

The style council

But for now, we were as one, and this meant being suitably turned out.

So before long, stylish buttoned down Ben Sherman, Jaytex and Brutus shirts were tucked into ludicrous 22 inch wide Oxford Bags, Prince of Wales check parallels or Levi sta-press trousers. All these were kept up with the statutory clip-on braces.

A smart two-tone tonic suit was kept for best, while lightweight Harrington jackets in various plain colours, all featuring a checked interior design. Matching black or brown Oxford brogues finished the smart look.

In addition, dark Abercrombie coats were worn with a three peaked design in brightly coloured nylon attached to the top of a piece of cardboard providing the realistic appearance of a handkerchief when slotted neatly into the jacket's top pocket.

I stayed a Mod, partly because 'Pecker' at school would never have stood for such an extreme 'down to the wood' haircut, but more than half of our crew, which was by now 30 strong, did choose to go shaven headed. Most opted for parallel bottomed jeans instead of trousers, Flemings being the popular choice and obtained from the factory shop of the same name in Walton, Liverpool.

As with their haircuts, a more irregular way of wearing these turned up pants was established by the skinhead element. They were hoisted up anything from four to 10 inches above the ankle in order that the wearer could parade their 'super boots.' Coming up to a few inches short of the knee, they were shone to a high definition gloss with the gruesome sounding 'ox blood' polish.

Hollywood nights

Not a lot happens in Madeley.

Like thousands of villages across the British Isles, it exists as a sleepy backwater location. Pleasant enough, but tediously predictable.

As it approached the decade of the 1970s, there were half a dozen businesses based around our regular meeting place of Greyhound Court.

A well established youth club ran at the secondary school twice a week, and if that wasn't enough, a bi-monthly disco was held at the village hall. However, it was hardly a place to meet different people as outsiders had regular punishment meted out to them for being simply that – outsiders. Such was the insular mentality at the time.

Everybody knew each other, and the general topic of pub conversation would be the next forthcoming court appearance of one of our miscreants and the possible consequences if found guilty.

Then in Spring 1970, something extraordinary happened.

A strong rumour swept the neighbourhood that an open air music festival was being planned for the approaching Whitsun Bank Holiday weekend. Furthermore, it was being talked of as being on a similar large scale to the recent immense Isle of Wight event with a long list of artists representing the cream of rock.

It instantly became the main topic of conversation among the nightly gathering of the 'Mafia.'

"Who'd want to come to this dead-hole?"

"Nobody in their right mind would choose Madeley."

""Just what is the attraction?"

"I reckon it's just a student prank."

These represented a few of the many sceptical remarks being professed as the hearsay gathered further credence from a couple employed at Keele University who insisted they had heard it was a 'go-er.' From all accounts, the idea had originated from this campus. Apparently, members of Keele Students' Union had discussed with local farmer Ted Askey the viability of such an event taking place on his Lower Farm fields between Madeley Heath and Leycett.

Posters and advertising in local newspapers finally confirmed this venue, a 30 acre expanse contained within a natural amphitheatre commonly known as Hollywood. The line up for the Saturday and Sunday extravaganza was publicised and the Hollywood Music Festival became an incredible reality.

Of course, we weren't going to miss this chance to see the headlining acts of The Grateful Dead, Black Sabbath, Free, Traffic and Mungo Jerry, ably supported by blind Puerto Rican guitarist Jose Feliciano, Ginger Baker's Air Force and even the Radha Krsna Temple who had a hit with the Hare Krishna Mantra.

About 15 of our posse fancied staying over for the double-header weekend even though we only lived a couple of miles away from the setting and it wasn't our kind of music.

And what a strange sight it must have been. We were probably the only party of mods and skinheads amongst an estimated crowd of 45,000 'hairies' who had travelled from all over the world.

We all managed to get in free by licking the back of our hand and pressing it hard against the inked 'pass out' logo on the hand of a willing legitimate ticket holder.

It was a truly memorable occasion with the highlight for me being knocking a couple of beer cans together to that year's enduring anthem 'In the Summertime' by Mungo Jerry's jug band, the song launching them to the number one spot and keeping them in the charts for 20 weeks. Standing at the front and singing along to Free's classic 'All Right Now' came a very close second.

We bedded down in a pair of giant marquees that had been erected to accommodate the masses who had no shelter of their own. In one, they showed continuous cartoon programmes on a giant screen. And for the crowd partaking of a bit of the 'wacky baccy' that was aromatically evident, rotating kaleidoscopic patterns were projected on the tent canvas of the other.

For breakfast on the Sunday morning, our by now bedraggled motley crew walked the two miles across fields to the 24 hour Keele motorway service area on the M6. That day's afternoon and evening session were brought to a sensational close by Jose Feliciano's hit rendition of The Doors' 'Light My Fire.'

There were no reports of any of the trouble that was widely feared beforehand, and I stayed over for a second night with a depleted number of our gang to cherish the final few hours of a weekend rave never to be surpassed in the history of our village life. It was a one –off and never held again, and allegations of the farmer not being fully paid up did the gossip rounds.

But as I walked past the Crewe Arms pub, which had been drunk dry on Bank Holiday Monday, I reminisced about the great bands I had seen at my first music festival which had taken place right on my doorstep and kept asking myself the same question over and over again. Did it really happen?

A clash of cultures

We still attended the local college bar for late drinks after the two village pubs had closed for the night.

It was still easily the best entertainment for miles around and well known bands such as Slade, Thin Lizzy and Nazareth all played there at one time or another.

Due to banning orders on a lot of our members, forced access through fire exit doors had to be negotiated. However, once we were in, those who didn't stand out like a sore thumb tried to mingle with the student girls, who were all obviously physically fit because of their choice of profession in later life. But wWe knew full well that if we hadn't 'trapped off' before the smooching records had been spun on the DJ's deck, our chance of a romantic night was over.

Meanwhile, our boys who had congregated with less subtlety in one corner of the room would only hit the dance floor to the sound of 'Hey Girl, Don't Bother Me' by The Tams, 'Skiing in the Snow' by Wigan's Ovation or their adopted anthem of 'Skinhead Moonstomp.'

So diverse were the musical tastes of the locals and students that a growing resentment developed between the two contrasting castes. Sure enough, one Saturday night this culminated in a major free-for-all with the scholars using hockey sticks grabbed from a nearby storage cabinet as weapons.

It was bloody and ferocious and the police had to call for reinforcements before eventually being able to break up the fighting. One of our gang received a jail sentence for his part in the fracas with the local press giving the incident great exposure and propelling the 'Mafia' into regional folklore.

Madeley did seem to have a larger proportion of 'scrappers' than most other villages in the Stoke-on-Trent area, and our posse now included a number who had firmly established a fighting reputation.

The Law family of Bob, John, Alex and Ken were regularly supplemented by older brothers Tommy and George, while the Gilfords comprised John, Geoff, Andrew and Reg. Then there were half-brothers 'Pricey' and 'Aggo' who were two of the most regular offenders.

The Morrell boys Jackie, Trev and Col all loved a rumble, and also in the group was myself and my brother Shaun, Mick and John Iwazko, Mick Gollins and the Domagalski family of Clive, Alan, Brian and Baz.

Three of the lads went on to marry the trio of girl mods in our gang, as Steve Bridgewood wed Eileen, Terry Cliffe got hitched to Christine and Trev to Shirley.

"Madeley Mafia Lives On!" was the huge, spray painted message scrawled across the back of the concrete bus shelter down in the village, and so stark and striking was the lettering it was featured on the BBC's Midlands Today programme.

The 'Mafia' did live on until the 'Punk' revolution took off and the skinhead movement largely faded out.

It represented the most violent period I had lived through to date but that precedent of troubled times was ready to be repeated as we entered the Eighties.

# 5. THE BEGINNING OF A LOVE AFFAIR: 1969-1971

When wanting to be present every time your team plays became more a personal duty than a mere obsession.

PICTURE CAPTION

Top Man: Myself and Ralph reunited 30 years on at Crystal Palace

A 'squirty pie' is tamed before tunnelling in

Saturday, January 4, 1969

FA Cup Third Round: Burnley 3, Derby County 1 (Casper 2, Blant). Attendance: 22,842.

The enthralling League Cup tie against Swindon Town had provided me with both the impetus and confidence to travel up to Burnley for the forthcoming FA Cup tie against the team known as 'The Rams.' In honour of this nickname, they also retained this 'Derby Tup,' a type of local ram, as their mascot.

Each of the 92 Football League clubs possessed a traditional nickname which, generally, was either a reflection of the predominant trade associated with the area, or simply their primary team strip colour.

Burnley fell into this latter category as 'The Clarets', but not before the supporters had dropped their original tag of 'The Turfites', a derivation of 'Turf Moor', Burnley's home ground. Burnley had also briefly been known as 'The Royalites' on account of the visit to a home game by Prince Albert Victor, son of Queen Victoria.

I had by now become proudly proficient at reciting all 92 club nicknames, together with their stadium addresses. My end of term report endorsed this fact, prompting this scathing comment from my form master Johnny Wood: "If David applied the same thought to his school subjects as he does to his football, he would no doubt be top of the class, as opposed to the lowly position he finds himself in."

I arrived in Burnley a good three hours before the 3pm kick off. At 15 years of age, but with an underdeveloped body comparable to a 12-year-old, there wasn't a chance of bluffing my way into a pub.

So what does a lone nomad do to kill time before the main event?

One option was the Italian-owned and splendidly named 'El Greco' coffee bar. It was an outdated, Fifties style, grey corner house café. Distinguished by its large, plate-glass windows, it made an ideal vantage point for 'people watching' across the town's large bus station which lay opposite. It was the sort of place you could envisage Cliff Richard cheerily bounding out of, to deliver a "Hi guys!" greeting before breaking into a rendition of 'Summer Holiday'. Nevertheless, their reputation was for good quality, reasonably priced, no frills food, and I stretched the consumption of my pie, chips and peas to its absolute limit in order to pass the time.

Sitting down to dine was also a safety measure against the unusual novelty of the locally produced meat pies. Made by Hollands of Baxenden, near Accrington, who later became club shirt sponsors, they were at the time renowned in these parts as a culinary challenge the like of which I haven't come across since. The proverbial savoury treat, they tasted really nice, though there was a price to pay for over-eager indulgence.

Best eaten wearing waterproof clothing and asbestos gloves, with chinguard protection advisable, they needed to be approached with extreme caution, as no warning advice was issued to the purchaser. As a squid has a protective ink defence, so Holland's pies had something equally effective. On first bite, a generous stream of hot liquid would be ejaculated, drenching the unknowing first-time consumer in a sticky, glue-like residue. If coming into contact with bare skin, it was of paramount importance to rinse immediately under a cold tap so as to prevent blistering. The seasoned pie-eater, however, would slit the crust with a knife, 'kosher' fashion, just under the neck, until it was completely drained. Once immobilised thus, it would be safe to proceed. I always referred to these delicacies as 'squirty pies', the internal gelatine fluid being a by-product of their steam-pressured manufacture.

After my entertaining and delicious sustenance, I was ready to set off for the game. When I got to the ground, I had to wait outside the gates at the 'Bee Hole End,' so named after a long-redundant coal mine, as they weren't yet open.

As I was doing so, a gang of local teenagers came walking past in a purposeful manner. One of the tail-enders commented that I'd have to wait 20 minutes longer, but invited me to come with them as they knew a way in.

We proceeded to the rear corner of the ground, where a hole had been cut into the tall perimeter fencing. A second, smaller fence with green, lattice-style wire then had to be negotiated before, one by one, we made a dash for a large draining pipe that was still under construction.

It ran right through the bottom of a small hillock, and directly under the 'gents' toilets, which consisted simply of two open walls offering little protection from the elements. This latrine catered for the 'Longside' section of home supporters' terracing which ran parallel to the full length of the pitch.

The pipe was about three feet in diameter, making it a tight squeeze into the dark unknown. It certainly wasn't for the claustrophobic, the occupiers having to hunch their shoulders, resting chins upon knees, when the person in front had found his position. Like misplaced cats-eyes on a road, only the red tips of glowing cigarettes were evident in the darkness.

After about 15 minutes, one lad at the end of the human chain returned from his scouting mission.

"Yer al'rate lads, the'z just oppened yon gerts," he proclaimed.

Loosely translated, this meant that it was safe to come out as the public was now officially allowed in. This we did at intermittent stages until all of our party had melted into the expanse of the 40,000 capacity arena.

As for the game itself, a superb home performance resulted in a thrilling 3-1 victory in a very physical encounter. On a quagmire of a pitch, the only clean strips at the end of the game were those of the officials.

It was a great finish to a great day. It seemed that every football match I was attending turned into one big adventure of discovery. It was a real stimulant and, at my age, was one of the few in which I could indulge legally. I didn't realise it at the time, but just two weeks after the Derby cup-tie, my desire was to be transformed into a lifelong commitment.

The Saturday after the Derby game, January 11, 1969, Burnley were scheduled to play at Ipswich Town in a First Division fixture. After the previous week's escapade, I was keen to make the trip.

However, the dual combination of travelling costs and the geographical logistics of getting to Suffolk and back proved insurmountable. Instead, I settled down as an armchair fan to watch the afternoon sports programme, Grandstand, on our black and white television set. With a half-time round up of scores, this would keep me informed of developments at Ipswich.

The final result, which on this occasion was a 2-0 defeat, was always verified first on the BBC 'teleprinter' the moment it became known. This was a good 10 minutes before ITV's service, which waited until all the games had been completed.

James Alexander Gordon, even then, was the 'king' of announcers. An articulate man, he read the classified results in his own inimitable style with an authoritative air, spot on five o'clock. His tone of voice clearly emphasised the result before actual verbal confirmation.

Unbeknown to me as I listened to confirmation of Burnley's defeat at Ipswich, this would, up to press, be the last time I didn't travel to watch my club play a scheduled competitive game on a Saturday.

Establishing a bond

And so it came to pass that I began my call to worship in earnest, as opposed to previously only 'playing' at being a football fan.

For this reason, January 18, 1969 remains a most significant date in my supporting role. The opposition were Queens Park Rangers, and the game finished a 2-2 draw. All the remaining matches that season were attended, both home and away, taking me to such diverse locations as London, Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Southampton.

I had, even at this early stage, a regular income to subsidise my excursions, and my boyish appearance meant I could easily pass for a half fare on the trains.

The journey to Southampton necessitated a very early departure for a midday arrival outside 'The Dell', their quaintly named ground. This coincided with the arrival of the solitary Burnley FC supporters' coach that had travelled down, a reflection of the general apathy in the town during this period.

The older supporters were used to better – much better. Between the years of 1953 and 1966 inclusive, Burnley had achieved an impressive average final League position of sixth, and had only once finished outside the top 10, when they were 12th in 1965. But they had finished a lowly 14th in the previous two campaigns and this, remarkably, was a standing that was to be replicated in the following two years.

With the town's population at the time only 72,000 people, and with the relatively close proximity of the big Merseyside and Manchester clubs along with the economic requirement of having to sell their best players to survive, the future looked less than rosy with so few resources available.

The two leaders of the group of Burnley followers at The Dell that day were romantically monikered 'Illy' and 'Crock,' the former being an abbreviation of the Illingworth surname.

Illy was a leather-jacketed, long-haired biker. I'd recognised him from the Swindon semi-final, where he had led the assembled troops in an orchestral chorus of tribal football chants. I was later to learn that Illy had featured in a national newspaper due to him being either arrested or ejected 21 times from football grounds throughout the country. His quoted claim that he was just being picked on because of his appearance didn't sound totally convincing.

His partner, Crock, was the joker in the pack. His nickname was inspired by Davy Crockett, fabled 'King of the Wild Frontier,' due to the unorthodox fur trappers headwear complete with obligatory tail that Crock wore as a kid. He excelled at making frequent suggestive remarks peppered with double entendres towards Christine, the only girl in the party. This attractive damsel seemed to be cheerfully resigned to the jocular banter of Crock, who still dutifully supports the club to this day.

In an attempt to make friends, I made the effort to follow them to the nearest pub.

It all resembled a scene from a Wild West movie as the locals made way for these strange outlaws that had just rode into their town. The sheriffs of the local police constabulary kept a cautious eye on this posse that was weaving its way to the saloon. The bar was packed with good-humoured 'Saints' supporters, although the beer was being served in plastic pint containers as a sensible precautionary measure against glass attacks.

With my chest puffed out like a peacock and standing on my tip-toes for maximum elevation, I plucked up the courage to order a drink. I deliberately chose the youngest looking barmaid, asking her for a pint of bitter in my deepest dialect. It worked, though probably more because she was busy being harassed with requests for beer than by my less-than-convincing macho-man performance. Nonetheless, I savoured the moment, and drained a further three pints from the same server.

Although the Northern gathering predictably judged the ale 'flat, Southern gnats-pee', it didn't really matter. To me, this was the best of both worlds.

I was drinking alcohol, which required the consumer to be at least 18 years old, and had purchased a half-fare British Rail ticket on the basis that I was under 15. To the purveyor of goods, I was in the 'could-be' category of age classification, and I aimed to make the most of it!

In a boisterous mood, the crew, me included, took the route to the ground as the 3pm kick-off approached. As we reached the middle of the car park, Illy and Crock made gesticulations to those present to sit down and form a circle. On doing so, Crock instigated a catchy ditty of sheer simplistic effectiveness. It was sung to the tune of 'Onward Christian Soldiers', and was a derivation of the 'Lloyd George Knew My Father' music hall version with the chairman of Burnley Football Club replacing the former Prime Minister thus:

Bob Lord knew my faaaar-ther,

Father knew Bob Lord,

Bob Lord knew my faaaaar-ther,

Father knew Bob Lord...

This was repeated continuously, the simple rhyme being recited for more than 10 minutes. The numerous passing home supporters either gave our congregation a wide berth, or stood to view this extraordinary phenomenon.

On reflection, I suppose we resembled some obscure religious cult. The police eventually moved us on to the terraces as we were causing an obstruction, but their smiling faces and shaking heads told us that they had enjoyed the impromptu performance.

In the main event, Burnley once again let us down badly by losing 5-1. But on the train back to Stoke, I found myself humming the infectious mantra. After all, it had been part of my induction, my rite of passage establishing acceptance within the inner circle of Burnley supporters.

I was now a fully subscribed member of this working-class Rotary Club, and from then on, to the friends I had made, I would always be known simply as 'Dave from Stoke', or "Derv from Stork," as they pronounced it.

Young guns – go for it!

In 1968, Burnley's youth team had beaten Coventry City 3-2 on aggregate in the FA Youth Cup Final to win the competition for the first and only time in the club's history.

In the seasons that followed, a number of the youngsters in that victorious side filtered through into the first team, the most notable talents being Dave Thomas, Mick Docherty and Steve Kindon.

Thomas was a tricky left-winger, once described by the Leeds United manager Don Revie as "the finest talent in Britain and possibly the whole of Europe." He went on to play under Revie when the latter became manager of England, and won eight full International caps.

Docherty, a right-back and the captain of the cup winning youth team, was the son of Tommy, who was probably second only to Brian Clough in the outspoken managers' league. Mick later went on to be employed by the club as a coach.

Steve Kindon – 'Skippy' the bush kangaroo, the Road Runner, the runaway train – was all of these nicknames rolled into one. His style was head down and run, perhaps a reflection of his former pursuit as a rugby league player. My theory was that the only reason they had perimeter walls around a football pitch was to stop Kindon continuing his electrifying charge up the terraces. He was that robust and fast. He is now much in demand as an after-dinner speaker.

Colin Waldron, acquired from Chelsea, became the Burnley captain at only 19 years of age, the youngest in the Football League, and the future looked bright as the eager adolescents clocked up eight successive victories in the 1968-69 season.

It also seemed like a new dawn was being heralded in 1970 when Jimmy Adamson took over as team manager from the great Harry Potts. Before the season started and perhaps more than a little elated at the youthful resurgence within the club, the justly proud boss elected to turn soothsayer. He made a somewhat audacious prophecy to the nation's media, especially in the wake of selling one of our top footballers, Brian O'Neill, to Southampton for £75,000, and with hindsight he must have thought that his reference was prematurely optimistic.

'Jimmy Adamson predicts "Burnley will be the Team of the Seventies!"'

His bold quotation was highlighted across the back pages of newspapers nationwide and beyond. Indeed, I would be reminded of this forecast by continental football fans on future trips abroad.

But encouraged by this new-found expectancy, I even began attending a handful of Central League reserve team fixtures to see for myself our prospective all-conquering heroes. As these were all evening games, the 10 mile walk home still had to be faced. I did sometimes manage to hitch a lift, but with an average of only about 10 cars passing in the two hours it took to accomplish the trek, it was a rare bonus. However, the anticipation of repeating past glories somehow made it seem worthwhile, no matter how long it took me to get home and whatever the weather.

'Tests' of loyalty...

On January 4, 1970, Burnley played Chelsea at Stamford Bridge in an FA Cup Fourth Round fixture before a crowd of 48,282. After falling 2-0 down and heading out of the competition, a very late brace from Martin Dobson tied the game up in a splendid comeback.

The timing on the pitch was perfect, the timing off it dire.

The replay at Turf Moor was scheduled for Tuesday, January 27, the very day I was due to take my full Physics and Chemistry mock 'O' level exams, as well as half a paper of Religious Instruction. I needed to pass a minimum of four mocks to sit for the real tests in three months time. There were no second chances. The pupils had to be there on the day in order to progress. I hadn't missed any game for a full 12 months, but surely this would have to be my first.

It was a tough decision for a schoolboy to make, but the lure of a chance to progress in the FA Cup proved too much, and so I took my place on the ground with 32,000 others. After an absolutely stunning strike from the 'top man' Ralphy Coates, Chelsea fought back to take the tie into extra time, in which they scored twice to win the game 3-1.

I was devastated. Burnley weren't going to make the finals and neither was I, attaining just a pair of mock 'O' level passes after missing those other three papers. I consoled myself with the fact that none of them had been my strong subjects anyway.

An emergency hospital visit on my mother's behalf was my contrived but necessary excuse for being off school. Following a non-appearance, all absentees had to report to Jimmy White, the Deputy Head, for a discussion on their educational future.

In view of my failure to achieve the necessary passes, I was given two choices. I could either leave at half-term or retake my mocks the next year.

It was no contest. I knew I had a much better chance of getting time off from school to watch Burnley rather than time off work. Very few local employers operated a flexible leave policy, most conforming to the pre-set 'Potters' annual holidays. So I registered for a second year in my 5C stream accordingly.

The 1970-71 League season must have given us the toughest opening set of fixtures the club has ever had to face:

Liverpool at home - lost 1-2

Everton (the current League Champions) away - drew 1-1

Manchester City away - drew 0-0

Manchester Utd at home - lost 0-2

Leeds Utd at home - lost 0-3

With early injuries to half-a-dozen key players including the influential Martin Dobson, who suffered a broken leg in a pre-season friendly at Middlesbrough, it was the worst possible preparation for a new season both on the pitch and off. When in late February Burnley completed the double over Crystal Palace, a team we had beaten a remarkable five out of five times in two and a half years, it constituted only their third win in seven months.

With no disruptive night matches this time around, I did manage to complete all my mock 'O' levels at the turn of the year. Yet, in the view of Burnley's ongoing struggle against relegation, I found my concentration on my schoolwork progressively diminishing.

In my English Literature class, Shakespeare's "Beware the Ides of March" line in Julius Caesar would manifest into "Beware the sides of March" – Southampton at home on the 6th, Huddersfield away on the 13th, Tottenham at home on the 20th and Ipswich at home on the 27th.

In French, au revoir translated into goodbye to the top division. During Maths, I wasn't calculating whether AB equalled BC in a quadrilateral, but if BFC equalled survival in the First Division. And in Geography, my consideration wasn't for the ozone but for the safety zone!

My motivational study tank was running on empty, resulting in minimal prior revision. Predictably then, my results were poor, with only three passes gained including a close call of 42 per cent in Maths.

It was, however, enough for me to take advantage of a special dispensation granted to pupils who had just missed out on the standard requirement. This took the form of a re-sit of failed subjects, to be arranged a month or so before the actual 'O' level exams. These once again included the Physics, Chemistry and Religious Instruction papers I had missed last year, which at least vindicated my absence on that particular occasion.

But I had much more pressing problems. By this stage, Burnley's plight was ever deepening. They were being cast adrift at the foot of the table and results weren't significantly improving. Time was running out for salvation.

Almost 'boring Arse-'n'-all'!

Crunch time came with an evening fixture away to Arsenal. We were now in a position where we needed to win our last four games, beginning with this one, to even stand a chance of redemption.

In stark contrast, the Gunners were chasing maximum points to win the League Championship, a feat they went on to achieve. We fought hard but we lost, agonisingly, 1-0, and after a quarter of a century in the top division we were down.

It was a totally disconsolate figure that emerged from the near 48,000 attendance to join the waiting queue at Arsenal tube station for the short trip to the Euston rail terminus.

Because of the close proximity to Highbury, it would always be the 'Gooners' occupying the prime surveillance spot at the top of the Euston station concourse. As the escalator approached this level, there was always a certain degree of trepidation as an explosive mixture of away fans and other London club supporters made their way home. I'd seen it 'go off' many times, but thankfully tonight it was trouble free. I knew I'd missed my last available train, so it looked like another wretched night on 'Hotel Euston'.

As I gazed blankly at the British Rail timetable to establish my first morning train out, a stocky bloke with receding hair sidled up to me.

"Missed your train, have you?" he enquired softly.

"Yeah," I replied, "and I'm supposed to be in school tomorrow, but it doesn't matter now."

He sighed loudly in sympathy before adding: "You're welcome to stay at mine, it's only a few short stops on the tube and it's got to be better than trying to sleep here."

"But I've got no money for the fare," I replied, without thinking.

"Don't worry about that, I'll buy you a return ticket, and perhaps in the morning after breakfast I can show you around London."

"That'll be great, thanks."

And so off we both set.

The fact that we had just been relegated had left me both physically and emotionally drained. I desperately needed to sleep to ease the pain. After all that had happened that night, this unlikely gesture had renewed my faith in human kindness.

"What a great bloke," I thought.

We duly arrived at Holloway Road tube station just one stop down from Arsenal on the Piccadilly line. After turning under the bridge, directly adjacent was a huge block of flats, which, it turned out, was where he lived. Having taken the lift up to his floor, he made me tea and toast. I politely refused his offer of serving my brew in an Arsenal mug, although he eagerly drank out of his own.

"What a great bloke," I thought. He'd also been to the game and he commiserated with Burnley's downfall and expressed his condolences.

"You must be tired," he observed, as I stifled a yawn.

"Yeah, it's been a long day," I answered.

"Right, your bed's through there," he pointed behind me. "I'm just nipping to the loo."

I bid him goodnight and walked into the designated room. There was a single bed, pushed against the wall, and I settled under the blankets ready for a deep sleep. Even after such an awful night some good had come of it, and thanks to this kind stranger at least I could enjoy a decent night's kip before facing the consequences tomorrow.

"What a great bloke," I thought.

Just as I was nodding off, the toilet flushed, the bedroom door opened and in tip-toed the 'great bloke.' He slid under the blankets facing away from me as I lay on my back. I was still naïve enough at 17 to be wondering what the reason was for this strange behaviour. Until, that was, he turned over to me and casually laid his hand on my midriff.

The stark realisation dawned. He was a pervert preying on young destitute lads, and his hunting ground was clearly Euston station. This was his bed - the only bed!

"What a bastard!" I thought. Instinctively I stabbed him hard in the ribs with my elbow.

"Ugh!" He let out a muffled groan of pain before pivoting away from me.

I was trapped against the wall and left with only two options. I could panic and try to fight my way out against a middle-aged man who was twice my size, or alternatively I could let the situation cool, bide my time, stay vigilant and hope he'd taken the hint. I decided on the latter course of inaction, unless of course he tried it on again, which would leave me with no choice. It was an unnerving experience and I made sure I remained awake, alert, and most importantly, on my back!

As each harrowing minute ticked by on the luminous wall clock, I set myself a 5am watershed to make my escape. He hadn't made another pass and he wasn't aggressive...yet. At the designated hour I took the safest route by clambering over his ankles and reached for my clothes. He stirred and mumbled, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going for my early train," I answered in an aggrieved tone.

"But the underground doesn't start running till six," he responded, glancing at the wall clock.

"It doesn't matter, I'll walk."

With that I went for the door, my shoelaces still undone.

"OK. Bye then," was his disdainful farewell as I made a sharp exit down the stairs.

I had eventually got away shaken but unscathed. But would the inevitable next victim?

Outside, I looked up at the multi-story flats, attempting to estimate the floor I had been on for the last few hours. In my haste to get away, I hadn't taken the room number either. He had introduced himself only as John, and there must have been more than 400 occupants in there, so it would be almost impossible to identify him. I walked to the next tube station at Caledonian Road and caught the early morning train back to Stoke, deciding to keep the whole incident to myself.

Many years later I returned to the flats in a futile attempt to mete out my own justice. I stood staring upwards, waiting for an appearance. A passing policeman walking the beat looked skyward with me before asking whether I had a problem.

"No, I haven't but someone in there has!" I informed him resentfully. But because it was so long ago I decided to leave it at that, not wishing to offer any more explanatory details to the bemused PC.

During the 1970s I had watched a television documentary entitled 'Johnny Come Home.' It mirrored the situation I had experienced with vulnerable teenagers being picked up at London Euston railway station by depraved men. I had not been physically attacked, but perhaps other susceptible innocents hadn't been so lucky.

I don't want to go to Chelsea...

After a 2-1 home defeat to Derby County, we were left with two remaining League fixtures to fulfil. Wolves would be our last game in the First Division the following Saturday, but before then we had to play Chelsea on a Tuesday night at Stamford Bridge.

Up until then, I hadn't even heard of the term 'Sod's Law', but I was about to fall prey to it. For it had remarkably been decreed once again, by sheer misfortune, that this match would take place on the same day as my re-sit for...yes, Physics, Chemistry and half a paper of Religious Instruction. An exact repeat of the schedule that forced my omission the previous year!

I was sure that I wouldn't pass any of these subjects as I'd returned figures of 17 per cent, 28 per cent and 31 per cent respectively in the January exams, all well short of the 45 per cent pass mark.

I was fully aware that this match was totally meaningless, but I convinced myself, on the basis of my January results, that so were these specific mock exams. Even though I knew it would mean big trouble at school after wasting a year of study, in the wake of one of my life's most crucial decisions, my match attendance run continued.

In the game itself, Burnley somehow managed to beat a lacklustre Chelsea 1-0 with a Steve Kindon goal. It was the Londoners' last home game of the season, and so the traditional celebratory pitch invasion followed the final whistle.

I ran on too, along with 'Rock Steady Eddie,' ie Eddie Simmons from Leeds, but with an ulterior motive. There had been strong rumours that Burnley's 'diamond' player Ralphy Coates was leaving the club. I needed to know first hand from the man himself. I reached him just before he disappeared down the tunnel.

"Ralphy!" I called. "You're not leaving Burnley, are yer?"

Ralph looked quite taken aback to be confronted by a Clarets supporter on the pitch at, of all places, Stamford Bridge, but he quickly regained his composure.

"I'm going nowhere, son!" he proclaimed categorically.

With great relief, I jogged back onto the terraces, cheered by the news that he was staying put after hearing it directly from the man himself. At least with Ralphy in the team next season we'd have a better chance of immediately regaining our First Division status. That simple and assured confirmation had made the sacrificial trip worthwhile.

After the previous week's Euston entrapment, I made sure I caught the overnight Edinburgh-bound sleeper train to Crewe. However, once again no cars or trucks stopped on the walk back to Madeley, resulting in a 3.30am arrival home.

An explosive finale

The next morning at school, I handed in my hastily hand-written sick note to 'Face' Burgess, who was both my form master and my History teacher. He in turn would have to pass it on to the Headmaster, Welshman Kenneth Williams.

Mr Burgess had acquired his undignified moniker in typically cruel schoolboy manner because of a horrific scar that ran down one side of his face. Although he dealt out severe physical retribution to any scholar that was stupid enough to cross him, I got on alright with him. This was because of his sympathetic tendencies towards my regular absenteeism brought about by the sheer number of midweek fixtures I attended during the course of the season.

In the past, he had seemingly accepted my non-appearances without actually giving them his verbal approval. A good example of this occurred the Monday before my two-day trip north of the border to Heart of Midlothian for a second leg tie in the troublesome Texaco Cup. To my astonishment, he came out with the following prognostication in front of the whole class.

"I suppose you won't be in school tomorrow Beeston, will you?" he forecast, fixing me with a knowing smirk before adding with a nod, "Make sure you get me a programme."

This of course I always did from thereon. It was a small price to pay for truancy acquittal.

However, today he seemed less approachable and more agitated. Perhaps this was a direct result of his own personal accountability for his pupil's absence to 'The Pecker', our Headmaster, and so it proved as he produced a premeditated outburst.

"Beeston!" he boomed. "Is your father a coalman?"

I cast him my well-practised look of bewilderment.

"No," I replied, as surprised at his enquiry as the rest of the class were amused, "He's employed at a brick works."

"Well next time he writes you a sick note, ask him to wash his bloody hands!" bellowed Burgess, pointing to a series of black fingerprints on the back of the envelope.

They were my 'dabs', transferred as I sealed the flap, forgetting to wash my hands in the rush. As my German mother couldn't write legible English and my father didn't realise the extent of my wilful absence because of his alternating shift commitments, I was left with few alternatives but to write my own 'skive' notes, as they were universally known.

It wasn't a shock when, after dinner, this bleary-eyed, bedraggled fifth-former was summoned to The Pecker's study to account for his non-attendance on one of the most important days of the Grammar School calendar. The Pecker was a strict disciplinarian who always wore his wrap-around cape 'Dracula' fashion, perfectly capturing his mightily threatening stance and scathing dictatorial voice. It was certainly effective, as his words will stay with me till my dying day.

"Beeston boy!" he raged, "Why didn't you sit your mock 'O' level examinations yesterday?"

In the hope of capturing the well-played sympathy vote I replied in a suitably morose manner, as composed as I could in the pressurised circumstances.

"My grandmother, whom I was very close to, passed on to the other side," I answered, stoically repeating the exact context of my pardoning letter.

Now this wasn't a complete fib, as my granny had recently moved house to another village on the 'other side' of Stoke-on-Trent, and I was until then geographically very close to her. But it didn't convince Deputy Head Jimmy White, who took up the conversation sternly.

"It seems to be common knowledge where you went yesterday, Beeston!" he said.

On completion of his sentence, I knew immediately that I had been rumbled. What's more, the informant could only have been my very own form teacher, Face Burgess. Before my second re-sits, he had grimly forewarned me that only a tragic death in the family would be a valid enough reason to satisfy The Pecker, humorously adding that this excluded cats, dogs, hamsters and goldfish. I had followed his example, but it was obviously inconsequential if he had told them otherwise.

I could only conclude that after a few interrogatory questions from the Head and his Deputy, Burgess had blown the full-time whistle on me after coming under severe pressure to do so. What price loyalty, eh? After buying him all those match programmes as well!

As they both stood there like judge and jury awaiting my response, I remained silent. The Pecker then administered the final coup de grace.

"I see no further point in you staying on, Beeston. Do you?"

Under the circumstances, there could only be one answer – a resigned "No!"

I was told to leave on the Friday. However, I wasn't the only one. A classmate, Stephen Greer, had also been expelled. A portly pupil, he was later to become 'Estelle' the drag artiste, in order to earn a living.

As we both felt aggrieved at the way we had been treated, although there was no genuine reason to be, we decided to exact revenge for our ostracism. On our final day we sneaked into the large, domed crush hall that preceded the Headmaster's study. The first outer door of two was left ajar, just enough to put our plan into action. Greer lit the banger I was holding, and with the touch paper fizzling I slid it just inside the entrance to The Pecker's quarters. We charged through the school quadrangle in an attempt to reach the refuge of the playground lavatories. Waiting for the bang took only seconds and then...

BOOM!! The noise was far greater than anticipated and greatly amplified by the high ceiling of the crush hall.

Classroom doors opened on both the ground and upper levels as teachers and pupils came out to discover the cause of the explosion. It sounded like the whole science lab had been blown up. We had been spotted making our getaway and were duly apprehended by Jimmy White, who kicked open every toilet door to finally unearth us. In front of an incandescent headmaster we were given an almighty caning before being frogmarched off the premises for the last time.

It was a moronic act by any standard, bidding our final farewell in the style of 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid' by going out with a bang! But the only damage that had been done was to the pride and integrity of Wolstanton Grammar School.

So within one short week, I'd seen my team relegated, missed the last chance of taking my 'O' levels and had been expelled from school as a result. Life couldn't get much worse, could it?

It most certainly could.

The very next week, after playing his last game for Burnley in a 1-0 defeat at Wolves, Ralphy Coates was transferred to Tottenham Hotspur for a then British record fee of £190,000. This hurt more than anything that had happened before. I felt betrayed, especially after his personal pledge that he was 'going nowhere.'

I wept openly and fully as the morning newspaper's back page headline confirmed the sale, so much so that I had to go outside our house in an attempt to come to terms with this seemingly traitorous act. Gripping the drainpipe tightly with both hands around its long neck and my head down, I kicked out at it viciously in time to my 'Basil Fawlty' style blustering.

"Why – did – you – tell – me – you – were – bloody – staying – Ralphy?"

"Why – did – you – tell – me – you – were – bloody – staying?"

"Why – did – you..." and so on until I grew weary questioning the beleaguered downspout. Totally distraught, I stormed back inside and straight upstairs to the confines of my bedroom.

Postscript

It wasn't until almost 29 years later in February 2000 that I met Ralphy again in person when he was a matchday guest of the club.

Needing to bury this ghost from the past once and for all, I managed to gain admittance to the hospitality suite at Turf Moor. After shaking his hand I asked him directly about that sudden move to Spurs. He still remembered me on the pitch at Chelsea and swore he knew nothing about the transfer since the club, through the chairman Bob Lord, had agreed a fee without his knowledge.

Ironically, the deal was clinched just a few miles from my home at the Moat House Hotel on the outskirts of the Potteries, after Spurs had played at Stoke. Following the meeting with Tottenham boss Bill Nicholson, Burnley's manager of the day Jimmy Adamson confessed that he didn't want Ralphy to go but the chairman had said that the books needed to be balanced.

Both the player and Adamson were overcome by emotion when it came to parting and they too had ended up in tears before wishing each other well. Such was the esteem in which Ralphy Coates was held. He remains my all-time favourite Burnley player.

In Memoriam

I recently learned that Stephen Greer, with whom I'd been expelled from school, tragically committed suicide in the mid Eighties after leading a tormented life as the drag artist 'Estelle.' 

# 6. ODDBALL ANTICS: 1971-1973

The highs and lows of total devotion can take a supporter from complete elation to desperate despondency – extreme emotions that can sometimes drive a man to do crazy things.

PICTURE CAPTION

Promotion as Champions: Many of the estimated 15,000 following celebrate on the Deepdale pitch after Burnley clinched the 1973 Division Two title

The first cut is the deepest

I suppose that the initial onset of what many would describe as irrational behaviour surfaced at the end of this, the first of my several bitter experiences of relegation.

After 24 consecutive seasons in the First Division, we were mercilessly consigned to Division Two. Only the famous Arsenal and Manchester United could, at that point, boast a longer span of top-flight longevity.

My expulsion from grammar school had now paled into insignificance when confronted by the fact that, as from next season, we would have fixtures against the likes of lowly Orient and Swindon as opposed to teams such as the mighty Leeds United and Tottenham Hotspur. I was devastated and in anguish at the prospect, and began to sink into myself.

So much so that after Burnley's last match, a 1-0 defeat to Wolves at Molineux on May 1, 1971, I instantly became a recluse. I didn't venture out from the sanctuary of my home for six weeks, answering no calls to the door and not even stepping out to bring the milk in throughout my self-imposed exile. The colour of my skin turned a pallid yellow, and I had no inclination to go out or get a job. Besides, what employer would allow almost weekly time off to attend both home and away matches?

I was eventually cajoled back into the real world by my mother's unstinting resolution to find me employment. She had been shopping at the Newcastle-under-Lyme headquarters of the Silverdale Co-operative Society and had come across Stuart Allen, who was in charge of the banking department. She had forthrightly asked if there were any office vacancies at the company. He said that there were, adding that he was looking for a sales clerk, and an interview was arranged. I was offered the job, starting the following Monday. This would be the beginning of a seven-year occupation, and it was all down to my mum.

Because I had irretrievably lost six weeks of my social life, to compensate I pledged to go out drinking every night for the next 12 months, a promise that I'm proud to report I both kept and enjoyed. A positive aspect of this indulgence was a gradual and intentional weight gain, fuelled by copious amounts of Guinness 'for strength!'

A Love Supreme

The title of Sunderland's excellent fanzine is also the only phraseology that accurately encompasses the depth of feeling a true fan has for their club.

In 1970 I had started to sell Burnley FC bingo tickets to work colleagues and pub mates, a practice that I maintained until the tickets were eventually withdrawn. The scheme was an effort to boost funds for team strengthening, and inevitably, the club progressed from bingo tickets to the ubiquitous scratch card, which was eventually discontinued due to the greater prizes available from the National Lottery version. For a couple of years a free season ticket to home matches would be generously offered for selling a minimum weekly amount of 50, but this was soon downgraded to 12½ per cent commission on each sale.

But through adversity comes strength, and after our relegation in 1971, my love for Burnley FC grew stronger. Not only was I sending Christmas cards to the club, but even more worrying to my friends, a Valentine's Day card was annually dispatched for a February 14th arrival. It always carried the same message:

To the club I love!

From...?

As the years went by, I became increasingly well known to the commercial office staff when paying in my bingo ticket receipts. At the time, I was the only regular supporter attending matches from the Potteries area, and I'm sure the Stoke-on-Trent postmark pinpointed exactly who had sent those cards.

Despite the odd looks from the office girls, it seemed a quite natural undertaking to me. Though perhaps a tad unusual, by this time I realised that I loved Burnley Football Club unreservedly. Some folk claim to love their cars, their pets, different foods or even their partner, when in reality they are perhaps only expressing a mere fondness. I knew I had truly fallen in love with a football club. This wasn't going to be a glib declaration of faith. Indeed, this adulation would stand the test of time as a love supreme!

Fancy a dance?

After drawing seven of our first 11 League matches of the 1972-73 season, we started to win games in clumps. Two, three, four and even five successive victories propelled us to the top of the division.

And on Monday, April 16, 1973, Burnley's promotion back to the First Division was secured with a 3-0 victory at home to Sunderland, with two goals coming from 'The Kestrel' Paul Fletcher. He had earned this nickname because of his ability to hover in the air before dispatching the ball powerfully goalbound with his head.

Sunderland, it was claimed, were saving themselves for what would become one of their greatest ever days, a 1-0 FA Cup Final victory over Leeds United, the occasion when a sand coloured, dancing raincoat, criminally combined with crimson-red flared trousers and a trilby hat, evaded the fashion police upon the final whistle, with some chap resembling Bob Stokoe, their ecstatic manager inside them, will never be forgotten. (RIP Bob, February 2, 2004).

No matter, we had done it and I wanted to congratulate the players personally.

I had brought a tube of dark red lipstick into the ground. I asked 'Rock Steady Eddie' from Leeds to letter 'WE'RE UP' in capitals on my chest under my shirt, in preparation for running on to the pitch to celebrate our feat.

Eddie, in the process of doing so, snapped the lipstick when his attention was diverted by an incident in the game. As a consequence, and unbeknown to me, I had ripped my shirt off, had run on to the playing area, shaken hands with the Burnley players at the end of the match, and acknowledged the cheering crowd as I pointed out the proclamation on my upper torso of 'WE'RE U'. Eddie had missed the 'P' out of my statement, leaving it meaningless – the 'P' being taken out of me many times since by my own supporters!

The regular grim-faced police inspector in charge of crowd control who apprehended me before escorting me off the pitch wasn't in a benevolent mood himself. After kicking me hard twice up the backside before he forcefully ejected me, his parting shout of "You can't even bloody spell right!" finally brought the realisation of the error home to me.

The same night, in my euphoria, I decided to buy a ticket for a testimonial dance in honour of John Angus, our long-serving full-back who had won just one full international cap for England, against Austria in 1961.

I'd already attended his testimonial game on the previous Tuesday, May 1. He played in a Burnley All-Stars side against Burnley Youth, before the championship-winning team took on the so-called 'Millionaire XI', a squad of players that had made the club around a million pounds in transfer fees. Angus had hung his football boots up the previous season after serving the Clarets in three different decades, a one-club player who surely deserved my presence at his function.

I managed to get time off work on the pretence of going to a Burnley reserve fixture, an excuse which the boss accepted, albeit reluctantly, and left my work place at 2pm to undertake a four-hour journey to the town.

I was the very first guest admitted to the self-proclaimed 'Cats Whiskers' Mecca night-club where the event was to be held. By the time it came to leaving at 9pm in order to catch the last train, the Burnley players had just taken to the stage to accept their promotion accolades. With a backward glance, I left for my journey home. After walking the 10 miles home from Crewe in the pouring rain, I arrived back in a miserable, bedraggled state at 2.15 am. All this punishment for an hour and a half's drinking time 75 miles away on a Thursday night in May.

"Did you have a good time?" asked the girls at work the next day.

"Yeah, I enjoyed it," I replied, lying through my back teeth. They wouldn't understand anyway, I thought.

A hair-raising experience

It was Saturday, April 28, 1973. We were already up, and by the final game of the season, away from home, only a point was necessary to secure the Championship, where the home team Preston also required a point to avoid relegation to Division Three.

"He likes dressing up."

"He'll grow out of it."

"He went to Grammar School, you know!"

These were just a few of the numerous barbed comments I overheard from the village neighbours as I set out alone for the early morning train – destination Deepdale. A tense day was in prospect. An estimated 15,000 away following made sure Preston's pubs were heaving right up to kick-off.

I had arrived at 10am to fully celebrate in traditional Burnley style. My outfit for the day was a curly mannequin's wig, acquired from the ladies' outfitting department at our Co-op Emporium and now dyed claret. A Burnley FC Union Jack hung like a cape over my shoulders, and underneath the wig were 10 paper till rolls to be used for a ticker tape welcome when the players ran out. Half a dozen silk Burnley scarves were also tied around various parts of my anatomy.

Suitably refreshed and my voice hoarse from acclaiming our heroes through a repertoire of songs, I made my way to the turnstiles and the long queues that stretched into the busy main road.

That was until a different kind of horse, this one from the animal kingdom, pushed me against a wall, the heavy-handed mounted policeman whipping my wig off and sending my coiled streamers spilling to the ground. He must have been having a bad day as he also confiscated my flag, requesting me to collect it at the town's police station after the game.

Preston's desperation to avoid the drop could be seen in their preparations for this fixture. They had narrowed the pitch by four yards to restrict the runs of our wide men Leighton James and Dougie Collins on either flank. Additionally, the ground staff had watered the central area to the consistency of a bog, to curb controlled play. Finally, the Preston players formed a guard of honour that applauded enthusiastically as Burnley took to the field – in order to suitably becalm them, the cynic might claim.

It proved to be a forgettable game on an unforgettable day.

In front of a crowd of 21,550, Alex Bruce scored Preston's opening goal in a match of few chances for either side. Undeterred, we watched a Colin Waldron howitzer fly into the top corner to claim an equaliser and the Championship of the Second Division. The last 10 minutes saw both teams quite content to stroke the ball about unadventurously with the draw allowing both sides to achieve their aims.

The Football League committee must have been equally confident as they brought the trophy along for presentation. Amid wild scenes on the pitch, the Burnley players emerged to accept the congratulations they thoroughly deserved. Amazingly, the Championship had been won using only 13 regular players for the entire season, a perfect example of the need to maintain a settled side.

What a coincidence!

I didn't bother going into town to reclaim my abducted gear from the local nick, I was being swept along by a tide of euphoria.

An invitation to celebrate the night away in Blackpool was too good to miss. My companions were 'Rock Steady Eddie' Simmons and his mate Pete from Knaresborough, North Yorkshire.

A bottle of champagne opened the merrymaking before we hit the pubs, the clubs and then the beach. We had bought a crate of 24 bottles of beer to finish off this marvellous day in style by the seashore. Swaying from side to side, each with one hand carrying the accompanying crate, Eddie and I tentatively made our way down the wooden promenade steps to the sand.

But at that moment, disaster struck. One plank was missing and my leg went through the gap up to my thigh, dealing a painful blow to my 'nads' in the process.

Even worse, our case of beer was propelled downwards as I fell sharply, depositing all but three bottles of ale in the deep, dark trench of muddy water below. We still had one apiece to toast the occasion, and this we did to verse after verse of terrace songs.

But we then became aware of an alternative chant in the distance.

"Liv-er-pool – Liv-er-pool – Liv-er-pool," was being recited repetitively in an emphatic style.

With our chant of "Lancashire, la-la-la" being reciprocated, we moved towards the small group. This was the season that the winners of all four divisions of the Football League came from the county of Lancashire, just before the boundary changes of the same year relocated the other trio of champions – Liverpool, Bolton and Southport – within newly formed alternative counties.

As we met up with our friendly rivals, a voice out of the darkness piped up.

"Eyup Dave, how are yer – it's Reg!"

"Reg? Reg who?"

"Reggie Bradshaw from Madeley – remember me?"

Now this is where the story takes a surreal air. Consider the facts. Firstly, it's gone two o'clock in the morning and it's pitch black. Secondly, I'm 80 miles from home and the character insisting that he's Reg moved 160 miles north to Spennymoor, County Durham two years ago. Thirdly, by now I'm absolutely plastered.

Unconvinced by the stranger's claim, I shook hands with the party before staggering back with Eddie and Pete to their pre-booked guest house, where I was hoping to sneak in to sleep on the floor. Halfway up the stairs, the light was switched on. Staring down at me from above was the landlady from hell.

"Who the fuck are you?" she shrieked in a very unladylike manner.

Looking less than friendly in her curlers and hair net, she wore a scowl that would make a bull mastiff think twice. Armed with a yard brush, she launched herself down the stairs like a Nazi stormtrooper and administered a firm prod to my back as I fled through the door. I was out of there! She didn't look the type to accept explanations, even if I had one.

As I departed I could just hear Pete plead a weak defence in a bid to deflect any responsibility.

"Where did he come from, Ed?"

"He must have sneaked in when we opened the door."

With little choice for shelter, I clambered aboard an inshore lifeboat that was moored on the promenade. Securing the protective tarpaulin back over my head and onto the retaining bow hooks of the boat, I settled down as best I could. I was banking on there being no emergency rescue during the night. There wasn't, but I was awakened at nine o'clock in the morning by a very thorough policeman who lifted the covering and, in doing so, activated the mother of all hangovers. I don't know how he knew I was in there, but once discovered I was asked to 'move on'.

Because of my overdose of best bitter the day before, I assumed that the meeting on the beach with Reg in the early hours had just been a figment of my imagination. Not until I met him again two years later, when he moved back to the Stoke-on-Trent area, did I become enlightened.

He then confirmed that he and his three pals, after watching Liverpool winning the League Championship, had also decided to celebrate by going to Blackpool.

Furthermore Reg, who 10 years previously had started his football fan career on the same day as me as an original top-of-the-league glory hunter, verified our amazing encounter on the sands, making the whole incident a truly uncanny coincidence.

Good morning vicar? Perhaps not!

The following week at work, my celebrations were joyous.

I bought three bottles of top champagne, three large boxes of quality chocolates for the girls, two packs of the best cigars for the bosses and bouquets of flowers for the teetotallers. Distributing them amongst both the office and banking staff, I wanted them to share my happiness. It cost me around £50, more than two weeks' wages in those days, but you just couldn't buy that feeling of elation.

As a precautionary measure, the following Sunday I made my way to the local Church of England place of worship to give genuine thanks - just in case 'He' really was out there somewhere. It was a sort of 'Praise the Lord' pilgrimage for blessing us with promotion to the Promised Land so soon after being banished from it.

Although I was deadly serious, the response I received could hardly be classed as a Christian welcome. Tied around my neck was a Burnley FC woollen scarf with a cotton club badge proudly sewn upon it. As was the fan fashion of the day, a silk Burnley scarf was tied around each wrist, and with my claret and blue bob cap perched on my head, there was absolutely no doubt where my faith lay.

I waited outside for the church warden to open up, but as more worshippers arrived, some of whom I knew, they gave me a wide berth and gathered a noticeable few yards onward. I felt like a modern day leper.

Upon entering the House of God, I of course respectfully removed my hat. But the vicar of the day greeted each of the congregation with a handshake as they filed past him - all except me. As I approached with my arm outstretched in readiness, he deliberately blanked me, turning away to pick up another hymn book and Bible to pass on to the churchgoer behind me, whom he once again addressed with a smile and a shake of the hand.

It was a case of being persecuted for my unorthodox appearance. So much for everyone being equal in God's eyes. I certainly didn't seem to be - I was looked upon as an outcast.

I still prayed, thanking Him (presuming it is a him) upstairs for a glorious season, but pledging not to return until the attitude of his disciples improved. Mission accomplished, I made my way out with only a cursory glance towards the priest as I walked by.

The Untouchables

I am also classed as an eccentric for my refusal to consume what I consider football-related 'no-go' food and drink, this particular embargo having been in operation for more than 30 years now.

Here is a sample of the commodities that are still excluded, even to this day. Most are self-explanatory.

United chocolate biscuits (any United)

Chelsea buns

Everton mints

Derby scones

Lincoln biscuits

Yorkie chocolate bars (York City connection)

Plymouth gin

Red Leicester cheese

Tangerines (Blackpool connection)

Newcastle Brown Ale

Red Stripe lager (various clubs' kits)

Wrexham lager

Why? Because it makes me feel a betrayer, however indirectly they are associated with another team.

Alongside these consumables, I have also refused to wear anything red, as besides being associated with my local club Stoke City, the colour represents three of the biggest clubs in the country, Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester United. For this reason, I felt obliged to give up my temporary job as a postman, as all the bikes were painted in the GPO's vivid shade of red.

After a long debate of many years with my friends, I have now relaxed the boycott of red tomatoes, and indeed, tomato sauce, as I have conceded that they cannot be linked to a particular club by any stretch of the imagination.

However, because of the advent of shirt advertising, numerous supplements have found their way onto my banned list, from 'Chupa Chup' lollies for my daughter Clarette as they were former Sheffield Wednesday sponsors, to 'Fosters Lager' for me. And have you ever tried explaining to your girlfriend that you can't wear any of the set of 'Georgio' briefs she bought you at Christmas because they used to sponsor Millwall?

# 7. FOUR WARNINGS AND A FUNERAL: 1973-1974

There are times when it feels as though the Gods are conspiring against you to prevent your attendance at a particular fixture. This was THAT fixture!

PICTURE CAPTION

Distance No Object: Not yet five years old, the denim jacket takes in a pre-season friendly in Penzance, Cornwall

The problem

"I'm going to the match, but how do I tell the boss?"

I suppose most exiled football devotees who have to travel any kind of distance to support their team, both home and away, have encountered the problem of how to get regular time off work in order to get to each match.

Of course, if you're a car owner the task is made considerably easier, as no reliance has to be attached to this nation's unreliable public transport system. Even a direct rail service can make journeying to your destination more accessible.

However, if you are not mobile, live in an isolated village 10 miles from any railway station and follow a club that nestles in an outpost deep in north east Lancashire, the summoning to worship becomes eminently more complex. When even an excursion to a home game can be three hours plus, dependent on bus and train connections, a flexible employer is an absolute must.

Experience has taught me that many compliant superiors will allow day or half day holidays, particularly if you happen to bargain for this perk as a condition of employment at the interview stage. Given a sympathetic employer, I found that there wasn't normally a problem and that I was able to overcome all eventualities.

But season 1973-74 was about to prove otherwise.

Despite the fact that I had a manager who allowed me to take day and half day holidays to follow the Clarets, it wasn't nearly enough leeway to get me through. Unbeknown to me as I started out for my first midweek away day of that campaign, a 3-2 League win at Tottenham, this particular campaign was to have more twists and turns than an Agatha Christie thriller, and was to provide just as much drama.

For the benefit of those who were not around in this period, and to refresh the memories of those that were, let me paint you a picture of the proceedings that were to make this season especially difficult for the dedicated football supporter.

First and most significantly of all, as the football season kicked off, the country was ruled by yet another Tory government, this one under the leadership of Ted Heath.

This shoulder-shuffling chortler was the very one who, that November, was to officially open Burnley FC's new Bob Lord Stand, later to be dubbed the Martin Dobson Stand after the £300,000 transfer of 'Dobbo' to Everton only three games into the following season, a move which fuelled angry speculation that he was sacrificed to meet the construction bill.

Secondly, this was a period when the trade unions, unlike today, had a very powerful voice in the ear of government. The miners' union, the NUM, was regarded as one of the most powerful in the land and the standard bearers of the working class. As if to prove this point, and with a Conservative administration in their sights, they came out on strike during the winter of 1973.

With Britain's electricity generators being coal-powered, the strike was seen as posing such a severe threat to the nation's power supply that a ban on electricity for floodlit football matches was enforced. The richer clubs were able to avoid this proscription by hiring expensive generators to power their floodlights but the rest, including Burnley, were forced to play their midweek fixtures during the afternoon.

In sympathy with the miners, the train drivers also took industrial action, resulting in a go-slow which involved them purposely halting their trains outside stations and forming a queue behind waiting carriages. Needless to say, this separate union action was a second important factor in making it estimably more challenging to get to a required town or city for a match.

Burnley were scheduled to play a number of midweek fixtures with afternoon kick-offs but, due to some freak weather conditions, actually played only twice at this inconvenient time.

The first of these occasions was against Norwich City at Turf Moor on November 27, 1973, the Clarets winning 2-0 in a Third Round first leg tie of the Texaco Cup, a competition that was to prove highly problematic that season. A total of 4,858 people managed to find the time to take in this nonsense of a game, myself included of course.

The third test of my resolution was to be the consistently atrocious weather, this being before the recent advent of climate change and warmer temperatures. Postponements of Burnley games during the particularly bad winter went into double figures. The Newcastle away game for instance, originally planned for December 1, fell to the elements on no less than five occasions.

Therefore, a combination of all these unexpected obstacles had to be overcome in order to attend each game. All in all – with regular arctic conditions, public transport handicaps, rescheduling of kick-off times and, of course, the ever-present threat of football hooliganism – this particular period of the Seventies was an especially hazardous time in what was generally a difficult decade in which to prove your dedication to the cause.

The best laid plans

My tried and trusted formula to make the most of my four weeks accrued holiday was to use two weeks for a summer break, usually taking in Burnley's pre-season tour to picturesque and glamorous places like Norway and Majorca, leaving me an adequate couple of weeks to cater for football fixtures.

Throughout the three previous seasons this strategy had worked so well that I had not needed to take even one day's sick leave from work.

However, disaster was looming and the catalyst to the cataclysm of events that followed has to be attributed to Burnley's successful run in the Texaco Cup, a competition that took in, amongst others, a series of Scottish fixtures on a two-leg basis, and attained about the same doubtful prestige as the more recent Anglo-Italian Trophy.

After disposing of East Fife, Heart of Midlothian and Norwich City, Newcastle United awaited the Clarets in the final - the very same team that we were due to play in the FA Cup Semi-Final after another frantic sequence of matches which were welcome but added to our fixture congestion problems.

By then, the crippling combination of both the miners' strike and the railwaymen's go-slow saw my fortnight's holiday allocation whittled away to nothing by January, after a catalogue of used lieu days to cancelled matches and far-flung cup fixtures. These included a journey to Cardiff for a League Cup game as well as two trips North of the Border.

My precious 14 days, which I had counted on seeing me through, were gone after only six months. I was out of time off, with three months of the season still to play!

As fate would have it, I got on quite well with Tom Slack, the managing director at my workplace, the Co-Op offices. He was sympathetic to my plight, and, to be fair, had bent some rules to accommodate my passion for the Clarets.

And so through a third party I made discreet enquiries about the possibility of time off without pay. The news that this wouldn't even be considered as the employer's policy forbade it, led to the stimulation of my grey matter even more.

I'd already had a close call after taking unofficial time off for the midweek afternoon kick-off against Norwich. The assistant manager, Stuart Allen, had asked me into his office the day after. He had picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph and then remarked, "There's a picture of the crowd at the Burnley game behind one goal, and you're on it!"

It was true that when Burnley had scored their second goal I had been making my way past the net on the Bee Hole End. "Just my luck," I thought. "He's got the evidence to sack me automatically."

Then a smile spread across his face as he asked me if I had been to the game.

"No," I replied sheepishly. "My mum twisted her ankle and I had to take her to the hospital."

Phew! I'd seen off his attempt to call my bluff this time, and received just a verbal warning, but he was on my case.

Almost weekly time off for rearranged fixtures and wasted days off for more postponed games gained me two more verbal warnings after unsubstantiated illnesses.

One of these spurious ailments had, at least, enabled me to watch the Clarets on a Wednesday afternoon at Stamford Bridge, where we lost 3-0 in front of just 8,171 spectators in a game played at the second time of asking, after a postponement two weeks previously which I was only informed of by a brief chalkboard announcement at Euston as I arrived in London.

But the Newcastle fixture seemed jinxed.

The St. James' Park clash, originally a Saturday fixture in December, was the only other scheduled midweek afternoon kick-off, and after arriving on Tyneside at midday I had retired to an alehouse. Upon my departure at two o'clock, I discovered that the game had been called off after a two-hour torrential downpour had transformed the pitch into an imitation of Swan Lake. Back in work the next day, Stuart Allen quipped: "I heard your auntie's funeral was called off, Dave, due to a waterlogged pitch!"

In the face of striking unions, some of the journeys to away games took on epic proportions that would have tested the endurance of Ranulph Feinnes. A night match on December 12, 1973 against Norwich City at Carrow Road, the second leg of a tie in the infamous Texaco Cup, illustrated the point perfectly.

My outgoing Euston service had come to an abrupt halt behind a queue of six passenger trains, all awaiting clearance to progress into London. After a 30 minute wait, I was informed by a guard making his way slowly through the carriages that it could be anything up to two hours before the backlog was cleared. If this was the case, then I would miss the match.

I had only one course of action open to me. Off I went up the carriage, and as I leant out of the window I could see a station in the distance. I had to go for it. I checked the lines were clear, opened the door and jumped down onto the track. To my surprise, a pin stripe suited gent with a bowler hat, complete with a brolly and briefcase, followed me down.

"Bugger this for a game," he blustered indignantly. "I'm with you!"

And so there was me in my denim gear and him in his City suit, an unlikely pair making quite a sight as we ambled off down the line to the cheers of the other passengers. Wembley Park station was reached and a train took us to Liverpool Street station just before the pursuing guard got to us.

The ground still wasn't reached until 10 minutes before half-time, but I was there. Free entry was gained via a considerate gateman, and my first question was answered satisfactorily with an East Anglian twang.

"There's no score yet, buuoy."

After going 2-0 down, we staged a great comeback, with a Colin Waldron 35-yarder clinching a 3-2 win. A few pints, a curry and a journey back to London for a breakfast served on a polystyrene plate followed, but that's another story for another chapter.

Doctoring the truth

With yet another two-day trip for the rearranged fixture at Newcastle looming, I was running out of illnesses.

Besides this, the dozen or so women who worked in our office were equally rapidly running out of patience due to the regular time I was forced to have off. They made it clear to Tom Slack that they expected him to exert his authority or else they, too, would threaten to rebel.

From my viewpoint, this was a bit rich. They had been all too eager to chomp through the boxes of chocolates and guzzle the champagne that I had forked out 50 quid for last season in celebration of Burnley's Second Division Championship. Now they were like the Sanhedrin, discussing a way to nail me to the cross!

Most folk would say rightfully so, and they'd be correct of course, but since I was determined never to miss a match, I had no real choice. My next ruse had to be convincing – and it nearly was!

It was a Sunday afternoon, only four days before the trip to Newcastle had once again to be negotiated. I gave my best mate Clive Pritchard, known as 'Pritch', a knock on his door and asked him for a favour.

"Eyup youth! I want you to clout me in the face to give me a bruise."

He began to laugh. "Don't talk daft, man."

I assured him that I was serious, since I needed a few days off work to cover the game. After realising I wasn't joking, he psyched himself up for a full 15 minutes to do the deed. One, two, threehis arm went back repetitively, but he couldn't provide the trigger to produce a punch, and eventually gave up.

"I just can't do it Ralphy, sorry."

Now in a way I must confess to being a mite relieved about this. After all, he was my drinking partner of many years standing - even though he had given me a thump to the solar plexus once, though on that occasion it was for my own protection, when I was well drunk on my 18th birthday and singing 'The Laughing Policeman' to an irate constable in town.

But relieved though I was, it didn't solve my problem – I still needed a three-day sick-note!

After a few pints down the local, scratching my head, a flash of inspiration came over me. Instead, why don't I scratch my face?

I had briefly suffered from an impetigo rash a few years ago. Well, as far as I was concerned, it was about to erupt again! So after locating a smattering of spot clusters down one side of my face, I picked at them with a sharp needle to scab them over. By the end of my handiwork it resembled a join-the-dots puzzle down my cheek.

"That'll do nicely," I thought, "Straight down the doctor's tomorrow to claim my passport to the match!"

It was an evening appointment, and I dropped into the surgery looking suitably forlorn.

"Hi Doc. It looks like I've had a recurrence of my impetigo problem of a few years ago," I announced confidently, expecting him to consult my medical record card for the necessary confirmation.

"Let me take a look," he asked, and over he came for a closer examination.

After a few seconds he concluded that it wasn't impetigo but a number of scratches, and refused to give me a doctor's note! After all my intricate and painful face etching, I could see my last hope slipping away. With no other option, I played my last card.

"If you don't give me a cover note, I'll have to change my GP. I can't deal with the public with a face like a Bakewell tart!"

To my astonishment he shrugged his shoulders and agreed.

"That's OK. I'll send your records on," he said, as I stormed out in anger because he had seen through my self-mutilation.

That put the tin hat on it, after going through all this rigmarole, the game was again postponed due to the weather and I received a written fourth warning for non-production of a sick-note.

An 'auntie'-climax

I had managed to get to the end of April, but still had to make my way to Newcastle once more, this time for the Texaco Cup Final, the fourth meeting between the clubs in 21 days. It would have been five, but because of the fixture backlog it was decided to play the final as a one-off, rather than over two legs.

Almost every conceivable illness bar the bubonic plague had supposedly struck me down, and cries of "What are you going to catch this week?" greeted me at work on a Monday morning.

It was obvious that I had to change my absenteeism strategy and pin the blame on someone else for a change.

Given that the Texaco Cup Final was the last midweek away game of the season, I went for the irresistible excuse par excellence - a death in the family. The MD would have to possess a heart of stone not to give me time off for this one.

To gain extra pathos in the eyes of Tom Slack, I decided the deceased relative would be the fictional Auntie Maud, my last surviving aunt to whom I was very close. Despicable I know, but it was a desperate time and no-one would be any the wiser, would they?

Now, the works rule was that the absent employee had to phone in before 9am in order to allocate their usual workload to another member of staff. This was a slight inconvenience, as I needed to be at Stoke railway station just before this time for my northbound train. That train would be taking me on the first leg of the long haul to 'Geordieland,' which required changes at Stockport, Stalybridge and Leeds, arriving early afternoon allowing for the usual delays.

The big day commenced with my usual mode of transport, a cycle ride to my departure point. At 8am I locked up my bike in the BR staff sheds where it would hopefully remain until my mid-morning return the following day.

First stop was the buffet bar for a slice of typically thick, strong coffee. Still, perhaps it would prepare me for my imminent phone call to the boss.

I wrote down and rehearsed my lines to make my story sound suitably convincing. Over and over again I repeated the script in my head. As I had no choice but to use a station telephone kiosk, one of the old red design, I checked the timetables to ensure no trains were due in, as their tell tale sound during my phone call might give me away. Preparation over, I steeled myself for the act of deceit.

It was 8.35 am. Perfect. No departures were scheduled, and Tom Slack would just be settling down to his ritual first cup of coffee. I had to strike then. As I walked along the platform towards the phone booth, the station fell eerily silent, as if holding its breath in recognition of the delicate operation I was about to perform. I stepped into the big red box, with my prepared lines before me. I dialled the Co-op's number and the line rang out.

The distinctive tones of our receptionist, Eve, greeted me. "Good morning, Castle House. How can I help you?"

I requested the MD and addressed him.

"Morning Mr. Slack. I'm sorry but I won't be able to come in today."

Since Tom was also a footy fan and had attached himself to the fortunes of his home town club Tranmere, his current local club Stoke and his wife Lillian's favourites Liverpool, he was well updated with Burnley's fixture pile-up in light of my previous escapades. Therefore conviction on my part was everything as he replied somewhat sarcastically: "Hello David. What seems to be the problem today?"

I spoke deliberately, endeavouring not to give the impression I was reading from a text. Sounding suitably choked, my voice crackling with emotion, I delivered the crucial line with aplomb.

"My only remaining auntie passed away in the night (sniffle) and I'm now helping to sort out the funeral arrangements." (Sniffle sniffle). My pause for effect was timed perfectly.

And then, without warning, there was a loudBING BONG!

At that precise moment, on completion of my sentence, with an ill-fated timing that couldn't have been more exact if it had been premeditated, my tale of falsehood collapsed around my ears. The thunderous chime from the station tannoy preceded an equally deafening message:

"The Inter-City service to Manchester Piccadilly, due to arrive at 08.52 on Platform 2, is running approximately two-zero, 20 minutes late. Passengers for Huddersfield, Leeds and Newcastle change at Stockport for Stalybridge."

I waited with eyes tightly closed in disbelief as the informant finished his speech. My cover was blown. An ominous silence at each end of the phone was finally broken by Mr Slack requesting the number I was ringing from and the location.

"It's a Mer...Mer...Madeley number," I stuttered, going on to give him the village kiosk digits which I had purposely memorised. "I'll probably be in tomorrow," I spluttered desperately, and bid him a hasty goodbye as I slammed down the handset in frustration.

It was of no consequence. Tom Slack traced the call and next day, behind a Texaco Cup Final defeat, 2-1 after extra time, and a 3.30am arrival home, I received another written warning which was, appropriately enough, also a FINAL one.

In Memoriam

Tom Slack was a great boss to whom I'll be eternally grateful for treating my football requests for time off with immense patience and consideration. He sadly passed away on March 24, 2009 aged 77.

# 8. CHARMED, I'M SURE: 1973-1976

The philosophy of fortune, superstition and lucky charms has become prevalent amongst both footballers and fans alike. It ranges from adopting the same, precise pre-match ritual, to wearing the same items of clothing week-in and week-out, or to being in possession of a lucky talisman, which is easily the most popular choice. I have tried all three – one at a time, two at a time, even all at once in a forlorn quest for continual success.

PICTURE CAPTION

England's Finest: AJ Purcell aka The Crafty Cowman, high priest to the 'Burls'

Superstitions, foibles and lucky talismans

Where's that second magpie?

Every time I see one of these birds, I feel compelled to look for its mate. My eyes urgently scour the surroundings of the first sighted until a pair is confirmed. According to the rural folklore laid down in the famous rhyme, two magpies seen together are supposed to represent joy, and would hence improve the chances of a Burnley victory, perhaps only a draw, or at the very least a good performance.

As far as charms go, for one to become sufficiently auspicious, the serious believer has to adhere to stringent criteria. To begin with, the adopted talisman must be carried by the supporter to the chosen ground where the fixture is taking place. If it fails to be present for whatever reason at a stipulated match, its powers remain unaltered until the next game.

A sequence of two consecutive losses by your team in any competition condemns the item as a spent force and no longer the carrier of good fortune. Two defeats in a row would suggest that any supposed magical power it held had been exhausted. In order for a talisman to qualify as an object of genuine luck in the first place, certain conditions need to be observed, namely that it has to fulfil one of the four requirements listed below.

It must either be:

(i)An article - such as an item of clothing - that has been present throughout the duration of a good run of results.

(ii)Given to a supporter as a gift or keepsake.

(iii)Found incidentally during the course of a match day.

(iv)An unusual purchase bought on a complete whim.

Previous personal harbingers of good fortune have included 'Dino' the plastic dinosaur, who started life as a McDonald's 'Happy Meal' toy, and 'Snoozy Sid', a sleeping hippopotamus painted in a claret and blue livery, who emerged from a Kinder egg. Also, a small, pink glass dolphin, a tiny sugar teddy from a school cookery class, a simple cardboard disc picturing a claret and blue coloured snail and 'Kurt,' the 'puppy in my pocket' Doberman Pinscher model dog. All these represent contributions from my daughter Clarette.

PICTURE CAPTION

Lucky pumps. These charmed items of footwear line-up; 1972/73, 1973/4 and 1974/5.

The lucky pump quartet

My faith in charmed objects was highlighted in the 1972-73 season, when promotion was secured as champions of Division Two.

This passport to the First Division, today of course known as the Premiership, was my most enjoyable period in the last 40 years. The team got off to a flying start, not losing a League game until a surprise 2-1 home defeat to Orient on November 11, 1973.

As the season progressed and the Clarets kept on winning, I found myself asking the question, "How are we doing this?" We could hardly put a foot wrong.

True, there were quality players at the club. The likes of Alan Stevenson, already an England under 23 international and Keith Newton, probably the most cultured full-back ever to wear the claret and blue. There was Colin Waldron, an uncompromising centre-half and the rock in our defence. Martin Dobson was a midfield general who went on to represent England at senior level. Wingers Dave Thomas and Leighton James were prodigious talents who provided a constant stream of ammunition for Frank Casper and Paul Fletcher, Burnley's dynamic striking duo.

All formed the nucleus of a very good side, but there just had to be another key factor for us to be playing so well. What was the magical ingredient that spurred us to a superb 4-1 home victory over the well-fancied Aston Villa in August? What mystical force prevented Blackpool getting a fourth and equalising goal in September, after the Seasiders pulled back from 4-0 down to 4-3? I needed to know, and systematically eliminated all pretenders to the claim.

My tee shirts, jeans and, of course, socks and underpants had all been rotated, on a regular basis I might add. My denim jacket had also missed a match day when it had been too wet to wear after a wash. On the other hand, or perhaps that should be on the other foot, my cheap and nasty plastic training shoes had been ever-present so far.

That must be it! It was the only rational irrational conclusion to draw. They were the secret weapon in my good luck armoury, the catalyst to fortune and favourable results.

Being plastic, they weren't very durable and had, by September, already become weathered and worn. No matter, they had to be cherished. I was wearing them for the team!

The whole season depended on my lucky pumps. They needed to be there at each remaining game and beyond if truly effective. And they were – Burnley lost only four League games that season!

I lovingly maintained the pumps as the months progressed, although they were by now well past their best, with deeply split seams and large holes in the sole. All colours and multiple layers of insulation tape were wrapped around the uppers to bind the shoe together. Constant walking would sever this bond, requiring running repairs from a spare roll. Plastic carrier bags and polythene sandwich wrappers were secured by thick elastic bands to keep the rain out, and when they gradually disintegrated, replacements were needed so I could keep wearing the pumps. When questioned impertinently by inquisitive observers why I had large food bags covering my training shoes, I would reply with a derisory, "To keep my feet fresh, of course!"

In winter's coldest months, particles of ice regularly formed between my exposed toes. Additional pairs of thick woollen socks were called upon as extra protection for my sodden feet.

But the cold and wet, the discomfort and incredulous staring at my shuffling walk mattered little to me. Our objective had been achieved, we had gained a quick return to the top division. And maybe, just maybe, my lucky pumps had been a contributory factor.

By the end of the campaign, the soles had completely fallen apart. Even so, this footwear was tucked away in a shoebox, with the year labelled upon it for posterity.

The following season, 1973-74, a similarly inexpensive pair represented a further test of 'lucky charm' credibility, and nowhere was this more emphatically substantiated than at Elland Road, Leeds, on March 23, 1974.

I'd gone on to the Gelderd Road home supporters' end of the ground with three of Burnley's most ardent followers, Jock, little Pete Hodgson and Brian Wren, who I'd happened to meet on the train coming up. Brian, now sadly deceased, was known as 'Bree' and he was my inspirational mentor, having missed only two games in three decades.

Our return departure time necessitated a quick getaway after the match, and taking into account the fact that Leeds hadn't lost a home League game all season, we didn't really envisage that we'd be doing any over-exuberant rejoicing, especially amongst some of the most fiercely partisan crowds in the country on a day when the attendance was just under 40,000.

Any opposing fans that have been in a similar position behind enemy lines will relate to this situation.

So, given the surroundings, when Paul Fletcher put us ahead after 16 minutes, our only acknowledgement of the goal was nothing more than a medley of exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. A spectacular bicycle kick for the second from the same player received spontaneous appreciative applause in all parts of the ground, such was the quality.

But as Dougie Collins' exquisite chip made it three, we afforded ourselves a kind of muffled, shaking convulsion, which progressed to a flurried celebratory bounce when Geoff Nulty sealed it with the fourth. Although we thought it was suitably stifled, it still represented a momentary lapse, like a small pebble rippling a tranquil sea.

The response was a surge down the terraces behind accompanied by flailing fists, which fortunately missed their target – which was us. Thankfully, the disturbance was quelled as we were shuffled down the terracing.

Meanwhile on the pitch, the atmosphere was turning equally nasty with numerous challenges of retribution taking place, the culmination of which was a vengeful late tackle on our No.8 Frank Casper by Norman Hunter eight minutes from full time. The incident was less than 10 yards directly in front of us on the touchline. The ball had already been crossed by Casper and was being competed for in the box when Hunter brutally poleaxed the deliverer, leaving him in a pile on the perimeter track. Such was the ferocity of the lunge, I immediately condemned the deed as "a bloody assassination attempt!" In contrast, the 'even-handed' Leeds fans claimed it was nothing more than a "Yorkshire love tap!"

We managed to get away relatively unscathed, but there can be few more inappropriate settings to witness what must surely have been one of the best Burnley performances of all time and one of the worst opposition tackles. Astonishingly, 'Bite yer legs' Hunter won the PFA Player of the Year award that same season from his fellow professionals. It's fair to presume that he wasn't relying on Frank Casper's vote.

We reached the heady heights of an FA Cup Semi-Final the following week, further proof of the amazing progress the club had made. Newcastle United were the opponents at Hillsborough, Sheffield. Two goals from Malcolm McDonald put us out, and the Geordies through to the Wembley Cup Final against Liverpool, who soundly defeated them 3-0. That day Burnley had taken a chance on a clearly unfit Frank Casper, still affected by Hunter's atrocious challenge. It would be his last game for 18 months, before returning against Queens Park Rangers at Turf Moor to score his 100th and final League goal from a free-kick, an achievement I personally congratulated him on by running on to the pitch and shaking his hand.

Burnley ultimately attained the position of sixth in Division One, only missing out on a UEFA Cup qualification by one place on goal average, which decided the higher place when both teams were level on points.

Ironically, the final qualification spot was secured, of all clubs, by my local team Stoke City. They beat the already-relegated Manchester United in their final match of the season to claim that place. Even a draw in this game would have guaranteed a European adventure for Burnley, but on one of the rare occasions that I had wanted this devilish opposition to get a positive result, they had capitulated. Amidst a burning pyre of discarded Manchester United scarves, police dogs were intentionally released from their leads by their handlers in an attempt to quell the disorder at the Victoria Ground that night. I was as dismayed as the rest of the away following on the 'Stoke End,' but for an entirely different reason, of course!

As I walked through the dimly-lit back streets to catch the first of my two buses back to my village outpost, I reflected at length on what might have been. Europe had tantalisingly beckoned for small-town Burnley, whose current population was standing at around 76,000 souls. This instantly gave the club's achievement a truer perspective – we were still amongst the elite, one of the top six sides in the country! Along the way, we had beaten the might of Chelsea (h) 1-0, Spurs (a) 3-2, West Ham (a) 1-0, Arsenal (h) 2-1, Leeds (a) 4-1, Manchester City (h) 3-0, Liverpool (h) 2-1, Everton (h) 3-1 and Newcastle (a) 2-1 in the game I didn't get to. Add to these results a draw both home and away with Manchester United, 0-0 and 3-3 respectively, and an apt appraisal of the season would be 'outstanding.'

Local friends would ask the question, "Just how do Burnley do it on such meagre resources?" I used to smile back knowingly. There was no doubt in my mind. It just had to be down to my second pair of lucky pumps!

Drinking to success and excess

Another season, 1974-75, dawned and a new pair of pumps was acquired. This particular down-market brand had been manufactured in the Far East, just like the others. They would probably have an estimated life span of about nine weeks, which represented less than a quarter of the requirement for the long foot slog that attendance at all of the matches entailed.

As the season commenced, I also made a celebratory pledge to the village lads, collectively known as the 'Madeley Mafia,' that I would regularly meet them after returning from each game. As well as consuming my usual substantial quota of beer, I promised to drain an additional half a bottle of spirits if Burnley either won or drew a Saturday fixture.

There were 25 such occasions! During the continual process of fulfilling my alcoholic pledge so as not to lose face in their company, I unwittingly introduced myself to strong liquor drinking and an almost weekly hangover.

Rum, whisky, gin and even tequila were all tried by the bottle. To this day, the latter remains my least-favourite 'short' both for taste and severe after effects, a large degree of blame being attached to the traditional salt and lime 'knock it back in one' method of intake. My favourite tipple was vodka, as I could drink it either neat or with a mixer and it would rarely make me ill.

All this over-indulgence did, however, have some positive effects. It lessened my inhibitions, instilled a sense of confidence and indeed fuelled personal exhibitionism and extrovert behaviour.

It seemed the more successful Burnley were, the more popular I became, to such an extent that there would be a gathering to greet me in our local, The Bridge Inn, on my return home from the match. They expected a performance, and would ask me where I was going that night. Some wanted to join me, to revel in my antics under the influence and to have a good laugh. Impromptu renditions of made-up songs, joke-telling and bizarre routines straight from the 'Men Behaving Badly' school of dance all contributed to a good night out.

During one such binge, after a 3-0 home win against Queens Park Rangers on December 7, we all ended up at the Madeley College student disco, our regular Saturday haunt.

In my deeply intoxicated state, I literally bumped into a tall, long-haired girl who I was asking for a dance. The momentum of my lumbering challenge brought us both crashing clumsily to the floor. My banal remark of, "I think I'm falling for you!" was surprisingly effective, resulting in sudden merriment, a series of smoochy dance liaisons and a spontaneous crash course in mouth to mouth resuscitation.

I do confess to having an inclination that it would all turn out satisfactorily. She and her two friends, Mandy and Melanie, had been in the pub beforehand. The willowy girl I was now with had been flirtatiously smiling at me when making eye contact, as girls do when showing any level of interest.

The relevance of this encounter would manifest itself 15 years later. Little did I know then that Susan, the Meryl Streep look-a-like I had been dancing with, would become the mother of my child. This momentous event, some considerable time in the future, would be the culmination of our two tempestuous three-year relationships either side of a nine-year break.

Meet the Burls!

In 1974, the Madeley Burls were founded.

Our organisation came about during one of the legendary weekend overtime drinking sessions that were regularly held in the old 'Union' pub in Hartshill, near Stoke. Later, the place traded for more than three decades under the name of 'Gitana's' in honour of Gertie Gitana, a famous theatrical artiste from the Potteries. It is now an Indian restaurant.

Dedicated ale-suppers such as Marty, Doxey, Milky, Stretch, Dodger and Ned were just some of a bunch of hardy drinkers that congregated in Cyril and Cilla's premises throughout the twilight hours.

But it would be Dodger who was to provide the creative influence for our formation. Real name David John O'Brien, Dodger was, and indeed still is, a big consumer of the falling down water. He attained his nickname not from his uncanny likeness to the Artful Dodger, with his mop top hair, but because of his frequent evasion of the police when cornered.

On this occasion, his alcohol intake had led to a distinct rambling and slurring of speech. So when he introduced himself with a prolonged pronunciation, it triggered a communal laughing attack.

"My name's Burrrrl...Dodger Burrrrl from Twickenham Airport!" he announced with a flourish.

It was a randomly manufactured statement that sounded ludicrous, but at the same time amusing through its sheer, unlikely simplicity. The name was a silly one, and, of course, there is no airport at Twickenham. Immediately, it was picked up on within our gathered circle as each one of us took this mispronounced surname to denote our very own admission to this exclusive drunkards' club. I became Ralphy Burrrrl, and the others followed suit.

By the time dawn broke, the whole assembly had been ordained as Burls. It later transpired that Dodger was actually trying to pronounce his assumed title as 'Ball.' But it simply got lost in translation and we plumped for 'Burl' as it was part of the word burlesque and seemed somehow appropriate.

The following night found me drinking in my local, The Bridge Inn at Madeley. During a lull in the conversation, I happened to relate this tale to some of our lads. I could see by their smiling faces that they were intrigued, and so duly proceeded to christen each and every one of them a Burl, adding that the term stood for having a good time, a good drink and behaving in an uninhibited way to make people laugh.

From that inaugural conception, the Madeley Burls were formed and have run an 'Idiot's outing' every year since to the present day. We sing our own Burl songs from a repertoire of more than 20 titles. We always have a fancy dress theme and take in an extensive pub crawl. Our 'dead ants' routine is performed after one long shrill blow of my whistle and involves lying on your back, kicking your legs in the air until the whistle stops.

Besides making other people laugh, it is great therapy and is something to look forward to when the football season is over. We cop as many pubs as is physically possible in our all day sessions, collecting for charity on numerous occasions along the way.

In past years, we've been dressed as diversely as Romans in togas on visits to spa towns, trainspotters on the Keighley Worth Valley steam railway, babes in romper suits and Coronation Street's celebrity charlady Hilda Ogden. We've travelled from Ostend to the Isle of Man, to Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the North East to Margate in the South East. Together, we've covered the country on 35 different trips.

As president of the society, I have, of course, been present on every outing since 1974, closely followed by other devoted Burls. My brother Shaun and Pete 'Weedy' Read, a good mate of 30 years standing, have only missed the odd excursion apiece.

Our honorary member was the one and only AJ Purcell, our very own 'high priest' of the Burl initiation ceremony. This ritual culminated with a full blown kiss, smack on the lips, from the 'Crafty Cowman', so named because of both his many years spent calling the cows in on the farm and his complete lack of dart-throwing ability.

One of his slobbering tongue-rattlers was a bit of an ordeal for the faint-hearted, but that's the idea. You have to be brave to earn the Burl moniker. A pledge of allegiance was made as Jim lightly tapped each shoulder with his moulded plastic rod. At the same time, a reverent and continuous humming sound was emitted from the assembled Burls, which added to the pomp and circumstance to our observance of the following repeated promise:

We are the Burls,

Who all agree,

To fly the flag,

For Madeley.

At its peak, the Madeley Burl family took more than 20 amiable idiots on its trips, but as our outfits grew ever more outrageous, with togas being replaced by all-in-one women's swimsuits and with our 'tarts in stilettos' theme at Margate, when I celebrated drinking in 10,000 pubs, a more macho image reasserted itself.

The Burls were landing themselves in trouble with the locals, and after battles at Blackpool, Bradford and Keighley, numbers diminished. In the last five years, only the faithful few have participated in the traditional Burls outing, these mostly single diehards averaging out at over 50 years of age! A true dedication to idiocy.

Over the decades, we have lost six members who have passed away far too young, none even reaching middle age. Therefore, on our commemorative shield are inscribed the names of Franny McTeer, Mandy Wintle, Garth Rainey, Kev Wainwright, Pete Law and Steve Williams, whose names will always live on. In addition, we lost our inspirational guru Jimmy 'Crafty Cowman' Purcell to cancer in June, 2007. All of the above attended the Burl school of laughs at some stage and enjoyed the experience tremendously.

But – as one of our anthems states – 'the Burl lads will never die, we'll keep the Burl flag flying high,' and that remains our philosophy, not to take life too seriously. I'll drink to that!

Some 'Guys' have all the luck

As for my 'lucky' pumps, there was a distinct reversal of fortune come the turn of the year. Without casting aspersions, it did occur around the time my new girlfriend Susan had started to accompany me to matches.

On January 4, 1975, disaster struck at Turf Moor. Burnley, lying just seven places from the top of the First Division, played Southern League Wimbledon in an FA Cup Third Round tie. Surely the non-League side were just waiting to be conquered? That's what the script said, anyway.

But my cocksure ranting before the game of a '15-love' Wimbledon tennis score would come back to haunt me. Dickie Guy, the Dons' goalkeeper that day, played superbly, saving everything bar the Titanic and emerged unquestionably as the hero of the hour in their 1-0 victory, courtesy of a Mick Mahon goal.

It almost seemed a premeditated act when The Wombles pop group, dressing ridiculously in their furry animal outfits, brought out their 'Wombling Free' single. With the ever-haunting lyrics of "The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we" blaring out on Top Of The Pops as it charted, was there ever a worse time to be a Burnley fan? That song instantaneously became my most hated tune!

It was the first time a non-League side had beaten a First Division club in the FA Cup away from home since the 1920s. In relation to each team's standing at the time, it represents one of the all-time lows in the history of Burnley Football Club and was, I believe, a critical turning point in the club's proud and distinguished existence as our fortunes went generally all downhill from that point on to the turn of the century.

I was inconsolable the following day, as it seemed that all the Sunday newspapers had headlined their back page with reports of this shock result. Team morale had been visibly shaken, and I was beginning to think that the mystical qualities of my lucky pumps were fading.

Nevertheless, I consoled myself with the fact that we finished the season a respectable 10th, and so my training shoe trait continued.

In the summer of 1975, Susan and I went to Blackpool for the weekend with village Liverpool fan Reggie Bradshaw and his then-girlfriend Brenda, who is now his wife of 28 years. Susan had told her parents, who disapproved of our relationship, that she was staying at a girlfriend's home for the night.

On the Saturday night, 16-year-old Sue surrendered her virginity at the £8.50-a-night Sunnyside Hotel. We commemorated the union with a giant-sized block of our favourite Cadbury's chocolate and a bottle of cider, sharing both with Reggie and Brenda.

From that day on, our libidos seemed to accelerate uncontrollably and we couldn't get enough of each other, which certainly proved embarrassing for a train ticket collector as he entered our compartment on one memorably passionate occasion.

Her over-eager greeting to me when I walked into a pub resembled something akin to the ardour reserved for a homecoming sailor. A lingering snog, with tightly clasped arms around my neck, was something I wasn't used to.

She must have really liked me, but just how much, I wondered?

I've always been one to test the depth of feeling and commitment of someone to establish their true nature, and so I set her 10 tasks to complete. These ranged from participating in a variety of unfavoured sporting contests to hitchhiking to wherever the first vehicle that stopped for us was going. Luckily it was Southport, and we had a good day.

Susan was a proud person, so she didn't inform any of her friends about the trials, but to me this was her character examination, and though somewhat reluctant at times, she had passed all of them.

Following the same successful formula as its predecessors, I walked my fourth pair of trainers on to the terraces for a 0-0 draw with Arsenal on the opening day of the 1975-76 season. Susan and I were by now very much an item. Indeed, I had thoughtfully bought her a season ticket for Burnley's home games as a birthday present.

However, victories were scant, my moods black, and my temper as frayed as my lucky pumps, which were turning out to be far from lucky.

I persisted with them in the pitiful hope that our fortunes just had to get better. Besides, I believed that if I relinquished my faith in these pumps, I would personally be breaking the sequence and any hope of First Division survival would be cast away.

Tears on Tyneside

An away win at Everton on the last day of January, 1976, ended a run of five consecutive defeats.

I dared to hope that it was the turning point I had been waiting for, but no. Only three more triumphs were secured until a critical 'must-win' game away to Newcastle United on April 17. Peter Noble, nicknamed 'Uwe' because of his resemblance in appearance and style to the great German footballer Uwe Seeler, scored the deciding goal in a 1-0 victory.

We had grasped a lifeline in our fight for First Division survival, but upon arriving at Newcastle railway station, I was greeted with bad news. Waiting on the platform for their homeward train were Bree, Jock and Pete. Bree's trademark cigarette, always wedged in one corner of his mouth, wasn't troubled by the broad grin that would usually accompany a Burnley victory.

"Birmingham have won, Dave. We're not mathematically down, but we have to win our last two games and score a netful," Bree announced in his broad Lancashire twang.

It was the result we had dreaded and it stopped me dead in my tracks. We had just won at St. James' 'bloody' Park, one of the hardest places to gain points anywhere in the country, and, barring a miracle, it would count for nothing. The realisation of this was just too much for me. I could feel myself filling up. My breathing deepened in anger and frustration at our plight until I could keep it in no more, and I started to weep uncontrollably.

"Dave's crying, he's blarting!" little Pete Hodgson alerted Jock.

"It's bad news, Dave," muttered Jock, feebly attempting to console me by stating the blatantly flaming obvious as I walked away, grief stricken, down the railway platform.

Just then, a tannoy announcement relayed a bomb warning to the waiting passengers, directing us all to an emergency subway exit. Unconcerned by what eventually turned out to be a hoax, I made my own way in my own time across the station concourse until I was the only person on the premises. It didn't matter. At that moment, the imminent threat of being blown to pieces seemed secondary to the prospect of another relegation.

On the Easter Monday, the final nail in the coffin was hammered in by none other than that team, Manchester United. We lost 1-0 at home to a Lou Macari goal and we were down. Not only had this team prevented a return to Europe for Burnley by losing their last game at Stoke in 1974, they had now officially put us down to Division Two. They instantly went to the top of the table of my most disliked clubs, a position that they effortlessly retain to this day.

The principal reason for maintaining this intrinsic disapproval way before it became simply fashionable to do so can be attributed to the unsurpassed smugness and arrogance I feel this club constantly exudes, almost as if nobody else matters!

Furthermore, throughout the years I have both come into contact with and spoken to literally thousands of supporters from virtually every Football League club, and there is an overwhelming consensus that this haughty, superior air that seems to emanate from a large number of the club's personnel and supporters is an affront to all loyal followers of less successful teams.

My attitude, which is widely shared, certainly cannot be put down to jealousy, as is often suggested. Proof of this is my and many others' outlook towards the victorious Liverpool sides of the 1970s and 1980s, who commanded both admiration and respect when winning more silverware than any other club by a distance. Distinctly humble by comparison, their team and fans were always wholly appreciative of inferior sides that had put in a good performance. They gave credit where it was due to visiting players and paying patrons alike, and this at a time when their hooligan element was unquestionably one of the most vicious in the country.

On the day of the Newcastle game, I didn't speak a single word until I got off my bus and walked past the large and picturesque pool in the centre of my village. Tearing off my footwear without undoing any laces, I hurled them far into the watery expanse, walking the rest of the way home in my stocking feet.

"Fucking lucky pumps, my foot!!" I raged, cursing their ineffectiveness.

The remaining truly lucky three pairs are still retained as a reminder of those glory years. Burnley played what remains their last game in the First Division on Saturday, April 24, 1976, losing 3-1 at home to Coventry City, bringing to a sorry end another chapter in the club's history.

In Memoriam

As well as big Bree moving up to the main stand in the sky, it was with deep sadness that I heard of the death of Bree's long time understudy Pete Hodgson, in the summer of 2003. Battling ill health for most of his 49 years, Pete would turn up in horrendous weather giving his last ailing breath to follow the Clarets. My sincere hope is that the spirits of both have been reunited in a higher place.

It would also be remiss of me not to pay the highest tribute to another stalwart acquaintance in the same brave category. Shaun Parker was a blind fan who travelled the length and breadth of the country to follow his team, ably supported by his best friend and carer Paul Smith of the Boundary Clarets supporters' branch. Shaun sadly passed away on May 19, 2004 at only 37 years of age, his last wish being to don his claret shirt with a Burnley scarf wrapped around his shoulders. I ask you. Just how humbling is that?

Bear baiting

In addition to the episodic tales of lucky pumps that seemed to determine destiny, another item of clothing that also became a bearer of good fortune is called, appropriately, The Bear.

It is my winter sheepskin coat found abandoned in a wretched condition during a 1980s house clearance. Rescued from a cruel end by my mate Weedy, I took it in for the price of a couple of pints. Recovered in a pitiful state with badly scuffed arms and multiple deep cuts to the skin, it teetered on the very brink of existence. But after lovingly tending to its lacerations by a combination of leather patches, safety pins and chocolate coloured insulation tape, 'The Bear' still survives today, although its appearances are restricted to periods of Arctic weather when the mercury drops to below five degrees Celsius..

One such occasion, a trip to Fratton Park, Portsmouth, the usual battery of Hampshire police patrolled the away supporters' turnstiles. One quick-to-condemn copper, in an obvious attempt to impress his assembled colleagues with the profundity of his wit, piped up in a blatantly derisory tone as I approached.

"Bloody hell, they must have big moths in Burnley!" he quipped, to the great amusement of his associates.

I didn't take to his condescending manner. Pointing in turn to the deep slashes and mangled arm of the coat, I dispatched my verbal retaliation with a poker-faced expression.

"A Stanley knife attack at Liverpool, and a police dog bite at Tottenham in the Seventies," I replied in a matter-of-fact way.

Now, it's well known that the boys in blue are not always appreciative of smart arse football fan repartee, and the effect of my reply was noticed by my travelling companion for the day 'Tricky' Trevor Slack, who followed the Clarets all round the country from his base in Stockport. Trev was immediately behind me in the queue and had witnessed the exchange closely, and I could hear him chuckling loudly to himself as we proceeded through the turnstiles.

"You should have seen their faces when you came out with that, Dave. Their smiles withered and they all turned white!"

100 per cent Burnley

In the same week in April 1976 that our relegation from the First Division was confirmed, and after an enormous amount of thought and deliberation, I finally decided to make the ultimate commitment to my team. I looked upon it as a personal declaration of my 100 per cent allegiance in their time of need.

After making an appointment with a local Newcastle-under-Lyme solicitors, I began the legal transformation of my identity that would result in the replacement of my family surname of Beeston with that of my adopted football club.

The first compulsory question which was asked by the interviewing female solicitor enquired about my reasons for wanting to change my name. Replying solemnly in an almost nonchalant tone, I informed her that it was "purely and simply because I loved a particular football clubthat's it!"

After a considerable silence, accompanied by a look of complete bewilderment, she seemed to collect her thoughts before uttering: "Okay. Er...that's all right...er...it is a reason, I suppose."

My birth certificate was scrutinised, a few more elementary questions were answered, and then the heated red wax seal of authenticity was stamped upon my declaration. An astonishingly low fee of eight pounds and 75 pence represented payment in full for this life-changing process.

At only 22 years of age, my private world was about to change forever. I had now embarked upon a new life, and from this moment on I would be known as Dave Burnley. Once more, any verbal abuse that was directed towards my club would become personal, for anyone insulting my team was now also insulting my name! Those that hadn't before realised I was serious were thereby left in no doubt.

Besides having to inform my employer as well as both the relevant tax and passport offices, I still had to break the news elsewhere – first to my parents and then to all of my friends.

Our kitchen was located directly by the back door, and as I walked in my dad was preparing that night's tea, as he always did. Testimony to his own particular style of cooking were the thick clouds of steam emanating from the saucepans, accompanied by a chorus of turbulent rattling as the lids danced over the furiously boiling contents. My mum, younger brother Shaun and sisters Susan and Rosemary were expectantly awaiting their meals at the living room table. This seemed as good a time as any to make my announcement.

Now, me and my father hadn't been getting on regarding the football issue. Coming from a family of 13 where money had been at a premium and the upbringing very strict, he just couldn't comprehend why anyone, let alone his son, would want to spend vast amounts of money following an adopted football team around the country.

In fairness to him, neither could most others during this era. It had caused many fights with my dad in the past. On one occasion I'd had to sleep for a week in the van of my village mate Pritch. This state of affairs had been a direct result of going AWOL for two days to take in the second leg of the First Round Texaco Cup tie at East Fife, Scotland. It was hardly a critical game – we had already won the first leg 7-0 – so you could say my dad had a point. But it was my chosen way of life and even if he couldn't understand it, surely he could at least tolerate it?

I was uncertain of what his reaction would be as I took a deep breath before relaying my declaration to him.

"I've changed my name by deed poll today," I said, forthrightly holding up the document in front of him. "My name's Burnley now," I added.

After an initial look of shock, his manner turned to one of resigned acceptance, and with a curt reply of "Oh, right-o" he carried on cooking. For whatever reason, from that day on my father treated me with a great deal more respect than he had hitherto. It seemed that at last my message was finally getting through.

PICTURE CAPTION

A contrived romantic headline covers the story of my name change.

Read all about it!

The problem of telling my friends throughout the Potteries was instantly solved once the 'jungle drums' of gossip had started beating at my work place.

A female member of staff was married to a photographer from the local Evening Sentinel newspaper. Sensing the chance of an off-beat story, she informed her husband. He quickly arrived the same day with his camera and a fellow reporter to run a tale on my name change. Photographed holding a contrived placard upon which I had been obliged to write my new signature, I appeared that same night on the back page.

In those days, The Sentinel had a circulation of more than 100,000 readers, and the article turned out to be a public announcement of great effect. In it I had somewhat contradictorily stated that the decision to change my name in no way reflected a disrespect to my parents and reiterated that it was borne from the love of a club and based solely on my fanaticism. By saying this I had at least added a degree of sensitivity to my actions.

Next up was a telegram from the Weekly News requesting a telephone call, followed by a direct contact from the Daily Mirror newspaper. On enquiring if I had a girlfriend, the latter publication asked for a photo of me and Susan together with a Burnley scarf draped sash-style across my body.

Unbeknown to me as I went upstairs to my bedroom to acquire one of my 36 Burnley scarves for the photo call, the reporter had asked Susan if we had made any plans to get engaged or married. Susan had correctly replied that if Burnley won the First Division, or the Premiership as it's now known, we would indeed get wed. This would also fulfil my long-standing pledge that I would propose to the nearest girl to me in the ground once this dream had been confirmed.

Imagine then, my horror the next day when I saw which particular picture from a portfolio of more than 30 snaps taken was featured on the back page of the Daily Mirror. It showed a picture of Susan with her arm draped around my shoulder, her ring finger pointing out suggestively. The banner headline above broadcast the announcement:

"Why life in the Second Division will stop Susan being a wife!"

The Mirror journalists had instantaneously turned my name-change story into a tale of romance. The story appeared on the Saturday morning of the opening day of the 1976-77 season, when Burnley faced an away fixture at Wolves.

Although my account wasn't the version I was looking for, at least the club had received some positive publicity. This view was seemingly endorsed by the arrival through the post of two VIP match tickets, courtesy of the chairman and directors of Burnley Football Club. The tickets were for the following Tuesday night match against Fulham at Turf Moor. I took Mick Bailey, a fellow Claret from Stoke-on-Trent.

I originally regarded the offer as a thoughtful gesture, but from entering the directors' box to the partaking of the half-time pie and peas refreshments to leaving the ground after a pint, absolutely no-one made an effort to talk to us.

Instead they glanced warily in our direction, regarding us as strangers who had infiltrated their pleasant and cosy camp, chatting only to discuss the reason for our admittance before casting a disbelieving eye. To be sure, I was nothing more than a novelty to them, their expressions betraying their thoughts - that they regarded me as just another crank.

At least I got a better reception from the players, who I had been invited to meet in the dressing room as they donned their new 'V for victory' rugby style home shirts for the first time. They were wary but polite, and I think they were more dumbstruck than me, and were probably wondering who in their right mind would consider such a drastic step to endorse their football team.

# 9. THAT MOURNING AFTER FEELING: 1975-1978

Sometimes after a match when the result doesn't go your team's way, all you want is complete peace and quiet; a period to yourself for gathering thoughts and to reflect upon the club's predicament without unnecessary outside interference from the unconverted.

PICTURE CAPTION

"Y'al Rate, Lads: The looks of incredulity say it all as I'm invited into the players' dressing room before the home game against Fulham on August 24, 1976, which we won 3-1

Dark days

Besides 'The Bear', my 33-piece suit and lucky pumps, my other football related attire was an altogether more formal affair worn for a completely different purpose – as an expression of grief.

It consisted of a jacket, trousers, shirt and tie, all in funereal black. A bowler hat obtained from a Blackpool gift shop completed the outfit. This was only made of thick cardboard and the band bearing the 'Kiss me quick, squeeze me slowly' slogan was, of course, fittingly removed. After Burnley's nightmare 1-0 defeat to then Southern League Wimbledon at home in the FA Cup Third Round on January 4, 1975, it immediately became appropriate dress.

This was my mourning suit. It was making a statement, a reflection of how gravely I regarded this absurdity, almost like a bereavement. From that date on, and with Burnley's gradual demise, it became a regular reminder of the club's failings. I was expected to wear it, and did, from the mid-to-late Seventies until eventually leaving the Co-op in 1978.

As previously stated, our calamitous exit from the FA Cup signalled a sharp decline in the fortunes of Burnley Football Club over the subsequent 25 years.

Only a further 10 League games were won in the next 12 months, inevitably resulting in relegation to the old Division Two the following season. Worst of all, my gut feeling told me it would be a long time before we'd return - if at all!

As a consequence, I found it increasingly difficult to enjoy life, to make conversation or fully concentrate. Trying to have fun under these circumstances was just that - trying. My mind was singularly focused on the future welfare of the Clarets.

In just two years, from when the team was at its peak, I'd gone from being the ever-cheerful, devil-may-care, life and soul of the party to a downcast, disheartened loner. Each defeat felt like a knife to the heart, and there were many of them. Such was the effect of abject football failure.

I let myself go, losing all pride in my appearance. My hair grew long and scraggy, I cultivated a full, wispy beard and to console myself I began to drink heavily. I'd have four or five pints in my dinner hour, then out on the town straight from work at 5.30 pm till the last bus home or, on certain nights, on to a club. An assured hangover and constant fatigue were the daily end products of a regular and genuine weekly intake of around 60 pints of beer.

Add to this my muddied work clothes, an upshot of my six-mile cycle ride to the office each day, and it was inconceivable that I should be having direct contact with the public. I was, after all, representing a prestigious, high-profile organisation in my capacity as credit control clerk at the regional headquarters of the Co-operative Society. I was in a self-inflicted mess – an unshaven, dishevelled, long-haired drunk.

I knew it, but whilst my football world was crumbling around me, I simply couldn't care less.

PICTURE CAPTION

Leaving the Co-op. My colleagues give me a decent send-off when I eventually depart the Co-op in 1978

Carry on 'copping'

By now I knew that I was in a downward spiral of self-destruction. My demeanour needed addressing as a matter of urgency.

In the December of 1975, I'd once again been out drinking every night, over-indulging in the Christmas spirit. My philosophy at the time was "If you haven't got a friend in the world, you always had a friend in a pint pot!"

I'd also run into trouble on too many occasions by standing my corner in arguments and fights with local 'Stokies' who seemed to find great pleasure in taking the mickey out of Burnley's plight. I always took exception to this, as in my eyes, no-one had a right to insult my team.

The people who knew me had been made aware that I gave each aggressor three chances before taking direct action to defend my club's honour. However, some would play up to this dispensation quota by testing its credibility, resulting in needless confrontation. I knew it was an absolute necessity to get away from these gratuitous clashes. I was seeing the same old faces in the same old places at the same old times. It had to change.

Not wanting to give up drinking now that I'd discovered its immense social value, I realised that what I needed was to merely temper my habits.

After considering my options, I came up with the idea of visiting different pubs in the six towns of Stoke-on-Trent that made up the Potteries region, these being Burslem, Stoke, Hanley, Tunstall, Longton and Fenton. In doing so I would still have a pint of my favourite bitter, but to slow down the intake I would at the same time write a comprehensive description of the hostelry, giving my own personal mark out of 10 for both the beer and the premises. My marks and comments would then be recorded in an index book and filed in alphabetical order according to location.

Making it my New Year's Resolution, the survey began on January 1, 1976 and continues to this day.

Because of my continuous travelling to watch Burnley play, this survey was extended from its original Potteries base to include all publicly licensed premises nationwide. I termed it 'pub-copping.' Each time I 'copped' or ticked off a new hostelry, it was added to my self-styled 'Alehouse Almanac.'

As a mere supporter, pub copping has turned out to be a sort of personal, working class equivalent of a structural rehabilitation clinic or a 'drying-out' centre into which today's pampered professional footballers all too readily admit themselves. The difference was that instead of facing complete abstinence from the 'sauce,' I had successfully established a much more controlled form of drinking.

Respect

Although pub copping eventually enabled me to get a grip of my drinking, things were not at all harmonious in my place of work, where consternation at my appearance was forthcoming from management and staff alike.

Eventually I was called into the Assistant Manager's office.

I've never responded positively to chastisement, much preferring the philosophy of constructive criticism. Even at grammar school our headmaster, The Pecker, would bark at me to "Get your hair cut, boy!" in his authoritative manner as I left for home via the quadrangle exit where he invariably lurked. I would initially have to oblige after such an order, as an appearance was always expected the very next day in his study. However, it would only stiffen my resolve to grow it again to the limit until the next time he pounced.

The following encounter with Stuart Allen, who was that aforementioned assistant manager at the Co-op, represented a parallel situation, and the outcome would be totally dependent on his approach. Such a scenario just wouldn't happen today.

I could tell by his concerned expression that he knew my grief was genuine and he realised that I allowed my football feelings to govern my behaviour to extremes. Diplomatically, he expressed his sorrow at Burnley's current plight and wished for better times in the future. He then sensitively pointed out the problem with my appearance.

According to Mr Allen, both the staff and members of the public were continually querying who had died when viewing my all-black ensemble, and some were even finding it offensive. He constantly found himself explaining that there had been no fatality and I was wearing it as a mark of respect because my football team had lost. He went on to say that as long as my outfit was presentable he had no problem with that, but could I just trim down my beard a little and perhaps take an inch off the hair as it reflected badly on the company?

He was right, of course, and because of his considerate approach, as a token gesture I obliged by cutting down about half an inch of the growth, as well as my split ends, myself with a pair of household scissors. Although my handiwork was a little uneven, it was apparent that an effort had been made.

Somewhat surprisingly, Mr Allen greeted me the following morning with an appreciative, "Thanks Dave, that's much better." It was an object lesson in man management - to make your point whilst being mindful of an individual's state of mind, however idiosyncratic.

Could you imagine such compassion in today's highly pressurised working environment? I doubt it. Far more likely that my P45 would be in the next post.

Do not disturb

Although most of the women folk couldn't comprehend my demeanour, generally they let me stew under my own cloud of melancholy. They knew I'd now taken a vow of silence for the first few days of the week following a defeat, a silence which continued uninterrupted if we had also lost a midweek game.

Perhaps there is a medical term for this condition, or it might have been just plain heartbreak. I prefer to call it a love for something that you hold dear, but whatever it was it hurt acutely. I didn't communicate willingly and certainly wouldn't discuss football openly under such dire circumstances.

Yet there was one other in the office more sympathetic than the rest to my self-imposed social isolation. He was the only other male in the office. Rob Cocker was his name, or 'Marty' to his friends due to his likeness to the long-deceased comedian Marty Feldman, he of the wild frizzy hair and large bulging eyes.

A fervent fan of the local team Stoke City, he too was equally committed. When both our teams had lost, the atmosphere in the workplace was distinctly muted, with only the clattering of the manually operated Comptometer machines breaking the silence. This was how we both wanted it. We shared a simple desire to get on with our work in peace whilst gradually going through the grieving process until the next game.

However, there's always one militant, a person who can't or won't even attempt to understand how profoundly a loss of status can affect the football zealot, one who shows no patience or sympathy for anything football related and dismisses such conduct as ridiculous.

This 'one' was Jean Williams, an assistant from the fancy goods department of the store. During a particular canteen break, she made sure I overheard her personal advice, which broke the commiserating wall of silence within.

"I don't know why he just doesn't get it over with once and for all!"

The obvious suggestion was that I should take my own life if I really felt so bad about Burnley's predicament. The more compassionate members of staff quickly hushed her down, but they needn't have worried.

No matter how desperate my feelings, I would never consider such a terminal action. My own perceived role in life was to physically follow my club to every game everywhere for as long as possible. I could hardly do that if I wasn't around.

Besides, I wouldn't have given Jean the satisfaction. Whether she meant it or not, I was hurt by her outburst and simmered inside, furious at her intimidation. Although I have amicably spoken to her since, her barbed comments will never be forgotten.

A triple blow

In December 1977, events finally came to a head with regard to my relationship with Susan.

The poor results continued and as a consequence so did my black moods. Yet again, Burnley were involved in a battle against relegation, only this time it was at the bottom of the old Division Two, today's Championship. By Christmas we were several points adrift with seemingly little hope of redemption. Adding to my problems was the rumour that my place of work would be closing down in the forthcoming year.

Susan's employers, British Gas, were due to hold their annual festive dance at a top venue in the city. It was regarded as her work's social highlight of the year and each employee's partner was expected to attend. I certainly didn't feel in any frame of mind to contribute to any conversation in view of Burnley's insecure League position, let alone indulge in meaningless small talk.

As the date of the function approached, it became an increasing bone of contention. In a final attempt to get out of it, I stubbornly insisted that if I did make an appearance it would be conditional on me wearing my 33-piece denim suit - as a mark of respect to Burnley's plight.

Naturally enough, Susan wasn't amused by this demonstration of sartorial rebellion. It would be deeply humiliating for her to be seen at this important event with such a reprobate in rags.

In the end, after numerous heated debates about the need for my attendance, I didn't go. In defiance, Susan did and duly ended up in the arms of an eligible gas fitter.

It was inevitable, and under the circumstances the best thing for both of us. Contrasting with my promise of marriage if Burnley became League Champions, I had already informed her that I could not be held responsible for the outcome of our union if Burnley dropped another division. In my heart of hearts, I didn't want our courtship to continue, and I regarded it as a fateful outcome.

So ended my first long-term relationship, my conclusion being that it was easy to accept someone in the good times, but infinitely harder to care for them in the bad times. Had I been in love? I defined love as a total commitment to someone or something in whatever context. I couldn't offer this to Susan. So no, I had not.

As it happened, in the New Year Burnley reversed the form book after signing Steve Kindon from Wolves. Kindon ended up as leading scorer and Burnley gradually climbed away from the relegation zone, finishing the season in a mid-table position.

However, this was not before, out of drink-fuelled curiosity one night I had phoned the local branch of The Samaritans to unburden myself.

The conversation went as follows.

"Hello is that The Samaritans?"

"Yes. What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, I've lost my girlfriend, I'm about to lose my job and my football team is about to be relegated."

After a long pause and a deep sigh came the reply: "Well, things seem pretty bad, but they will get better, I promise you."

This consoling counsellor went on to lend a listening ear for a good few minutes. When I left the phone box I couldn't help but feel a pair of male eyes were following my every step. To this day, I'm sure that the call had been purposely monitored, then traced, with a resulting guardian despatched to assess my condition. He needn't have worried. I was only being inquisitive of the approach of the Samaritans to such a situation.

From then on though, I always made a donation to their street collectors as a token of my gratitude for their understanding, and still do to this day. Set up in 1953, the year in which I was born, this cherished organisation does make a point of saying that their selfless volunteers are there to speak to anyone going through an emotionally testing time. And I was certainly doing that!

In the May of 1978, after yet another relegation battle, staved off this time primarily by a resurgent Peter Noble, I left the Co-op after almost exactly seven years of employment with them.

Castle House, our headquarters, was to be relocated to Burslem, a 10 mile cycle ride from my house. It was a long way, so instead, I took the chance to withdraw my £600 accumulated superannuation pension and booked a six-week camping trip across the USA with a company called 'Trek America.'

My flight cost me £159 return plus £3 departure tax and an additional £4 for hot meals. I flew on the innovative but short-lived Freddie Laker Skytrain. One of only two other 'Brits' on this holiday was Garry Poole Jnr from Hillsborough, Sheffield. He went on to become a good friend and still watches the Clarets when they play near South Yorkshire. A couple of Aussies on the adventure were husband-and-wife team Dave and Liz Hind, who are still regularly informed of Burnley's progress, or lack of it!

The 10,000-mile journey around America was great therapy. I'd now forgotten the terrible last few months and was eagerly awaiting the next episode of Burnley Football Club.

# 10. OVER LAND AND SEA

After each season in which I attend every match, my mind, body, and most certainly my wallet are all ready for a break from football. That is, of course, until the summer's friendlies are arranged.

PICTURE CAPTION

International Debut: Disembarking the plane before my big game against the Magalluf waiters!

It's said that the last time Burnley FC played abroad for a European trophy, our fans were banned for slashing the sails of the ship and throwing the cannonballs overboard.

Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it's true that it wasn't recent, April 4, 1967 in fact, when Burnley drew 1-1 at Eintracht Frankfurt in the Inter-City Fairs Cup.

At 13 and a half years of age, that fixture was out of the question for me. And by the time I was older, wiser and relatively better off, I had to content myself with non-competitive excursions to the Continent. The following was my first memorable venture.

Pre-season tour no.1: Oslo/Bergen, 1974

Norway to behave

Close season friendlies have always formed a less than appetising football aperitif. Regarded as only experimental warm-up games by clubs nationwide, these half paced encounters are customarily treated as little more than this.

Nevertheless, to the devotee they represent necessary trips which often demand careful and thorough planning. They also offer a chance to renew acquaintance with your fellow supporters in readiness for another campaign, as well as the opportunity to cast an early critical eye over new squad members in the usually forlorn hope that the club has unearthed a star for the future. In addition, they provide an opportunity to venture upon virgin territory to experience new grounds, places and bars that would not normally be frequented.

During the 1970's and 80's, it became increasingly apparent that so-called 'friendly' matches against local rivals represented a contradiction in terms. Threats of violence both inside and outside the grounds were a common occurrence thanks to the prevalent mob culture. This understandably led to a gradual phasing out of high-risk clashes, these eventually being replaced by less confrontational openers, sometimes in faraway lands.

I have attended more than 100 pre, mid or post season friendlies in the UK, and visits to the Isle of Man, Isle of Wight and Northern Ireland have been negotiated without too many problems. These locations were easily accessible from the mainland, even when late notice was given.

Trips to foreign shores, however, have been a far more difficult proposition.

In 1976, Burnley had just been relegated from the old Division One when an unbefitting tour to Bermuda had been scheduled, this only being made public knowledge two weeks before the May departure.

After thinking long and hard I decided to go, and put down a deposit for the cheapest route, which happened to be via America. Just two days before take-off the travel agent had found out that I needed a visa for the USA. It was apparently necessary because although my economy fare meant that the only time I would be in the US would be when I had to change planes at New York, this was interpreted as technically entering the country. With no time to deal with the bureaucracy of obtaining a visa, I had to abort this particular sojourn. Perhaps it was for the best, as, after paying for my air passage, I would have had little more than £100 available to cover both accommodation and spending money in Bermuda, which was then, and still is, a very expensive island.

But two years previously, in the summer of 1974, a memorable trip had been successfully completed when myself and my village drinking partner, Pritch, had hitchhiked to Norway to watch Burnley on a pre-season tour.

That particular year they had finished sixth in the old First Division, an achievement that had led our manager to repeat his somewhat audacious public prophecy to the nation's media that Burnley would be the 'Team of the Seventies'. His bold statement, initially made in 1970, had made the news in Europe as well as England, and we would even be reminded of this forecast by the Norwegian fans.

Let the train take the strain

With our destination being Oslo, we travelled initially by ferry from Dover to Calais. It then took us three days to make the Swedish city of Gothenburg. We were behind schedule after a blank 'no lift' day in Cologne, central Germany, a busy crossroads for continental hitchers to Northern Europe.

As the day of the game was rapidly approaching, it became increasingly obvious that a more instant form of transport was required, such as the railway.

Unfortunately for us, we just happened to be in the most expensive country in Europe, making the extortionate fare well out of our financial reach. We were left with no other option. If we wanted to make that match in Oslo, we were going to have to 'jump' the train.

Taking it turns, one of us would hide in the high-stacked luggage department located at one end of a central carriage while the other would keep a lookout in both directions for the 'clippy.'

There were numerous ticket inspections during the long journey north. We had one very close call when both officials set off from opposite ends of the train to rendezvous near the middle. At the time we were performing our very own version of the changing of the guard. Like startled rats we dashed to reach our refuge, scurrying to submerge ourselves under the personal possessions of our fellow passengers. The two guards met and stopped to chat, their legs within touching distance of where we were holed up. Peeping, pillbox fashion, from under a mound of baggage, we stayed hidden until the next station, where more passengers' belongings were painfully piled onto our heads.

The Oslo train terminus was finally achieved and we clawed our way through the debris of our hideaway, grabbing our own property in the process. A group of teenage girls looked on, slightly disturbed at our sudden emergence from the storage area. I reassured them by instinctively placing my index finger to my lips, an accompanying "Shhh" preventing any further alarm.

After catching the tram to the proposed ground, on arrival we found that the game had been switched to a stadium on the other side of the city. We finally made it to the Valerengen complex just one hour before kick-off.

About a dozen diehard regulars had made the long trip. Amongst them was Danny West from Romford, who the following year would help to found the London Clarets supporters club. Also present were Pete Hodgson and the legendary big Brian Wren, who both hailed from Littleborough, near Rochdale. Another Brian was present, Brian Lucas, or 'Dustbin' to his friends, who also participated in the curious and demanding hobby of world plane-spotting.

But standing out amongst them all, and instantly identifiable in his trademark denim outfit, was Alan Moores, the 'one man crowd' from Summerseat, near Bury. Alan had earned his nickname after performing many loud and tuneless solo terrace chants in an effort to encourage the team. Although his singing was questionable his loyalty wasn't, and he was another totally committed to the Burnley cause. He too had hitched it over, and like us had nowhere to stay, so naturally we asked him to join us.

A typically uninspiring match produced a 2-0 victory for Burnley and our thoughts soon turned to the reality of another night on the streets.

'Ave you got a light boy?

I had roughed it with Alan the previous summer. We'd roomed together on a compartmental train in the railway sidings at Penzance after Burnley had played a friendly in Cornwall.

Never one to let the game spoil a good day out, his 'dossing' qualities always stood up to scrutiny. That night we drank a few lagers, and it was literally just a few. With half a litre costing more than the equivalent of £2 even in those day, 'Probably the Best Lager in the World' was also probably one of the most expensive, and represented an extravagant luxury.

Our destitute threesome, sleeping bags in tow, headed down to the goods yard in the docks, hoping to obtain shelter for the night. Row upon row of large steel container vessels were neatly laid out, awaiting their export merchandise for a forthcoming sea conveyance. For tonight at least, we were determined that one of them would hold a human cargo. However, after numerous attempts at gaining admittance, it seemed that all our potential sea-view chalets were firmly secured.

However, our persistence was finally rewarded when we discovered one with its locking mechanism sheared off. Quietly opening the heavy swing-to door, we gingerly entered the pitch-black darkness and stepped into the unknown. Feeling our way around to claim our places and eager to get our heads down after a tiring day, the sleeping bags were unfurled.

Pritch, who was laying down to my right, seemed to be making loud, exaggerated snoring sounds in a mock laboured fashion, presumably to express his fatigue. Although it was out of character for Pritch to impersonate anything, I acknowledged his mimicry.

"That's just the way I feel, youth. I won't take much rocking tonight either," letting out a noisy yawn of agreement.

Suddenly, pandemonium broke out.

A startled female utterance gave way to an angry and distinctly male voice. Realisation dawned. The snoring reverberations had not emanated from Pritch. We had company. And as uninvited guests it was obvious that these occupants, whoever they were, weren't going to make us welcome at two o'clock in the morning.

"Pritch! Find the matches, quick!" I shouted urgently.

We had brought a box of matches with us solely to ignite the Calor Gas stove that we used for cooking, but we desperately needed them now to provide illumination. With neither party able to see an inch in front of them the immediate danger was that the original incumbents, feeling threatened, would resort to a rash course of action. They were inhabiting the far end of the container, and in effect cornered.

As Pritch fumbled for the matches, frantically feeling his way through the holdall, I called out "English!" Then, after a short pause, "...friends!" in an effort to reassure a by now very agitated, yelling occupant. The blackness was total, the atmosphere menacing. A rapid response was vital.

In the meantime, Alan had located his cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, directing the light towards the voices in the dark, his thumb firmly pressed on the mechanism to ensure a continuous flame.

We gazed at the face of a wild-eyed, unshaven character defensively brandishing a knife. Cowering behind him, a pale faced, bleach blonde young waif, probably only half his age, looked back at us in the eerie half-light. The pair looked to be an illicit liaison, but that was none of our business. My concern was the present state of mind of this burly, severely scarred individual who had been abruptly roused from his heavily intoxicated haze.

You could almost touch the tension as I gesticulated to him, my arms waving downwards, beckoning him to calm down. I repeated the only mix of words that came to mind.

"England, Anglais, Angleterre....amigos!" I spoke in my best gibberish, hoping that one of my inarticulate pronunciations would register. There was an uneasy impasse as both perplexed factions sized each other up, awaiting the next move. It was left to Pritch to break the deadlock.

"Ere y'are Ralph, there's the matches you asked me for," he whispered.

I looked at him in disbelief. There I was, desperately trying to defuse the most explosive situation since the final episode of Danger UXB, and Pritch had merrily carried on with single-minded disregard, ferreting around in his holdall even when Alan had provided the light I had requested.

Fortunately, our foreign friends didn't panic when Pritch emerged triumphant from his search. In fact, the obvious mix-up triggered a positive response from our co-hosts.

Aah, Stor Britannia!" declared the girl, simultaneously tapping the shoulder of her companion and perhaps recognising the unintentional Monty Python-style capers, and the mood eased. That seemed good enough.

"Yes, Britannia, Great Britain," I nodded, offering my hand cautiously.

The man slowly put away his knife and shook hands with us all enthusiastically, as did his mistress. Half-smiling to each other, they settled down together.

By now totally exhausted after this drama, we tried uneasily to do the same. Pritch had drawn the short straw, he ended up nearest to Olaf, or whoever he had introduced himself as. They departed before us, but not before Olaf had left his calling card. A large pile of vomit lay next to Pritch's head.

An appointment with Oslo's Fred Scuttle

After our hazardous encounter down at the docks a covered, albeit open-sided, bandstand in the centre of an Oslo park represented a much more welcome dwelling for a few nights.

Pete and Bree paid us a visit every mid-morning after smuggling us out a few buttered bread rolls from the breakfast table of their nearby hotel. Alan eventually left for home, along with a few others, their funds exhausted. So were ours, but we were determined to see the final match in the west coast fishing port of Bergen. We even resorted to begging in the park to raise funds for nourishment.

Knowing that we still had to get home, we made the decision, whilst still in the capital, to locate the British Embassy for some financial advice. We were called into the vice-consul's office, a room extolling an air of superiority with its plush furnishings reflecting the high rank of its occupant.

The vice-consul had a full face, three chins and wore jam jar glasses. Along with his high-pitched voice, he was a dead ringer for Fred Scuttle, the buffoon-like character from The Benny Hill Show. We did, however, endeavour to preserve a solemnity in keeping with our plight. Until, that is, he phoned the Home Office to check our personal details.

His 'official' voice was an octave higher still. Pritch and I looked towards the floor in an attempt to restrain our amusement at his squeaky ranting. Then, without pausing, he suddenly burst into the most outlandish, garbled Scandinavian twang you could ever hear.

That did it. Combined with his animated mannerisms, it was too much. Facing each other, tears streaming down our cheeks, we roared with laughter in a totally spontaneous and uncontrolled state. To his eternal credit, he put the phone down calmly and responded, undeterred by our outburst.

"I see that my Norwegian accent amuses you," he said. "It is a very hard language to master, you know."

We nodded swiftly in complete ignorance. This eccentric but extremely helpful civil servant then went on to organise a monetary transfer for both of us, the confirmation being faxed over to the embassy and ready for withdrawal the very next day.

Our newly acquired spending power enabled us to catch the train to Bergen legitimately. Another 2-0 victory, this time over FC Brann, was again a very tame affair.

Then with our last Norwegian krone we booked a one-way ticket to Newcastle-upon-Tyne on the night ferry. On the boat we were interviewed by Peter Higgs, the Burnley Express reporter, who was interested in a story of our trip. A similar article appeared soon after in our local newspaper, the Stoke Evening Sentinel, with accompanying photographs, and this, being prior to the previously described name change story, was the first time I had appeared in print regarding a football-related tale.

On the ferry, we once again found ourselves virtually penniless, so we were more concerned about obtaining sustenance than recognition. Our solution to this dilemma was to eat the leftover steaks from the restaurant tables.

After a 24 hour cruise, we berthed in Tyneside, then an eight hour hitch on the Sunday afternoon got us home for 3am.

I had a precious four hour sleep in my first bed for a fortnight, before rising once more to take my first step on the treadmill to work. Still nursing itchy ant bites from sleeping out, physically shattered and totally out of sorts, I stared into space contemplating only one thought – "I could do with a holiday!"

In Memoriam

Alan Moores, alias the 'one man crowd,' was a central character to this tale and a good friend. He sadly passed on to the upper terraces in the sky where he's still probably singing his solo songs.

Cruelly the victim of a brain tumour, Alan barely reached his mid-forties. I console myself with the sure knowledge that he has now found a more peaceful resting place than the container wagon on Oslo docks!

Also on the tour was Brian 'Dustbin' Lucas, one of my first associates on the Longside terrace in the Sixties. He passed away in 2007 aged just 59.

Pre-season tour no.2: Majorca, 1979

This Week I'm Off To Sunny Spain

It was May 13, 1979, two days after watching Burnley lose 2-0 at Selhurst Park in their penultimate fixture of the season, a result which saw Crystal Palace promoted to the First Division in front of an amazing 52,000 lock-out on a Friday night.

The phone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard a familiar broad Lancashire dialect.

"Dave! Do you know Burnley are playing a match in Majorca next week? They're flying out on Thursday and staying in Magalluf. A game against a local side is going to be arranged once they get over there. According to the Evening Telegraph, it'll take place midweek."

That was the short telephone brief I received from 'Nuzzler,' real name Pete Marsden, from the Rose Grove area of Burnley, who always had his finger on the pulse of proceedings. I'd asked him to keep me informed of just such an occurrence of late fixture notification by the club. Nuzzler also went to every competitive game and most friendlies, but he wasn't going to this one.

Inca inconvenience

Only two years previously, I had travelled to Majorca to see Burnley draw 3-3 against a Real Majorca FC XI in their impressive stadium in Palma.

At least on that occasion I'd been given a couple of weeks' notice to prepare for the trip. I had also rang the club for more details and made protestations about the lack of information made available to the public for such friendlies, declaring irately, "Do you think no-one goes to these matches?"

In truth, I was the only Burnley fan in a crowd of no more than 50 then, and it would probably be the same this time around as well. My annoyance was more to do with the fact that the handlers of these telephone enquiries regularly didn't know or, even worse for that matter, didn't care about dispensing necessary information for the football fan. In the past I had either been given no details at all, or wrong information, this after waiting to get through for anything up to two hours.

It wasn't good enough, so this time I decided to go to the top and asked to speak to our then manager, the now-deceased Harry Potts.

To me, he was Burnley's greatest ever boss. At the helm throughout the Sixties, he had guided the club to the First Division Championship, the European Cup Quarter-Finals, a 1962 FA Cup Final against Spurs and a place in the European Fairs Cup. He was simply the top man.

To my utter surprise, the secretary put me through. An affable Potts seemed genuinely pleased that someone was taking the trouble to go over to the Balearics to watch them play a mere friendly. He reiterated Nuzzler's message that all the arrangements for the proposed match were being made over there. He added that they were staying at the 'Hotel Barbados' in Magalluf, if I cared to call by.

The task, then, was clear – the solution not so. It was a Sunday, and I would somehow have to get a week's holiday from work, book a flight for the following weekend and find enough money to cover it all, this after the previous 10 months of travelling to games had all but exhausted my limited resources once again.

A week's leave was hastily arranged on the Monday morning. I was given the go ahead by the cleansing manager at the local council yard where I had a temporary job as a refuse collector and road sweeper. Explaining that a surprise holiday to commemorate a romantic anniversary had already been booked by a fictitious girlfriend, I left the man in charge with little choice.

After work, I paid a visit to the travel agent where an economy £49 seven-day return flight to Palma, due to depart the following Saturday, was secured through a company called OSL.

As a condition of transit, the travel agent had to state their accommodation for the traveller, which was offered as part of the deal, this information having to be written on the airline ticket. The declared hotel was usually a basic, no-star shelter that could be located anywhere, and it was the sole responsibility of the passenger to find it upon arrival.

In practice, only the desperate took up this routine offer, as it was the cut-price flight that provided the real attraction. However, I was that desperate man. I could only muster up just £20 spending money such was the haste of the approaching foray. Even worse, this amount had to be registered in writing at the back of your passport, a mandatory practice in those days to ensure the tourist had enough funds to support their stay abroad.

Upon arrival in Palma, I was promptly pulled to one side by one of the passport control officers who wanted to ascertain just how this meagre amount would last the duration of my trip. I pointed to the hostel address stated on my ticket. It was located at a small town called Inca.

He informed me that my destination was 20 miles inland with only one bus a week there and back. He helpfully added that an equivalent taxi ride would cost me £20, all my spending money!

On hearing this I was forced to quickly change my story, nonchalantly explaining that I could stay at a friend's apartment in Arenal with all my meals provided. The official was either not doing his job properly or he simply didn't care less, as fortunately for me he accepted my tale without a Spanish inquisition.

I objected strongly about the location of my allocated hostel to the OSL Spanish representative waiting on the other side of the barrier. I firstly asked, then demanded to be accommodated somewhere closer to Palma, my increasing anger being fuelled by the knowledge that I barely had enough resources to survive with free lodgings, let alone without. My impassioned pleas fell on deaf ears. With the standard continental shrug of the shoulders, he replied in a typically condescending manner.

"It is entirely up to you, Senõr. We have offered you this place to stay and booked it in your name. There is no alternative. If you know of somewhere better, as you suggested to the passport officer, then please feel free to go there."

"Right, I will!" I fumed, storming off to the domestic bus stop, not wanting to give him the personal satisfaction of calling my bluff over the accommodation issue.

Davey's on the road again

In truth, my first three nights were spent in a disused aerodrome that I had spotted from the airport bus as I travelled towards Palma. Located out in the wilds I thought that no one would bother me there, and I now knew that there was a regular bus service into town for a night out.

Besides, I had stocked up with a couple of half bottles of spirit, Captain Morgan, my favourite dark rum, and Smirnoff vodka, to ensure at least two good drinking sessions.

An old passenger plane was still located on the runway, and it now lamentably functioned as a novel locals' discotheque, staying open for business until well after 2am. So there I lay pitifully trying to doze off to the mixed strains of The Rolling Stones and the usual upbeat Spanish dance tunes, made inestimably worse by an accompaniment of raucous hand claps.

My intermittent snatches of slumber were also being constantly disturbed by the chirping sounds of the ubiquitous crickets. I had my claret and blue bob hat firmly pressed over my head to maximise heat retention, and a Union Jack with 'Burnley FC, S-O-T" (the S-O-T standing for Stoke-on-Trent) emblazoned across it, originally appropriated from the Queen's 1977 Jubilee celebrations, acted as my blanket. I snuggled down deep into my claret-coloured sleeping bag in a determined effort to let my trusty nocturnal accessory serve the purpose that its name suggested.

I awoke early on the Sunday morning, more by necessity than choice, as the rising sun soon made the aerodrome uncomfortably hot.

I traipsed across the sandy, bone hard football pitch situated nearby. Minimalist in the extreme as a football facility, it retained a facing set of warped goalposts without netting, and was barely marked out. Because of its rudimentary standard I concluded that in all probability it was used by a junior team. Yet now it was a temporary home, so I affectionately and appropriately termed my residence 'The Dust Bowl.'

After catching the bus to Magalluf and locating the Hotel Barbados, I was informed by the hotel manager that the Burnley team wasn't staying there. A little bewildered by this after Harry Potts' assurance, I wandered along the resort's front, eyeing up the pavement cafes in the hope of sighting a recognisable face.

I did, the reflective dome of our very own Peter Noble shone out distinctively. He and our centre forward Paul Fletcher were late-breakfasting around a patio table.

"Alreyt lads," I cheerily greeted them, and went on to ask them when the match was going to be played.

"It hasn't been arranged yet," 'Fletch' replied, "but if you bring your boots you'll probably get a game!"

I laughed accordingly at his flippant remark, and after giving me the address of the new hotel at which the team was staying, they suggested that I call there on Tuesday for more information on their opponents.

Fletch also informed me that they had changed hotels on arrival as the facilities at the original were not of the required standard. "Alright for some," I thought, but at least good old Harry was exonerated.

They asked me if I was living out of the suitcase I was forced to carry around with me for safe keeping. "That's right," I nodded, and bid them farewell. It was a rarely seen claret-coloured case, resplendent with two narrow vertical cream stripes running down the sides. It had been left outside by a local household with the rest of their rubbish, and as their designated bin man I laid claim to it accordingly.

Working on the refuse wagon was my first regular job since leaving the office, a radical change in occupation though one not without its perks. Mind you, perks become a compulsion for some. One bloke that worked at the Newcastle-under-Lyme depot had been given the name 'Aladdin,' as his council house resembled this character's famous cave. Hundreds of collectables adorned his walls, all accumulated during the years of his employment on the bins.

Tuesday came, and I met Terry Pashley, Burnley's solidly built left-back, strolling outside the team's Cala Mayor hotel. He informed me that they had been having trouble getting a side to play them, adding that something should have been sorted towards the end of the week.

Room for one, sir?

I caught the bus back to Palma to have a look around the town and to take a few photos.

As I walked along one street, I sighted a backpacker in front of me. I could see a little Union Jack sewn upon his rucksack, which proudly denoted his nationality and identified him as a traveller. Judging by his appearance, I got the distinct impression that he too had been roughing it.

"How are yer, mate, had a good trip?" I asked. This, of course, was only a courteous introductory inquiry to pre-empt my next question.

"Where have you been staying?"

He told me, as I had suspected, that for most of the time he had been sleeping rough, although on this, his last day before flying home, he reckoned that he had chanced upon a burnt-out hotel in the centre of town that was still habitable. Furthermore, there were open doors to the premises which had more than 30 bedrooms still reasonably intact.

"Just my luck!" he grumbled. "I find free digs on my last day after dossing out for a week!"

I sympathised accordingly, before hurriedly asking directions to this potential Ritz. Upon arrival, to my relief I found that his information was accurate.

The scorched premises of the 'Hotel Eden Roc' were surprisingly unlocked, although there were signs of a forced entry. Glass double doors with a curtained surround gained me a swift access, as a retaining steel rod to prevent such a trespass had been knocked to the floor. Fortunately for me this was easily replaced once inside, offering me at least some level of security.

Facing me was the remains of the bar. Shattered glass and broken fittings were strewn over both the counter and the floor.

Many empty beer bottles lay discarded on the ground, but more interestingly I happened upon a dozen that still had their contents intact. They nestled in what had been a used as a glass chill cabinet behind the serving counter, their shiny metal tops still gleaming. With one glance at the printed gold labels, I immediately registered them as belonging to the Danish Tuborg brewery. Alongside were a couple of bottles of wine and a few rusting tins of potatoes, sweetcorn and artichokes. To most people's eyes they would be regarded as dodgy, perished produce, but to a penniless vagabond like myself, they represented a veritable feast!

Gingerly, I walked up the creaking stairs to the first floor, fully aware that fire damage had probably weakened its structure. Equally tentatively, I stepped across the landing to inspect the rooms. I came across a notice detailing the hotel rules, as well as a nightly price tariff. It was dated 1971, eight years previous. The premises had seemingly been left undisturbed since then, and a burnt wood aroma still lingered, even after all this time. The water and electricity supplies had obviously been cut off, but more importantly the cotton bedding and sheets were ready made to sleep in, and I had the pick of the lot.

There was a temptation to occupy room 101, just for the novelty of it, but this was located on the noisier side of the property, overlooking the main road. I finally settled for room 120 in the furthermost corner of the passage, reassuringly placed next to the emergency stairs – just in case!

I unpacked my suitcase and made myself at home. Having established base camp, it seemed like the right time to celebrate finding such a 'des res' by cracking open a few lagers from my secret source, in the way of a house warming. Although a bit cloudy, the lager was still in a quaffable condition and six bottles were drained quite comfortably.

A bottle of slightly mulled wine then seemed in order, which in turn put me in the mood for my Captain Morgan rum. After a few slugs, I realised that I needed a soft drink supplement to temper the internal glowing feeling the rum was giving me on what was a very warm night.

I ventured outside and bought a pizza margarita for my tea, which I topped with the tins of sweetcorn and artichokes from my supplies. After dining, I made my way to a plain place called Henri's Bar, located just down the road. Upon ordering a large coke, I sat outside the bar to happily watch the world go by as I inconspicuously topped up my glass of coke with the dark rum, a perfect disguise in both blend and colour. I drank contentedly at this taverna for a couple of pleasant hours, just buying the cokes as a top up to produce my own 'Cuba Libra' cocktails. I was feeling mellow and pleased at the way the day had turned out. I'd got my first break at last.

Then suddenly, and without any warning, I was violently sick. Wave after wave bounced off the shiny, white plastic tables in front of me, forming a hazardous obstacle on the pavement as my pizza made an unexpected comeback.

Henri, the landlord, reacted predictably. Doing a good impression of Basil Fawlty, he began by shouting at the top of his voice in his native tongue whilst manically rotating his arms in windmill fashion. He stormed into the back of his tavern, re-emerging with a mop and bucket which was slammed down before me with such force that most of the water tidal-waved out of the bucket and down the grate.

OK, I was out of order and would have voluntarily cleaned up my mess, but his hysterical reaction and impromptu amateur dramatics dictated otherwise. After all, it was only the footpath I'd blemished.

My public relations exercise hadn't gone down too well. I'd been banned from my local on the first visit and would have to drink somewhere else. Once back in my exclusive hotel, I felt my way back to my chosen room and settled down for the night in an inebriated haze.

A passport to the match

There were several more increasingly frustrating and ultimately fruitless excursions to Magalluf in an attempt to gather information on the forthcoming friendly. I was beginning to think that it just wouldn't happen.

I then got my second break. On the Friday morning, I met our trainer, Brian Miller, travelling back from Palma on the same bus. He told me that they had made definite arrangements to play at 4pm the following Tuesday and gave me the address of the ground on a piece of paper.

At last I'd got the details that I wanted, but now another problem had presented itself. I was due to fly back early on Sunday morning. My week would be up before the game was due to take place. All this way, the sacrifices, hardships and bother I'd endured, and it now looked like I was going to miss it.

Oh no, I wasn't!

After giving the situation some considerable thought, I decided that there was only one effective way around my predicament. I would have to temporarily mislay my passport, thus preventing me from leaving the island. With a convincing tale of woe, I reported my loss to the British Embassy in Palma. The well-spoken consul calmly explained the procedure. After a couple of days to confirm my identity, a temporary passport would be produced, for which I would be charged.

"That'll do nicely!" I thought.

With the first part of my scam in place, my next port of call was Britannia Airways, my air carrier. I needed to change my flight to the Wednesday at the very earliest. Britannia referred me to the office of their agent OSL, the travel company I had booked through.

But my jaw dropped when I saw who was about to conduct the interview concerning my proposed missed flight - only the same Spanish representative that I'd had such a heated confrontation with on arrival at the airport.

However, after a distinctly frosty opening I detected a thawing of attitudes as our negotiations progressed, and I got a third break. Perhaps his conscience had been pricked after our initial meeting, as he must have realised how desperate I was at the time.

Whatever it was, he said that there were plenty of seats on the Wednesday night flight back to Manchester and that, under the circumstances, I would just need to confirm my seat with them 24 hours before departure.

With the new flight secured, I returned to the Embassy on Monday morning to inform them that my passport had been handed in to a local bar that I had visited the night I had mislaid it. The application process for a temporary replacement was cancelled, leaving me with a thousand pesetas (about £5) and a packet of Ryvitas to last me three days.

A perfect moment

On the day of the game, I went down to the Palma bus terminus to inquire as to which number took me to the football ground that had been scrawled on the piece of paper given to me by Brian Miller.

It seemed a tad unusual that I was being assured that the airport bus I had caught quite a few times was the very one I needed now. I certainly hadn't seen any stadiums en route, just vast plains of open countryside.

Even so, I boarded and asked the driver to give me a call when we got there. This he did, bringing the carriage to a halt seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Puzzled, I asked him once more to show me the way to the address on the paper. He gestured once more across to his right where, sure enough, a coach could be seen in the distance, parked beside a familiar-looking wire perimeter fence.

Then the shocking truth dawned upon me. Unbelievably, it was only the very same aerodrome where I'd slept out for three nights. Burnley were going to play their friendly at the bloody 'Dust Bowl!'

But there was infinitely worse news to follow.

The players had arrived ready stripped, which was just as well since there were no changing facilities. I made a purposeful approach to Paul Fletcher. He explained that none of the local sides could field a team as it was their close season and most players had returned to the Spanish mainland.

"Well," I inquired, "we're surely not playing on this excuse for a pitch, are we Fletch? Who are we taking on anyway? Real Mallorca? Magalluf?"

"Er...no, we're not," he replied almost apologetically. "We're playing the Cala Mayor hotel staff. They've given up their siesta for this one!"

I stood there absolutely astounded, feet rooted to the ground, arms on hips, keeping my thoughts to myself. Given up their fucking siesta! The ultimate bloody sacrifice I'm sure.

Here's me having forfeited a week's sleep, subsisted on a shoestring, devised a perilous plot to stay in the country, and I'm about to watch us play a bunch of bloody Spanish waiters.

But there was nothing I could do about it. After all, the club hadn't asked me to come. I just had to bite the bullet and resigned myself to watching this woefully inferior opposition.

I took up my spot on the touchline, determined now to make the best of a bad job. With my shirt off, a claret and blue headband keeping my longish hair in place and a silk Burnley scarf knotted tie-style around my neck, I lent my support amongst a total attendance of about 20 friends and relatives of the footballers. In a subsequent article for a daily newspaper, Fletch amusingly made reference to this game, stating that I was the first person to wear a scarf in Majorca since the cold snap of 1926.

There were still no goal nets, and the teams had decided to play only 30 minutes each way as the temperature was touching 90 degrees in the shade. Nonetheless, Burnley romped into a 5-0 lead by half time.

But 10 minutes into the second half, the locals pulled a couple of goals back to make it 5-2. Our lads hadn't fully acclimatised to the intense heat, and there was an ever-increasing danger of the game slipping away. Harry Potts obviously thought it was time for a tactical change and a fresh pair of legs.

It looked like our wing wizard and Welsh international Leighton James, nicknamed 'Taffy' naturally, was to be the sacrificial lamb. He started to trot off the pitch, heading in my direction.

"Come on!" he called in his unmistakable accent. "The gaffer says you're on for me!"

I laughed out loud at his jocular suggestion, and only when he repeated the request to go on, with play stopped and the players looking expectantly in my direction, did I realise he wasn't kidding.

That was enough for me. I did nought to 60 in five seconds as I galloped like an unbridled stallion towards the referee. Luckily he had no need to check my studs as I had none. I was clad in the only footwear I had brought with me, a pair of golfing spats, with the spikes taken out of course. They were the easiest shoes to paint, and the contrasting panels looked resplendent in claret and blue.

"Where do you usually play, Dave?" asked Steve Kindon.

"Straight down the middle, centre-forward," I replied. This was the position I occupied for my two pub teams, both on a Sunday morning and afternoon.

So there I was, the new number nine for Burnley Football Club. They were clearly relying on me to finish the Spaniards off. I rose to the task, eager to make an impression.

Kerrunch!! My first midfield tackle was hard but fair. Perhaps under the circumstances it was a little over-zealous against such opposition as it left one of the local waiters writhing dramatically on the ground after spinning through three 360 degree revolutions. So strong was my challenge, in fact, that it badly split the seam on my right spat, exposing my toes. No matter, there was still a game to be won!

Shortly after this incident, there was an appeal by us for handball. Penalty! A blatant palm away in the area by Manuel.

"Let Dave take it!" came the collective cry from the Burnley players.

My heart raced. I'd only been on the pitch a few minutes, but I could hardly refuse, as their instant referendum literally put me on the spot. I'd been nominated to take this most crucial of kicks. My head was swimming with ideas on which way to hit the ball. Should I try to place it or power it? Put it high to the left or low to the right? I took a deep breath before taking a long, controlled run-up to inflict maximum velocity.

Then...disaster. I took my eye off the ball at the critical moment of impact, a combined result of my conflicting strategies and the ripped shoe failing to make the required connection. My scuffed shot rolled tamely towards the centre of goal where the keeper had remained. I felt gutted, it was more like a back pass than a penalty and I disconsolately started to turn around. My big chance and I'd blown it.

But just as the goalie was in the process of bending down to gratefully collect my pathetic penalty, the ball hit a rut on the hard, sun-baked earth, significantly altering its trajectory with sufficient purchase for it to creep through his legs and over the line for a goal.

As the players are my witness, it was an absolute fluke. But they all count, and it was my first for Burnley Football Club, only five minutes after coming on as a sub.

Steve 'Skippy' Kindon indulged in an over-enthusiastic celebratory ritual. The 15 stone former rugby player ran straight in my direction and jumped astride me, adding, "You have to expect this when you score a goal for Burnley!" As he dismounted, Steve noticed my exposed toes pushing out from my shooting shoe, and he asked me what my foot size was.

"Size 11."

"Well, I've got a pair of size 12 trainers spare, you can use them if you like," he offered. I needed little encouragement to accept Steve's thoughtful gesture.

"They'll do fine," I replied gratefully. I was stepping into Skippy's shoes. It was like an episode straight from the Billy's Boots comic strip where magical things happen when the hero puts on an old pair of football boots. After lacing up Skippy's size 12s, I too felt immediately transformed and at least I now had control of my feet.

All the more determined to score a legitimate goal, I pushed up at every opportunity, and with five minutes remaining my chance came along. The ball was pushed out to 'Super Cas,' Frank Casper on the right wing, who delivered a perfect outswinging cross. The following paragraph represents my own completely biased commentary of what happened next.

Losing my constant man-marker, my instinctive striker's radar locks onto the ball from the edge of the penalty area. Leaping gazelle fashion, my flowing fringe temporarily obscures the line of vision as my neck retracts back to provide a trigger. I flick my head like a striking viper to administer a thumping, unstoppable hit that catapults the ball into the top corner, securing a final scoreline of 7-2.

'Burnley' scores the clincher! The killer blow! The decider that wins the game! I try to envisage the back page banner headline in the Burnley Express.

That's the way I'll always recollect that goal, although in truth it may just have been a little less graphic than I have described. However good it was, this time I took the acclaim it justified. With congratulatory slaps on the back from the rest of the team, I turned to salute the 20 strong crowd who loudly applauded in total unison.

I was soon brought back down to earth. The referee, who was also the hotel manager, didn't blow his whistle to denote full-time as he didn't have one, such was the nature of this low-key affair. Instead a cry of, "Okay, game over!" signalled the end, with handshakes exchanged all round.

After the match the players allowed me to share a taxi back to their hotel. Handing me his room key, winger Tony Morley kindly offered me the use of his shower. Sweating profusely after my active exertion, I didn't refuse. It was my first proper wash for over a week, and you could tell. I eagerly scrubbed the soap over my body, scraping off the grime that had accumulated from the days on the road, the stockpile of grass seeds temporarily blocking the plughole in the process.

Feeling revitalised and refreshed I made my way down to the outdoor swimming pool to join the players. I struck up a conversation with the friendly Morley who asked me if I went to the Burnley matches regularly.

"Every one," was my short response. He reckoned he used to do the same when he followed Liverpool as a kid. He then pointed to a hotel plate filled with pesetas.

"That's for you. The lads have had a whip round. Get yourself a few drinks."

With nearly £25 worth of pesetas collected, it represented a generous gesture. It became obvious that no matter what I told them, they would not see their offer refused. They could tell I was down on my luck and so I gratefully accepted.

Morley also invited me to join the players for a night out, but I considered they'd already done more than enough. I politely declined, telling him that there was some pre-booked entertainment already laid on at my hotel, though I didn't inform him that this would solely consist of my regular version of 'Blindman's Buff' back to the darkened bedroom.

Even so, and quite remarkably with little more than 24 hours to go before flying home, I now had more money in my possession than I had originally flown out with. A good night inevitably ensued with, for once, a plentiful supply of decent food and drink. With enough left for a few family presents to be purchased in the morning before catching the flight home, my first team 'appearance' money had bailed me out.

On the day of the first game the following season, I took Stevie Kindon's trainers back to the players' entrance at Turf Moor for his collection, leaving a message thanking him for their loan. He personally came out, asking me to keep them as a souvenir of the match in which I had played. This I did for five years until financial limitations forced me to wear the top-of-the-range footwear until they perished. A nice touch all the same.

So although this fixture obviously wasn't registered in the record books, it still makes a good obscure quiz question. Who is the only player to have scored two goals in 20 minutes as a substitute in a Burnley first team game, and never played for the club again?

If those record books had included the fixture, this is how they would read.

Full Burnley FC appearance record

European friendly: Burnley 7, Magalluf Waiters 2

Full appearances: 0

Substitute: 1

Goals 2 (1 pen)

# 11. THE AGONY OF DECLINE: 1976-1981

There can't be many more pitiful sights than seeing an otherwise fit, happy and healthy individual slowly deteriorate before your eyes. The same can be said of your football team.

PICTURE CAPTION

Mayhem!: The aftermath of the most violent disorder ever seen at Turf Moor which took place during the Anglo-Scottish Cup clash against Celtic

Trust in your own

For many years, Burnley had regularly enlisted managers from within the club.

Whether the individual was proven at the job or not, the football club could be sure of one thing, total allegiance to the cause, an undoubted dedication to attain triumphs for the employer that had provided him with a privileged livelihood.

The in-house candidate would also have an intimate working knowledge of the culture of the club, how it worked inside, and how the individuals at all levels of the club were expected to behave towards each other in their working relationships. It was a tried and tested principle that had for so long brought the good times to Turf Moor.

But there was an inevitable flip side. The skills and attributes that make for an invaluable assistant manager or an inspiring coach do not necessarily serve well in the lonely position of leadership that is the football manager. There may be other complications. An ambitious assistant may be impatient for the role he knows will one day be his, and could provide less than total support if the boss finds himself in an embattled position. It may also lead to an insular approach that rejects change in favour of a familiar but outdated way of doing things.

Despite these potential hazards, there is no question that the system worked well at Turf Moor throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, but just three years after our hard won promotion to the elite division in 1973, we found ourselves cast adrift amongst the makeweights of the old Second Division. Jimmy Adamson and Joe Brown had been the respective managers who had resided over Burnley's last visit to what is now the Premier League, Adamson until 1976 and Brown thereafter.

Joe Brown lasted another full term during which Burnley flirted dangerously with a second consecutive relegation, surviving only due to an astonishing contribution from our midfield No.4 Peter Noble. He had as I mentioned previously been tagged 'Uwe' by the crowd because of his startling resemblance, both in appearance and individual endeavour, to the great West German international Uwe Seeler. There's no doubt that his 'baker's dozen' of League goals for the season was fundamental in securing a late climb to 16th in the table.

But it still wasn't good enough!

In an attempt to mount a more concerted challenge, the most successful manager in the club's modern history was asked once again to drag the team up by their boots. So, in the close season prior to the 1977-78 campaign, Harry Potts took charge for a second spell. Sadly, on this occasion, even magical Harry couldn't conjure up a winning formula. Only the one victory, at home against Bristol Rovers, in 14 League matches signalled another uphill battle.

But just as Peter Noble had done the previous year, the final two-thirds of the campaign would also be transformed single handedly. The 'runaway train' had made a return journey to the Turf.

Stevie Kindon, to be precise, a player who stoked up such a head of steam on his direct forages toward goal that the only methods of terminating his progress were by way of a derailing tackle or the use of a police stinger device. It was a fact. The length of a standard football pitch was far too short for an athlete who could cover 100 yards in just over 10 seconds.

Steve re-signed for Burnley from Wolves in November 1977, and duly served notice of his intent with a goal in his first game back, a much-needed 3-1 home victory over Notts County.

He was always known as 'Skippy' by the Burnley fans because he bounded down the wing with the devastating pace of a young kangaroo. Once again, it seemed, Skippy was 'hot to trot.' More importantly, his 12 goals were the basis of our salvation and an eventual mid-table finish.

A comfortable League position of 13th was the outcome of the following 1978-79 campaign, but a good early season run had hinted at much more, and had included a rare piece of silverware, the late and unlamented Anglo-Scottish Cup. Burnley convincingly saw off all challengers in this competition, so much so that the best remembered incident was the scene that accompanied the visit of Celtic to the Turf one temperate September evening.

Total disorder

The date was Tuesday, September 12, 1978, the game an Anglo-Scottish Cup Quarter-Final first leg tie. I can honestly say that this was my most frightening experience at a football ground.

There was more interest in the tie than usual, since Celtic were perhaps the biggest club in Britain at the time, but the Burnley police had totally underestimated the size of the Celtic following, as 15,000 Scots descended on the ground to swell the gate to 30,000.

Burnley fans had been involved in a recent dart-throwing incident and so were being searched diligently by the police upon their entrance to the ground, but because of their sheer number, the Celts weren't frisked and just walked in with hundreds of bottles and cans of alcohol on their person. It was already a tinderbox atmosphere, with the England v Scotland rivalry a large contributing factor.

There had been isolated bottle-throwing incidents which had been returned with purchase, but that was nothing compared with what came next. Just months previously, Scotland had been humiliated in the World Cup Finals in Argentina, bowing out after a 3-1 defeat by Peru then a 1-1 draw with minnows Iran, with a 3-2 win over Holland coming too late to save them. The Longside seized on this, and started up the chant of "AR-GEN-TINA, AR-GEN-TINA."

That set the Celtic fans off. Cascades of bottles, both beer and spirits, rained across the 50 foot 'no man's land,' bordered on either side by spiked iron railings, which separated home from away fans. The railings on the higher section of the Longside also had fine wire meshing strung across to prevent projectiles being thrown, but I saw the small band of London Clarets being struck by flying glass on the lower part of the terracing that offered far less protection. Bottles, coins, and even four pint flagons of cider were raining down incessantly on the Burnley fans and police.

Finally realising the scale of the problem, the police called in reinforcements from all across Lancashire. By now, mounted police formed a cordon around the perimeter track, and barking police dogs were deployed in the no-man's-land. A long line of police had also been forced onto the Bee Hole End to separate the rival sets of fans there.

But this failed to deter the Scots, who were so riled that they uprooted the pointed railings from their concrete bases and hurled them as spears in our direction, and shortly afterwards we were to witness the amazing sight of police handlers carrying their dogs in their arms down the terrace due to the sheer volume of broken glass that now littered the terrace steps.

When Steve Kindon scored the winning goal for Burnley, a mass ruck broke out in the corner between the Longside and the Bee Hold End, resulting in crushed, tearful kids running on to the pitch to escape the violence. The game was delayed for five minutes whilst order was restored. When the players re-emerged, the referee soon blew for full time and a mass exodus took place.

A more frightful passage from a ground I have never experienced. Drunken yobs marauded through the town, and it was a mighty relief to reach the comparative safety of the bus station, although even here both sets of supporters faced running battles. What happened as the Celtic fans made their way home I'm not sure, but police forces throughout the passing towns and cities of Lancashire and Cumbria were put on full alert. They didn't 'take' the Longside, but no one there that night will ever forget the night Celtic came to town.

In the return leg at Celtic Park, Burnley put in one of their best displays for a number of years in thoroughly outplaying their hosts, achieving a 2-1 victory to complete a 3-1 aggregate win.

But such performances were fading memories by the end of the season, as, ominously, Burnley scored just twice in the last eight fixtures, the goals coming from the dependable Noble and Kindon, with the former accumulating a career-best 14 League goals to finish top scorer.

It begged the question as to where the team would be without this inspirational pairing, and we were soon to find out.

Realising that he couldn't fashion a promotion-winning side with the resources at his disposal, Harry Potts parted company with the club in October, 1979. Stepping into his very big shoes was yet another Turf Moor legend, Brian 'Dusty' Miller, an ever-present in Burnley's only post-war First Division Championship side of 1959-60.

Soon after, as if by prior agreement, the dynamic duo of Noble and Kindon simultaneously played their last game for the club, a 2-1 home defeat against Orient on November 3, 1979. This loss came just seven days after a catastrophic 7-0 humiliation at Queen's Park Rangers, a result that convinced Brian Miller that wholesale changes were needed.

He drafted in some youngsters, brothers Richard and Vince Overson, winger Phil Cavener, defender Paul Dixon and attacking midfielder Marshall Burke all made their debut appearances during this period, and in the last week of November, Burnley finally registered a victory at the 19th attempt, an eventful 5-3 defeat of visitors Cambridge United. This game signalled the end of another notable Burnley career, that of Paul Fletcher. He had been a predatory centre-forward of real quality, but a knee injury had clipped 'The Kestrel's' wings and he left the club having failed to score in the 13 outings that constituted his last season for the club.

To replace Fletcher, Brian Miller made an inspired signing. Northern Irish international target man Billy Hamilton was acquired for a bargain £38,000.

Could Hamilton repeat the feats of Noble and Kindon, and spearhead a New Year recovery? Initially the signs were good.

The Third degree

As football bade farewell to the 'Savage Seventies,' a new decade beckoned, offering with it renewed hope for Burnley. Although the turn of the year found them precariously positioned fourth bottom of Division Two, it represented a marked improvement on the first four months of the 1979-80 season. In December, four out of five League matches were won, suggesting a third 'great escape' in four years from the relegation swamp.

One of these December victories had included a magnificent 3-2 home defeat of Newcastle United. At the time, the 'Mags' were top of the table, whilst we were still propping it up in 22nd position. This Boxing Day contest saw Billy Hamilton register his first goal for the club with a thundering header in front of the Bee Hole End. It also initiated this victorious Longside terrace chant that is still sung today:

Hark! Now hear the Burnley sing,

The Geordies ran away,

And we will fight for evermore

Because of Boxing Day!

Rightly or wrongly, these words became fan folklore, commemorating a fierce tribal battle before and after that game in which many innocent bystanders were caught up. I was also a witness to these events.

It began when unsupervised Geordie hordes rampaged through several streets as they approached the ground, damaging any property and any person that was in their path. That was until they came across the gathered home defenders who were blocking their route.

Like a military unit they moved as one, repeatedly repelling the invaders in a concerted display of hand-to-hand combat. Although greatly outnumbered, they eventually turned them on their toes, against all the odds. It would be remembered by all participants as Burnley's equivalent of the Charge of the Light Brigade, though this was victorious, and it was the 'Battle of the Bob Hats' rather than Balaclava.

But the revival of Burnley's fortunes around the festive period was not to last.

The 2-1 home victory against Fulham at a wintry Turf Moor on February 2 was to be the last victory of the campaign. With Kindon sold to Huddersfield and both Noble and Fletcher sent to pasture at Blackpool, the team was shorn of its influential and experienced core, and an injury to Martin Dobson in March ended the campaign of another vital midfield battler.

The season was brought to a premature end with an early relegation soundly confirmed. Billy Hamilton made a valiant bid to keep us up, ending the season as top scorer, albeit with just seven goals. But the use of 29 first team players told its own story of quantity over quality.

Of course, the dedicated supporters still had the painful but obligatory task of fulfilling their attendance duty at all the remaining fixtures. Now that really was purgatory. There's nothing as demoralising than having to watch your team's last games of the season when it's already been established that they'll be playing lower division football next time around. At least a mid-table finish provides for another nine months at the same level and the chance to progress. There is no such inducement to the already condemned.

Sadly, this was the situation we found ourselves in as we journeyed to Vicarage Road, Watford, to conclude the sorry demise of 1979-80. We had been invited to an end-of-season party after the match, to be hosted by a number of southern-based Burnley fans at the nearby Hertfordshire town of Chorleywood. Our particular group had already decided that we were going to treat it as a 'going down' wake.

Burnley kept to the script and were predictably thrashed 4-0. A commendable away following had made the trip, and located close to the corner where we were assembled was an electronic scoreboard. At the time, it was quite a novelty to have such a costly piece of equipment within a football ground, but our curiosity soon turned to irritation when animated cartoon-like characters manically leapt about on the thing, alternating arms symbolically punching the air, to celebrate each goal scored by the home team. The screen just compounded our misery. All we could do to counter the ensuing goading from the home fans was to mimic these computerised actions, singing along in mocking contempt of their tacky gadgetry. It represented a defiant attempt to show them that it didn't really bother us, but in truth it hurt deeply.

After the match, we made our way back to Pete Toner's Mini, our mode of transport for the day, in a state of some despondency. Walking towards a traffic island, we were confronted by a large group of the local Watford 'boys.' It became obvious they were looking for a final fighting flurry to round off their own particular season. A few misplaced fists launched in our direction were successfully fended off as the cops reached the scene to restore order before the situation turned nasty.

But just as the police had admirably brought this incident under control, a lone voice blared out from behind us.

"If this was Burnley, you'd be dead!"

This short but highly inflammatory remark provoked a renewed surge towards us that the police were hard pressed to contain. When they eventually did, after a furious scrum, both their and our eyes angrily turned to confront the instigator of such a crass statement.

It was Tony Campbell, who I knew from his time at Keele University, located close to my home village. He resembled Uncle Bulgaria from the Wombles, characterised by a stout, stumpy build, fuzzy hair and large, black-rimmed glasses. To others, he was cruelly termed 'Tripenstein' because of the contentious disputes and tall stories he often engaged in. A claret and blue scarf was provocatively tied to his wrist, which during this era indicated that the wearer was up for a ruck. He almost had his wish, too, with the bobbies as well as us lividly rounding on him. As a potential graduate, he should have known better. Today had been one of his Tripenstein days.

Always purposely controversial, and at times blatantly reckless, he would nevertheless loudly defend his team whatever the circumstances.

Like me, he drank heavily, only his binges included dangerous amounts of the hard stuff. This was typified the morning after the Boxing Day clash with Newcastle. I'd stayed at his house on that evening following the game, and just a few hours since a copious alcohol intake to celebrate the victory over the Geordies, reaching under his bed he pulled out and proceeded to drain half a 35cl bottle of whisky, despatching it with all the ease of supping a small beer. I settled for the cup of PG Tips his mother offered me.

We eased ourselves away from the Watford skirmish and headed for Chorleywood, and immediately went pub copping around the town. The beer flowed faster than normal as we attempted to numb the reality of our team's ineptitude. On the Rickmansworth Road, in the White Horse pub, we bumped into three of the Watford footballers who had played that day. They expressed their genuine condolences about Burnley's fall from grace.

After closing time, we attempted to find the party at its Chorleywood Bottom location. The area was a thickly wooded expanse and it became a hopeless task attempting to find a house address on this dull, moonless night. After wandering around for a couple of hours as well as knocking on the wrong doors and scaring the occupants out of their wits, we decided to bring the mystery tour to a halt. We walked back to the car and settled down for the night.

The next morning, the Sunday newspapers confirmed what we already knew. Burnley had finished in 21st position and from that moment on would be playing Third Division football for the first time in their near 100 year history.

In Memoriam

Tony Campbell succumbed to a debilitating illness some 10 years later, with acute liver failure a contributory factor. He died in his mid-thirties, a Claret to the end.

Pottery cups

Since Brian Miller had taken over from Harry Potts in the early part of the 1979-80 season, he entered the history books as the manager who had, in effect, taken us down.

The question now was could he steer the club back to the Second Division at the first attempt? The answer was no! After a decent run in the first half of the 1980-81 campaign, we faded after the New Year and ended the season tamely, winning just two of the last ten games.

For the second successive year, we were drawn against opposition from the Potteries in the FA Cup.

The previous year, in January 1980, Burnley had beaten Stoke City 1-0 in the Third Round at Turf Moor, courtesy of a Martin Dobson penalty. It was one of the few highlights of that dismal season.

The Stoke tie was packed with controversy, the visitors having two men sent off by referee Kevin McNally. Stoke hero Denis Smith was the first to walk in one of the most mysterious dismissals I've seen. Having already been cautioned for a foul on Billy Hamilton, Smith took a knock himself, and limped across the pitch towards the touchline in a very deliberate manner, expecting to be substituted. But he was ordered back on to the pitch by trainer Wally Gould in order to give the replacement time to warm up. The man in black was not impressed with Smith's antics, and duly sent him off, later explaining that it was for persistent ungentlemanly conduct. Next to go was Ray Evans, the player who had brought down Hamilton for the penalty, who was ordered off for dissent after sarcastically applauding a decision that had gone Stoke's way. Whenever McNally subsequently took charge of a Stoke game, he was roundly booed throughout.

The following season, as a Third Division club, Burnley had now to negotiate the first two rounds proper of the FA Cup. The First Round brought Scarborough to the Turf, and the tenacious non-Leaguers made Burnley work hard for a 1-0 victory.

The Clarets received another home tie in the Second Round, this time against Stoke City's near-neighbours Port Vale, with the game taking place on December 13, 1980. Port Vale were a struggling side, residing in a lowly 20th position in Division Four when they plundered a rather fortunate 1-1 draw at Turf Moor. But there was no dispute in the replay at Port Vale the following Tuesday. We were decisively outplayed and went down 2-0, making it the second time in four years that the Vale had knocked us out of this competition.

My then girlfriend, Susan, had accompanied me on the previous occasion that we played in the 'mother town' of the Potteries. It was a bitterly cold day at the end of January, 1977 when around 7,000 Burnley fans trooped to Burslem.

I'd insisted on arriving soon after 10am, and even then small parties of Clarets were wandering around waiting for the pubs to open. I'd brought along my own supply, a half bottle of White Horse whisky, which I'd termed 'my central heating for kids', borrowing the slogan from a 'Ready Brek' advert of the day that showed a glowing child protected from the cold.

We posed for a commemorative photo of the day with a group of Burnley fans waving claret and blue flags outside the Town Hall, and it was there that I bumped into 'Skidder.' Kevin Skidmore was a former pupil of Wolstanton Grammar School who had been in the same year as me. Although a 'Stokie,' he had come along to watch the Vale as many did when it was affordable to go to both local clubs' alternate home fixtures. I suspected Skidder also wanted to observe at first hand any pre and post match shenanigans that were likely to occur given the vast influx of visitors to the town.

A few hundred Stoke City conscripts had predictably turned up looking for trouble, and they got their wish, with a number of pub skirmishes breaking out during the afternoon. Inside the ground, too, there were confrontations throughout the game in the far corner of the railway paddock where the overflow of Burnley fans had been accommodated. This continued after the game all the way down to Longport station, which was the nearest stopping off point for travellers by train. The local constabulary, who had cancelled all leave for the clash, struggled to maintain order and many arrests were made.

The huge Burnley contingent was even more antagonised by a sorry performance in a 2-1 defeat. The fervent support was still solid, but after such humiliations, how long would it last?

Interest wanes

Easily the worst decade in the history of the club had begun ominously with a 2-0 defeat at Shrewsbury on New Year's Day, 1980 in front of more than 10,000 spectators.

For me, New Year's Day is always a case of the wretched morning after the night before. I pay a heavy physical price for my traditional alcohol intake of both beer and spirits. This New Year had been no different, and a lime green stomach bile had to be expelled in the sedate gutters of the pretty town before myself and fellow villager Sam Gilbey could continue our liquid punishment at a more cautionary pace. We certainly wouldn't be the only ones that were sick that day - Burnley supporters were ailing fast.

The drop into the Third Division had a significant impact on attendances at Turf Moor. Our first fixture of the 1980-81 season, at home to Newport County, was played in front of just 6,715 spectators. By the time the curtain was brought down on the campaign in May, 1981, we had finished a reasonable but ungratifying eighth. However, though gates had improved in response to a good run of form in the early months of the season, the final fixture at home to Oxford saw the crowd dip below the 4,000 mark for the first time in decades.

The town's supporters had slipped into a state of apathy, a condition notable for the ambiguous apology that the normally regular fan offers ahead of an impending non-appearance at a forthcoming fixture. I've always been cynical of old favourites like "I've promised to take the missus out on Saturday," particularly when the offer has been made by a staunch male chauvinist who is usually only too pleased to escape his partner's company.

Just as perverse were the seasoned pie-eaters of many years standing, carrying a belly the size of a small country. Suddenly, with no prior warning, they had decided to take up playing football, squash, golf, table tennis and even darts, anything to give an excuse in order not to attend the Turf. We must have been the fittest fans in the country!

And then there were the birthdays. By an amazing coincidence, the special day of all sons, daughters, wives, mistresses, grannies, ferrets and whippets happened to fall on a football Saturday.

By far the most common excuse became: "I can't make the next game 'cos I've got to go to work." This when unemployment was running at an all-time national high of three million under the inequalities of the 'rich get richer, poor get poorer' regime of the Conservative government. Apparently it didn't affect the Labour stronghold of Burnley, which must have been positively booming. How else could anyone explain such an immediate requirement for weekend workers?

But the least pardonable of all were those that cried poverty. "I just can't afford it," they would claim. Now, as an individual who by my football-oriented lifestyle is forced to live hand-to-mouth week after week and year after year, I found this lame reasoning particularly galling. It really is the worst of all excuses, because if someone is truly intent on going to a match, they would beg or borrow to make sure of being there.

Of course, we all knew the real reasons for these convenient exemptions. They simply didn't want to spend their hard earned brass on watching such underachieving dross. And, undoubtedly, watching the club you love waste away before your eyes is a helpless agony. So I've no problem whatsoever with that, but why didn't they just come right out and say so?

My theory is that they were merely absolving themselves from what effectively amounted to a temporary desertion of the club.

They'd all be back once a high-profile cup or league match of any consequence came along. Then, mysteriously, the excuses no longer applied. The wives could have a girls' night out. The personal sporting ambitions would be put on the back burner. Birthday celebrations were rescheduled, weekend work suspended and all the impoverished would have a 'touch' on the horses or dogs, just in time for the big game.

The problem for the club was that the new fixture list for the forthcoming 1981-82 season revealed that such big games were in desperately short supply. Only those with local rivals Preston North End could be considered as such, and even these lacked the edge of matches against the likes of Blackburn or Leeds. In short, Burnley desperately needed to hoist themselves out of the lower divisions before attendances dwindled any further.

# 12. ENGLAND EXPECTS

Although enduring a staggering level of underachievement for more than four decades the England national side has now become one of the best supported nations on the whole planet. Fans travel far in huge numbers, anywhere from Japan to Kazakhstan in a forlorn hope that one day, their country will fulfil expectations. But it wasn't always so.

PICTURE CAPTION

Culture Vultures: Myself and Kaiser fly the flag for Burnley at Euro '80

For England and St George

During the Sixties and Seventies, intense inter-club rivalry meant supporters following England abroad kept within their own group of fans of their club. That all changed when the Italians tried to implement their own version of ethnic cleansing on the English during Euro 1980. That was soon followed by a Spanish show of police hostility in the World Cup Final tournament in 1982. Both brutal occurences would lead to the unification of team troops into one massive England army for future excursions abroad.

My first visit to a senior England game took place at Ninian Park, Cardiff on May 20, 1972. In those days, the Home Internationals were contested between England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and the game was part of this annual end of season tournament.

I hitched it down with my workmate Rob Cocker for the match, arranging to stay the weekend at Alan Forster's place. Al was a Port Vale fan who had moved to the Welsh capital from Stoke-on-Trent for employment reasons.

England won 3-0 that day but there were far more abiding memories than the emphatic scoreline. There was the whole restrictive process of simply going for a beer throughout the city, walking in pubs that seemed only to sell either Bass or the locally brewed and amusingly named 'Brains' bitter. In addition, walking to and from the match and actually observing the play on the pitch was persistently tinged with hidden menace. The sheer hatred of the 'Taffs' towards the English proved a chilling experience.

Sadly, there were little more than 500 England supporters evident at what was a full International. Can you imagine the response today? There would be something in the region of 50,000 ticket requests from travelling fans for such an event.

So what is the reason for such a dramatic change? Well, after years of apathy throughout the Seventies, I believe renewed interest escalated after the violent disorder during the European Championships in Italy in 1980. Events at this tournament would see all England followers castigated as hooligans whether they were or not.

Myself and fellow villagers Pete 'Weedy' Read and Gaz Francis had planned our summer holidays around these matches. Devout patriot Stephen 'Kaiser' Rimmer, a Burnley fan from Bacup, also teamed up with us. He met up with the other two at the Sneyd Arms in Keele, near to the university. There were only half a dozen other drinkers in at the time but by coincidence one was Pete 'Twinny' Henderson, who'd been attacked by Kaiser the previous season when his team Stoke had played at Burnley. Both accused me of a set up but after I convinced them it wasn't, the tension eased and the pair shook hands and declared a truce.

We crossed the Channel on the Newhaven to Dieppe ferry, then headed straight to Paris by train for a night out. Many French lagers later, we crashed out in our sleeping bags at de Lazure shopping centre, but we were moved on and made our way to Gare du Nord railway station.

At 5am on June 12, along with a hundred or so other England fans, we disembarked from the train at Turin. There was noticeably more than the expected turnout of Italian police and Carabinieri to greet us. On inquiring we were told there had been continuous skirmishing throughout the night between England fans and locals, with 36 people locked up. Apparently, it had not been the usual hand to hand fighting either, as three of our boys had been stabbed.

So we were on our toes from the start, despite the fact that we weren't even playing the 'Eye-ties' until later in the week, with that game scheduled for the Stadio Comunale, the home of Juventus and Torino, which was to be the venue for our first game later that day against the Belgians.

We decided to while away the afternoon with a few beers and a bottle of spirits each obtained from a liquor store. Myself, Weedy and Gaz had bottles of rum and brandy between us but Kaiser came back with a large glass flask of 'Cynar.'

"Bloody hell Kais. What's that all about? It's made from fucking artichokes," noted Weedy amid fits of laughter.

Sure enough, closer inspection revealed that pictures of the thistle-like plant were plastered all over the label, the edible flower being used in the fermentation process.

"It was all I could lay my hands on," came Kaiser's reply.

After taking a swig apiece, we all agreed it tasted putrid.

He's got a gun!

We clambered over a massive traffic island where a tall, stone obelisk was guarded on each side by statues of mounted infantry, commemorating Italian gallantry from the past.

Making ourselves at home, using our sleeping bags as pillows and draping our Union flags around the base of the structure, we settled down to enjoy our drinks in the 90 degree heat. As more England fans passed by, a few filtered over to join us until our mass had expanded to around 80, with each group draping a flag bearing the name of the team they supported over a horse's head or a sword on the statues.

But just as a party atmosphere was developing with the fast flowing alcohol and hot sun forming an explosive combination, five navy and white coloured cars and a large van, all with roof lights flashing and sirens blaring, encircled our enclave.

At last we had a bit of backing music! And so the predictable 'Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land' chant broke out among the gathering the vast majority of whom were now well oiled and consequently very excitable.

But the ruthless Carabinieri, their name emblazoned in large letters on each side of their vehicles, hadn't come to join the party. They were there to disrupt proceedings immediately.

The commander sported a thick 'Super Mario'-style moustache which decorated a long face shielded from the sun by a peaked cap. Repeatedly, he shouted out a series of unintelligible directives towards our mob. With no Italian university graduate in our ranks, we carried on singing as no one could understand a word this ever more animated character was saying.

Then there was a shout from Gaz.

"He's got a gun."

At that moment, the commander proceeded to pull out a hand gun from his side holster, raising it high above his head and waving it from side to side.

We understood that alright. Slowly but surely, the congregated crowd gathered up their banners and moved on towards the ground three miles away.

Tears for souvenirs

There were a good 5,000 England fans there and tales abounded about the many 'set-to's' with the cowardly Italians who had been picking off lone fans in the back streets.

Young 'Caballero' troops had been drafted into the ground to help keep order with the hundreds of twitchy Carabinieri. England scored an early goal but Belgium equalised soon after and then all hell broke loose. The locals in our end cheered the Belgium goal and were immediately attacked by a mixture of Chelsea and West Ham fans, and in a knee-jerk reaction to try to quell the fighting, the soldiers discharged about 10 tear gas cannisters onto the steep stepped terracing, one of which crashed into the scoreboard.

Swiftly the police, now sporting gas mask protectors, waded in with their reinforced mega-truncheons to inflict maximum pain on anyone they came across as they swept in a wave across the concrete steps. The match was held up for a full five minutes as order was restored.

It was the first time I had experienced tear gas, which stung your eyes to leave them streaming and burned into your skin. A large number of innocents had come off a lot worse with blood streaming from their heads, and they were largely left unattended.

It was a disgrace and totally over the top, thuggish behaviour from the security forces. We'd run the gauntlet of violence to get to the ground and had little or no sleep for three days after coming to support our country on a shoestring budget, and we'd been physically violated for our trouble.

After the game, the tram back to the station was blocked by hundreds of Italian youths who had taken advantage of the 30 minutes we had been detained in the ground by the police to form a welcoming party.

The driver brought the tram to a screeching halt and a now predictable hail of bottles and stones rained down on the vehicle. Little or no assistance was provided by the Carabinieri so a number of England fans took it upon themselves to force open the expandable double doors and disembark onto the street. Others in the trams backed up behind followed their example until a 500 strong mob had formed across the road.

For 10 minutes, no progress was made and we continued to dodge the missiles which heightened our mood of agitation as since we arrived in Turin, we had been continually picked off by either the residents or the security forces.

One loud Cockney yell of "Come on, let's steam the fucking c**nts," triggered a mass surge in an effort to end our imprisonment on the streets and shouts of "come on" echoed round in agreement as his suggestion was acted upon.

A high speed charge developed and with others behind pushing, there was little option but to run with the pack, and the Italians turned tail in their usual manner when confronted by retaliation once the police lines had been breached.

Our objective was to reach the sanctuary of the railway station and with Weedy running alongside me, we were only 50 yards from our target. Then, for no reason we could comprehend, the leading 40 or 50 runners sheared off in all directions. Myself and Weedy continued forward with the momentum of our long strides propelling us to within 10 yards of the entrance.

Suddenly, a resounding shot rang out, and we were confronted with the reason for the hasty dispersal.

A stocky, middle aged bloke in a white vest and trousers and greased back hair was pointing a large black pistol straight at us. The crowd in front had restricted our vision but now we had a prime view of proceedings. We were in the direct line of fire!

With a sharp dodge to the right, I managed to take cover behind a wide concrete support pillar, but Weedy had careered on regardless before coming to an abrupt halt with the man responsible for the shot looking straight at him. He'd got to the point of no return.

My shout of "Weed, he's got a gun," had come too late as everything happened so fast.

I waited for the inevitable discharge but it didn't come. There was just a lot of yelling.

Why hadn't Weedy been blown away? The bloke looked intent on using the gun. Had Weedy fainted from shock?

Peeping my head round the corner, I witnessed the amazing sight of Weedy with his finger down the barrel of the gun. Staring his foe straight in the eyes, he shouted "POP" before nonchalantly turning round and walking away as armed police dragged the bloke down and cuffed him.

But how had Weedy got away without injury?

It later transpired that the weapon had been an athletics starting pistol which fired only blanks, but Weedy wasn't to know that.

"I knew it wasn't real, Ralph," he exclaimed.

"Course you did, Weed. Course you did."

Hero or nutter? He was a bit of both that day

I will always remember watching our very own Bobby Charlton, who had been commentating on the melee for British television, appearing on TV afterwards and telling an audience of millions he was ashamed to be English!

Well Bob, that was pretty easy to say when you had been accommodated in a five star hotel and ring-fenced by security forces while enjoying in comfort great food, drink and hospitality from eager to please hosts.

Contrast that with life at the sharp end where hundreds of us shuffled around cities or resorts in the twilight zone in the hope of finding a place to kip. Eventually, we settled for either a perilous rail terminal, an insecure park or a hazardous patch of sand on a beach. All for the love of our country! Mix in the perpetual harassment from local youths and police wherever we went and anybody would be hard pressed to term our break a holiday.

We caught the train to a small nearby coastal town the following morning after running battles throughout the night and even another incident where a gun was brandished by a local gang leader at the station. But that night all England fans gathered together as one through adversity to repel the continuous attacks, and from this an affiliation was born. From then on, we were one!

With the home nation due to play us at the same venue the following Wednesday, word got round that all England fans would meet up at Turin railway station at a set time.

On the day of the match, we joined more than 2,000 England supporters on the station concourse, and waiting for us was an escort of more than 20 vehicles full of troops and police. After the long walk, they purposely delayed us outside the ground for 20 minutes while the Italians, who were already on the terraces and 200 feet above us, bombarded us with coins, cans and bottles. With the Carabinieri looking on from their sheltered positions and us corralled into a railed holding pen, we were completely powerless to defend ourselves. It was a clear set up.

It was almost a relief to be allowed in the ground until we realised where they'd put us. Our whole contingent was crammed into a small section in the lower corner of the terraces, and as the game kicked off a constant barrage of missiles rained down on us, causing scores of head injuries. Any retaliatory action was met with a whack over the head from the line of riot police who had clearly been instructed to permanently face us and ignore the instigators in the upper tier.

Italy then scored 10 minutes from time to condemn us to a night of complete misery. The tram back to the station were stoned and mass charges were needed to repel the 'Eye-ties' who were throwing flares, fireworks, flares and thunderflashes.

We boarded the 30 minutes past midnight overnight train to Naples for our third game against Spain. After the hell hole that was Turin, we thought things couldn't get any worse, then Weedy reminded us all of that maxim associated with our next destination: "See Naples and Die!"

Cheers Weedy. Just what we wanted to raise our spirits.

As it happened, the poorer relations of Italy were far more hospitable and despised the northern Italian cities who they claimed received disproportionately larger funding from the government than themselves.

We lost the game against Spain 2-1 and after a few days in beautiful Sorrento, we made our way home.

Although there were a few further arrests and casualties along the way, we boarded our ferry with the stragglers who had been released from their respective detention centres in Turin. You could tell them a mile off as they proudly showed off their newly printed tee shorts announcing 'ENGLAND TEAR GAS MOB – TURIN 1980.'

PICTURE CAPTION

'Come on England': Party time at the Brewmaster pub in Sorrento before the game in Naples.

A Rumble in the Ramblas

The next major tournament in which England were involved was the World Cup in Spain in 1982.

Weedy and I bought an Inter-Rail Europe pass in order to explore a few countries before travelling to the first game, which was against France in Bilbao. So for the previous two weeks, we'd toured around Belgium, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Monaco and Andorra before arriving at our first Spanish port of call, Barcelona.

For 11 days, we had either slept on overnight trains or outside in the open air, and hadn't showered throughout our tour. It was time to treat ourselves to a bed and a clean up.

We booked in at the Hostel Roma, a cheap option situated in a run down, open quadrangle which had a litter strewn, non-functioning water fountain as its centrepiece.

We relaxed throughout the day with cocktails made up from our duty free booty purchased for the equivalent of a couple of quid a litre from the tiny principality of Andorra.

By the time we were ready to hit the multitude of bars in the red light district of Las Ramblas, we'd finished the best part of three quarters of a litre of rum and gin between us.

There were hundreds of options in this compacted area and we stumbled merrily but in an orderly manner around them sampling the local 'cervecza,' the difficult to pronounce Spanish word for beer.

It was mid-evening now and we were laughing and joking between ourselves as we perched atop the high wooden bar stools that surrounded the servery. Suddenly, I felt a couple of fingers jab hard in my back and turned round to confront the provocateur. It was a thin, grey haired, grizzled old drunk.

"Malvinas, Argentina," he blurted out angrily.

I ignored him and reached for my drink, but he shouted the same words, which I knew were the Argentine name for the Falkland Islands, which Britain was fighting a war over in the South Atlantic at that very minute.

He pushed my head forward only slightly, but most annoyingly, enough to make me spill some of my drink.

I turned around, shook my head at this sad figure, then wiggled my index finger from side to side before announcing a firm "NO!"

The Spanish had sided with their Argentine cousins during the conflict but up to now we had been sensitive to their views without being in agreement.

The bloke had obviously clocked my Union Jack tattoo etched on my right bicep after I had rolled up my sleeves to sun my arms, though hopefully I'd now put a stop to his irritating behaviour.

But no. A heavier blow knocked me off my stool and I crashed to the ground.

That was it. I picked myself up and launched myself at him, pushing him against the bar. In the mean time, the bartender was coming at me with a long, hooked window opener and more of his back up arrived from the surrounding bars.

I hurled a stool to dislodge the lethal weapon from his hand and left him recoiling in pain as myself and Weedy retreated to a wine storage room in the far corner. Our route to the exit was blocked by up to 30 locals all baying for our blood. We held them at bay by each grabbing a bottle from the wine racks and raising them aloft in a threatening manner.

Within minutes, two uniformed chaps burst through the crowd with truncheons in hand and confronted us.

"Are you Americans? One asked in a US southern drawl.

"No, we're fucking English," I yelled back, expecting some assistance from our own cousins.

But it wasn't forthcoming.

They were Military Police, only interested in offenders from the American ship which had docked in the harbour for a couple of days, and left the premises after announcing that we didn't fall under their security remit.

But it wasn't long before the Spanish police arrived in force and after handcuffing us, led us to their cars, before driving us to the city police station.

Through an English interpreter, we made a statement, and were then kept at a long, wooden table all night, the police slamming their truncheons down upon it if we dared to doze off.

No food or water were offered to us and thanks to that and our sleep deprivation, it was two shattered Englishmen who appeared at a courtroom tribunal the following afternoon.

The bartender whom I'd thrown the stool at was there and had a bandage twice the size of the little finger it was wrapped around to fully emphasise the minor injury. As we were summoned into the courtroom where the leading judge asked for my version of events at the bar, I felt we had a strong case.

But as soon as I mentioned the fact that the drunken Spaniard had started the altercation, he interrupted me.

"Spanish boys, they don't cause trouble," was his astonishing statement.

I knew that with such a biased opinion, we had no chance of a reprieve and so it proved, as we were fined 7,000 pesetas each for the damage with the possibility of being recalled for a GBH trial at a later date.

It was a scandal, but it showed once again the preconceived perception of anyone English.

Truncheon Meat

We finally made the Basque stronghold of Bilbao to see England play France.

It was the day after the Falklands War had ended with the Argentine surrender so all the England fans were in celebratory and patriotic mood. However, the Spanish police seemed to take the news of the fall of the Falklands personally.

They were shown on TV footage, which was beamed across the globe, raiding a bar and forcing its scores of occupants to leave before forming an aisle of bodies either side of the exit. As each England fan was pushed out, they had to run the gauntlet of swinging truncheons as they meted out their anger. Serious head injuries were sustained by many in scenes which were denounced around the world.

As I previously stated, since these outrages, the English mentality of 'us against the world' has binded us together into one formidable unit., for whether guilty of disturbances or not, it seemed we were all fast becoming the pariahs of Europe.

# 13. ONE STEP FORWARD AND ONE STEP BACK: 1981-1983

Mothers know full well the pain, discomfort and sacrifice involved in carrying their unborn child through the full term of around nine months. Upon delivery, each parent realises that all the physical and emotional hard work is truly worth the end result, although life becomes significantly more difficult from thereon in. The same analogy can be applied to a promoted football team. Their supporters are also expectant, but an immediate, unforgiving learning curve needs to be negotiated in order that the new arrival can flourish in an unfamiliar environment. In both cases, the responsibilities of adaptation and application come with the territory.

PICTURE CAPTION

Ten Pence an inch: Charity benefits after four years and 24 inches of pledging no haircut until a promotion

A bit green around the Gills

The 1981-82 season started badly. First up was an away game at the audaciously-titled Priestfield Stadium. It was home to Gillingham FC, who for many years have been the only Football League team in the modern day county of Kent, with the exception of Maidstone United who made a subsequent, short-lived appearance in the late 80s and early 90s, playing their home games at nearby Dartford in the latter part of that brief sojourn in the League.

As a town, very much like Burnley at the time, Gillingham had little to impress the visitor, giving the appearance of a run-down, drab and underfunded place. Although Kent generally did live up to its 'Garden of England' image, Gillingham looked like its compost corner, with little to please the eye aesthetically. Just one short, pedestrianised street constituted a town centre, this being flanked either side by a multitude of retail outlets for the budget-conscious shopper.

For a night out, the locals would go to nearby Rochester instead. The vast majority of Gillingham pubs were pre-Second World War side street premises, which retained basic interiors of prefabricated wooden walls, ceilings and floors.

In more modern times, if a drinker did require something a little more stimulating with his pint, he could wander over to 'Vincent's' on the High Street. Here, the punter could ogle a female stripper on a Saturday afternoon. If the particular one I stumbled across before the game was typical, she would invariably be mutton dressed, or undressed, as lamb. A pair of tassled, swinging breasts that had long lost the fight against gravity and bore more resemblance to hanging baskets than rosebuds were combined with a sagging arse that retained so much cellulite it looked as though it had been double-coated in bubble wrap. It was easy to see why the 'black mac' brigade made up most of the audience. This seedy joint was later closed down for contravening its licensing regulations.

From the railway station, the walk to the ground is hardly more appealing, through rows of back-to-back terraced housing, accessed only by narrow ginnels. Once inside, the away following stood upon an elbow-shaped section of open, stepped concrete that was shared by a corner floodlight pylon. Even though this was a poor holding bay for supporters, it was better than the subsequent 1,320 capacity space on the adjacent 'Town End.' Here, food was served from a caravan snack bar, and the four-urinal Portakabin merely added to the impression that you were at a local car boot sale rather than a Football League 'stadium.'

Burnley's team performance that day in August, 1981 proved just as substandard. As if to highlight the point, our full back Brian Laws contrived to lob the ball over goalkeeper Alan Stevenson from just inside the halfway line. His attempted back-pass could hardly have been more miscalculated, resulting in the most bizarre own goal I've ever witnessed.

But if it was a miserable 280 mile journey down by coach for the Burnley day tripper, how must it have felt for the three fans who had pledged to walk – yes, walk – to the first away fixture, wherever that might be?

The League's computer had been cruel to them as it handed out a long hike to Kent. The intrepid trio of Peter Higgs, who at the time was the sports reporter for the Burnley Express, Richard Sharp, known as 'Shaggy Dog' to his friends, and Richard Fleming had all taken a wearisome week to foot it to the Priestfield. Their reward was another dire exhibition.

We managed to narrowly beat Plymouth Argyle at home in the following game, a Martin Dobson penalty stealing the points, but the team were looking anything but impressive, and this unconvincing victory would be our one and only in the first eight fixtures.

I ruefully reflected upon the hastily promised pledge that I had made to my village friends almost three-and-a-half years previously:

"I WILL NOT CUT MY HAIR UNTIL BURNLEY WIN A PROMOTION!"

During that time we had been relegated once more, and I was beginning to despair of ever having my hair shorn again. It now measured a considerable 20 inches in length from root to tip, and I bore more than a passing resemblance to a long-haired Afghan hound as a result. I wore my locks Red Indian style in two plaits each side of my head, which looked reasonably tidy after either my mother or sister had braided them. Since I was dark-skinned, I could also do a fairly good impression of a North American native.

However, it did prove a handicap in my quest for gainful employment, and I just knew there was little chance of that plum bank manager's job at the local branch of Lloyds.

Instead, I entered occupations where I would not be judged on how I looked, but how I worked. So, after a stint as a temporary dustbin man, I found my vocation at Herbert-Dyson Stainless, a steel stockholding company located in the village named after the two directors of the partnership, Gordon Herbert and Mike Dyson. The understanding nature of both men would be crucial to my aim of attending every game. In fact, the job and my previous post on the bins proved ideal in allowing me to travel to difficult night matches.

A travesty of justice?

The refuse collector position was run on a task and finish basis. This simply meant that when your team had completed its allotted quota of streets for the day they could go home or, in my case, to the match.

An average shift lasted from 7am to 2pm with a half hour mid-morning break. Although you had to work hard anyway as soon as you 'kicked in' with your allotted crew, the job was even harder if you had the misfortune to be put on the Kidsgrove and Mow Cop run. Here, each binman was expected to hoist a heavy, metal bin full of coal ash over each shoulder up a steep gradient of 1 in 3 at many households along what is known as the 'Killer Mile.' Sadistic runners still compete in a road race of the same name on an annual basis.

It was during my time here that I worked alongside Michael Hughes, or 'Micky Moonshine' to his friends, so called because when he smiled his wide grin and large round face resembled 'the man in the moon.' We worked opposite sides of the street and established an efficient scheme between us. Micky just got on with it, perhaps as a way of dealing with a recent family tragedy. His brother 'Coddy,' so named because of his swimming ability, had been killed just three months before.

Stoke had played at Ipswich on Saturday, September 1, 1979, and this being their return season to Division One, they had taken a large following down to Suffolk, where they had lost 3-1. After the game, Coddy had travelled to Colchester to visit another brother who was based in the Army there. During an altercation with a disc jockey in The Robin Hood pub, a physical confrontation took place which ended with the landlord fetching a double barrelled shotgun from upstairs and fatally wounding Coddy. He was only 34.

I had come across Coddy a couple of times, and he was a fearsome character with a record for football-related violence, but it was still a harrowing incident. The murder made the front pages of the local Evening Sentinel newspaper, and the subsequent trial was followed closely by a divided readership and ended when the landlord was finally acquitted on the grounds of self defence. Had he used reasonable force? In my view, that was difficult to accept.

Mickey told me that his brother's wake had been held near his Crackley home at a Chesterton Working Men's Club, where a relative heard one of the assembled remark that the deceased had 'deserved everything he got.' The ensuing retribution against this foolhardy individual was swift and savage.

I got on with Micky. He was quiet and unassuming, but a hard worker, and this was appreciated when an early finish was imperative.

The job did have a downside though, as it wasn't ideal to go straight to the match smelling like a waste bin with the possibility of a discarded fish bone sticking out of your top pocket.

In the steel warehouse, I worked to suit the time I needed to travel to matches by making up my hours on other days.

Both jobs were tough and physical and always required an early rise, even though the previous night's result was all-important to my frame of mind the following morning.

Big Billy

Throughout my 70 plus different occupations, I've inevitably come across a broad range of characters, some not always nice. Such a chap worked at Herbert-Dyson Stainless.

Over the years, I've met jobsworths, 'Hitlers,' know-it-alls, boss's boys, tall tale tellers, yes men, shirkers and workers. My own method of dealing with the troublesome minority is to diplomatically ignore or avoid their views and presence by simply getting on with my own job.

But from time to time, you come across a fellow employee who is worse than the worst, the works bully, who repels all efforts of reconciliation. A bloke of longer service and self-proclaimed authority, he is always miserable, constantly harassing his colleagues and downright unbearable, the type that would lodge a formal complaint if his missus opened her legs for his pleasure.

I call these individual 'clouds of doom' as they give the impression that a permanent dark cloud hovers over their head. If you look hard enough around your own workplace, I'm sure you'll find one.

This one was Andy Williams. Yep, the namesake of the famous American warbler of the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties, though this particular one wasn't a singer, he was a whinger, big style.

Time and time again, he would criticise your job. No matter how well you completed your task, nothing would be good enough for this man, until he'd push you too far and make you snap.

"You need some therapy, son," I suggested one day, followed by "What's the problem, Bunter?" as I had a dig at the spare timber he carried on his waistline.

Like a bulldog that had swallowed a wasp, he'd retaliate in an aggressive, threatening manner, then after he was verbally or physically put in his place, I'd leave him to stew in his own depressive juices.

Meanwhile, I would present myself as outwardly ever-willing and indefatigably happy to accentuate the pointlessness of his nasty behaviour, at the same time making sure there was no cause to complain about the standard of my work.

This would antagonise him even more, resulting in a more profound scowl as the day went on. As our shift was coming to an end, I'd make a point of whistling a certain little tune each time 'Big Billy,' as I christened him after the Billy Bunter character from the schoolday novel, came anywhere near.

So to the words of "Smile, though your heart is aching, smile even though it's breaking," which ends with the words "just smile," I tried to wind him up.

It worked after repeated attempts, as he finally cottoned on to the fact that I only whistled the song when he was around. After initially lunging at me fort 'taking the piss,' a crack spread across his face that developed into a wide smile.

After all else had failed, my ever so subtle approach had progressively made him mull over his demeanour, and from that day on, Andy was a changed man. Realising the futility of his everyday negative disposition, he completely reversed his image.

He gradually became the life and soul of every gathering, laughing and joking in equal measure, helping everyone out and generally just enjoying life at work and play.

'Big Billy' was consigned to the past as he got himself toned up, and I renamed him 'Medium' to describe his new size.

Andy has become a firm friend who regularly phones me for a 'dose of therapy' to pick him up when he feels a bit down. We chat, we laugh, we talk football and meet for a drink. And if he sees a morose, down in the dumps personality walk by, he'll now shout out to them to "get some therapy."

Hair of the dog

The length of my locks was becoming a bit of a hindrance when I hitchhiked to games. The driver's immediate split second perception of me projected an image of a stereotypical layabout hippy.

However, one good thing about the Bohemian look is that you can blend in easily with the student fraternity, which was a big plus considering we had the largest campus-based university in the country just three miles up the road at Keele. The presence of the university had two notable advantages for me. For one, the social life was vibrant, with quality live bands and frequent discos. Secondly, I was able to meet people from all round the country, including Burnley fans and, of course, girls.

I'd already met up with a couple of regular Burnley FC attendees.

The aforementioned Tony Campbell, an outspoken devotee of the club, was my first acquaintance, although he didn't endear himself to his fellow scholars with his inimitable, no-nonsense approach.

His bar room repartee took the following format. After being introduced to a stranger, his first task would be to ascertain which team the individual supported, before systematically ripping them apart with a vicious verbal salvo of unwarranted diatribe. He would then add a derogatory sentence or two directed at their "crap following at Burnley" the last time we played them. Predictably, he struggled to make friends, let alone influence people with his caustic delivery, but his bulky 20 stone frame prevented a violent response in most cases.

The other enthusiast was Lorne Hayhurst, who hailed from the fishing port of Fleetwood on the Fylde coast. He was everything that Tony wasn't, being well spoken, considerate and, more importantly, subtle.

PICTURE CAPTION

The Naval Commander: I finish cleaning my teeth with Keele student 'Gwynneth' as her nice mum and unimpressed dad look on.

Although from Lancashire, Lorne's accent was more 'Queen's English,' voiced in a deep-throated brogue. We'd had a brief encounter with a pair of girls studying at Keele, Anne and Linda, the former having driven us all up to a game at Burnley the previous season, with me extolling its virtues with the phrase: 'There's nothing on earth like going to the Turf!'

They'd both had a great day enjoying the pub hospitality and the Longside terrace experience. We had also won that game, so I suggested we do it again, this time at Portsmouth, on Saturday, October 18. Anne's parents lived in Fareham, Hampshire, and so a Friday night stopover was proposed. It was agreed, and so this time Lorne drove us all down the A34, arriving at a pub on the outskirts of town at 10pm. Refreshed, we set off the short distance to our destination.

On the way down, Anne had remarked that her dad owned a yacht that he had purchased after retiring from the forces. So it was no surprise when we pulled up outside an equally desirable residence, set within salubrious surroundings.

As we walked up the illuminated drive to the house, I could see her father facing the large, double-glazed front window. He looked the very picture of tranquillity as he contentedly relaxed in his plush armchair viewing the television. A casual glance towards us was followed by a fully focused glare and then, as if propelled out of his seat by an ejector button, he sprang to his feet.

His face displayed a perplexed frown as he strode purposefully towards us. I'd already guessed the source of his consternation. It was me, or rather my long hair. First impressions can be deceptive, but it was no use telling this man. I could tell that the former no-nonsense naval commander had already made his mind up.

Anne gingerly introduced me. Her vexed father looked on slack jawed before leading his daughter to the kitchen for a 'quiet word,' while Anne's infinitely more pleasant mother happily served up cups of tea and chatted. An awkward 15 minutes then passed as feet were shuffled and fingers tapped. The lounge felt like an adjourned courtroom, such was the air of foreboding hanging heavily over me, the defendant, awaiting the verdict on whether or not I would be allowed to stay the night at this plush pad.

Eventually, Anne emerged smiling, and diplomatically showed us to our rooms, with her father following one pace behind, maintaining his purple scowl. I was put in the 'box room,' the place with the least valuables in it. I'd certainly been prejudged as the devil incarnate by Anne's father but I was in, albeit only just.

The following morning I made my way to the bathroom for a quick splash. I'd heard some creaking of floorboards by the door whilst I was in there and sure enough, as I exited, there was Anne's father supposedly waiting to go in.

He anxiously brushed past me with a muffled grunt and I imagined him frantically checking the water cistern and ball cock for a hidden stash of cannabis. For the rest of the morning, he was like my very own shadow, never letting me out of his sight until our departure. But his bigoted misconception had taught me one thing. While my hair was like this, I would always be categorised as something I was not.

I'd loaned Anne a silk Burnley scarf before the game, with the promise that if we won she could keep it. I didn't really expect to hand it over as we had lost the previous four games.

The match began, and after 12 minutes Kevin Young scored for Burnley, and team hung on to their lead until half-time. However, two minutes after the restart, 'Pompey' equalised from a penalty, harshly awarded for a Vince Overson handball. We awaited the inevitable, but Andy Wharton, Burnley's left back, volleyed home a stunner to clinch a 2-1 victory.

In terms of commitment, Andy was the sort of player that every club needed. His allegiance was beyond doubt. He had B.F.C. tattooed across his knuckles, and before he won a place in the first team used to travel with the lads in the transit van to away games and join in with the terrace chants.

As well as winning us our points, Andy had won Anne her scarf, and yet we still remained in the bottom four of Division Three. But looking at the team that played at Fratton Park, it was a scandal that we found ourselves in such a lowly position.

We had midfielder Trevor Steven, who went on to play for Everton, Rangers, Marseille and England, accumulating transfer fees of more than £9 million in the process. In comparison, we sold him for a cut-price £300,000, unforgivably omitting to include that valuable sell-on clause.

There was Martin Dobson, another stylish player who had returned to Turf Moor after beginning his career at Burnley before going on to play for both Everton and England, and was still a class act though he was by now in his thirties.

In goal we had the dependable Alan Stevenson, and the full back on the opposite side of the field to Wharton was Brian Laws, both of whom had represented England at a junior level.

Our centre forward was Billy Hamilton, who would win 41 Northern Ireland caps and was just months away from stardom on a global scale at the 1982 World Cup finals. He was Burnley's best target man since Andy Lochhead graced the Turf in the 1960s.

With such a nucleus of quality footballers, it seemed incomprehensible that we weren't actually challenging for promotion, but the League table didn't lie.

It seemed little had changed when Burnley went on to draw their next four League games against Exeter (H) 3-3, Preston (A) 1-1, Fulham (H) 2-2 and Brentford (A) 0-0.

Little did we suspect that this mediocre spell of results would be the foundation of an unbeaten 20 match run which would propel us up the division and not come to an end until one rain-sodden Saturday at Exeter in March, 1982.

Kaiser's Tours

I'd travelled down to that Exeter game with 'Kaiser's Tours.'

These were in the form of a transit van that departed from the Bacup area of East Lancashire around midnight, after the pubs had closed on a Friday night. Kaiser, a small but heavily built youth of forthright views and quick temper. He was more layered than muscular, but this didn't stop him from standing his ground in any confrontational situation, to such an extent that even though he was only in his early twenties, he already had more than 30 football-related offences to his name, and he'd got away with a lot more.

Often he became involved in what most people would consider to be trivial matters, such as the incident that I had witnessed after a night match on the previous Tuesday at Walsall.

We'd stopped on the outskirts of town for the last hour of drinking time, after which everyone wanted some supper from the local Chinese takeaway. Kaiser had joined the queue with the rest of us, contentedly chatting about the team's 1-1 draw that night. In the meantime, an impatient local youth with an attitude, a bad one, had jumped the line ahead of us and Kaiser had spotted him.

Now, a simple but succinct comment of "There's a queue here, mate!" would normally be enough to prevent any further transgressions, but unfortunately this approach didn't form any part of Kaiser's vocabulary.

"Who the fuck do yer think you are? Get in the fucking queue like every bastard else has to!" was Kaiser's appraisal of the indiscretion. A polite "fuck off" from the offender wasn't enough to prevent a Kaiser onslaught.

Chaos broke out as he launched himself, fists flying, through the waiting customers as they scattered to avoid the fracas. The Chinese proprietor could see his trade slipping away and responded by grabbing a large wooden flail, complete with spiked metal balls from under the counter, which he started to whirl round his head like an extra from a Bruce Lee film, clearing the whole shop in the process. So because Kaiser completely lost his head, we all lost our supper.

It's a fact that takeaways have long been potential flashpoints for disorder at weekends. Hungry, alcohol-fuelled strangers gathering in an enclosed space while waiting for food can be a fractious combination of impatience and irritability. But this was a dank Tuesday night in a sleepy suburb of Walsall, for heaven's sake.

This incident perfectly illustrated the total unpredictability of travelling with Kaiser's Tours, but the advantage of a full day and night out to your destination, as opposed to straight in and out of the ground by most other means, made it seem all worthwhile.

Kaiser was the leader of the Burnley firm by this time, and as the cartoon character Top Cat had Benny the Ball, Brains, Choo-Choo, Fancy and Spook in his gang, Kaiser's crew was made up, among others, of personalities such as Swiper, Dobber, Brenno, Ferret and Slats, and he organised these sorties to most away games.

And so it was that we found ourselves rolling out of the back doors of the van in drizzly Devon just before the unearthly hour of 5am on the Saturday morning. It had already been a troubled trip. We'd had a face-off at the Strensham motorway services on the M5 with some handy looking Bolton lads who were also in a transit van en route to Plymouth, and the bottle of whisky that had been passed around was now having its effect.

After taking a 7am breakfast at the bus station café, we wandered around aimlessly until, at 10 o'clock, we persuaded the Hole-in-the-Wall town centre pub to open its doors to us. I hit it off straight away with Sonia, a busty barmaid who lived in the city and who would provide me with accommodation for the next couple of years whenever we played in Devon.

But now the topping up process had begun in earnest. By my own admission, I was 'steaming' long before kick-off, and it was an inebriated, boisterous group that queued outside the away terrace, which was an open end of the ground. The overzealous police were twitchy and were threatening arrest for simply chanting outside the ground. Their request was largely ignored.

As kick-off approached and the queues lengthened, the incessant drizzle of the morning gave way to a heavier downpour, so I decided to skip the queue to go on the narrow, covered 'cow shed' which constituted the Exeter fans' side of the ground. They had a hardcore mob of no more than 50, so I didn't feel unduly concerned as I shouted on the Clarets.

The game was still a scoreless stalemate in the cloying, squelching mud of St James' Park as I made my way for the obligatory half-time urination in the cornered, claustrophobic brick toilet. In mid-flow, I received a push in the back, propelling me forward, and resulting in 'Percy hitting the porcelain' and a stream of hot pee down both legs. It was an intolerable act in such a situation.

"What are you doing in 'ere, you Stoke bastard?" a voice spluttered incoherently.

It was Brenno from Nelson who had travelled down with us. He'd pushed me as a joke, but I didn't see the funny side. I hurriedly finished what was left of my slash and then immediately turned round to confront him.

"You fucking twat!" I yelled as I grabbed him round the neck, both of us effectively blocking any access to or from the bogs. The mêlée alerted the police, who rushed over to break it up. As they were frogmarching both of us out of the ground through the main wooden gate, an observant sergeant issued me with a warning.

"You walk the opposite way into town and don't try and get in again, or you'll be arrested." Then, pointing between my legs, he added: "And put that away, or we'll also do you for carrying an offensive weapon."

I glanced down. In the ensuing fracas with Brenno, I hadn't bothered to zip myself up. My dick was 'taking the air' from out of my boxer shorts. Pointing an accusing finger as Brenno walked away, I began to circumnavigate the ground. Just as the teams came out for the second half, I spotted a bloke in an orange jacket by a partly-opened entrance to the main stand.

"Can I come in, mate?" I asked, waving a fiver under his nose. "My train was late."

I was in, and took my seat on the end of a row halfway down the wooden structure, setting my claret and blue headband in place to keep the hair out of my eyes. We were hanging on for a point to maintain our five month unbeaten run when their man Rogers scored a quick brace, his second coming with just seven minutes remaining. We pulled one back through our young sub Mark Allen, who headed home.

And then in the last minute, a Kevin Young shot found the net via a post. I couldn't help myself. I bounded over the low stand wall and started a delirious dance across to the halfway line in celebration. But after first allowing the goal, referee Vickers had his attention drawn to the linesman's flag and changed his decision.

I fell flat on my chest, thumping the porridge-like surface in sheer frustration. I looked up and saw our manager Brian Miller shaking his head, whether in disbelief at the decision, or at my attempt at bog-snorkelling, I'll never know.

I walked back disconsolately to my place. No steward or policeman attempted to apprehend me as the whistle blew for full time. Maybe they felt I'd suffered enough humiliation for one day. On the way back, the lads in the transit van made sure Brenno and I were sat at opposite ends of the floor. It wasn't really necessary, as we were both wet and whacked by the day's proceedings and duly fell asleep for the home journey.

Not Bikini Weather

The season did, however, produce the satisfactory ending we were looking for. We secured promotion with a comprehensive 4-1 win at Roots Hall, home of Southend United, with Andy Wharton scoring another absolute stunner.

I had hitched the 200 miles across country with a view to dossing overnight at nearby Southend airport. But upon inquiring before the game, I was informed that the last flight was scheduled to leave at 6pm, after which the airport closed down for the day. So after the game I cadged a lift from 'Rock Steady Eddie,' who was then residing in Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, just a couple of miles from junction 8 of the M1, handy for the hitch home the following day. His windscreen had been accidentally shattered by a pebble flying up in the wake of a fast moving truck, so it was a cold drive home. No matter – we were up.

The next and final game was an evening encounter at home to Chesterfield, and the Division Three Championship rested on the result.

The opposition were a dispirited side with only three victories in their last 17 matches, but the atrocious weather conditions proved an effective leveller. At around 7.15pm, a thunderstorm broke above the ground, and the Turf Moor pitch was transformed into a paddy field. Burnley's biggest crowd for six years, 18,655, waited for referee George Tyson's decision. He advised a delay of 15 minutes to allow the water to drain, and then it was 'Game On!'

The first half was a complete farce as standing pools of water on some parts of the pitch constantly interrupted the movement of the ball, whilst other, firmer patches provided an unpredictable skid and bounce.

Pritchy had decided to come up for the title clincher. He drove us up in plenty of time, which was just as well, as I had a game plan for this one.

To celebrate winning promotion, and the opportunity this provided me to reacquaint myself with the barber's chair, I wanted to do something especially appropriate to commemorate the occasion. I planned to run on to the pitch at the final whistle wearing the claret and blue bikini that I had bought as a birthday present for then girlfriend Susan in 1975.

When we split up in 1977, I asked for it back in the hope of finding another girlfriend of similar proportions to model the number for me in the future. But, perhaps as a result of my unkempt appearance, I hadn't had a 'steady' for five years, relying instead on the casual attractions of the one-night stand for female company. Even so, I'd never envisaged myself donning the twin set in a cross-dressing capacity.

Yet there I was at half time in the 'trap' of the gents' toilet with Pritch helping to adjust my shoulder strapping! If the law had charged down the door, we wouldn't have had a legal leg to stand on. Just how do you explain one bloke helping to clothe the other by placing jumbo Jaffas down his D cup?

Luckily, I'd had the foresight to squeeze into the bikini bottoms before travelling, or else more serious aspersions could have been cast. Bloody tight they were, too. There was no way anything would be displaced in the nether regions with this second skin in place. I put my donkey jacket back on to cover my considerable charms and we conspicuously slipped into our seats in the Bob Lord stand for the second half.

Burnley had gone 1-0 down after Mickey Carroll had steered his shot beyond Alan Stevenson for his first goal in League football, but we almost immediately equalised when man of the match Trevor Steven slotted the perfect pass through to Kevin Young in the 48th minute. His powerful left-footed shot flew across goalkeeper Turner and nestled in the far corner of the net.

Because of the delayed kick-off, we were aware that Fulham, our nearest challengers, had managed just a draw against a Lincoln side itself challenging for promotion, meaning that only Carlisle could possibly deny us the title, and that only if they achieved an improbable 7-0 victory at Chester the following night. As it happened, they won, but only 1-0.

So with the Third Division Championship almost certainly secured, with a minute of play to go I slid out of my jeans in readiness for my vault over the perimeter fence.

The ref blew his whistle to end the game. This was my cue.

I threw off my donkey jacket and bounded down the steps, springing over the enclosure fence like a demented ostrich. Sidestepping a couple of patrolling stewards, I crossed the white touchline and raced to congratulate the lads. I later heard from some Burnley fans whose relatives were listening to the game on the local station Radio Lancashire that the match commentator described my pitch invasion live to the county, something along these lines:

And there goes the final whistle, Burnley are as good as Champions of Division Three, and Turf Moor rises as one to acclaim their heroes.

A few fans have managed to get on to the pitch...including what looks like a very tall young lady. You're not going to believe what I'm now witnessing. The surface is like a mud bath and she has just leapt out of the Bob Lord Stand dressed only in a swimsuit bikini. She's making her way over to Martin Dobson with her arms fully outstretched...ha ha...presumably to shake his hand...ha ha!

But hold on a minute, an orange has just dropped out of the bikini top...ha haa...and I've just realised the she is actually a he! I've seen it all now! He is in fact a chap with hair halfway down his back. He's just managed to hoist Paul McGee on to his shoulders, so he must be a strong lad, and now himself and the players are engulfed by hundreds of supporters. Great stuff!

The Republic of Ireland international must have been one of the heaviest blokes on the park, and I could feel myself weakening as the crowd swilled around us. I laboured to push us both through to the players' tunnel and was in two minds whether to continue on to the dressing room and jump into the communal bath as a grand finale. What a picture that would have made.

Standing just in front of us earlier on, observing what was going on, was Norman 'Knuckles' Jones. He had just taken it upon himself to grab a fork from one of the ground staff at half time and help spike the turf to assist drainage.

Norman liked to get involved, but unfortunately it was usually with illegal activities. He was, and still is, a staunch Burnley fan, although over the past 40 years Knuckles' record of 140 previous convictions has meant the confines of Her Majesty's prisons have severely restricted his attendance.

As a touching gesture of loyalty, and not to be left out of the proceedings, Norm took off his trousers and ran on the pitch with me. I'm not sure if it was some sort of personal ritual, but it was certainly a hoot.

After the game, I rejoined Pritch to rejoice around town. The beer flowed freely until kicking out time, and it wasn't all consumed in the normal manner, full pints being poured over heads in sheer, unrestrained delight, a ceremonial anointment of the team's success. Burnley had been crowned champions on the exact anniversary of the club's formation 100 years ago on May 18, 1882.

"Where are those scissors?" cried the villagers on my return.

"Let's have it off!" they yelped.

So to make the most of my ceremonial hair cut, as well as to promote Burnley's championship feat against the odds, I requested a public scalping. I charged the regulars 10p an inch to snip off my luxuriant locks at my local pub, The Offley Arms. An admirable response raised the sum of £83.30 for the Cystic Fybrosis charity, and once again I became an accepted member of the community.

Getting 'tattooed up'

I desired a more permanent reminder of such a great achievement. It's a crucial decision for any individual to make, whether or not to permanently etch your skin for the sake of body art. Act in haste, and you could easily live to repent at leisure.

How many old men must feel that way now after having the acronym A.C.A.B. initialled on their fingers to state that, in their eyes, 'all coppers are bastards'? Then there's LOVE and HATE senselessly lettered across the knuckles of blokes who thought it was a macho accessory at the time. And what about the blue ink swallow between the cleft of thumb and index finger to denote a spell as a 'jailbird'?

All instantly branded the individual as someone to avoid, a damning first impression that doesn't court social acceptability. Any women silly enough to request such basic scrawls were categorised as 'rough' outcasts.

But gone are the days of seedy backstreet premises. Tattooing has now officially entered the mainstream, and there is even a parlour inside London's swanky Selfridge's store on Oxford Street.

Although mummification techniques have preserved 4,000-year-old tattoos, the modern word derives from the Tahitian 'tatau', meaning 'to mark,' and was introduced to Britain by Captain Cook after his voyage to the South Sea islands in 1769, hence the tattooing tradition amongst sailors.

Nowadays, tattoos are fashion statements for young adults. It's an original way of declaring identity and a sense of belonging to an exclusive group. To me, they are a form of self-expression, rather like decorating your bedroom walls, though obviously more lasting. It's each to their own, though any tattoo should be of a design or statement that forms a fundamental part of someone's being, and it is my belief that everyone should have one as their own mark of expression to the outside world.

Probably as many women as men now make an appointment at the local parlour, yet until the late 1980s tattoos were perceived as totally unfeminine. As we entered the new millennium, a little dolphin, butterfly or flower became routinely visible upon a female's favoured choice of shoulder, lower back or somewhere even more intimate. All of a sudden, tattoos were cool.

I have only three such illustrations, all of which were completed before it was fashionable to do so.

I was 27 in 1980 when I deliberated long and hard over the whole point of having one. I eventually went for a Union Jack and Red Rose of Lancashire motif, with 'Burnley F.C.' in a hand-written style on the underlying scroll, on my upper right arm. It cost £12, and I was pleased with it as it embodied my patriotism for both club and country.

But it did leave me with a strange feeling of unevenness, or of an imbalance, so a second one followed on the top of my left arm. Once again it was out of the tattooist's pattern book, but was more a combination of styles, with a larger red rose centrepiece, a scroll both above and below, supported by a pointed base. This time, I had Burnley's nickname of 'CLARETS' on one scroll, and 'LONGSIDER' on the other, denoting the terrace where I stood on. The letters B.F.C were also added. My familiar village name of Ralphy underwrote the design in one inch signature style a few years later.

I remained content with the pair until this promotion year, when I wished to commemorate our amazing reversal in form that won us the old Third Division.

I wanted a full size club crest on the right side of my chest. No parlour in Burnley did the badge outline at the time, and so it was down to 'Gentle John's' at Fenton in the Potteries to have it traced from the team shirt. It took two sittings, and this time it hurt as the needle tore into my skin, the sweat dripping down my armpits reflecting my unease. I had 'Burnley F.C.' arced above it in 'Old English' lettering to highlight the colouring, and it was complete. I gladly handed over my forty quid. It was a big decision to have it done, but if you're a dedicated fan you wear the badge with pride.

An estimated 500 Burnley supporters have since had it etched upon some part of their anatomy. The club adopted this much superior emblem in 1973-74, after their last promotion to the top division. With its detailed design and attractive content, it must surely rate as one of the best in the country.

Just visiting

Our first three games of the 1982-83 season represented an encouraging start to life back in the Second Division. After an opening goalless draw at home to Bolton, both Middlesbrough away and Carlisle at home were dispatched by the same impressive 4-1 scoreline.

Then everything went wrong. Only two more League wins were registered up to the New Year, with Crystal Palace and Cambridge each beaten 2-1 at Turf Moor.

What had caused such a turnaround in fortune? To a large extent, the answer lay with the distraction of the League Cup competition, which had then been ludicrously renamed the 'Milk Cup,' after its first sponsor. We had recorded victories over Bury and Middlesbrough in two-legged ties before overcoming Coventry and Birmingham in the Third and Fourth Rounds. This set us up for a plum Quarter Final draw against Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane.

The date was January 19, 1983, and all the talk on the away terrace was about the removal of manager Brian Miller on the morning of the team's departure by coach to London, with Frank Casper being put temporarily in charge.

Not the best preparation for such a game, you would imagine, but history records an amazing 4-1 triumph against all the odds in front of more than 30,000 spectators. Ossie Ardiles, Glenn Hoddle, Ricky Villa and Gary Mabbutt were all tamed as the mighty Clarets roared back from 1-0 down to stun the Spurs. They were helped by two own goals from Graham Roberts, but big Billy Hamilton also added a brace to complete a most unlikely victory. It still stands as the most sensational performance I've ever witnessed watching Burnley.

Before the game, our hooligan crew had run a mob of Spurs fans down the Tottenham High Road, perhaps explaining the resultant three revenge stabbings we incurred after the match. I returned to my companion Anne's Watford flat unscathed and continued the celebrations through to the morning.

We finally bowed out to Liverpool 3-1 on aggregate in the Semi Final. By this time, considerable progress was also being made in the FA Cup which only ended, after a seven game run, with a resounding 5-0 thumping in a Quarter-Final replay at Sheffield Wednesday in the middle of March. At the end of the same month, the team embarked on a fatal sequence of five straight League defeats, which included a hard-to-stomach reverse at Ewood Park, home of our deadly rivals Blackburn Rovers.

PICTURE CAPTION

Ewood explosion: Rioting Burnley fans in front of the damaged roof.th

The Ewood Riots

It was an Easter Monday, April 4, 1983, when I travelled up for this game with two of my most regular match day companions, 'Tricky' Trev Slack from Stockport, and Steve 'the Veg' Mackriel, the mild-mannered vegan from Wolverhampton.

We sauntered off for a few pre-match pints in one of the few pubs near the Ewood Park ground that would serve away supporters. Little did we know of the eventful day that lay ahead.

There's always that bit of static electricity in the air when Burnley visit Blackburn, but the stakes were much higher this time. From our position at the very bottom of the table, we were fighting for our Second Division lives whilst Blackburn occupied a mid-table position.

The attendance that day was only 13,434, but it seemed that wherever you looked on the away fans' Darwen End enclosure, known faces were milling around intent on upping the ante for the clash. It was as if every pub that nestled within the shadow of Pendle Hill had organised an 'idiots' outing' for this one. The big police presence looked on, rightly apprehensive as the traditional taunting between opposing factions was cranked up. A plastic football was kicked and punched around the away end before eventually landing on the pitch, at which point it was confiscated by an over-zealous officer to a loud chorus of boos, and the announcement of team changes was drowned out by a multitude of piercing whistles.

The game kicked off at a furious pace and Burnley's frenetic industry was in keeping with the importance of the occasion. However, a dubious penalty awarded to the home side, and duly dispatched, was an unjust setback to the Clarets. As referee David Hutchinson of Harrogate blew to end an ill-tempered first half, his decisions had left the away fans fuming, and Burnley trailing by that single penalty goal.

The tension that had been building began to manifest itself evidently during the half time interval. A smoke bomb was discharged and hurled onto the pitch. The police, whose main body was dug in to the left hand side under a wooden observation post by the corner flag, were the target of some coin throwers.

As I made my way to the decrepit gents' toilets, a loud cheer went up to herald an impromptu game of 'welly wanging'. A large green Wellington boot had been pulled from an unfortunate's leg and was being vigorously tossed to and fro among the boisterous crowd amidst howls of laughter.

But in the short time it took me to have a leak, the whole atmosphere had changed dramatically.

As I waited outside the latrine for Trev and Steve, I saw a couple of cops engaging in a game of 'hunt the welly,' perhaps rightly reasoning that the heavy missile was too dangerous to be thrown around. This prompted the antagonists to merely conceal the said article until the officers came near, before hurling it out of their reach as they attempted to claim it. Clearly frustrated by being given the run around, they settled on detaining the last welly lobber they encountered. But he wasn't going quietly, and with the assistance of his gathered mates, a mêlée of windmilling arms resulted in each policeman's helmet flying off into the crowd and the two coppers beating a retreat back to their enclave in the corner.

It was too much for the chief superintendent to see two of his men have both their bodies and their self respect badly bruised in this way, and he was clearly seen making plans with his forces gathered around him.

As Trev and Steve emerged from the toilet, I updated them on proceedings and we decided to relocate further up and to the left of the terrace to avoid any fallout from the incident.

As the second half kicked off, a glance to the left revealed scores of reinforcement officers arrive to be immediately dispatched in the area between the Darwen End and the main stand, just 10 yards away from our new spot alongside the outer perimeter. They looked uncomfortable and edgy. The dog handlers were struggling to restrain their Alsatians, and a cacophony of barking yelps echoed around the terrace.

But this build up served merely to inflame others. We looked behind us to see one regular violator of law and order taking his anger out on the overhead structure. With his arms wrapped round a steel RSJ support, he swung up to inflict heavy drop kicks to the underside of the roof.

Eventually, he was rewarded with a loud crack as the corrugated asbestos panels began to break, and the ready ammunition of fallen debris was seized upon by his minions. These irregular, sharp-edged projectiles began to skim over people's heads in the general direction of either the playing area or the beleaguered cluster of police. It was without any doubt an extremely dangerous thing to do, and the rapid reaction force knew they had to act accordingly to restore order.

But instead of dealing with the source of the outbreak at the back of the stand, the line of around 50 cops advanced as one into the main bulk of the Burnley following, triggering violent confrontation. As the band of blue surged forward, their truncheons were being wielded indiscriminately. A number of spectators fell to the floor of the terrace through the sheer propulsion of the police charge, and truncheons were not the only weapon deployed. The police dogs were summoned into action, their snapping snouts used as a means to clear spectators from areas of terracing. The dogs progressed up to where we were stood, the cops ordering us to move on.

Already completely pissed off with the injustice of events on the pitch, we were not prepared to be treated as criminals off it. We all objected strongly at this unjustifiable incitement.

"What's your problem, mate? I'm just trying to watch a fucking game. We're fuck all to do with it!" I explained tersely.

"Go and fuck yourselves!" was Tricky's more direct advice.

The Veg chipped in with a more sedate appraisal of the goings on: "It's just f**king disgraceful!"

It mattered not. Our protestations fell on deaf ears as an increasingly agitated police line powered forward with the grim intent of a Gestapo unit attempting to unearth a fugitive.

That was the last I saw of Trev and Steve. Wholesale disorder broke out as the justifiably aggrieved fans meted out a ferocious retaliation on the police, with ourselves sandwiched between the warring factions. I was dragged to the ground as a police dog locked its jaws upon the arm of my sheepskin coat with such power and ferocity that it ripped away the stitching at the shoulder. A second canine snacked on one of my trainers before being sharply tugged back.

As the police grabbed fans and hauled them off the ground into the waiting vans, their ranks became more dispersed and depleted, even with the substantial back up that was constantly arriving through the side gate. They had totally lost control of the situation. A full scale riot was in progress.

The referee, about to start the second half, took the players off the pitch. Our caretaker manager Frank Casper made his way to the small, raised cubicle from which the ground's PA system was controlled, and, in full view of the Burnley fans, condemned them strongly for their conduct.

Unsurprisingly, he got short shrift. He hadn't witnessed the circumstances that had contributed to the tumult. As he made his way back to the dressing room, a piece of asbestos roofing landed by his feet. Large patches of daylight now gaped dramatically from the terrace roof, and the 'forces of law and order' were in little better shape, forced into a humiliating retreat as the sheer weight of numbers corralled them back to their assembly point in the corner.

It was Martin Luther King who said in one of his impassioned speeches that "Riots are the language of the unheard." This was one such occasion where those words applied. For far too long at Turf Moor, those responsible for the health of our club had wilfully ignored our voices and contemptuously dismissed our ideas. It seemed that everyone was conspiring to put us down, and this was the sorry outcome.

After 15 minutes and the adoption of a less heavy handed police approach, order finally descended on the away end and the teams re-emerged to play out the second half in a much more sombre climate. Blackburn doubled their lead with another highly questionable penalty, and though Derek Scott pulled a goal back with some time remaining, the game ended in a 2-1 defeat.

But where were my mates?

When the result was finally confirmed, I angrily asked a copper where the custody suite was located in case they had been lifted in the confusion. He informed me that if they weren't being held under the stand, any offenders would be in the town centre police station. Neither Trev nor the Veg subsequently returned to the car, so I reasoned that they were in custody. I returned to the ground and charged past the commissionaire on the door of the main VIP reception and angrily confronted the first important looking person I came across. It just happened to be Bill Fox, the Blackburn chairman.

"Where are our arrested fans being kept?" I demanded.

Realising I was the enemy, his fixed smile quickly turned to a concerned frown. To his credit, he did direct me to the central cop shop without hesitation and with the minimum of fuss.

I set off apace, but first I decided to call into the Bolton Road Infirmary on the way, in case either of them had been a casualty of the chaos. I approached the resident sister in charge, and she checked a long list of detainees.

"Yes, Mr Mackriel has had stitches to a head wound and is currently undergoing an exploratory X-ray," she informed me.

After half an hour, The Veg showed his face. He looked pale and shaken, and sported a broad crimson streak across his head as a souvenir of the day. But he was free to leave. He explained that he'd had his head split open by a wayward police truncheon for no other reason than being there. I believed him. As we left the hospital grounds, we bumped into Trev, walking down the hill from the town.

"I've been nicked!" he announced disconsolately. "But just read my report sheet on what I'm supposed to have done!"

We did. It ludicrously suggested that he had 'offered to take any of them on'! Trev had been summoned to appear in court the following month along with 31 other Burnley fans charged, like him, with public order offences. Trev went on to tell us that he had been knocked out, then escorted off the terrace to be treated, where he was duly placed under arrest.

Myself and The Veg gave evidence in support of Trev at his court hearing, and this in itself became something of a performance.

The rotund, bespectacled prosecuting lawyer wasted no time with his verbal bullying, especially towards me.

"Your name is David Burnley. Is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"Do you go to many Burnley matches, Mr Burnley?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Every one," I replied firmly.

"I understand that you changed your name by deed poll, Mr Burnley, to that of your football club."

He gave a sideways glance to the by now somewhat bewildered judge, as if he'd made a point about my trustworthiness.

"I put it to you, Mr Burnley, that you travel all over the country to create trouble and mayhem wherever you go!"

I could see that this accusation, executed with a booming flourish and somewhat theatrical finger wagging, was designed to bring out an aggressive reaction on my part to further his case. I kept my composure.

"I put it to you that if that was true, then surely I would have been arrested many times for football related offences, as opposed to never having been charged at all!" I said.

He got the message, and so, evidently, did the judge, who dismissed the case against Trev, who was delighted. It meant he had no criminal record and so could apply for hire purchase terms for the next Grattan catalogue with confidence.

My own testimony of never having been charged with a football related felony wasn't quite spot on, however. You might remember the reference in Chapter 6 to the breakfast served on a polystyrene plate? Well, this occurred after a troublesome Texaco Cup fixture at Norwich in December, 1973, which was also the occasion of a brush with the law.

I was with 'Big H,' Henry Lumsden from Watford, celebrating a 3-2 victory with a curry after that Wednesday night match, before catching the last train to London. It was one o'clock in the morning by the time we arrived, leaving us with little option but to walk across the city to Euston station, where I was planning to bed down for the night.

Our mood was buoyant and perhaps a little merry after a heavy day's drinking. We were only around 15 minutes into our trek when two policemen drove up and stopped us to inquire what we were doing at such an hour. They split me and 'H' up as each officer asked us our identity.

"Frank Casper!" I replied flippantly, giving him the name of our famous centre forward without thinking through the ramifications of such an action.

Under the circumstances, it was a stupid thing to say, especially so as I was in possession of my brother Shaun's plain blue rail pass that entitled him, and him alone, to travel by train at a quarter of the normal fare. They searched my wallet and immediately noted the discrepancy in names. To confound matters even more, Henry had given them my true title of David Beeston.

I was arrested on the spot for attempting to gain a pecuniary advantage on a cheap train ticket that I was not entitled to. I spent a night in the cells before being awakened at 6am for a 'full English' on that polystyrene plate. I was taken in a full sized prison van to Clerkenwell magistrates' court where I was fined the grand sum of £12. It was a fair cop, but what a silly way to be caught!

Thankfully, Trev's brush with the criminal justice system had an entirely happy ending, and he was even awarded costs.

As for the 30 other Burnley supporters arrested that day, none were found guilty of the offences they were charged with by Blackburn and Darwen police. Testimony given under oath by Burnley fans during the trials confirmed the reality of the situation – that the police had arrested people at random, many of them scrambling to get away from the trouble. As The Veg testified: "I turned to run from the police charge as everyone would do in the same situation. They weren't just yobs, but women and children running to get away."

That 2-1 defeat at Ewood Park turned out to be the third of five consecutive defeats that left Burnley with the unrealistic task of winning five of their last seven games to stay up. Improbably though, the Clarets eked out three wins and two draws, including a victory over runaway leaders QPR, to leave themselves with a do-or-die last game at Crystal Palace.

A victory could have seen us finish as high as 14th. A draw was no good, and a defeat for either team meant their relegation. But on a Tuesday night in South London, we not only lost 1-0 but failed to register an attempt on goal until Vince Overson came on as a substitute in the final minutes and had a go from long range. It was a terribly tame surrender.

Afterwards, me and Trev dolefully reflected over a couple of pints of Young's Special on the Wandsworth High Street. We were back in the Third Division after just one lousy year, and the future of the club was worryingly uncertain.

PICTURE CAPTION

My personal flashpoint locations where incidents have occurred following Burnley away over the last forty years.

# 14. INJURY TIME

To supporters of any team who are under 40 years of age, this chapter will be difficult either to believe or to equate to in these postmodern times. But be assured all of the following documented incidents did actually take place. They are, then, in stark contrast to some of the 'fantasy hooligan' books that have recently hit the market.

PICTURE CAPTION

Reformed Character: Norman 'Knuckles' Jones, seen in younger days practising his hobby of karate, was one of Burnley's most notorious fans with more than 140 convictions, but has now promised to stay clear of trouble.

The smartest monkeys?

I've never been fully convinced by Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. To authenticate such a supposition, it is a scientific necessity to discover the 'missing link' somewhere on earth, that particular combination of half-man, half-beast.

A possible evolutionary explanation could have been found, however, much closer to home during the 1970s and 1980s. Then, the behavioural patterns of our supposed nearest ancestor, the chimpanzee, were a feature of the typical British football hooligan.

Systematic studies of both species have concluded that we share up to 98 per cent of our genetic make-up. Given such comprehensive and authoritative statistics, then perhaps there is a parallel in the way some forms of primates conduct themselves when in an unrestrained assemblage.

To begin with, each group of insubordinates gather within the safety of their own troop, which is headed by dominant alpha males.

This is followed by a structural pecking order of hierarchy, the lower ranked assuming their place down the line until proving their worth in the field of battle against all-comers. They then proceed to hunt in numbers, letting out innate aggressive shrieks as they carry out their brutal attacks. The more ruthless would look for an opportunity to separate one from the rest like a pack of wild predators trying to isolate a victim from the herd.

You can see the obvious parallels with football hooligan behaviour in the Seventies and Eighties, and as far as that last point in the previous paragraph goes, it was a far more dangerous problem for me, because living so far away from Burnley, on many of my travels I had no herd in the first place.

Sing something simple

"You're gonna get your fucking head kicked in!"

"You're going home in a fucking ambulance!"

"You'll never reach the station!"

The three most dreaded one-line chants that all vulnerable away supporters feared. Each was hauntingly aggressive as well as a declaration of intent to cave in the heads of the opposing fans.

The final statement was particularly relevant to me, a reminder that a risky passage to my train departure point was now guaranteed. Travelling independently to every game with a complete reliance on public transport, and the vulnerability that this entailed, brought with it an air of inevitability that at some stage during the day I would encounter the ever present spectre of football violence.

This also turned out to be a double-edged sword for myself as I was journeying on trains to the away matches as the enemy, and returning from home games with the enemy. That explains why, on three occasions in the early '70s, I'd even been threatened by my own supporters as I attempted the hazardous route back to Burnley Central railway station. Only the swift production of my Longside season ticket saved me from a certain drubbing each time.

It was a sad fact that such casual, routine assault came with the territory in my formative years of being a dedicated supporter.

From a personal perspective, I've been the victim of actual physical attack on around 20 occasions in more than 45 years of following my football club. There have, however, been many more close calls along the way.

All these varying degrees of GBH have happened for no other reason than supporting the opposition. I can honestly claim that not once have I been the instigator of any of these confrontations, the majority of which have taken place whilst travelling alone.

More disturbingly, no one has ever been charged for carrying out these offences against the person, some minor, some major. This is testimony, perhaps, to the apathetic attitude of the police force to football-related incidents that was certainly in existence during this particular period.

Through the two decades that I have termed the 'Savage Seventies' and the 'Evil Eighties', no regional constabulary relished policing a football match. Disorderly behaviour had by now become endemic around the football grounds of Great Britain, as the surrounding labyrinth of streets were, more often than not, turned over to the marauding hooligans. The constant risk of personal injury was an all too real prospect. With little or no crowd segregation in place, the large-scale containment of a swarming mass of hooligans was simply beyond the resources of the local police force. The match day officers simply didn't want to be there.

But who could blame them? They represented the only available means of crowd control, with their thin blue line forming a human barrier between hundreds of rival fans hell bent on causing a disturbance. They had little protection, and both verbal as well as physical abuse was regularly directed toward their ranks. Respect to their authority amongst the yobbish, skinhead element was nil. In fact, they openly reviled the cops.

This revulsion was so acute that the more disreputable mobs would sing a particularly detestable song to stir up further hostilities towards the police. This ridiculing chant was heard at many League grounds when hooliganism was at its sickening height. Generally sung when an arrest was being attempted, the song glorified the notorious police murderer of the 1970s, and, to the tune of 'London Bridge is Falling Down', went like this:

"Harry Roberts is our friend,

Is our friend, is our friend,

Harry Roberts is our friend,

He kills coppers!"

The last line was always loudly enforced to ram home their vitriolic message to the beleaguered protectors of law and order.

Recurrent, nauseating terrace songs abounded at this time. Manufactured or adapted to fuel the flames of the disaffected youth from towns and cities throughout the country, they had two common denominators. Each ditty carried a message of hatred with violent overtones, and all were confrontational. If you are old enough to remember those days, try reciting this favoured classic and reliving in your mind's eye the intimidating atmosphere of that age:

"We don't carry hammers,

We don't carry lead.

We only carry hatchets

To bury in your head.

We are loyal supporters,

Fanatics every one.

We all hate Man City,

Leeds and Everton!"

It really makes you feel welcome as an away supporter, doesn't it?

Turf Moor was far from immune and hardly rolled out the red carpet for visiting fans. An unlikely modification of the Tiny Tim song 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips' served as a warning to potential invaders to keep off the home terrace.

"Tiptoe through the Longside,

With yer boots on,

Get yer 'ead kicked in,

So tiptoe through the Longside,

With meeeee...."

As the years went by, the chants got more regional to accommodate opposing teams, although a distinct North-South divide remained, as can be seen from this pitiable prose remodelled from the 'I'm Only a Poor Little Sparrow' hit record of the time:

"He's only a poor little cockney,

His face is all tattered and torn,

He made me feel sick,

So I hit him with a brick,

And now he don't sing any more!"

This finished with a loud, "He's dead!" outcry for added emphasis. It was reserved primarily for visitors from Greater London, but I've also heard it ignorantly sung to travellers from Watford, Luton and even Ipswich.

The retaliatory rhyme from the Southerners, to the tune of the 'Blackbird' song which The Wurzels charted with at the time, seemed to categorise all Northerners as drunken wife beaters and was narrated complete with the mysterious 'r' that they seem to gratuitously add to some of their words:

"He goes to the pub,

He has 10 pints,

And he gets fucking plar-stered,

He goes back home,

Beats up his wife,

'Cos he's a Northern bar-stard!"

Then there was the simplistic skinhead war-cry of "A-G, A-G-R, A-G-R-O, Agro!" which would ring out on the terraces each time a fight developed as a form of self-recognition of the yobs' aggressive tendencies.

Tribal warfare had been established during this particularly belligerent time in the Seventies. This was a time when opposing fans' scarves were displayed as trophies of war. They hung like Red Indian scalps from the belts that held up the half-mast parallel style of 'Flemings' jeans which formed an integral part of any 'skins' uniform.

It was an era when taking a football ground involved overwhelming the home supporters' territory by lashing out with flaying fists and kicking feet until one of the feuding parties surrendered their patch.

The situation was running out of control to such an extent that drastic preventative measures were introduced at a number of grounds throughout the country.

Anyone that attended a match wearing any kind of boots would have their laces, or even the entire footwear, removed, and they had to collect them after the game had finished. Particular attention was paid to the skinheads' trademark 'bovver' boots, highly polished, oxblood Doc Marten's. Such was the desperation of the police to curb what foreign observers had now termed the 'English disease.'

This acute but very effective measure resulted in groups of disgruntled youths frustratingly pacing the terracing in their stockinged feet. However, in the act of being dispossessed of their most lethal weapons, they were instantly categorised as thugs, and the policy was rightly interpreted as an infringement of basic human rights. This was most notably the case for a number of innocent Saturday morning workers who were obliged to wear protective footwear with metal toecaps to carry out their employment and then went straight to the game from local factories.

Whatever the forces of law and order tried, hooligan problems mounted, and with such intimidation of the police being a regularly predictable event, it seemed most forces had adopted a policy of 'just let them get on with it.' Certainly, only limited protection was evident in town and city centres, leaving the ordinary, genuine supporter having to run the gauntlet in order to return to their particular means of transportation.

Why else, after reporting so many complaints of assault, would such a catalogue of offences remain unsolved? Even if the majority were not of a severe nature, they were still worrying crimes of victimisation. As for the worst three personal cases that are shortly to be detailed, if they had taken place over the last decade, each circumstance would almost certainly have warranted a full-scale investigation.

The Savage Seventies

So, for the record in this viciously unrelenting epoch of gratuitous violence, the following seven incidents constituted some of my least serious attacks, with the subsequent three my most serious. However, each represented a malicious act that perhaps goes some way to illustrate the regular ordeals endured by fans who were just simply trying to get to and from a football match.

Tuesday, March 4, 1969

Division One. Burnley 2 (Merrington, Thomas), Manchester City 1. Attendance: 18,360.

Injuries: A severely scorched neck, bruised head and deep cut above my right eye.

Although just pre-1970s, this fixture perfectly demonstrated the perils of travelling to and from a game with the opposing supporters. It was also a night that provided a number of firsts.

The first football-related assault against my person took place halfway down the steps from platform 1 on Burnley Central railway station at around six o'clock in the evening.

After disembarking from the packed train, I became aware of a couple of mixed race youths following close behind me. I had seen them descend from the large mob of City fans that had got on at Blackburn after changing trains there. Targeting me, they relieved me of my woollen Burnley scarf, which was fortunately only loosely knotted. Even so, they yanked it from my neck with such force that it left an eight inch long, two inch wide friction burn that went on to form an unsightly scab. I gave chase, but to no avail, their head start drawing them away from me in next to no time.

In the ground, the away contingent mounted a ferocious attempt to take Burnley's Longside. An onslaught of missiles included large cooking apples, one of which struck me full on the side of my head. These hard fruits were being constantly supplied as ammunition by a youth who I could clearly see taking them from a bulging duffle bag carrier. Old pennies with filed, sharpened edges were also directed towards us, resulting in a deep cut above my right eye, from which I still bear the scar. By the end of the game, to their credit, the Burnley fans still held the home territory that in their eyes no one else had any legitimate right to occupy.

On the pitch, I witnessed central defender Dave Merrington's first and only League goal in his entire career as Burnley emerged victorious. All in all, a very eventful night indeed.

Saturday, September 2, 1972

Division Two: Portsmouth 0, Burnley 2, (Thomas, Fletcher). Attendance: 11,701.

Injuries: A bloodied nose.

Portsmouth was a club that hadn't fulfilled its great potential since the 1950s, but this didn't excuse the forceful knee in the face and resultant bloody nose that I received in attempting to retrieve my matchday programme which had purposely been thrown to the floor.

I was having a convenient pre-match beer in 'The Pompey' pub directly outside Fratton Park, when I was approached by a group of yokels.

"How many 'mushes' have Burnley brought down, then?"

I discovered later that 'mushes' was their regional slang for 'boys' up for a scrap, or the common day hooligan. So, my reply of "A couple of hundred," referring to the general level of support I was expecting to travel, probably contributed to the knee-jerk reaction.

That, and the then trendy but garishly designed sunflower yellow 'Johnny Reggae' style tank top I was wearing, which was imprinted with a large green number 17 on its front. Thinking about it now, I suppose that particular sleeveless garment would have annoyed most people.

Saturday 14 October, 1972

Division Two: Sheffield Wednesday 0, Burnley 1 (James). Attendance: 30,394.

Injuries: Bruises to my legs and thighs.

The 'Owls' were top whilst the Clarets were second in Division Two, prompting the appearance of the television cameras and a mighty Hillsborough crowd.

Leighton James scored the winning strike after a mazy run. It became an eventual candidate for Match of the Day's 'Goal of the Season.' On my route back to the station, my run was of a similar meandering style as I was pursued by a trio of Yorkshire lads who had singled me out for an arse kicking competition.

By now I had drawn the conclusion that by compliantly announcing the time to such morons when prompted was a totally futile exercise. Their question was merely a poorly disguised prelude to their licentious behaviour, leaving me with no alternative but to make a break for it.

Fortunately, being a half decent runner, I eventually lost them in a dimly lit city centre car park. But there was no getting away from it. Trying to depart a football ground was fast becoming a form of after-school bullying.

Saturday, December 15, 1973

Division One, Burnley 2 (Waldron, Hankin), Arsenal 1. Attendance: 13,169

Injuries: A thump in the face and a prolonged state of trauma

This was a big game just before Christmas with a good following of 'Gooners' making it up from 'the Smoke,' a large proportion of which had travelled by train.

After another hard fought victory, I made my way back alone to the railway station. The vexed visiting fans had been ordered to form a line by the mounted police and dog handlers who had provided their escort through Thompson Park, a route they were guided down so as to avoid the town centre. Even though I was wearing no colours, I had been labelled a Burnley fan on the basis of my exclusion from this queue which had herded all the London bound ticket holders together, most for the football special train home.

"Fack off you Northern cant!" shouted one particular loudmouth as I made my way to the concourse, following it up with a "You waanka!" insult.

Rightly aggrieved at the lack of a police response to this unwarranted abuse, I retaliated instinctively and without considered thought.

"How's the eye, Cyclops?" I said, directing my inquiry to the source of the slander before walking on. He was a thick set bloke dressed in a bloodied replica Arsenal shirt, sporting a recently swollen, fully-closed eye, obviously acquired from the pre-match shenanigans with the town lads.

It was a foolish comment that I would later regret as I had to catch the very same Preston service as the Arsenal boys from Burnley's two track line. Although there were a couple of coppers on board, 'Cyclops' and his cronies crowded into the end compartment that myself and London Claret Micky Bullen were occupying. As they did so, the sliding door was closed, with a couple of their 'guards' stationed alongside to prevent any other passengers intruding.

They all examined us closely for a while, looking down at us like judge and jury, before Cyclops despatched a heavy punch to the side of my head. Simultaneously, a short Danny DeVito lookalike with a manic grin gleefully opened up his three-quarter length navy blue Crombie coat to reveal a sawn-off shotgun poking out from a false pocket that had been stitched into his coat.

"D'ya want some of this do ya, you cant?" he asked sharply in a Cockney twang, his forced smile now replaced by a menacing grimace.

Fortunately for me, I didn't need to reply to his absurd question as the police, noticing a disturbance, forced their way in to disperse the gathered mob. Myself and Mick kept 'schtum'. In fact, we said nothing for the remainder of the journey, continuing it in a numbed apprehensive daze, and keeping more than a discreet distance between ourselves and our aggressors.

It was the first time I had been confronted by a real 'shooter' and it brought home to me the extent to which the carrying of offensive weapons by rival football followers had now escalated.

Sure, I'd seen 'Stanley' knives, axes and hatchets used before the advent of compulsory body searches outside football grounds. In fact, I'd witnessed a notorious 'Stokie,' known locally as 'Axeman' for the very reason that he preferred this weapon, use it against a Manchester United fan.

This happened as I was returning from a London midweek game on the same train as a group of Stoke fans, whose team had also been playing in the capital. Just outside Euston, our Liverpool-via-Stoke train came to a halt alongside a Manchester-via-Crewe train. After a brief verbal altercation between the two facing carriages, the 'Axeman' pulled down the window of the train door and wielded his weapon, catching his adversary on the upper arm of his thick coat.

This act of hatred had probably caused no more than a bad bruise but the implications were clear. Whether the 'Axeman' or the 'Danny DeVito' character conveyed their implements for the purposes of intent or some kind of warped bravado is debatable, but it was plain to see that if they weren't taken to inflict grievous bodily harm, they were certainly there to impose a state of complete fear.

Saturday 2 March, 1974

Division One: Liverpool 1, Burnley 0. Attendance: 42,562.

Injuries: No physical injuries, but left with a sense of deep shock and anger that I could easily have lost an eye.

Making my way down the Scotland Road towards Lime Street station after the game, a whooshing noise whizzed past my ears, leaving a clearly defined pellet mark in the derelict shop window just beyond me.

It was discharged, probably out of an air rifle, from one of the hundreds of towering high-rise flats across the road. That was the end of the incident as I instantaneously quickened my pace. I simply could not believe that someone could take a pot shot at a passer-by like that.

Tuesday 2 September, 1975

League Cup, Second Round: Hereford United 1, Burnley 4 (Flynn 2, Noble 2). Attendance: 11,360.

Injuries: Punched in the face, kicked in the groin.

This may have been only a minor spat but the pitch black surroundings made it much more chilling.

Two of us, myself and Jez from Smallthorne near Burslem, had unwisely attempted to take a short cut to the nearby railway station in order to get the last train back to Crewe.

Totally unaware were we that a group of irritated trainee undertakers had left the home terrace early to position themselves among the tombstones, as we stumbled across their path. With absolutely no respect for the dead, we were ambushed by this bunch of silhouetted figures who laid into us. The fracas was quickly broken up by a number of middle-aged locals, and the police finally intervened to send the mob on their way before relaying ahead to hold up our train.

Saturday, September 7, 1974

Division One: Arsenal 0, Burnley 1. Attendance: 23,546.

Injuries: Minor bruising to my legs, a superficial cut on my back.

Applauding our winning goal from Peter Noble on the North Bank, Highbury, won me an escorted kicking all the way back to Finsbury Park underground station.

I'd originally gone onto Arsenal's home terrace to be inconspicuous in order to enable a quick getaway. That plan disintegrated before my eyes when I momentarily forgot where I was standing. Even my restrained clapping attracted wholesale sighs of disapproval and scowls of displeasure, alerting my stalkers to their prey.

On the packed tube en route to Euston, I could hear disconcerting mutterings of intent behind me. And when what felt like a screwdriver was lightly pushed into my lower back, I knew I had to take evasive action. Just as the carriage doors were closing at Caledonian Road station, I jumped off the train. I waved a sardonic one-handed goodbye to my assailants, accompanied with a wide grin, in a vain attempt to disguise my sheer fright. In truth, as the tube train pulled away, all the colour had drained from my face after this latest unwelcome attention.

But as frightening and potentially dangerous as these incidents were, they don't compare to the three worst cases of GBH.

A double whammy at Cardiff

Saturday, August 14, 1971

Division Two: Cardiff City 2, Burnley 2 (Dobson, Casper). Attendance: 23,004.

Injuries: Badly split lip, black eye, bloody nose, cuts and bruises.

"Have you got the right time, boyo?" inquired one of the trio of Welsh youths that were hurriedly pacing towards me. It was a purposely inconsiderate query considering that I was briskly jogging my way around a street corner en route to Ninian Park, home of Cardiff City Football Club.

"Ten to three," I replied instantly, not wishing to incur any more unnecessary delay. Besides, they could see that I was in a rush, couldn't they?

I had already run more than a mile from Cardiff railway station after my train from Crewe had been disrupted by a 50 minute hold-up. To add to my discomfort, I was inappropriately dressed for athletics, clad in what was commonly known as a 'tonic suit.' This claret based, two tone, Mod style attire had been worn the night before at the local Madeley Physical Training College disco.

I'd been doing some physical training of my own with Thelma from Macclesfield, who was staying overnight on the campus. She promised an early morning rise to enable me to get home, get changed and catch the first bus to the station. Her pledge had been partly fulfilled, but in a completely different context. Exhausted and late for my train, I threw my clothes on and made a dash for the next available service, vowing never to sleep with a girl again on a pre-match Friday night.

I had even more reason to regret this indiscretion as the three youths gathered around me, forming themselves into a semicircle against the factory perimeter wall next to which I was now being forced to stand.

By asking me if I had the right time, they had established my place of origin, and it was obviously not from the 'Land of my Fathers.' This was an old trick used by thugs to identify the opposition in the Seventies decade. They weren't interested in what hour it was. To them, any time was battling time.

"Where have you come from?" snapped the shaven headed leading agitator.

"Crewe," I replied candidly.

Immediately his manner became more intimidating.

"Give me your fucking jacket!" he ordered abruptly.

"Fuck off!" I retorted back, in the only language he might understand, justly angered by his demand.

Now, to this particular Neanderthal, Crewe could have been in Wales, but it wouldn't have mattered a jot. I had an English accent and that donated an unwelcome visitor to the Principality.

I struggled to keep hold of my garment as a second youth thumped me in the face with such force he split my lip badly, but I still held on to my property as their mood turned nasty.

Just then, an old fella came round the corner and disturbed them. They all backed off and I saw my chance to escape. As I began to run, I turned to see if the other three were going to give chase. It looked as though they weren't, until the evil-minded skinhead grabbed the arm of his mixed race accomplice.

"He just called you a black bastard!" he hurriedly exclaimed.

Of course, I hadn't. For one, I'm not racist, and besides, all three were older and bigger than me and the coloured lad had only been a spectator....until now. The trio resumed the hunt which was now led by the coloured lad, who had fully accepted his mate's untruth.

This was the opening game of the 1971-72 season, and yet there wasn't a copper in sight and there hadn't been since I got off the train. I wasn't far from the ground but it was my first visit and I was disorientated. I first charged down a side street and then, to my horror, a cul-de-sac with a 10 foot high brick wall at the end of it. I was trapped, and after lashing out wildly with both my arms and legs, I took a sustained beating from all three attackers.

This was brought to a sudden halt when a couple from a nearby residence came to my rescue, each with a long brush in hand, threatening to call the police. My assailants retreated back down the road.

By now the match had kicked off but I was in no condition to go there. My top lip was now hanging down, severed by the contact with my front teeth, which were thankfully still intact. The lady of the house bathed my painful lip and bloodied nose, which were the worst of my injuries, the remainder being minor cuts and bruises to my face.

It wasn't until four o'clock that I had sufficiently recovered from my assault that I felt like making my way to the game. Even then, my lip should have been stitched up at hospital, but this would have meant missing the game altogether.

As it was, I only caught the last 15 minutes, but goals from Martin Dobson and Frank Casper had got us a point. The attendance that day, for a Second Division game, was more than 23,000, a reflection of the potential pulling power of the team based in the Welsh capital. And at least the large crowd meant that I could mingle amongst them as I gingerly made my way back to the station. Twenty minutes later and it was in sight.

My eyes were still scanning the low level wall where a gang of the home supporters were sitting, menacingly scouring the passers-by when, whoosh, I was being jumped again! Boots and fists rained down on me as I protected my head with my arms.

It was left to a middle-aged woman shopper to bail me out of this one. She waded in, wielding her umbrella, mercilessly striking blow after blow to my aggressors' heads. They backed off after a few more pedestrians berated them for their cowardly actions. Removing my arms from my swollen face, I looked up to see what scum would attack a lone individual once more. To my utter astonishment, it was the same threesome that had turned me over before the match.

"Fuck off back to England, you Burnley twat!" was the final farewell message of the now more aggressive mixed race youth as at last a police van arrived at the scene to disperse the gathering.

"Bathtards!" was the only unintelligible expletive I could manage without damaging my lip further, as blood sprayed from my freshly opened wound.

I thanked the lady for her intervention, which had severely bent her brolly such had been the force of her repeated blows. Making my way to the train I cursed my luck. I had been beaten up twice by the same youths on the same day going to and from the same bloody match.

My tonic suit had to go to the dry cleaners to erase the blood stains and I never did sleep with a girl again on the Friday before a match. Well, not when we played Cardiff anyway.

Remember Preston

Monday, August 30, 1971

Division Two: Preston North End 1, Burnley 3 (Waldron pen, Casper, Kindon). Attendance: 27,284.

Injuries: Concussed, bruised from head to foot

It was the August Bank Holiday Monday, just over a fortnight on from my Welsh initiation to the Second Division.

This last break before Christmas coincided with a night match at Preston. The town's station ticket office clock had just struck five o'clock as I met Yorkshire lads Eddie Simmons from Leeds and Pete Horsfield from Knaresborough as arranged.

As we ascended the station approach, Eddie commented somewhat predictably, as he always does, upon the 'steady' start that Burnley had made, with a draw, a win and a defeat against Cardiff, Luton and Oxford respectively. I had tagged him 'Rock Steady Eddie' because of this regular habit of stating the blatantly obvious. In Eddie's inimitable style, he was still mumbling on incomprehensibly in a whispering fashion, whilst Pete interjected at regular intervals with a well rehearsed summary to complete the double act.

The conversation was going in one ear and out the other as I had more important things on my mind. I was concerned that this was a high profile local derby where an attendance approaching 30,000 was expected, and yet there wasn't one policeman to be seen anywhere. In view of my recent brutal beating, my apprehension was wholly understandable. Perhaps I was overly edgy, but my imagination conjured up all sorts of shocking images.

At the top of the road, we turned right towards town en route to Deepdale. Fishergate, Preston's main street thoroughfare, was absolutely deserted. No shops had been open for the day, and the pubs had long closed at three o'clock. There was no bus service in operation and only a skeleton railway timetable was functioning. This explained the absence of the usually long procession of black Hackney carriage cabs outside the concourse. There's always something distinctly eerie about walking through an empty town and this place was downright dead. A couple of windswept clumps of tumbleweed would have completed the scene.

But in the distance, a noise resembling an ever intensifying drum roll permeated the early evening. Little more than 50 yards ahead, the source of this disturbance dramatically revealed itself. A running surge of male humanity swept around the street corner that lay in front of us, hobnailed boots crunching and sparking against the road surface as they slid sharply to a halt.

"Oh hell!" exclaimed Pete loudly.

"Are they Burnley?" murmured Eddie hopefully.

"No, they're Knob Enders," I said resignedly, 'Knob End' being the Burnley fans' insulting interpretation of the 'North End' part of Preston's name.

There were two reasons why I was sure they weren't Burnley fans. The mob by now had by now come to a halt and huddled itself into one big mass. The sight of more than 200 swivelling heads gave me an inclination that they were definitely looking for something. This, combined with the scores of accompanying fingers pointing in our direction led me to believe that the something they were looking for was trouble, which meant trouble for us.

This was instantly confirmed by a resultant frenzied charge towards us that bore an uncanny resemblance to the annual migration of a Central African herd of wildebeest. The only difference was that the four-legged variety I had seen on television would most certainly have not come to an abrupt stop within a matter of a few seconds from having advanced upon us at full pace.

They then encircled us, just as docile, inquisitive animals would when encountering a visitor to their territory.

A shaven headed youth with ginger stubble stepped forward from the pack in a menacing manner. In the Seventies, the leaders always had a close-cropped hair cut, and to justify their primary position, intimidation came with the stature. That also explained the thick length of rubber piping 'Ginge' carried in one hand.

"Where yer from, mate?" he enquired gratuitously.

"Stoke," was my simple but truthful reply in the hope of disguising the fact that we were opposition supporters. It didn't.

"Yer lying Burnley bastard!"

With this snarled retort, he coshed me over the head with the length of pipe. I immediately slumped to the ground, letting out an exaggerated "Aaarh!"

The blow had only stunned me, but I knew that it was imperative to curl into a ball and protect my head with my hands. At the same time, I hoped that my shrill cry of anguish might convince them that I'd already suffered enough.

Mercifully, the force of the blows was restricted in the main on account of the sheer number of participants wanting to stake their claim to giving some Burnley fans a good kicking. But one of the mob did manage to take a full swing at me. I juddered as this particularly vicious kick thudded into my kidneys, knocking the wind out of my body. I could feel Eddie's torso next to mine, and he was getting the same treatment.

The piercing sound of a police van's siren finally ended the horrific onslaught, the van scattering our attackers in all directions as it drove through them at speed. Our sustained ordeal had probably lasted no more than a minute, but it was a very long minute.

As the cops shepherded our aggressors towards the town, I turned to Ed. He was still crumpled up on the tarmac, head in hands, showing no movement and making no sound.

"Ed! Ed!" I called out. "Yer alright, Ed?"

"Yeh....yeh....I think so," came 'Rock Steady's' trademark muffled reply, finally removing his hands from his skull.

"Where did they come from?" he asked.

"Out of bloody nowhere, Ed, out of nowhere," I repeated breathlessly.

I helped Ed to his feet. He looked bewildered as he felt the big bump on his forehead, his startled face and ruffled hair reminiscent of a kitten that had fallen into a garden pond only to frantically scramble clear.

It could very easily have been a whole lot worse, as blow upon blow had rained down on our exposed outer shells. The police had left us to dust ourselves down and nurse our wounds, which for me were badly bruised ribs as well as buttocks and thighs that had acquired a distinct black and blue hue.

But where was Pete? He was nowhere to be seen. A figure striding purposefully towards us provided our answer.

"What happened there, then?" asked Pete insensitively.

He stood there imperviously, his three-piece tweed suit still in pristine condition and not one of his wiry hairs looking marginally out of place atop his reddened face. Enraged by such a blatantly thoughtless enquiry, I answered him sharply.

"What happened? We got bloody tatered, that's what happened! How come they didn't get you?" I asked accusingly.

It emerged that Pete, after uttering his exclamation, had seen what was coming and had immediately sidestepped away at speed to the other side of the road, thus disassociating himself from me and Eddie. Probably because he was dressed in a staid, unfashionable work outfit with a haircut to match, they had let him walk by as an innocent, whilst Ed and I had copped the lot.

My first thoughts were: "What a traitor, doing a runner on us," but that would have been a totally unfair appraisal. Pete didn't like the sight of blood, particularly when there was a strong likelihood that it could be his own. Under the circumstances then, we had to accept that his evasive action was perfectly understandable.

The three of us headed back to the nearby railway station, Ed and myself still in a daze. We eventually found a taxi to take us to the ground where we saw Burnley beat Preston 3-1 in front of a 27,284 crowd.

After the game, we returned with the thousands of Burnley fans that had travelled on football special trains. If only we had waited for them to arrive before the game, we may have been spared a battering.

Occurring so soon after my opening day mauling in the Welsh capital, I inevitably began experiencing flashbacks in my sleep. I'd either wake up finding myself in the foetal position, protecting myself from a barrage of imaginary kicks, or I would be lashing out with both fists and feet against the enveloping duvet blanket.

We were only four games into the season and already I'd taken two major beatings. Surely I'd just been desperately unlucky, or had I?

Savaged by Wolves

Saturday, August 17, 1974

Division One: Burnley 1 (Hankin), Wolverhampton Wanderers 2. Attendance: 20,187.

Injuries: Bloodied nose, severe bruising, a dead leg and recurrent flashbacks.

So far, it had only been black eyes, split lips, cuts and bruises to report. But when the Wolves' nascent 'Subway Army' carried out a major military exercise on an away day at Burnley, I could have suffered some serious and permanent damage, or even met my end.

It was the opening game of the 1974-75 season, our second year back in the First Division. Hopes were high after a successful previous term when we had finished sixth, just one place away from a European spot. A 20,000 plus crowd was anticipated, with Wolves bringing a big away following. Amongst their travellers would be some of the worst hooligans in the country at that particular point in the 70s.

My girlfriend Susan, who was currently in the first year of what would prove to be a three year rolling contract, was with me. We had agreed that while she went shopping in the town, I was to go 'pub-copping' to further my aim of having a pint in all 84 boozers in Burnley. We arranged to meet up later, and agreed on the 110 Catholic Club near Turf Moor at around two o'clock.

As always seemed to be the case, it was a bright, sunny day for the first match of the new campaign, and so no further encouragement was needed to slake my thirst.

I'd been drinking in the Burnley Wood area of town, just out of the centre. As I made my way back, in the distance I could see a number of youths peering over the subway by the El Greco café alongside the bus station. As I approached, three young Burnley fans wearing their scarves were running back up the subway ramp.

Passing me, one of them shouted out breathlessly: "Don't go in theer, there's Wolves fans waiting down yon!"

I knew full well that I would become a target for whoever and however many Wolves fans were hiding in this underground lair. Whether it was Dutch courage from the five pints of ale I'd consumed or whether it was sheer stupidity, I'll never know, but I carried on walking down the subway embankment until I had committed myself to the point of no return. I do, however, remember thinking to myself, "Why should I give them the satisfaction of seeing me turn on my toes in my own club's town?"

I'd also sighted a welcoming party at the top of the only other available exit on the opposite side of the road. With the mentality of the carnivorous predators they purported to represent, the groups administered a pincer movement to effectively seal off the underpass at both ends. They then made their descent towards their quarry – me.

The police were conspicuous by their absence around this regular flashpoint location, as they always have been, even to this day. With my silk Burnley scarf tied in a Windsor knot around my neck, there was no disguising my football allegiance. And so, as I turned apprehensively around the dogleg corner that took me right into the tunnel, I formulated my next move.

Up until now, after the numerous assaults I had endured, I had offered only a defensive resistance to protect life and limb. But down here, out of view from the public, that surely wouldn't be enough.

Within this concealed environment, there would be some among the 50 or so mob who would have no qualms about kicking or stabbing to kill. I decided to execute an immediate retaliatory response to whoever cast the first blow to let them clearly know that this lamb wasn't ready for the slaughter in this underground tomb.

Halfway down the underpass, with the separate parties converging upon me, the inevitable first punch was thrown. The strike came from behind with an almost apologetic, tame force. It was a rabbit punch to the nape of my neck, purposely restrained in order to provoke.

I instantaneously honoured their request. Spinning round 180 degrees, I landed a powerful right-hander flush on the forehead of the perpetrator, a stocky black youth, who looked almost as broad as he was tall due to his muscular physique.

He winced momentarily at my wayward swipe. He wasn't hurt, more startled that anyone could be stupid enough to contemplate delivering what, given the outnumbered circumstances, amounted to a death wish. I'd now disturbed a hornet's nest of activity.

His surrounding henchmen also stood off for half a second. Clearly astonished that I'd had the audacity to confront their revered leader, they awaited my next move.

They didn't have to wait long. Taking full advantage of the element of surprise that I had created, I acted swiftly and seized my chance. There would certainly be no act of reprieve from the gang if I surrendered compliantly, my show of retribution had guaranteed that. So, in an attempt to escape the by now extremely agitated throng, I charged down the subway towards the far exit where the second pack of 'Wolves' still had to be bypassed.

"Come on you twats!" I yelled, the cavernous tunnel amplifying my invitation along the dark corridor and beyond. Like a deranged have-a-go hero, I launched myself headlong into the human barrier in the hope of unsettling them. By now, the adrenaline was gushing through my veins with the force of a pressurised beer pump as I fought for my life. Punching out indiscriminately, my fists flying, I managed to smash a gap through the bulk of the assemblage, gaining me that vital access to natural daylight.

I was now at the foot of what must be the steepest subway ramp in the whole of Lancashire. It certainly seemed that way at the time.

I contrived to feign an attack on each of the oncoming individuals by making exaggerated rushes with both my arms and legs when they got close to me, It ensured I put them on the defensive as I gained precious seconds to continue my getaway up the incline.

But many of the forceful retaliatory kicks did find their intended target, and I began to take some heavy blows down the full length of my legs. Twice I was forced down on to my knees as the unyielding onslaught intensified. Each time I sprang back up instantly, knowing full well that I would suffer a real pummelling if I didn't.

Finally I reached the top, and a level surface. Carrying a pronounced limp from a painful 'dead leg' to my thigh, but still having to run, I continued apace.

Two hundred yards in the distance, I could see the reassuring sight of a lone copper standing guard outside the entrance of the Turf Hotel. Dishevelled, bloodied, bruised and by now exhausted, I came to a halt by the officer, comforted by the thought that at last my ordeal was over.

"Can you do something about these fucking idiots behind me?" I implored.

He looked me up and down before throwing a nervous glance over my shoulder at the oncoming rabble, who still conveyed an air of menace. Obviously troubled by what he saw coming, and even more concerned about his own safety, he returned an answer so incredulous that I'll remember it for the rest of my life.

"If you come to football matches you've got to expect this sort of thing," he said matter-of-factly.

He'd totally bottled it! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but I had time for neither as the chasing party closed in. I did clock the Special Constable number on his epaulette, but understandably forgot it, given the more pressing things on my mind.

I ran on another hundred yards to the sanctuary of the 110 Club where Terry, a vigilant doorman monitoring my plight, ushered me in and immediately bolted the double doors behind me just as the first few of the chasing bunch were about to reach me. It was that close to another hiding.

I stumbled into the toilets to clean myself up, where I made another, more disturbing discovery. Such was the ferocity of their sustained assault, I learned at first hand the real meaning of the term 'to have the shit kicked out of you'! To this day, it remains the most cowardly act against my person, the harrowing incident being exacerbated by the despicable attitude of Special Duty Constable No.??? Well, you know who you are!

You'll never reach the station

By the end of the 1986-87 season, I'd seen Burnley play on all 92 Football League grounds.

Some I had visited a dozen times. Others, like my final venue, Darlington FC's Feethams ground, where they played before their recent move, just the once.

I regularly used the rail network to reach my various destinations and the following compilation takes into account ground location and public transport logistics in addition to the levels of hostility afforded to visitors. So, on the basis of first hand personal experience, this 'dirty dozen' of both past and present venues are what I consider to be the away supporter's most hazardous routes from the nearest main line terminal and back.

1. Ninian Park, Cardiff

The longest mile of any away supporter's life, accentuated further by the iniquitous policing of the South Wales Constabulary who seemed almost equally antagonistic towards the English. Always a perilous trek, this is by some distance the worst of the walks.

2. Anfield, Liverpool

During the 1970s and 1980s in particular, there always seemed to be a luckless Scouser on your case as you walked the 'Scotty Road' back to Lime Street. Regular newspaper reports picturing away fans slashed by Stanley knives did little to settle the nerves.

3. Ayresome Park, Middlesbrough

It was so easy here to get disorientated amongst the countless back-to-back terraced housing near Boro's old ground in an uncompromising location. Once negotiated, the 'Boro' assembly point in the shopping parade still had to be surmounted.

4. Burnden Park, Bolton

It was difficult not to be spotted exiting the away terrace at Bolton Wanderers' former base, and that seemed to qualify you for an unrequested escort for half a mile. All manner of debris would be exchanged across this ludicrous corner terracing where both factions faced each other, producing an intimidating atmosphere.

5. Turf Moor, Burnley

The balcony framed Market Square represented a generally unpoliced 'Checkpoint Charlie' lookout point for non-Burnley passport holders, who would be swiftly apprehended accordingly.

6. Victoria Ground, Stoke

If you managed to negotiate a route past the cemetery without being ambushed, you were usually safe, but the locals knew all the boltholes intimately.

7. St. Andrew's, Birmingham

Stray off the main roads at your peril around this menacing outpost. A night match made the trail all the more uneasy.

8. Fratton Park, Portsmouth

One of those places where the local louts seem to automatically sense a stranger to their coastal town. Either that or they could smell fear.

9. Molineux, Wolverhampton

Always a treacherous passage under the subways and along Lichfield Street. Once there, the Prince Albert, Wolves' stronghold pub at the start of the station approach, still had to be avoided.

10. The County Ground, Swindon

Burnley always seem to have a post-match skirmish here and the policing, or lack of it, meant that the rail user invariably ran the gauntlet of retribution.

11. Sincil Bank, Lincoln

The one way street exit instantly distinguishes the foreigners from the natives walking along the canal bank, giving the neighbouring 'scouts' an easy task.

12. Highfield Road, Coventry

The labyrinth of back streets and underpasses en route to and from the station are all potential trouble spots. Coventry's old home was another ground where just a single fence on the West End segregated opposing gangs.

"What!" I hear you say. "No Millwall, Leeds or Manchester City?"

Well, although it's a mandatory requirement to go without colours to each, a regular bus service ran back from the latter two, providing a relatively safe option.

As for the much-maligned Lions, I can only speak as I find.

In more than a dozen visits to Millwall as a Burnley fan, I've drank in their pubs, talked football, stood amongst them, and walked back from the old 'Den' to New Cross Gate station generally unchallenged and unscathed.

When they're in the mood, each Lions fan can produce the vocal roar of two men to raise their team. I class them as the most down-to-earth, working class supporters from either side of the Old Kent Road. Their hooligans remain 'big game hunters,' only appearing in force for major clashes, but what I do find with Millwall fans is, like myself, they won't take any banal tripe from a protagonist. Because of this they are constantly persecuted for their notoriety, and rightly or wrongly, when persistently challenged they offer the retaliatory response expected of them.

I haven't mentioned the remaining London clubs in my list either, because you can usually mingle with the thousands heading for the tube.

There's usually a sense of trepidation in the North East of England, where the football is taken more seriously than in any other part of the country. Although it was not always the case in years gone by when there were sub-10,000 crowds on Tyneside, Teesside and Wearside, thereafter you could invariably just melt into the vast exodus from these stadiums.

Of course, there's potential for disruption at any football ground in the nation by the very nature of the well established divisional strata. This explains why Burnley fans have faced a larger than normal hooligan element in FA Cup ties at unlikely places like Nuneaton, Telford and Penrith. It provides the chance for both the team and their fans to take on the 'big boys' in a one-off encounter, and often they are additionally bolstered by the meatheads of the local League club, who come along looking for a lively ruck as well.

As the following map shows, there have been a number of predictable, as well as many surprising flashpoints on the road with Burnley Football Club. At home, Turf Moor was a near fortress, but on the road everyone was regarded as fair game. Based upon a combination of my primary encounters and secondary observations, these have been both mine and Burnley fans' away day 'battlegrounds' up to the 2008-2009 season. They range in severity from brief scuffles at the likes of Bristol Rovers to a full on riot at Blackburn. I admit that some were Burnley incited, but can honestly say in the majority my and my fellow fans' involvement came about purely through self defence.

# 15. COMIC CAPERS

Actually attending the game is always the centrepiece of a football fan's day. Although the events leading up to and after those 90 minutes of play are all part of the match day experience which make it worthwhile. Sometimes, however, they are even more memorable when things just don't go according to plan. Take these two instances, for example.

PICTURE CAPTION

Burls on Tour: The Hilda Ogden Preservation Society provides this year's theme

The runaway bike

I've never had, or wanted to have, a car. Given my chosen lifestyle, I honestly don't think I was meant for the road.

Travelling is my life, Burnley are my love and drinking is my hobby, but not being able to drive hasn't prevented me from fulfilling all of these pursuits.

In fact, the only motorised vehicle I've climbed behind the wheel of is a Sinclair C5, and I only went for a quick spin round the block in this bizarre contraption. Battery powered, but apparently legal to use on the highway, it's little wonder they didn't sell as they were hardly bigger than a fairground bumper car and gave you all the protection of an egg shell.

So it's always been the humble bicycle that's formed my main independent form of transport. I've had three bikes nicked, never to be seen again, during the course of my football travels, I've also been misfortunate enough to have one significantly dismembered whilst left unattended. In effect, this rendered my conveyance completely immobilised Well, almost.

This particular incident took place on the occasion of a visit to Brisbane Road for a Tuesday night match in the 1977-78 season. This location was home to the then singularly titled Orient FC, a good few years previous to the club reinstating their 'Leyton' prefix.

Returning to Stoke-on-Trent railway station after yet another demoralising 3-0 Division Two defeat, I despondently contemplated the long cycle ride home. I knew that the journey would feel more arduous after such a long day and poor performance. It always did in such circumstances. But what I could never imagine was just how arduous.

Walking under the subway linking the two main platforms, I headed for the staff bike shed to collect my 'wheels', and sure enough, as I approached the shelter, there were my wheels. Unfortunately for me, very little else remained.

To its credit, my security lock had done the job it was bought for, and held strong. It continued to hang firmly attached to the steel racking I'd wrapped it around that morning. However, a swift stock check revealed the full extent of the pilfering.

The front and back mudguards had gone, and even both sets of brake blocks had disappeared. My cycle light holders and reflective discs were absent, and the pannier carriers above the rear wheel had been taken. But there was an even more critical omission from my dismantled chariot.

"They've pinched my bloody saddle!" I exclaimed.

Only the hollow, chrome, upright stem now protruded menacingly towards the night sky. For a few minutes I could do no more than just stand and stare at this pitiable sight in an attempt to come to terms with my predicament. It wasn't as if it was a new bike, either. I'd made 12 monthly hire purchase repayments to my local Halford's store which had been paid up a good four years' previously.

But what now? I was marooned.

Even though it had just passed 2am, the Transport Police were still resident in their little office on platform one. Going on past experience, not for a moment did I think it likely that they would be concerned or be able to do anything about it, but I reported the theft to them all the same. Their lame response was sadly predictable.

"It's happening all the time, son," said one of the officers, momentarily looking up from his mug of tea before letting out a resigned sigh.

"They're bloody tea leaves, that's what they are, bloody tea leaves!" proclaimed the other.

He wasn't referring to the contents of his vessel, more the petty thief or thieves who had perpetrated the offence.

"Let's have a look at it then," he added, before they prised themselves out of their comfortable armchairs in a distinctly reluctant fashion to accompany me to the scene of the crime.

"How far have you got to go, anyway?" asked the first.

"Ten miles to Madeley," I replied in a suitably forlorn manner, hoping to warrant some kind of assisted transport back to my village. After all, I had become a victim of crime on British Rail property.

Not a bit of it! Tut-tutting as they cast a disapproving gaze at the surviving remnants of little more than a frame and two wheels, the two officers quickly dashed my hopes of salvation.

"They'd nick your balls if they weren't in a bag!" crudely commented officer number one. "There's no chance of tracing the little bastards. They'll be hiding under their duvets by now."

The other officer chipped in with a suggestion.

"Looks like you're going to have to catch a taxi home and get someone to pick up what's left of it in the morning. One thing's for certain, son, you can't ride it home like that, can you?" he asked.

I didn't reply. There was a short pause, before the first officer closed off all further discussion.

"'Fraid we can't do anything more for you, lad!"

They each bade me an unconcerned farewell and waddled off to their night time lair, perhaps for another reviving cuppa after a 10 minute excursion of total uselessness.

I was even more aggrieved now. Not only had they effectively denied all responsibility, even though my bike had been parked under their jurisdiction, they had also refused to contemplate any attempt to catch the offenders, thus dispelling any hope of financial recompense to myself. And they didn't even have the decency to offer me a lift back to my isolated village. How bloody helpful, I thought to myself.

"Taxi, my arse!" I muttered as they made their departure.

For one, I certainly couldn't afford it, and I somehow needed to get what was left of my bike back home to repair.

"Can't ride it home, can I not?" I whispered defiantly. "I'll show 'em if I can't."

I had retained two intact, fully inflated tyres that still encircled a pair of wheels. My bell remained, as the culprits hadn't been able to disconnect it from its moorings. I still had my lights, which I always removed, but the bike was now minus the brackets to secure them to.

In such a situation, improvisation is the key.

I partly removed my trouser belt and fed the pointed end through the slot of the red rear light before re-threading it through my jean loops to lodge the light in the small of my back. Accordingly, I affixed the clasp of the front light to sit alongside the buckle, facing forwards. Now I could be seen. The plastic bag that I used to carry the day's essentials was knotted to the handlebar. Incidentally, I used the Kwik Save variety, because as well as being durable, you could sort through them at the checkout and find darker, claret coloured versions).

I was now ready to go. I could do it. I still had the basics to get from A to B.

It was a dry but relatively cool, murky night into which I prepared to take off. For sure, I would have to cycle carefully as being in the standing position constantly held obvious dangers. One slip and I knew that I'd be impaled upon the saddle shaft, skewered like a chicken on a roasting spit.

Gingerly stepping on the pedals, I adopted the upright stance that needed to be maintained for the full duration of the near hour long journey. Then I was off. With a mere bell and two wheels attached to a frame, and a front and back light around my waist, I zipped away into the darkness.

Climbing Stoke Bank was a tester, but once over that it was downhill all the way to Newcastle-under-Lyme. The Keele escarpment was the next ordeal, and after this steeper ascent my legs were really aching, but I kept going on the basis that the quicker I made it home, the sooner I could sit down. I'd just completed the hard bit of my trek, and was beginning a stretch towards Madeley Heath that could be freewheeled.

I was getting a fair sprint on when I became aware of a flashing light being shone directly behind me. I was being tailed, but by whom?

All was revealed as a car overtook me with its rooftop blue light activated, and as it slowed down in front of me, the distinctive livery of the Staffordshire Police stood out against a thick, orange band painted on the side panel.

What could I do? I couldn't apply any brakes as I had none to apply. I also just happened to be on the fastest downhill part of my journey.

The police car had now stopped ahead of me. Reaching towards my belt with one hand, I started to frantically flick the on-off switch of my attached front light in a despairing bid to warn the boys in blue of my plight. I'd now reached my optimum velocity, in excess of 30 miles per hour. Using my feet to slow me down wasn't an option, as lowering the trunk of my body would bring my arse dangerously close to the vicinity of the rectum-splitting shaft that my saddle had previously occupied. I had no other option than to wildly swerve around the stationary vehicle.

Within seconds, the patrol car had started up its engine. The chase was on.

This time, the motor vehicle drew alongside as I sped along. The cop in the passenger seat motioned for me to pull over, assuming that I hadn't fully understood the initial directive. As they passed me for a second time, they left me in no doubt of their intentions as a 'POLICE STOP' sign illuminated the rear window.

Once again, the car slowed down in front of me and once again I was forced to overtake, for although I was by now approaching the end of the downward gradient, I was still descending the slope at a rapid rate and there was no way for me to arrest my progress. In passing, I did hold out the upturned palm of my left hand whilst shrugging my shoulders in an attempt to convey to them that my actions were beyond my control.

Judging by their open mouthed expressions, neither of the duo seemed impressed. What they must have thought at the time only they will ever know.

In a determined third attempt to terminate my proceedings, the now poker faced officers accelerated rapidly ahead and positioned themselves a good half mile further up the road before parking side on, effectively making a road block across most of the highway, with one of the officers standing in the right lane with his arm aloft. With blue lights flashing and 'POLICE STOP' signs illuminated, I careered towards a colourful and dramatic sight, but fortunately, by this time, the slope had begun to level out.

Using my left foot against the tarmac, with my right foot flat to the pedal at its lowest point, I was able to slow down, taking extreme care to avoid the erect probe behind me. I stuttered to a halt just four feet from the constable. His colleague hurried from the driver's seat to join in the interrogation.

"What have we got here then?" he inquired as his companion beamed a powerful torch towards what remained of my bike.

"Not a lot," I responded candidly.

"Is it yours?" asked the torch bearer, thinking that I might have been desperate enough to have swiped it for a late night lift home.

"Yeh! What's left of it. It was stripped at Stoke station."

"You've rode that from Stoke station? You must be bloody mad. Have you ever thought of joining a circus?" asked 'Torchy', but his mate interjected before I could answer.

"You know we could throw the book at you. Not stopping when requested, no proper lights, no brakes, and where's your saddle?" he said.

"But it looks like you've had enough of a hard time already tonight, so we won't. However, you'll have to walk the rest of the way though for your own safety."

As he finished his lecture, it was apparent he felt sorry for me as he gave me a reassuring wink. I interpreted his gesture as a go ahead to ride on once they had gone. This I did, and I arrived home absolutely shattered but, for once, certainly not saddle sore. I'd wager the tale did the rounds in the police canteen for quite a few months after.

Pyjama palaver

As well as travelling to and from train stations on match days, my bike also allows me a means of transport if I decide to go for a few pints in the Staffordshire countryside that surrounds Madeley. What better way to spend a scorching summer afternoon than pedalling from pub to pub?

This was my precise intention one July Sunday in 1979. It was a beautiful, sunny day, but I made the ill-fated decision to go for a ride dressed in my loose fitting pyjama suit to keep me cool.

They'd been a Christmas present from my mum some years previously. Though she knew that I didn't wear pyjamas, they were of a claret and blue vertical stripe design, so I kept them and this particular day seemed the ideal time to get some usage out of them.

There were only a couple of pubs in Madeley, but half a dozen in the centre of the nearby pit village of Silverdale. My first stop, just after midday opening, was at The Globe on the High St, where I was welcomed like a long lost son – the kind that had nicked his father's life savings.

The landlord offered me an unfriendly scowl as he begrudgingly served me, and remained at the bar, transfixed by my outfit, looking me up and down with the disdain of a sergeant major on the parade ground. I carried on reading my Sunday Mirror newspaper nonchalantly before ordering a second pint to purposely irritate him. It worked, judging by the way he slammed the tankard down on to the counter. There was no call for such disrespectful behaviour, but I'd made my point, so necking my ale I thanked him sarcastically, predictably receiving no reply.

As I unlocked my bike from the outside drainpipe, I glanced through the window and noticed that he was on the phone, perhaps warning the other publicans in the vicinity that there was a snappy dresser around. More perturbing was the sight of a worried old lady next door, also on the blower, staring wide eyed at me through her living room window.

"What's the matter with these people?" I asked myself. But I didn't let it bother me and set off for The Vine, a boozer a couple of hundred yards up the road.

Then, just as I'd waved and shouted "Eyup!" to Twinny Henderson from our village, who I spotted passing down the road, a couple of police cars overtook me, their blue lights flashing. "Something's gone off," I thought, as they sped past me and screeched to a halt a short distance in front.

I dismounted and was about to tether my steed to a lamp post when the WPC who had emerged from one of the cars beckoned over to me.

"Come here, Ducky," she requested, summoning me over with an index finger.

Simultaneously, two passenger doors were opened, then slammed shut as her male colleagues, affixing helmets to heads, walked over to join us. I couldn't believe it, and who was she calling 'Ducky'?

"Where have you come from, Ducky?" she asked, once again using that infuriating term.

"I've cycled from Madeley."

"Well, why are you dressed like that, then?" she queried in a patronising tone.

"Because it's bloody hot," I countered, getting increasingly wound up.

"Could you accompany us to the police station, dear?" she responded, as her assistants closed in.

Before I could refuse, a third police car pulled over, and out stepped an old school friend of mine from Wolstanton Grammar. It was Georgie Heppel, who had been in the same year as me. Just as I was about to be restrained by his colleagues, a smile spread across his face as he made his way towards me.

"It's all right, I know him!" shouted George.

"Eyup George," I said. "I've got you off your tea break as well, have I? What's all this about?"

"Look, Willie," he explained, calling me by my school nickname. "We've had half a dozen phone calls from people claiming they've seen someone who's escaped from an institution, riding around in pyjamas."

"But surely it's a free country, George?" I protested, to which the WPC answered quite legitimately: "Yes it is, but folk assume that you've come out of a hospital in that get up."

I could see her point. She told me not to come out in pyjamas again or else next time I'd be done for a breach of the peace. I still thought it infringed my civil liberties, but to keep on the right side of the law I agreed. George still chuckles about it to this day.

The Fruit and 'The Veg'

The university city of Cambridge is not a place that could be termed a football hotbed. A football flower bed would be a more accurate description.

In the misleadingly grand sounding Abbey Stadium, a small nucleus of, in the main, young student types yell on their team with all the enthusiasm of freshers at their first ball. I know, because I've infiltrated this jolly bunch on a number of occasions in order to gain a better view of proceedings on the pitch. It is a far better alternative than the appalling and predominantly open, narrow terrace of the visiting supporters' pen.

On the positive side, the place is friendly and has more fans than any other League club that cycle to matches from the surrounding flat fenlands. And in the centre of Cambridge there are many more bikes, many more students and many more pubs.

The latter was the main lure for an early arrival one Saturday in March 1983, before a Second Division fixture.

I'd made my way by train to Wolverhampton after accepting a rare invitation to travel with Joanne Bryce and Steve 'The Veg' Mackriel, both of whom were Clarets based in the Black Country.

The final member of our quartet was, surprisingly, Joanne's mother Iris, who was coming along for no other reason than to do a bit of shopping with her daughter.

It was the first time I had met Jo's mum. Iris came across as very cheerful, polite and well-spoken as she eagerly looked forward to making the most of her day out. She indulged us in courteous conversation about football as Joanne drove the cross-country route to our destination. Indeed, Mrs Bryce was going out of her way to ingratiate herself with Steve and myself. Although having little interest in the sport, it was clear that her tactful questioning acknowledged that we did take it seriously, so mutual respect was soon established.

Although Iris's manner was reserved, her choice of millinery certainly wasn't. She wore a very flamboyant hat that was encrusted with life-sized items of moulded plastic fruit, so much so that it looked as if the entire contents of the living room fruit bowl had been hastily tipped upon it. There were apples and pears, peaches and plums, oranges and bananas, and even a bunch of grapes, all piled high in one eye-catching design and contained within a two inch deep, rimmed border. This intriguing piece would have turned heads on Ladies' Day at Royal Ascot, never mind the shopping malls of Cambridge. Still, we'd certainly spot it in a crowd when it came to picking her up after the match.

Joanne had made good time in her little green Mini. She parked as close to the centre of Cambridge as she could, and headed off for a bit of retail therapy with her lovely mum.

As the nearby church clock plaintively pealed out 11 bells, it seemed a perfectly natural time to ask The Veg if he was on for a session. To my astonishment, he agreed. Apparently, he wasn't meeting his best friend 'Moggy' from Preston until after two o'clock in a specified pub, so he was up for it with a chirpy "Why not?"

The Veg was at best no more than a low to moderate imbiber of ale, and because of his strong vegan beliefs was normally very limited when it came to alcoholic drinks that he could actually partake of. With the vast majority of brewers adding fish finings to their mash to improve the clarity of the liquid, most beers were on his banned list.

I'd got used to his idiosyncratic standards over the years. However, to the uninformed, his mystifying inquiries could cause reactions ranging from mild bewilderment to outright rage, dependent upon how salubrious the drinking surroundings were.

It was always great entertainment to observe the faces of the bemused bar staff as The Veg, in complete seriousness, would cautiously ask in his broad Black Country accent: "'Scowse me. Are there any fish finings in yer beer, mate?"

The facial expressions of the questioned were a picture to behold.

I've drunk in some of the roughest boozers in the country, from Handsworth to Brixton, and Toxteth to Moss Side, and I knew if a burly, no-nonsense landlord was unsympathetic to the cause, he would take it The Veg was implying that his ale stank.

Steve's problems would become manifold if the ever present probability of unruly, inebriated customers happened to be within earshot. However, he'd been fortunate so far. The curtest answer of those that bothered to reply was: "Malt and bloody hops are the fucking ingredients in my beer, pal!"

It was usually enough for The Veg to swallow his pride with a meek: "Just a coke then, please."

But today he'd dropped lucky. On this particular pub crawl, eight pubs had been copped in total. I'd had a gallon of bitter, and The Veg had supped a similar number in either draught pints or half bottles that hadn't contained the offending matter.

As he left to meet his pal Moggy for a final pre-match drink, his deportment was uncharacteristically unstable in both voice and body. I could tell from the deeply glazed expression looking back at me that he'd had his fill. In fact, I'd never seen him drink so much in one day. He was now a fully steamed Veg!

I was rocking a bit myself, as every beer I'd sampled had been a different brew, producing a potent alcoholic cocktail. We both couldn't deny that it was certainly a substantial enough quota to deaden the 90 minutes of spectator pain that probably lay ahead.

"Oy'll see ya afta tha gayme, Dave," and with his colloquial parting address of "Ta-ra-a-beet," he bade me farewell before undertaking an increasingly wavering path to his next port of call.

Once more I stood on the home terracing to observe us slip to an unsurprising 2-0 defeat. It wasn't a memorable encounter, with or without booze, and so I contented myself with the fact that I'd added another eight premises to my 'Alehouse Almanac' before the game.

Back at the car, the other three in our party had returned before me. Iris asked me diplomatically whether I'd had a nice day.

Before I could answer, the ever morose Veg gave his considered view.

"Eeets 'ard to 'ave a nice day watching Burnley."

He was right, of course. Good performances had been few and far between this season. Even so, such was Steve's character that he always gave me the impression that if we had won convincingly, he'd have a gripe about the lack of vegetarian options at the pie hut or condemn the type of music broadcast at the interval.

In an attempt to lighten the mood before the long trek home, I decided to return Mrs Bryce's diplomatic act by asking her the same question she had asked me with regards to whether she had enjoyed her day.

"Eeet was reaaa...lly beauuuu...tiful thank you, Dave," Iris emphasized.

So with niceties once again exchanged, we settled into our places and headed for home.

A real sickener

All seemed to be going well, although a quick glance over to The Veg, sat on the back seat alongside me, gave me cause for concern. His face had turned a milky white and his eyes rolled around their sockets like a little girl's doll. Sure enough, after just 15 minutes of stop-start, city centre travel, The Veg suffered an adverse reaction to the excesses of our pre-match refreshment.

Without any further warning, a gut-wrenching motion gave way to a muffled "BLAAAA...RH!" which in turn triggered an almighty cascade of aqueous vomit. It appeared that in his moment of crisis, Steve had reasoned that spraying our driver would not have been a good idea. Besides, it could quite easily create the additional hazards of causing an accident, as anyone would find it hard to react with anything but horror after such a deed. He was also wise enough to judge my intolerance of a waterfall of puke directed towards me. So left with little option, he had aimed high towards the more open space of the middle ground, and what he'd lost on the distance he certainly gained on the width.

Luckily, we'd been listening to the match analysis on local radio, and this must have drowned out any noise from the rear, so only myself and Steve were aware of anything untoward. I knew we had to keep it that way, for now at least.

"Can you pull over, Jo? Steve's a bit rough," I informed her tentatively.

Joanne immediately stopped the car by the kerbside while The Veg began to hurl his heart out on the grass verge. I got out to lend him a bit of moral support.

Now, when I'm out with the lads around 'Castle' or 'Anley, ie Newcastle-under-Lyme or Hanley, such a spontaneous outpouring would warrant roars of laughter, accompanied by an enthusiastic round of applause, all to make the unfortunate individual feel a bit better about it, of course.

This wasn't the time or place for either, but there was still a comparable type of outlandish humour to the situation.

"What the fuck was that about, Steve? Why didn't you ask her to stop the fucking motor?" I exclaimed, shocked by the sheer suddenness of this churn.

He was in no condition to reply. I told him to get himself together before climbing back in the mini, where I assured Jo that he would be alright in a minute. Dropping that day's copy of the Sun newspaper on the car floor, discreetly under my feet to soak up the excess puddle, I began to conduct a quick spot check to assess the full extent of the damage.

Veg's splat had covered Iris's fruit mound in its entirety as she snoozed sedately in the passenger seat, oblivious to the goings-on directly behind her. The ruffled collar of her floral print dress had absorbed some of the impact, and, upon closer inspection, it became apparent that The Veg's revolting watery stream had extended half an inch up the deep set brim of Mrs Bryce's hat, which in effect was now functioning as makeshift guttering without an accompanying downpipe.

At least this meant Mrs Bryce herself had not been covered, and neither was there the usual pungent smell of stomach contents evident, or the usual consistency of this unpleasant substance. There was a logical explanation, namely The Veg's restrictive eating habits on match days.

During the early Eighties, vegetarians were hardly catered for in British pubs. Even the pioneering chain of JD Wetherspoon's was only in its infancy, so the cast iron certainty 'veggies' now have of being accommodated by this group throughout the country didn't exist as it does today. This left the Veg snacking on packets of crisps for a minimal sustenance. As a consequence, on this particular occasion, his liquids to solids ratio worked out at around eight to one.

But as everyone knows, there are always carrots. And even more so with carrot crunching veggies. Think about it. They even put it in cakes.

Anyway, a liberally diced sprinkling had added a ruddy autumnal look to the arrangement, highlighting it to perfection. I'm not so sure, though, that the ever tolerant Iris would have found it as aesthetically pleasing if she had noticed it. So far she hadn't, and for The Veg's sake it had to stay that way. Jo, too, was blissfully unaware of the new decoration atop her mother's hat. At just over five foot tall, her eye line was obscured by the wide rim surround.

By now, the coating on the plastic fruit had dissolved to a sticky residue comparable to early morning cuckoo spit on a country hedgerow.

Iris stirred as Steve disconcertedly slammed the side door shut after his further unloading procedures had been completed. Her intuition told her that something wasn't right with The Veg as his ghostly countenance gazed sheepishly back at her.

"Aren't you feeling very well, Steve?" asked Mrs Bryce sympathetically.

It was a masterful understatement given The Veg's condition. He had probably never felt as bad. He slipped instantly into an apologetic mode to relay his answer as a contradiction in terms.

"Oi'm evva so sorry Mrs. Bryce. I just don't know what came over me."

I refrained from making a cheap joke about Jo's mum being more worried about 'what had come over her.' I didn't want to concern her unduly with regard to the soiled outfit she now sat in, and the irrevocable damage already done could still only be seen by The Veg and myself in the back, but not by mother and daughter in the front. Even Steve himself hadn't yet realised this, so I put a vertical finger to my lips directing him to stay 'schtum.'

"Don't worry, Steven. These things happen," consoled Mrs. Bryce, before following up with a statement of incredulous naivety.

"Perhaps it's something you've eaten, Steven?"

I was laughing on the inside, but had to maintain a straight face on the outside to save The Veg further embarrassment.

Steve grimaced as he surveyed the scene and the realisation of the full effects of his involuntary unpalatable act dawned. His eyebrows rose in disbelief as I discreetly pointed a finger upwards to Iris's pride and joy perched on her head. By now, light droplets had begun to permeate through the fabric of the hat's rim.

I did feel for him now, as I considered myself partly responsible as I had cajoled Steve into going on a pub crawl with me, though in fairness, I hadn't forced the beer down his throat.

"Never mind, Steve. We'll stop at the next services so you can freshen up a bit," suggested Joanne, after maybe having detected the first whiff of something less than fragrant.

Given that I'd wound the window down as far as I could to circulate enough air without it blowing a gale in the car, it came as a relief to pull up outside some dodgy looking roadside conveniences. I escorted The Veg inside.

"I don't believe oi've just done that, Dave," he whimpered in total disapproval of his actions.

"Neither do I," I agreed, intentionally not making him feel any better.

"But why didn't you stop the car?" I asked him again.

"I could hardly talk, and I couldn't do it over Joanne, could I?"

"It's a good job Jo's mum brought that big hat along then, isn't it?" I wryly grinned.

"Yeh, I know, I feel terrible about 'eet. She's such a nice lady, too."

"Well, it's done now. Just get yourself right before we set off."

Almost to cue, he spewed violently once more, as if in agreement.

"You are bad, aren't yer, youth?" I asked, concerned.

"I theenk oy'll be alright now, Dave."

"Are you sure that's the last of it?"

"Yeh, I'm alright," he confirmed, with little conviction.

We made our way back to the car, where Jo and her mum were waiting patiently.

"Alright Steve?" enquired Jo and her mum in perfect synchronicity.

"Yiz thanks," nodded The Veg, even managing to summon a nervous half-smile as he awkwardly settled back into his seat.

The drama seemed over for the time being, so off we set once more, myself, The Veg, Jo, Iris and Iris's hat, still bearing its moat of diced contents.

I reasoned that as long as Iris kept her hat on, we might just survive the journey home without repercussions. I started to arrange myself for a kip, figuring that saying nothing might be the best policy under the circumstances.

I was about to inform The Veg of my intentions, and to suggest that he might do the same, but glancing across, my worst fears were about to be confirmed. We were just five minutes down the road from our last stop, but The Veg's neck was flexing into a position of imminent regurgitation.

He gulped, cheeks billowing out like a hamster before his jaw snapped open in the style of a snake about to make a strike. Giving full meaning to the phrase projectile vomiting, he let forth a second frothy stream. The Veg desperately improvised a makeshift lattice of two fistfuls of fingers to stem the flow, but it was like trying to stop a fireman's hose with potato waffles. It jetted out over the passenger seat, high into the hat, in a ghastly repeat performance.

I just sat there agape. Both Joanne and her mum had heard it this time, and the car was brought to an immediate halt. I awaited the crucifixion of The Veg.

I looked at Jo, Jo looked at her mum, and her mum looked at The Veg as he looked downwards in disgrace. Yet, incredibly, he won the sympathy vote once again from Iris.

"Oi'm evva so sorry. I really am," grovelled The Veg, and rightfully so.

Without flinching, she handed the guilt ridden Veg a handful of paper tissues and replied with the immortal words: "Don't worry about it, Steve. We aren't!"

To fully comprehend the full magnitude of this statement, you would have to be present at the scene. This woman was sitting there almost ignoring the fact that Steve had added an extra, speckled dimension to the colour scheme of her shoulder pads, to say nothing of the newly replenished waterway system circulating around her hat. There was now also a heavy, acidic odour in the air after this latest disgorge.

Nonetheless, after a quick spray of air freshener and a vigorous wipe down of the seating, the whole unfortunate incident was conveniently consigned to history be everyone – except me.

The Veg simply hated being reminded of this incident, his last truly serious experiment with alcohol, especially when I relate the episode in public. I certainly make no such apology, it was just too good a tale to keep to myself.

Jo's car was never the same again, as The Veg's deluge had infiltrated all parts of the upholstery, so it was sold.

As for Iris, I only ever met her on this one occasion, but it was enough to convince me that she was the most endurable and considerate lady I've ever had the pleasure to meet. And if I could have had only one wish that night, it would have been to make sure she took her hat off and shook it dry before she entered her home. She deserved that at the very least.

In Memoriam

Iris was one of those rare human beings who left you with a lasting impression within a short space of time. She was selfless and genuine, a truly caring person towards others.

She passed away in the summer of 2001, in her late seventies, a victim of that most detestable of diseases, cancer. It was just six weeks before her daughter Joanne gave birth to twins Ellie and Lewis, the latter being named in honour of Iris's maiden name, and so maintaining her legacy for another generation.

Perhaps even more poignantly given his young age, my good pal of many years Steve Mackriel, the co-star of this story, succumbed to the same unremitting affliction in the late summer of 2008.

A more committed believer in animal welfare I have yet to meet. With the blessing of his ever loving wife Ginette I was proud to be asked to recall a couple of more appropriate football tales at his humanist funeral service as my own personal eulogy to the man I'll always fondly remember as 'Steve the Veg.'

PICTURE CAPTION

Happy Days: Steve 'The Veg' Mackriel, centre, centre, with Ant and Scully, giving it the Elvis lip in fancy dress mode at an end of season game.

# 16. WE'VE NOT BEEN EXPECTING YOU, MR BOND

Without doubt one of the most sensational managerial appointments in the history of the club, John Bond was an outsider with a tough reputation. But sometimes, you get a feeling in your bones that something just isn't right, and this was one of those occasions.

PICTURE CAPTION

Burnley Overseas: Well, Douglas actually, for the Isle of Man Tournament in 1983 under John Bond

Breaking with tradition

After promising so much in the two major cup competitions, but ending up with nothing except an immediate return to Division Three, it wasn't a surprise to see Frank Casper step down at the end of the 1982-83 season. The board had obviously concluded that some vital components had been missing in their ongoing quest for success.

In an audacious attempt to rectify this deficiency, the club broke with tradition to make a truly momentous decision. Various names associated with the club had been bandied about once more, but few could have anticipated the final outcome.

In June 1983, for the first time in 30 years, a manager was enrolled who had no previous connection whatsoever with Burnley Football Club, socially or professionally. His name was Bond...John Bond!

One of the most familiar figures in football at the time, Bond had recently resigned from Manchester City after presiding over their slide towards relegation to the old Second Division, but not before he had spent vast amounts on the transfer market in a bid to preserve their status.

The epitomy of swank, he strutted into town like a football version of Arthur Daley. And just like that character in the 'Minder' TV series, he too was recognisable by his camel coloured Abercrombie overcoat and a ridiculous sausage-sized cigar. His luxuriant mane of carefully coiffured hair looked to have absorbed the thick plumes of cigar smoke from below, such was its silver consistency.

He came across as a 'big time Charlie' in small town Burnley. From the start, there was no common denominator between such a diverse pairing, and the partnership didn't lie easily.

Almost immediately, it was to players who had played under him in his former managerial spells at other clubs that he turned.

He used his considerable influence to persuade former million pound players Kevin Reeves and Steve Daley to sign for his new club. Mercifully, the latter had no connection with Bond's own Arthur Daley persona, although it could be said that he was just as frugal. Steve Daley netted just four goals whilst at Burnley, three of those coming in one game in a 3-2 win at Port Vale in 1984.

Conversely, Reeves went on to be relatively prolific within a short space of time. Up until his last game, at Oxford United in a 2-1 FA Cup Third Round replay defeat, his ratio of more than one goal in every two matches was excellent. Sadly, in January 1984, the manager's prize acquisition was forced to retire from football at the age of just 26, debatably at the peak of his profession, with a degenerative hip condition being ultimately diagnosed.

Then there was Tommy Hutchinson, probably the most precise crosser of a ball that I've ever seen in a Claret shirt. But he was now 38. And much more significantly in terms of the manager's already debatable popularity level, Bond would pass on the captain's armband to his new man, having wrested it from long-standing crowd favourite Martin Dobson.

Others followed in a staggered, limping procession.

Gerry Gow, regarded as an aggressive, combative midfield animal when at his tenacious best, was little more than a toothless tiger. Goalkeeper Roger Hansbury was christened 'No-Handsbury' by the Longside because of his poor handling skills. Joe Gallagher had been handed a fat, four-year contract, and he became known as 'Hopalong' Gallagher, as a knee injury saw him carry one leg in a lame fashion as he strode around his central defensive zone.

Another defender, Malcolm Waldron, added to the organised chaos at the back. He cost just short of £85,000 and only played 16 League games for us. That's £5,312.50 per appearance. Former top striker Dennis Tueart was yet another Bond migrant, and he had to have wood splinters removed from his arse, such was the time he spent on the sub's bench.

I could see what 'old silver head' was trying to achieve. He was looking for instant success from footballers that had performed in the top flight, 'had' being the critical word. They now resembled a Dad's Army, with Bond himself representing the ill-fated Captain Mainwaring.

The old Third Division was a tough one to get out of. The frantic pace was faster than the higher levels , the tackles harder, and the pitches far less conducive to structured play. In essence, it was more for the scrappers than the skilful, and the foremost requirement was for graft, not craft.

In order to make way for the influx of his old boys, there had to be cuts. So, Alan Stevenson, Tommy Cassidy, Steve Taylor and Phil Cavener moved on.

Far worse, Trevor Steven, Brian Laws and Lee Dixon were all allowed to leave. This outstanding trio were the very lifeblood of the club. They would each go on to become established footballers of the highest order for major British teams, amassing more than £10million in transfer fees between them during their illustrious careers. Burnley Football Club received no more than £350,000 for the lot. It wasn't just a financial oversight of gargantuan proportions, we'd also lost our future by releasing these promising, homegrown young bucks.

In the August of 1983, Burnley had been invited to compete in the inaugural Manx Cup tournament on the Isle of Man. He'd only just taken the reins, and this pre-season tour would be a good chance to meet the real Mr Bond.

The team and the staff happened to be on the same, early morning ferry from Heysham to Douglas as around a hundred of us Burnley fans. Although a little aloof, Bond did give his time to anyone that approached him.

In some supporters' eyes, he was the chosen one, the man to do the job. For instance, Ian 'Cronny' Cronshaw seemed to set up an instant rapport as he made a beeline towards Bond as the latter tucked into a substantial cooked breakfast. Cronny thoughtlessly interrupted the new boss as he had a mouthful of bacon, egg and beans.

"Can I have your autograph please, John?" he asked patronisingly.

"It's for a pupil at the school that I teach," he lied.

JB almost spat out his full English.

"Blimey! You're a big 'un. You must be taller than me," he said.

"Six foot seven and a half, John," Cronny informed him, proudly standing to attention.

So Bond did have his admirers, but their approval would be relatively short-lived.

After little more than an average start, a deterioration in fortunes set in soon after the career ending injury to Kevin Reeves. Billy Hamilton was his companion up front who had chipped in a comparable tally of goals, and this pair's good work was the chief reason we weren't struggling.

As soon as the partnership was broken, the crucial attacking function of the team was firing on half power. Indeed, only five more League games were won thereafter, with Bond offering a string of lame excuses for the poor results. Martin Dobson had had enough, and in March he left to become player-manager at nearby Bury.

Amidst this run of insufficient victories, a mood of ever-increasing impatience was directed at Bond and his managerial team, and after a terribly demoralising 1-0 defeat at lowly Newport County in early April, the scale of popular discontent became critical.

With no sign of a return from our major investments, the realisation dawned that the good ship Burnley was sinking fast.

As usual, it was up to the rebels on the Longside to lead the mutiny. Their actions were swiftly followed by the Bee Hole Enders and the occupants of the Cricket Field Stand, while the more reserved members of the Bob Lord Stand opted for a more dignified silence. But perseverance and tolerance were soon replaced with anxiety and anger, which in turn would curdle into outright hatred.

Goodbye Mr. Bond

"Bond out!" rang around the ground both at home and away.

Time after time the diehards had seen Bond's journeymen capitulate tamely. There was no guts, no bottle, and no spirit in the camp. It was a wholly unacceptable situation.

Even more galling was the impression that they weren't fighting for a shirt. The same Claret jerseys that had been worn with pride by past masters of their art, such as McIlroy, Pointer, O'Neil and Coates, weren't being held in the same esteem that they had rightfully earned through an illustrious history.

Instead, a like it or lump it attitude to the fans prevailed amongst these football refugees.

John Bond had tried to bankroll Burnley up the divisions, but had failed miserably. When he tried to counter these accusations with the insensitive claim that: "Burnley fans must realise that they are a small town club and cannot compete with big teams," he might as well have handed in his notice there and then.

You just don't say things like that to supporters who pride themselves on having achieved so much over the years with the one of the smallest catchment areas in the country. It was also an insult to all the former players who had successfully battled against such adversity for decades. After that misjudged statement, any lingering respect for Bond soon dissipated, and the vitriol became ever more personal.

His apparent indifference to anything or anyone Burnley was brought home to me by a somewhat bizarre chance encounter. It occurred before the rot had set in good and proper, on the morning of our Boxing Day clash with Bradford City at Turf Moor.

The rail system simply shut down on this public holiday, as was the norm for this era. So left with no other option, I had diligently set off on my bicycle once again to travel the 35 miles to Trevor Slack's place just outside Stockport, Greater Manchester, from where he had offered me a lift in his motor to the capital of the North, Burnley.

By 9.30am, I had just reached the outskirts of Wilmslow on the main A34 when I stopped at a pedestrian crossing to allow a few pedestrians to pass. Incredibly, there loping along the crossing, Havana cigar in mouth and a pair of huge pedigree Afghan hounds in tow, was none other than John Bond.

Although I didn't like the aura of brashness he portrayed, I had no real cause for complaint, as our progress up until the Christmas break had been satisfactory.

So as he walked in front of me, deep in thought, eyes fixed forward, I asked a perfectly legitimate question to show my support.

"Are we going to beat Bradford today then, John?"

Seemingly irritated by having to take the unwieldy cigar from his mouth to offer a reply, he gave me a disdainful side glance before uttering a disinterested reply without breaking his stride.

"Yeh, I hope so."

Now, I didn't expect a breakdown of team news and tactics for the afternoon, just a bit more of an acknowledgement. After all, I was less than a couple of yards from him and my Burnley woollen scarf and bob hat did advertise the team he now bossed. Undertaking a 70 mile round trip on a pushbike in freezing temperatures in order to get to a match deserved a more courteous and enthusiastic response. I must say that I was miffed.

Disenchanted by his apathetic manner, I cycled on to meet Trev, who drove me to the Turf where we went on to lose 2-1 in front of the biggest crowd of the season, 12,327. As I passed the same crossing cycling out of Wilmslow in the dark on the way home, I cast my mind back to our coincidental meeting that morning and asked myself some important questions.

Does Bond care about Burnley or its fans, and should I personally trust this man to run our club? I cycled on for miles, debating the pros and cons in my head before reaching my considered conclusion: No! No! and three times No!

How could he care? He'd blown his transfer budget on signing his old players and landed the club with costly long term contracts that were dragging us into debt. Outwardly, he never showed any affection for Burnley or the town, and with regard to myself, he had virtually blanked me.

Burnley finished an exact mid-table position of 12th that season after losing eight of their last 10 games. When the final game of the season, against Hull City, saw the team slip to yet another home defeat, "Bond out!" reverberated around all four sides of the ground. And the cry was not just from Burnley fans. No less than two sets of away supporters mimicked our protests as one.

Hull needed to win by three clear goals to clinch the Division Three Championship. If they failed, the title would go to Sheffield United. The Tigers brought more than 4,000 fans to Turf Moor, with a thousand also coming over from the steel city of Sheffield to witness the outcome. It finished 2-0 to Hull, which meant that they had been pipped at the post by the Blades.

This was to be John Bond's last game in charge, and it ended a period of unsurpassed internal turbulence at the club. And given the vilification that had been directed at Bond himself, he too must have been relieved to go, and probably didn't care if he never crossed paths with Burnley FC again.

But in football, fate seems to have a habit of rearing its head more frequently than in any other sport. The two parties were drawn to meet again twice within a fortnight in December 1992 when an FA Cup second round tie against a Shrewsbury side managed by Bond went to a replay.

In unprecedented scenes, due to the simmering bad blood towards John Bond, it didn't quite happen that way. This extraordinary episode allegedly came to involve the gangsters of Burnley's underworld, but that's another chapter in another book, the later part of my autobiography.

As for my own perception of the man, I'd offer this parody. If he had ever been cast in a role for a Western movie, he would have been the maverick in the fedora hat, puffing perpetually on that cigar amongst a school of card players, pensively raising the stakes higher in a winner takes all game until being forced to show his hand once he realised his bluff had been called.

Old King Coal

The national miners' strike in 1984 went on to become the most deeply divisive confrontation in my lifetime.

Within our village, inhabited by a large mining community employed primarily at either the local Silverdale or Hem Heath collieries, it would impact heavily upon my own job opportunities.

Because so many were out of work, the market for menial labour that I depended upon to exist was now flooded. Even the seasonal farm work of hay baling and potato picking had become intensely competitive. Due to the sheer weight of the transient workforce now available to the countryside, it was difficult to obtain any kind of income.

However, I'd been lucky in swiftly and successfully applying for my old warehouseman's job at the village steel stockholders. Here I had to keep my thoughts to myself as one half of the management partnership, Gordon Herbert, was a Conservative councillor and a staunch Thatcherite.

Arthur Scargill was, of course, the leader of the National Union of Mineworkers, who took on the might of a callous Tory government intent on crushing the rebellion against pit closures. Whether you agreed with his outspoken views wasn't the issue. The stakes had been raised so high that the defeated would be vanquished forever.

The miners had a rightful reputation as a proud and tough breed, whose notoriety preceded them. They worked together, drank together and fought together...until 1984.

Then the elected dictatorship of Margaret Thatcher began the process of marshalling the forces of the state to wage total war upon the hardworking brotherhoods across the country. Legions of police were drafted in from all available forces to control the ever-increasing numbers of pickets assembling outside each pit entrance. Their job was to ensure that anyone who wanted to carry on working were able to do so. These conscientious objectors were termed 'scabs' by the strikers, and many suffered retribution, both verbally and physically, that in some cases still exists to this day. What had seemed an unbreakable male bond between fellow colleagues was shot to pieces, and in my view it was down to the stubbornness of one unfeeling woman.

As the months of conflict passed, it was always going to be the best fed army who would win the brutal battle. Whilst the local miners survived on little more than a glorified soup kitchen that dished out weekly food parcels from the nearby Parksite Working Mens' Club, the police coined it in with unlimited overtime. I've listened to the views from both sides, but one overriding memory summed up the sheer desperation of the situation for our village mining fraternity.

It was a Friday night, a good six months into the industrial action, and families all around the village were struggling terribly without a regular wage coming in. I witnessed a despairing father pleading with Italian Toni, a mobile food vendor, to allow him three fish and chip suppers 'on the slate' so he could feed his kids. Toni, being the kind man he was, did so, to this particular father and many others, I'd guess.

Although the rallying chant of the pitmen was: 'The miners united will never be defeated,' painfully and eventually they were. History records that after thousands of casualties on both sides, the vast majority of mines were closed for good, with the remainder winding down their operations drastically. Even the richly seamed heartland of the coal industry in the North East eventually closed its last pit at Ellington, Northumberland, in 2005.

It's an occupation that I would personally never consider given the grim surroundings within a dusty, underground environment. Although I've got every respect for those who choose to do so, there's no doubting that the good money to be earned was the chief incentive for the majority.

But at this stage, in consumer terms, the high cost of extraction was turning the product uneconomic. The domestic user's market was in sharp decline, with cleaner and more efficient North Sea gas being piped into more and more homes.

However, regardless of why the coal industry was declining, an infinitely less contentious method of dealing with such a hypersensitive issue should have been implemented.

With the equally swift demise of the British steel industry to follow, I too in time would be laid off at the village stockholders that had served as such accommodating and convenient employment.

After long term jobs at the Co-op and the steel warehouse, from this point on I would be reliant on a vast range of short term, temporary jobs to enable me to continue to attend every match. These have ranged from toilet cleaner and binman to sales clerk and bank teller, hundreds of jobs and a total of around 70 different occupations..

A dressing down in the dressing room

With John Bond removed just days before the start of the 1984-85 season, it was left to his assistant John Benson to try to salvage something from the tarnished remnants of Bond's managership.

A much less confrontational figure than Bond, Benson appeared to be well-liked by the club's staff and players, but he proved hopelessly inept, both in terms of motivation and tactical awareness. Despite retaining the services of the likes of Vince Overson, Mike Phelan, Wayne Biggins, Brian Flynn and Tommy Hutchinson, as well as astute signings such as Kevin Hird, we scandalously found ourselves in a Third Division relegation battle from the start, and Benson never looked like steering us out of it.

On Saturday, January 5, 1985, the FA Cup provided some welcome respite from the bleak struggle of the League. After two kind draws , first against non-league Penrith and then lowly Halifax Town, our luck had run out when we were paired with Wimbledon FC at Plough Lane in the Third Round.

A decade previously, they had defeated us in that landmark giant killing game at Turf Moor, but since then, the respective clubs' fortunes had gone in different directions and the home side were now in Division Two, a level higher than us. It was a chance for belated revenge, but that hope never materialised.

My spirits were at a real low. Burnley had won just five League games so far in Division Three and were lying just one place above automatic relegation in 20th spot.

My temporary Christmas hangover had lasted a full week in an attempt to erase the memory of three consecutive defeats within that time period. We'd lost 4-0 at both York and Bristol City, and 2-1 at home to Wigan, but now the opportunity for a bit of Cup glory beckoned to take my mind off our perilously low position in the table.

My finances were in no better shape, and I set off hitchhiking to the game at 6am with only a tenner in my pocket to last the whole day.

I managed to find a great lift that took me to Tooting in South London, just a couple of miles from the ground. I was pub copping in virgin territory by 10.30, and by two o'clock I'd downed a gallon of bitter in eight different pubs.

Because I'd spent most of my money on beer, I didn't have the admission. Blurred by my alcoholic intake, I simply scaled the 10 foot high perimeter wall and dropped down onto the terracing below. I still needed to show an entrance stub to gain access to the paddock, but this was accomplished by quickly flashing the back of a Colin Waldron bubble gum card that was kept in my wallet. Hardly an elaborate scam, granted, but the card was of a similar size, and the old timer checking at the top of the stairs only offered it a cursory glance before waving me through.

As for the match, we lost 3-1 in a pathetic performance that saw goalkeeper Hansbury palm an innocuous cross backwards into his own net, the defensive wall split to allow a free kick an unobstructed path to goal, and Geoff Palmer concede a sloppy penalty for the third. Much worse was the standard of wayward shooting, with more than a dozen attempts failing to trouble home custodian Dave Beasant. Our last minute consolation goal wasn't worthy of the description.

The performance left me in a state of bewilderment and disgust as our players trooped off to the sanctuary of their pitchside changing quarters located directly below the seated Burnley supporters. The trouble I'd taken, hitching in freezing conditions, to witness such lousy finishing just did my 'knapper' in. To coin a phrase, I was 'fucking fuming.'

Uncontrollably enraged by the ineptitude of our players, I found myself robotically striding down to the mouth of the tunnel, scanning each face intently for a sign of their hurt and despair at this woefully dismal and unprofessional showing. There was none evident. Instead, a couple of our own players were even sharing a joke and actually laughing about something with the opposition.

That did it. I flipped! This utter lack of concern and respect for the considerable following of supporters lit the blue touch paper. I simply couldn't let this outrage go unchallenged and needed to say my piece on behalf of the Burnley fans present.

As the protective cordon of police dispersed, I took my chance. Looking down the passageway, I could see the green door of the away dressing room, now firmly closed. Cocking a leg over the concrete wall which divided the tunnel from the terracing, I swung over and down with my target fixed firmly in my sights. I didn't have time to prepare a speech, what followed was just a spontaneous outpouring of heartfelt emotion.

I kicked open the dressing room door, so forcibly that it sprang back on me before I stamped it forward a second time, I stood under its arch defiantly. All heads turned my way, even those that were already in the showers, as I prepared to air my grievances. Then the words just exploded out, and I didn't hold back.

"That out there today was a bloody disgrace to all the loyal supporters that have taken the fucking trouble to travel hundreds of miles to watch that shower of shite!" I roared.

I ended with a sweeping statement to leave them in no doubt about my feelings.

"You should all be fucking ashamed of yourselves. The fucking lot of yer!"

The place fell to a deathly hush after my foul-mouthed tirade, but I had held the full attention of the audience.

Big Vince Overson, our muscular centre half, was sat next to the door. After a pregnant pause of sheer disbelief, he was first to react, springing off his bench like a jack-in-the-box.

"Are you supposed to be a fucking Burnley fan?" stormed an unsure Vince. I didn't let up.

"Course I'm a fucking Burnley fan. Why the fuck do ya think I'm here?" I ranted back.

Then from behind the door, a formidable, bulky figure appeared. It was Ian McFarlane, our coach at the time.

"Leave this to me, Vince," he called out.

Grabbing me with both hands by the plastic collar of my shoulder padded donkey jacket, he pushed me back against the facing wall, popping my top button in the process. He obviously wasn't too happy about my intrusion, an impression he confirmed verbally in his broad Scottish twang.

"If ye ever fucking come near our dressing room again I'll rip yer fucking heed off! Understand, do yers?"

No, I didn't, and once again I wasn't having it. Angrily pushing his considerable frame back, I continued my shouting match with a personal accusation.

"It's your fucking fault. You're supposed to be the fucking trainer. So train 'em."

"Get ter fuck!" was McFarlane's final riposte.

I'd made my point, so briskly I walked back out and up the stand to exit the ground. The police had been alerted and were making their way across the pitch. As I made my getaway to the tube station, I began to rave to myself out loud, still livid with wrathful indignation.

An innocent, random bloke walking towards me became the target of my verbal aggression. He happended to be black, but his skin colour wasn't a factor. He could have been pink, green or purple spotted, I just needed an outlet for my anger.

"I don't care if they are my fucking team, that was fucking inexcusable. They were totally out of order, not me," I shouted at him, and he gave me a look that said I ought to be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. After today's episode, he may have had good grounds.

I calmed down during the protracted journey to Brent Cross and the start of a long hitch home on the northbound M1 motorway. It was pitch black now and it was more than two hours before I secured a lift to Corley Services on the M6, where I remained until the following morning.

Arriving home for midday Sunday dinner after a cold and sleepless night, I reflected that it really was one of those football fans' weekends when you wonder why you put yourself through it all. But within a few days I'd forgotten the incident and simply trusted that things would get better.

The following month, Burnley were playing Orient at the Turf and the match ball was being sponsored by the London Clarets, of whom I was a founder member. Myself and Nigel Blackburn, who despite his surname was a hugely dedicated Claret who came from Dover, Kent, had been chosen to present the ball to the referee for no other reason than the Burnley/Blackburn pairing of surnames.

We were both ushered to stand patiently inside the tunnel until the officials appeared for the traditional photo, which would then appear in the next home programme. As we waited, a player emerged from the nearby treatment room. He walked past us and then did a double quick about turn before jabbing an index finger towards my face. It was Vince Overson.

"You were at Wimbledon, weren't yer?" he asked knowingly.

"I was too!," I replied flippantly, at the same time bracing myself for either a verbal or physical onslaught, or even both.

Instantaneously, his arm shot towards me at exactly the same moment as mine did to him. Our hands locked in a firm handshake as we both apologised simultaneously.

"I'm sorry about that the other week, but you have to realise that emotions run high straight after a game," said Vince Overson.

"No, it was my fault, Vince," I replied. "I just lost it after a really bad day and a few too many beers."

"Let's just forget about it then, heh?" he offered, and walked away as I wished him good luck.

A slippery substance had been transferred on to my hand, and I recognised the aroma. I'd gained a palm full of liniment rub. No matter. We'd made up and dealt with it as grown men should.

Myself and Nigel, who I'd dubbed 'Dover the Rover' to commend his mammoth excursions from the Kent coast to support Burnley, went on to have our photograph taken with the referee for the day. It was a certain Mr George Tyson from Sunderland.

In our relegation season of 1982-83, he had harshly sent off our goalkeeper Alan Stevenson in the home fixture with Leicester. The Longside had branded him a cheat as his actions had gifted the points to the opposition courtesy of a 4-2 defeat, this after we had led 2-1 with a full complement of players. As a warped reminder of his misdemeanour, I produced a ten pound note as a mock bribe to send off Orient's keeper, just as the cameras clicked. His false smile withered at my request once he grasped that this game-turning incident had not been forgotten.

Now two bones of contention had been buried within 15 minutes. I'd sorted out my incident with Big Vince, and categorically put down a crucial referee's error from more than two years ago.

But it seemed the club took a different view. With me clearly offering the ref a tenner, they couldn't risk a misinterpretation, and so the photo was the only such one not to be published in the programme that season.

Delayed shock

Saturday, May 18, 1985 recorded the lowest point of my entire existence thus far. It was the day that triggered an irrational reaction to what, in any football fan's eyes, would be termed an absolute disaster. It would eventually almost cost me my life.

The night before, Swansea had played Bristol City at their then home ground, The Vetch Field. They only needed a draw to avoid relegation to the Fourth Division, which would then condemn Burnley in their place.

I'd been invited on a trip to Derby for a village friend's birthday party at the Pink Coconut night club. He was Ian Williams, known as 'Six Foot' because he reached that prodigious height at an early age. He was a good mate of Tadge Rogalski, a lad of Polish descent who I'd known since childhood. I'd also worked alongside Tadge at the village steel stockholders, where we were both warehousemen, so I could hardly refuse, and besides, it would help to occupy my mind.

In fact, it had been I who had the grizzly task of retrieving the remains of four of his fingers that had been tragically severed in an accident with an industrial band saw. The fingers had remained detached in his protective safety gloves. Although I'd sprinted to the local Burgess Engineering works to pack them in ice from their freezer, it was too late to graft them back on in a subsequent operation.

To her immense credit, a local girl called Judith, who had been dating Tadge, stood by him when many others would have reconsidered, and she was to be his bride the following week, with 'Weedy' Pete Read his choice of best man.

The evening itself went well, although as seems to be the norm with large parties, many of the attendees split up and went their own way. Our group ended up watching a quite impressive performance by Nick Berry. He was a prominent actor in the BBC soap 'Eastenders,' which was relatively new at the time, so it was quite a novelty to listen to him sing his hit 'Every Loser Wins' at the Tiffany's night club.

Throughout the night, as we wandered from pub to pub, I had frantically tried to get through to the Swansea City switchboard. Out of order red phone kiosks and a constant engaged tone thwarted all my attempts to find out this most vital of results.

The unbearable ribbing by some of the assemblage, who claimed they had obtained the score and that Swansea had won, failed to amuse as I knew it was a wind-up. I angrily demanded of them the telephone dialling code for that Welsh city to prove that they had got through. None could.

But I simmered as they laughed among themselves, revelling in my agony. The beer had taken over now and their former concern for Burnley's plight had been replaced by derisory ridicule. Enough was enough.

"Come on then. Who thinks it's fucking funny?" I bellowed down to the back of the coach, unable to control my dread at the unthinkable outcome.

A loud "Wheyyy!" cascaded back to me. They had gauged my anxiety and I had taken the bait and put a stop to it.

"You'll still be in the Third Division next season, Ralphy. Swansea are crap," shouted Lindsay, a Welshman and Cardiff supporter, attempting to offer me some assurance.

The barrage relented and most went to sleep as it was now 3.30am. Nobody knew the score. It would be left to the newspaper delivery boy to be the messenger of doom or delight.

My hangover put paid to any chance of an early rise, and so it was after 10am when my sleepy eyes gradually began to focus. But after stepping off the hire coach only five hours earlier after a real skinful of ale, my brain terminals still weren't wired up right. After turning over from lying on my front to my back, I stared vacantly at the ceiling as part of my usual, staggered awakening routine.

Then – thwack! Like a Sunday morning footballer heading that first rain-soaked ball after a hefty night before, the realisation hit me between the eyes. I still didn't know last night's score.

Sitting bolt upright, I threw back the bed sheets and sprang out of my pit. My feet hit the floor running and I pulled open my bedroom door and frantically descended the stairs two at a time. Spinning around the bannister, I launched myself through the living room to claim the Daily Mirror newspaper off the coffee table.

Both my parents were up, but neither were aware of the significance of this game.

"What time did you get home last night?" asked my mum in her usual inquiring manner.

"Five o'clock," I replied.

"Did you have a nice time?"

"Yeh," I added, before furiously dashing back up the stairs to the refuge of my room.

I stopped to gather my thoughts. What I was about to find out was so immensely important I needed to treat it with the respect it deserved.

As with all crucial matches, I followed my regular procedure in a time-honoured, ultra tense fashion. I ran a piece of blank paper down the results page to obscure the print until I aligned it with the name of the home team. I then slowly edged it to the right to reveal Swansea City's score.

"Yes!" A zero. Anything but a second zero and we would stay up.

"Come on, come on," I whispered expectantly, "Anything but a nought."

I pulled the paper away quickly and readied myself to use the bed as a celebratory trampoline.

"Oh, SHIT!. They've bloody drawn nil apiece. Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!"

It was a devastating disclosure that cut me to the quick. This fully grown male of 32 years broke down and sobbed. One of the most famous clubs in the whole country would be playing Fourth Division football for the first time in their history.

That was it. I finally cracked.

Not only another bitter relegation, but a calamitous drop into football's basement division was just too much for this particular man to bear. I desperately needed to get away for a convalescing period, some time and space to gather my thoughts. Besides, I would only get into trouble retaliating to any derogatory remarks aimed in my direction if I stayed.

Where was I going? I didn't know, but going I was.

A week's notice was handed in to the MD, Gordon Herbert, who seemed to have half anticipated my resignation. He wished me well.

Withdrawing all my savings accrued from my time at the steel factory gave me a kitty of £1,500. My Daily Telegraph map of the world was laid fully out across my bed in order to plan a route. I was determined it wasn't going to be any old trip. It was now or never to travel the full circumference of the globe on my own.

At the time, London was the place for the most economical round the world air fares. The Earl's Court district was a settlement for well travelled Aussies and Kiwis, making it a competitive area for long haul ticket prices. It was my first stop after disembarking from the National Express coach at Victoria Station.

After trawling more than half a dozen so-called 'bucket' shops, I settled for the best offer I'd found, though a condition of the routing was that it took in obligatory destinations with a minimum stay in each. My proposed 75 day journey would take me to New Delhi, India; Bangkok, Thailand; Jakarta, Indonesia; Denpassar, Bali; Sydney, Australia; Auckland, New Zealand; Noumea, New Caledonia; Papeete, Tahiti; Los Angeles, USA, and then back to London, a total distance of 26,000 miles. After paying out for return travel to Heathrow Airport, insurance and compulsory vaccines for typhoid, cholera, tetanus and gamma globulin, the total cost was just one pound short of my maximum budget of £1,000.

I calculated that I would be back for the third week in July, in time for any friendlies and the first competitive fixture in the Lancashire Manx Cup, which then always started in the second week of August. A trip of a lifetime that would concentrate my mind, and leave me rested and refreshed to take on the totally unappealing prospect of Fourth Division football.

# 17. DOWN AND OUT IN BOMBAY AND BURNLEY: 1984-1987

There comes a time in everyone's life when they feel like packing everything in and escaping from their particular problems, leaving their troubles behind in order to return in a more positive frame of mind. This was mine, but my round-the-world trip, which started as an attempt to relax and come to terms with Burnley's relegation so nearly had fatal consequences.

PICTURE CAPTION

Possessed: Lifting the cup with Yoga, the captain of Silverdale Athletic

Around the world in 70 days

After a full 24 hours spent travelling, first going overnight by National Express to Heathrow and then on a Boeing 747 aeroplane, I finally touched down in Delhi, India at 1am local time.

There were still hundreds of people just lying in the streets outside the concourse, which made for a disconcerting sight considering I had all my possessions and cash on me to start the trip.

Even though it was late, I decided to catch the all night bus into the city with a couple of Aussies. The city centre was about 10 miles away, and as the bus pulled into its destination of Connaught Square I spotted four rickshaw riders spring into life and follow the bus in. They greeted us off the vehicle and offered to find us a bed for the night. We agreed and secured digs for 40 rupees each, which was about £3.

It was 3am by the time I managed to get to sleep, but I had to be out by 10am and the room was stifling, so it was early when I wandered out into the heat of the Delhi morning feeling weak and dehydrated. The temperature was in the nineties as I wandered around Old Delhi in an attempt to locate accommodation that was within my meagre budget of under £5 per day.

The most economic option was, amazingly, only 25p a night, but upon inspection I found this room to be no bigger than a standard kitchen pantry. The occupants of one such bedroom were a young American couple, and only one of them could sleep on their back, with the other laying upon their side.

I declined something similar and opted for the 75p upgrade located on the very top of the five storied, whitewashed building located in a bustling market area. This was still probably only the size of a normal single, and yet a divisional sum penned on the wall showed that recently a group of three guests had shared the cost.

After a few days, the monsoons struck, and with the temperatures still high, it made for an oppressive heat.

The traditional Indian method of basic hygiene left a lot to be desired. They used one hand to eat and the other to bathe their backsides after defecation. Their immune systems had obviously gained a tolerance to such practices, but not so the tourist.

With sellers touching food and drink with bare hands, and the heat multiplying the bacteria, it would only be a matter of time before I went down sick. My sheer tiredness and prolonged mood of relegation depression promoted a state of lethargy to add to my general malaise. I spent a full afternoon flat on my back in bed watching a lone lizard darting to and fro across my ceiling. It was if my whole body was slowly switching off.

I'd been drinking mineral water, of course, but I was later to find out that unscrupulous traders routinely filled plastic bottles with tap water before sealing the tops and selling them on at a large profit. Whatever the cause, I was fading fast.

At night, I forced myself to the local food stall at Chandri Chouk for some much needed nourishment. However, when I ordered a staple meal of chicken, boiled rice and curry sauce, I didn't expect what was served up. After all, I was in India, so surely I'd get a decent curry here of all places. But the rice was matted together in unappetising lumps, the piece of chicken looked like a sparrow and the curry sauce had the consistency of diarrhoea. Perhaps that should have told me something, but I went ahead and ate it nonetheless.

No more than an hour later, I started with terrible flu-like symptoms that left my bed sheets soaked in sweat. The next day, confined to bed, I ached all over and could only crawl like an old man down the stairs to the toilet. I made this journey a staggering 32 times in one day. I had the 'shits' big style. What's more, I knew when my attack was imminent as a loud gargling tone would emit from my stomach. This would give me no more than a minute to reach the toilet. It got so bad that I would resort to swearing at the bug as the warning noise started.

"F**k off, you bastard," I would say in a threatening manner.

It would later be diagnosed as Giadia Lambia, a parasite that multiplies in the gut.

Ravaged by illness

Realising that I had to maintain a regular liquid intake to avoid dehydration, I dragged myself on to the streets in order to survive.

Luckily for me, there was a street vendor directly outside my base. He was a grey haired old man who sat behind a black, industrial-sized, pig iron bowl. It contained the local version of chai, a mixture of tea leaves, sugar and milk that sold for a penny a glass. He would stir the brew constantly, stopping only to serve me yet another refill of the revitalising potion. I paid him so many visits I must have been his best customer over the week. A nearby chemist sold me some glucose powder which I added to my mineral water to boost my energy levels.

Even so, my condition deteriorated. I didn't eat a morsel of food for four days, and apart from attending to my regular ablutions, neither did I move from my bed.

On the fifth day, after a huge effort, I wearily made my way by local bus to the railway station in order to book a ticket to Bombay via Agra and the Taj Mahal. It wasn't an easy transaction. After completing my journey details in triplicate at three different counters, I was told my ticket would be ready the next day for travel the night after that. There was little alternative, and in order to progress with my tour I needed to motivate myself to move on, no matter how poorly I felt.

So it was the so-called 'Agra Special' that I found myself upon. Arriving at Agra in the early morning, I located the Taj Mahal by way of a motorised rickshaw ride. Whenever I'd seen its image of sheer beauty either on television or in magazines, the impression was always one of splendour. It never failed to impress me with its glistening white façade shimmering in the reflective pool. Well trimmed lawns and neatly scrubbed walkways either side created a perfect path to the palace.

In reality, there was no water in the pool, numerous ceramic tiles were missing amongst the graffiti-riddled interior, and an enormous, inhabited hornets' nest hung down menacingly above the discoloured, cream entrance. To complete the disappointment, an awful stench emanated from the dried up river behind, where a herd of water buffalo grazed.

I quickly jumped on another overnight train that was due for a 4am arrival in Bombay. I slept fitfully on the luggage rack with the Indians.

At one point, the train came to a halt. I could see a large, dilapidated, corrugated metal shell of a building alongside us. The passengers in sequence clasped handkerchiefs or silk scarves to their faces. What was going on, I wondered? I inquired, innocently intrigued by their actions. The one word reply of "Bhopal" had me following suit, for we were passing the notorious Union Carbide insecticide plant that had recently exploded, poisoning a wide area with toxic waste and killing thousands.

Arriving in the overpopulated city of Bombay, I soon discovered that accommodation in this gateway to India was considered the most expensive in the country due to its acute lack of housing.

After being advised to try the Salvation Army hostel, I stumbled in a debilitated state along the streets with my holdall bag. The first 'Sally Army' hostel I tried turned out to be for women only, and the second for the blind, before I finally came to one for men. I managed to secure a bed in a dormitory that held six occupants. Physically exhausted by my arduous journey and lengthy walk, I hit the sack at 10am.

I didn't sleep well at all, even though I was drained of energy. Regular visits to the lavatory and countless insect bites made sure of that. Getting up to wash at seven in the evening, I looked into the bathroom mirror to find my face and whole body covered in lumps. The bloody place was crawling. I'd been snacked upon by bed bugs. I informed reception and a bloke with a pump action spray gun arrived and routinely proceeded to shower my sheets and mattress.

It was never going to have much effect, but I couldn't afford to move. The cost difference for a night ranged from the four rupees (20p) I was paying, to the 110 rupees (£5.50) they were asking for at the YMCA, which apparently was the next cheapest option.

After ten days of severe suffering, I seriously considered a visit to the British Embassy to terminate my journey. My weight had dropped from 76 to 65 kilos, a loss of around 20 pounds. I resolutely decided to carry on my trip though I covered up my itching bites as I was afraid that I might not be let on the plane for fear of contaminating other passengers.

Next stop was Bangkok, followed by Jakarta and Bali. It was not until I reached Sydney, Australia, and was able to access western standards of healthcare that I was finally diagnosed with a severe strain of cholera. But just when I was being nursed back to health with a course of antibiotics at the house of my good friends Dave and Liz, the temptation of alcohol took over. I broke the conditions of my medication which restricted consumption of liquor for 10 days.

I moved on to Auckland, New Zealand, where I was reunited with Brett, a guitarist with whom I'd busked around the island of Sardinia in the summer of 1983. I became ill again and once more, hospital tests were undertaken, my condition confirmed and antibiotics administered.

I hitched down to the South Island, then on to Christchurch to meet a married couple, Robin and Tricia, who owned the Lyttleton Hotel there. I'd befriended this pair, along with their friends Neil and Winnie, on an Eastern European coach tour in 1980. They liked a drink, too, and so after another four days of abstinence, I went back on the booze, thus again negating any recovery process.

Having never gone over a week without having a beer since the age of 16, my addiction had once again got the better of me. Perhaps I was just too sociable, or should that read stupid?

The next leg of the journey took me to the French administered island of Tahiti.

From here, I phoned up Burnley Football Club from here to reassure myself that no games had been planned, but I was in for a shock. The season had been brought forward to allow England to prepare for the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, and so we were due to play Bury in a Lancashire Manx Cup group match on Saturday, August 3. My flight home from Los Angeles wasn't due to land until the following Monday.

A phone call to Trev confirmed the fixture, and he also informed me that we had already played Liverpool at home and Matlock away in friendlies that had been hastily arranged. They were the first official warm ups games I'd missed in more than 15 years.

I decided to proceed to LA earlier than planned, and on landing there I made a beeline to the offices of my airline to reschedule my flight home. After convincing the booking clerk that it was a flight of mercy concerning the ill-health of a close relative, my right of passage was rescheduled to suit.

I arrived home on the Friday. I'd forfeited four days in Tahiti, had been eaten alive by bed bugs, and was still carrying a virulent living organism. After all that, Burnley succumbed tamely 3-1 to the Shakers at Turf Moor.

All in all, the trip had been quite a harrowing experience, and probably the closest I'd come to death. My illnesses took three months to fully clear up. The Stoke-on-Trent Infirmary agreed to treat me with a stronger seven day course of tablets to destroy the bacterial infections, and I could resume drinking with these additional medications that did eventually put me right.

That's why, whenever I face a testing problem or challenge in life, I recollect my fight against the lowest point I'd ever found myself in, when I'd plunged to the very depths of despair. My adopted motto became 'If I can survive Bombay, I can survive this!' whatever the 'this' may be.

But in the pre-season of 1985-86, as my body healed and we faced our debut season in the Fourth Division, little did I expect that my football club would soon be the source of an anguish equal to that of my cholera-ridden days in India.

I can play better than that!

Our first season in the Fourth Division started well enough with an opening day home win against Northampton Town.

Sadly, it wouldn't be maintained. Being the uninitiated new arrivals to the division, we were most teams' targets to be shot at, both on and off the pitch.

Surprisingly, the most hostile reception was found at an FA Cup First Round tie at non-league Nuneaton Borough. Besides the regular locals, who were most definitely up for a ruck, a sizeable contingent of Coventry City fans had swelled the home side's hooligan element. In a game that looked like it was heading for a replay, we scored late on through Peter Devine, the goal meaning he notched a rare brace, to edge through 3-2. The agitated locals led ambush parties all the way back to the railway station. Three diversions had to be taken to navigate a circuitous but safe route to our train.

Our final position, after a largely forgettable season, was a very disappointing 14th. Hardly an inspirational debut in the basement division, was it?

The spirits of the supporters dropped another level, and during the course of the season another 2,000 or so decided that their Saturday afternoons were better spent somewhere other than Turf Moor.

But if we thought that our fortunes had bottomed out with this mediocre campaign, we were in for an almighty shock. Events in the next 12 months would conspire to see a personal metamorphosis from a fairly level-headed, unassuming bloke into an uncontrollable, raving lunatic. And it was all because of a football team.

The 1986-87 season started, somewhat perversely as things turned out, in promising fashion. Though we had been knocked out of the League Cup by Rochdale, after seven League games a buoyant Burnley occupied a play-off place, having lost just one game and with an impressive 1-0 victory at Wolves to show for their efforts.

But the squad was threadbare, and by the time of my sister Rosemarie's wedding day, on October 11, the team was already starting to slip down the table. Inconsiderately, Rosemarie had chosen for her nuptials the day we played one of our most distant away fixtures of the season, at Aldershot, where we went down 2-0. I managed to catch the last half hour and the last mushroom vol-au-vont of her wedding reception at a local pub.

Now I'd missed both of my sisters' wedding days. They called it uncaring, I called it bad planning.

Times had been tough at various points during the last 10 years, but nothing that had preceded this could compare to the state of the club now.

That Burnley Football Club was in a desperate fight for survival was indisputable. The club's creditors, mainly the TSB bank, was demanding such severe cost-cutting that Burnley withdrew its reserve team from the Central League as it could no longer be financed. Sad, plastic collection buckets were held out imploringly to the couple of thousand demoralised fans that remained in a futile attempt to fund an incoming transfer.

Most deplorable of all was the insult of the 'golden gate' turnstile, another desperate scheme to raise finance. Sounding as if it was some heavenly entrance, this was where the already browbeaten diehard was invited to pay double admission charge for the dubious privilege of watching a team of losers.

Once again, it was the terrace spectator that was being asked to rally to the cause. We were the bottom line after all, last hope supporters who had spent hard earned money all season to view substandard football. And yet we were being asked by the current hierarchy to blindly donate even more of our meagre disposable income. It was as unsavoury as the 'sponsor a player's bootlaces' appeal in the programme.

Most Burnley fans by this time had suffered more than enough, watching the painful deterioration of their beloved team. There were some amongst us who would soon be able to make the unenviable boast of having witnessed Burnley occupy every League position, from 1 to 92, over a period of 30 years.

We'd plunged from the heights of playing Hamburg in the European Cup Quarter Final, to the depths of facing Halifax Town at the Shay. Legends such as Jimmy McIlroy, Ralphy Coates and Ray Pointer had been replaced by footballing nonentities.

As this lamentable season wore on, so my despair heightened at the passionless, gutless displays I saw week in, week out.

However, in my own playing career, I was developing a far more ruthless edge as an outlet for my frustration with Burnley's performances. As a centre forward, I was throwing my head in where it hurt, running till my lungs almost burst, and generally putting myself about in a firm but fair way. My Sunday League side, Silverdale Athletic, had gained the benefit of Burnley's failings.

I established a fruitful partnership with the square shouldered, terrier-like Brian Eardley up front, which would net me a haul of 54 goals that season and put me in contention for the Ansells League Golden Boot award.

I began to convince myself that even I could play better than some of the options available at Turf Moor. To press my point, I offered my services free of charge in the following letter, sent to manager Brian Miller. It was written in total seriousness, and yet I didn't even receive as much as a 'thanks but no thanks' reply.

Burnley's lowest League attendance since World War Two, just 1,696, witnessed a 2-1 win against Colchester United on Tuesday, November 4, 1986. The home game on Friday, December 19 attracted just a handful more, when 1,717 saw Burnley fall to a third consecutive defeat, 3-1 at the hands of Cardiff City.

These gates are unthinkable now, perhaps. Yet it remains a situation that could quite easily affect three-quarters of Football League clubs given identical circumstances.

But that was of no consolation. For Burnley, something had to be done immediately. We were sinking so quickly that we would soon be beyond help.

# 18. BECAUSE OF BOXING DAY

Where are we playing on Boxing Day? That's always my prime concern when the league computer throws up its sometimes thoughtless fixture list. Why Boxing Day in particular, you may ask? Well, the first reason is because from my somewhat remote village two miles from the Shropshire border and 10 miles from a railway station, a 150 mile round trip is involved to see each home game. This is a tolerable journey for a Saturday, a problematic excursion for a night match, but a genuine ordeal for a game on December 26, especially if, like me, you can't drive and have no inclination to do so.

PICTURE CAPTION

Praise the Lord: Outside the away end at Brunton Park, Carlisle after my lucky hitch on Boxing Day, 1980

A reliance on public transport is potentially fraught at any time, but especially so during Christmas. With the Bank Holiday fixtures on New Year's Day and Easter Monday, there's always the option of travelling the day before. At Christmas however, public transport grinds to a halt early on the night of Christmas Eve and, as all out-of-towners know, apart from a minimal skeleton service, it doesn't fully restart until December 27. The logistical dilemmas that accompany a Boxing Day trip are therefore acute to say the least.

If you're immobile, such a journey has to be treated with respect and planned from the start of the season. Each one is tricky, but here are four notable occasions that proved particularly notable or troublesome.

Strange but true

Boxing Day 1970.

Division One. Blackpool v Burnley 1-1 (Casper). Attendance: 28,371.

It's 12.55am, almost one hour after Christmas Day has ended.

The temperature is below zero and a light smattering of snow is falling. I'm on the northbound side of Keele motorway services, having walked four miles in the dark from my village to get here. I'm wearing Doc Martens leather boots, which help to keep my feet warm, and my denim suit uniform as I don't possess a winter coat.

There's hardly a car in sight as I endeavour to hitchhike the 80 miles to my destination. It's both disheartening and demoralising but I know it's the only chance this 17-year-old has of getting to the game, if indeed it goes ahead in these inclement weather conditions.

During the previous two seasons, the problem hadn't presented itself as we had played Liverpool on both occasions. We drew at 1-1 at Anfield in 1968 and got thrashed 5-1 at home the following year. But each time I'd managed to arrange a lift by car from one or other of the nucleus of 'Scouse' supporters that resided in the Potteries and Crewe district.

But there was no such conveyance for this one. By 4am, only eight cars have passed me, none have remotely looked like stopping. However, 10 minutes later, the ninth one does. I state my destination.

"I'm trying to get to Blackpool."

"I'm going that way. Hop in," replies the suited driver reassuringly.

It turns out he's going to Lytham St Annes, about four miles from Blackpool, a real stroke of luck. We discuss football, he's very knowledgeable on the subject and the sort of rapport only football talk can generate is quickly established.

According to his dashboard clock, it is just after 6am when we arrive. Leaving the heating on, he generously allows me to sleep in the car until I'm ready to leave, only asking that I lock the door when I depart.

I awake bleary eyed around 9am and wipe the condensation from the windows. There are sand dunes all around the rather grand, detached building outside which he has parked. A shiny plaque is attached to the wall by the arched entry. Written upon it are the words 'Headquarters of the Football League Ltd.'

Incredibly, I had slept in a car parked directly outside the nerve centre of English football. Furthermore, whoever had driven me there had disappeared inside. Whatever he had been doing here at this unearthly hour I never found out, and what's more he'd given away no clues.

I was content enough to gratefully wend my way to Blackpool for the game. Even so, I left intrigued by the thought that I may have had a lift from one of the very men that had formulated that day's troublesome fixture. Spooky or what?

A cycle for Christmas

Boxing Day 1978.

Division Two. Burnley 2 (Fletcher, Noble), Blackburn Rovers 1. Attendance: 23,133.

With no public transport of any kind over the holiday period once again, my trusty, or should that be rusty, bicycle was the only way of travelling to this match.

This was the first of three occasions where I have had no option but to use this rudimentary mode of transport to get to a Boxing Day game, staying en route each time at the houses of all the long lost friends I could think of.

With a 150 mile round trip in prospect from Stoke-on-Trent, and six hours in the saddle each way, I refuelled at my local village pub before setting off. It was simply a case of needs must, and it was a cold but mercifully dry evening as the lads cheerily waved me off at midnight on Christmas Day night.

My initial destination was Littleborough, north of Rochdale, where staunch Claret Pete Hodgson had made up a sofa to enable me to snatch a few hours' kip before going on to the game. My outfit for the journey consisted of a claret and blue bob hat and scarf, accompanied by a large Burnley FC union jack tied over my shoulders and winter clothes. I must have looked like a patriotic Batman on wheels.

With it being the season of good cheer, I can't deny that I had taken precautions to insulate myself from the sharp chill. These took the form of a half bottle of Bell's whisky for the trip, as well as a good intake of winter ale in the Offley Arms. It worked much like an internal antifreeze to prevent my own bodily engine seizing up.

There were plenty of rest stops along the A34 to Manchester as I burnt rubber. One of the breaks was however involuntary as I turned around to see why what appeared to be powerful headlights were being trained upon me. I collided with the kerb in doing so, and plunged into a ditch, damaging my front wheel slightly in the process. I knew that the alcohol was kicking in when I discovered the source of the bright light was in fact the full moon.

I continued and took an illegal but desperate short cut, a three mile motorway hop along the hard shoulder of the thankfully-deserted A627(M) at 5.30am, a move which would have made a perfect trailer for the 'Motorway Life' television series.

I eventually found my way to Pete's place at around 7am. After a revitalising nap and a more than decent cooked breakfast, served up by his lovely mum Inga, I journeyed on to Burnley and was there by dinnertime and ready for the main event. I tied up my steed to the drainpipe of the 'Cat's Whiskers' nightclub before going on to the game.

Burnley attacked the Bee Hole End in the first half, and with only five minutes gone, John Radford lost possession to Paul Fletcher, who cracked in a shot at the far post to make it 1-0. Leighton James left the field with a shoulder injury after 36 minutes, but fortunately the substitute was fellow winger Tony Morley, so there was little disruption to the team's shape. Then just before half time, Peter Noble ran on to a through ball and blasted it in off a post to make it 2-0, sparking scenes of chaotic delirium on the Longside.

In the second half Kevin Hird, by far Rovers' best player, pulled a goal back. This little misdemeanour was forgivable, as he would eventually go on to wear the famous claret and blue with pride.

I returned home totally exhausted but happy just before midnight on Boxing Day. With both mine and the team's missions accomplished after a bike ride of Milk Race proportions, it had all been worthwhile. A Boxing Day victory against Blackburn Rovers was every Burnley fan's perfect, belated Christmas present.

Sheikh, rattle and roll

Boxing Day 1980.

Division Three. Carlisle United 3, Burnley 2 (Scott, Taylor). Attendance: 7,137.

From the late Sixties and all through the Seventies, I had managed to overcome all the obstacles that Boxing Day travel could offer. The period had seen Burnley at home on Boxing Day on seven occasions, with only three away from home, twice at Blackpool and once at Leeds.

Of course, these were the days when the fixtures were compiled with a human hand and with a sensibility to the needs and wishes of fans for a local derby on Boxing Day. It's probably no coincidence that since the advent of a computerised fixture list, the Clarets have had Boxing Day engagements at such places as Brighton, Tranmere, Lincoln, Wrexham and twice at York.

It has to be said though that even the old system could produce the occasional anomaly, and in 1980 I was faced with what was then my toughest Boxing Day assignment yet, at Carlisle, a good 150 miles north of Stoke.

The weather forecast was bad for the Christmas period, so the wheels were grounded, ie the bike stayed in the shed. Despite numerous phone calls well before Christmas, I could find no southern based supporters who were planning the arduous trek to Cumbria.

My problem was seemingly solved by a call to Henry Lumsden, based in Watford. It was music to my ears as he told me that he and two other London Clarets were travelling to Carlisle by car and would meet me at Keele motorway services by 10am. Sorted, I thought.

It so happened that this game had been designated 'fancy dress day,' which explained the sudden mysterious appearance of an Arabian sheikh, complete with white headscarf and a claret and blue headband, on the northbound slip road at Keele.

But 10 o'clock came and went at the designated pick up point with no sign of Henry and his mates. Half past ten signalled butterflies, followed by sheer panic at 11. "Where the bloody hell are they?" I chuntered to myself.

To make matters worse, a mad chef was now running towards me with a large meat skewer in his hand. Looking down at my white outfit, it occurred to me that I could be mistaken for an Arabian cook, trying to escape from the northbound kitchens. However, he was merely the bearer of bad tidings.

"He said you'd be here," said the galloping gourmet on approach, catching his breath.

"Henry said to look for a sheikh waiting outside Julie's Pantry on the northbound side."

He went on: "They've had a crash on the M1, no one's badly hurt but the car's a write off. He's phoned the cafe to say you'll have to make your own way to the match."

"Cheers mate," I barely mumbled to the dutiful chef, followed by a much louder "clucking bell!" to myself.

It had been good of Henry to phone, given that his car had just been written off, but this was of little consolation to me. It was well past 11 o'clock and I was no nearer Carlisle.

Automatically, my thumb sprang out from one hand, and for the next five minutes the customers in Julie's Pantry were treated to the sight of a manic Yasser Arafat lookalike desperately trying to hitch a lift in the middle of the slip road, out of sheer frustration at the situation.

I finally calmed down and got to grips with my predicament, removing my headgear and sunglasses to give myself a slightly better chance with the very few vehicles that weren't giving me a wide berth. One of these avoiding cars passed me, but then seemingly had a change of heart and slowly reversed back.

The driver cautiously wound down his passenger window to a conservative depth, and I hopefully peered in.

"You look desperate mate," he observed. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere up the M6," I replied, was I was indeed desperate.

"You can have a lift to Preston as long as you behave yourself," he answered, obviously classing me as an escapee from the local funny farm. Despite a slight pang of indignation, I realised I was in no position to dish out retaliatory insults.

"Promise I will, mate," I assured him, as if admitting to his insinuation of instability.

An awkward hour passed and the Tickled Trout Hotel at Junction 31 was reached. I thanked my lift and made my way to the northbound junction. But it was now nearly one o'clock, and after five fruitless minutes of thumbing, I was beginning to despair of reaching my destination in time.

Then suddenly, a speeding furniture van screeched to a halt.

With a leap of the heart, I recognised one of the three Clarets in the front. "Open the door shutter and get in," one of them grinned.

It was one of those magical moments when my every conceivable worry instantly vanished into the crisp, cool winter air. Yes, at that instant, God Himself was a Claret fan. I gleefully went round the back of the van and opened the shutter to reveal at least 30 more partygoers ranging from a Padiham pirate to an Accrington gorilla.

"Late aren't you?" I asked one of the throng.

"We've been knocking them up all morning. They're hung over from last night's party at Jack's," he replied.

"Good old Jack," I thought to myself, he's made them late getting away.

I didn't have a clue who Jack was. He could even have been a Blackburn Rovers fan, but right then, nestled in the back of a van racing up to Carlisle, he was the very salt of the earth as far as I was concerned.

The next 90 miles were eaten up, and we landed in Carlisle at 2.25 pm, enough time to sink a quick pint by the ground. I joined the lengthening queue of revellers, and there was a holdup at the turnstile seemingly caused by an overweight chicken, who was eventually pushed through, but not without the painful loss of a few feathers.

The game kicked off. Come on Burnley! We have to win this one now. For some reason, I expected the Clarets to compensate me for my stressful ordeal by producing a supercharged performance, as if in recognition of my dedication to the cause. However, any such illusions were shattered as they conceded three goals in the first half.

"Just what have I done wrong this year?" I asked looking skywards.

A mini-revival saw goals from Derek Scott and Steve Taylor as we pulled it back to 3-2, but it was not enough.

I accepted a lift back and shelter for the night from the Bacup Clarets fraternity, and on their coach home found myself sitting next to the chicken. I casually looked around me. A Rochdale cowboy was already asleep. He must have overdosed on the 'red eye.' The ballet dancer had laddered his tights and Yogi Bear had lost his head, but the clown was still smiling.

"What does it matter?" I thought to myself. "I made it against the odds." In defiance, and to the tune of 'The Camptown Races,' I started the chant: "Burnley's lost but we don't care, doo dah, doo dah."

The whole bus joined in, the overweight chicken finishing the song, fittingly, with an ear-piercing "Cock-a-doodle-do!" After my traumatic day, only two words sprang to mind. Clucking bell!

A family Yuletide

Boxing Day 1984.

Division Three. York City 4, Burnley 0. Attendance: 6,397.

I'd had a lucky escape with the Division Three away fixture at Lincoln on Boxing Day, 1981.

Although most of the nation was snowbound, it seemed that Lincolnshire had missed the worst of it. As Christmas Eve morning broke, the game was still due to go ahead. Once again there was no public transport available and little chance of hitching the hundred miles across country. It looked like it had to be the bicycle option once more.

Large parts of my county of Staffordshire were impassable, so in order to reach my destination on this perilous journey I would have to leave on Christmas Day. I apprehensively oiled my bike and packed my tools and a spare inner tube as I listened imploringly to the hourly sports round up on the radio. It then delivered the news I had been praying for. Lincoln versus Burnley was postponed due to a frozen pitch. Bingo! It was the best Christmas present I could have hoped for.

In 1984-85, our Boxing Day venue happened to be my favourite football location in the whole country, the city of York. It had some of the best beer in some of the best pubs, all set within a rich, historic, Roman walled centre. This offered me a real incentive to make my way there for Christmas Eve, but the cost to stay in such a desirable place over a holiday period was way out of my financial league.

At the time, the only people I knew from York were some lads I'd met on my second trip to the USA in the summer of 1979. My return ticket had cost me £159, which at the time was the best deal going, but after a fatal air crash in Chicago, all the DC10 aircraft had been grounded, including my flight home on the Freddie Laker Skytrain out of JFK Airport. With only $14 in my pocket and no funds at home, I was completely stranded.

The football season was five weeks away, so at least that wasn't a concern. I hitched my way to Atlantic City, New Jersey, which was the only place on the East Coast where gambling was legal, and I eventually I landed a job operating the fairground rides on one of the four piers.

It was working there that I met this affable group of six North Yorkshire lads, who I termed the 'Rowntree Boys,' as they had all done stints in the city's confectionery factory to finance their trip. After finishing our midday to midnight shifts, we would drink till dawn in a few of the all night bars that were open in this lively seaside resort.

We'd gone our separate ways after the summer, my flight finally being cleared for takeoff after the DC10's had spent a full month out of service, but I did have a contact number for one of the Rowntree Boys, which led to Mick Huggins receiving a telephone call five years after we'd said our goodbyes.

After exchanging pleasantries and happily remembering our time in Atlantic City, I informed Mick that I would be coming up to York for the Burnley game on Boxing Day. Did he and the lads fancy going for a drink? Oh, and by the way, I could use somewhere to stay.

"Sure thing," said Mick. "The lads will be up for that. When should we see yer?"

"Christmas Eve," I replied. "That's the last day trains are running over the holidays and they don't start up again until the day after Boxing Day."

There was a pause before Mick confirmed the arrangement.

"That's alright Ralph. I've had a word with the missus and she says it's okay. See yer then at my place," and he proceeded to dictate his address.

"Missus? What missus?" I thought as replaced the receiver.

What I had failed to consider was that a lot can happen in five years. Not only had Mick been cohabiting for quite a while, he'd also become a father. I was gatecrashing his son's first family Christmas. I thus found myself, somewhat bizarrely, tucking into a turkey dinner and playing Father Christmas by dishing out the presents to their awestruck child.

But it wasn't just Mick and his partner who were generous with their hospitality. Burnley also obliged, capitulating 4-0 to York in a dreadful display that reflected the team's relegation form under John Benson. The large travelling support ripped out the stand seats in frustration, while I was ready to rip my hair out.

Yet another enjoyable Christmas had been spoilt by a totally inept Burnley performance.

# 19. GETTING THERE

For non-drivers, the most essential requirement in attending a game taking place at some distance is a reliable public transport system that will deliver you there in good time for kick-off. Unfortunately, this country has never had one in modern times, and until radical changes are made to both the road and rail infrastructure, I fear it never will.

PHOTO CAPTION

Turf Bound: Hitching north on a rare sunny day

On the streets

Besides the infrequent occasions Burnley play away to my three local teams Stoke City, Crewe Alexandra and Port Vale, every other fixture, including those at Turf Moor, are effectively away trips.

As I don't drive and have never had the inclination to do so, the most convenient option of the motor car is a non-starter. In any case, drinking beer for a hobby has abruptly put paid to that. And so throughout the troublesome decades of the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties, I was reliant on four modes of transport, namely bus, train, hitchhiking and 'Shanks's Pony,' or walking as it is known to the uninitiated.

Saturday afternoon matches meant that I could use the outgoing local bus to take me to the rail station where I could catch the train to my chosen destination.

But night matches represented a major problem, as they meant an arrival back at either the Stoke or Crewe terminals in the small hours of the morning, each of which left me stranded approximately 10 miles from my village home. I could never afford the extortionate taxi fares, and so the only alternative was to 'leg it.'

The Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston service arrived at Stoke about 1.30am, and it was a two hour walk home. I must have made this lonely trek around a hundred times after returning from a midweek game.

On certain occasions Joan and Doug Cocker, the parents of a then work colleague, would kindly allow me the use of their front room sofa, enabling me to retire at a much more acceptable hour. Their Hartshill home, located only a mile from my office premises, represented an altogether better solution. Ample blankets and a flask of hot soup would always be waiting. It was like my very own Salvation Army hostel. I was always very grateful and was sad when Doug passed away some years later.

Sometimes, the only way back has been via Crewe station, and I've made this journey on foot around 50 times.

The walk from Stoke was the preferable of the two, since the roads were well lit, unlike the darkened lanes of the Crewe hike, but the climb up the very steep Keele Bank, approaching the university, certainly wasn't relished. Such days were also incredibly tiring. By the time I had walked home, I would have been awake for more than 20 hours, and the following night necessitated an early retirement to my bedroom pit.

Sometimes I did manage to hitch a ride out of Newcastle-under-Lyme on the only direct road to Madeley, but invariably the few early morning drivers were reluctant to stop for anyone at such an unearthly hour.

In the middle of winter, it would be quite a formidable undertaking to endure these walks of miserable weariness and cold. And if we had lost as well, it would leave me doubly afflicted.

For a number of seasons during the 1970s, an even worse scenario presented itself after Turf Moor night matches. I always make it a personal condition of attendance to stay in the ground until the final whistle, but this meant on these midweek occasions my homeward journeys became marathons of nightmare proportions.

The first considerable blow came when the departure time of the direct X43 bus service from Burnley to Manchester Chorlton Street was brought forward by 20 minutes to 9pm due to incidents of football related disorder. This created a real inconvenience, as I now had to catch a bus to Rawtenstall, another to Bury Interchange, and then a final connection to the depot at a place called the Halfway House, so named after an adjacent pub of the same name.

Even this left me a good mile short of Manchester Piccadilly with usually little more than five minutes to catch my last train. I'm a reasonable runner, but no Roger Bannister, and unless I was lively, or it was a delayed departure, I would generally miss it. This meant a night out on the city streets until 6.15 in the morning and the next available train home.

To confound matters more British Rail, in their infinite wisdom, then decided to withdraw that last train, a Euston-bound sleeper, from the winter timetable, which took in the period from the end of September to the beginning of January. That decision categorically confirmed that I would have to spend the night out in Manchester during winter's harsh months.

Confronted with such a dilemma, I developed a survival routine. I'd have a night in a disco until kicking out time, though those that would admit me in my attire of jeans and trainers were invariably cheap and half-empty. A couple of coffees would then be mulled over in the Oxford Road all night café.

This procedure would still only take me to around 3am, still three hours short of my departure time. On a cold and wet Manchester night, there disgracefully weren't even any available waiting rooms at either Piccadilly or the open plan Victoria station.

There was, however, a form of shelter in the shape of the now long closed Piccadilly Gardens shopping parade. It faced Portland Street, one of the main thoroughfares of the area, but at night it was quiet and a convenient access could be gained via the metal staircase of an unmoving elevator.

The first floor was tiled in linoleum and a concrete balcony kept out the cold winds. It was thus a popular location, and there was never much room on the concourse. As the vagrants vied for precious dossing space, they tightly clutched their bottles of alcohol whose contents, from strong cider to methylated spirit, helped insulate them from the early morning chill.

On most nights that I ventured up there, it would be full to capacity, which was about 10 people. Spread-eagled bodies clad in rags and raincoats would cover the floor like a patchwork quilt. Yet I must have looked sufficiently desperate to be accepted by this disadvantaged assemblage.

But then again, I had steadfastly served my apprenticeship by sleeping rough all over Britain and Europe. My philosophy was that it was always better to see a place with little money than not see it at all.

On my football trips to the capital, I'd often join the hardy band of down-and-outs that gathered around the raging wood fires they built underneath the railway arches at Waterloo rail station. The benevolent Salvation Army personnel would turn up in the twilight hours with a sandwich and soup run. Along with the bottles of whisky and vodka that would be frequently passed around, it helped to keep body and soul together. With such copious amounts of strong drink consumed, it could be lawless territory at times, but the group did offer strength in numbers from London's mean streets.

In such company, there was little in the way of etiquette, as you would expect from folk in such despairing circumstances. Breaking wind seemed to be a common pastime, and those in the Manchester shopping arcade generally urinated in shop doorways. But an incident of deeper disgust that involved one inebriated wretch next to me was way beyond the pale and led me to seek pastures new.

Awakening from a sleepy state I found my neighbour relieving himself while still on his side, no more than a yard away. I had to quickly spring to my feet to avoid the fast flowing, foul smelling pool of urine that was heading towards me. After such a shameful act, I was determined that it would be the last time I shared the communal bed at that particular haunt. I'd been flooded out of my temporary accommodation without so much as an apology. And besides, I hadn't brought my waterproofs.

These enforced overnight stays did at least mean that there was a bus service operating when I eventually arrived back, providing me with just enough time for a quick wash and brush up before setting off to work.

This unsatisfactory state of affairs lasted for three arduous seasons before the late bus direct to Manchester was reinstated by public demand, enabling me to catch the last mail train to Crewe. Even then though, the 10 mile walk home still had to be endured.

Get on yer bike!

It was at the height of the 1980s recession that the obnoxious Tory party chairman Norman Tebbit had one of his more senior moments by coining this phrase. His suggestion that us menial labourers should get on our bikes to find work was deeply offensive. More than three million were without work. To where exactly were we supposed to cycle to find this mythical land of fulsome employment?

Even so, I did take his advice, albeit in a more social capacity.

Biking had been a fifth transport option in addition to the four previously mentioned, but there were problems. After making many enquiries with regard to leaving my bicycle at Stoke or Crewe railway station for safe keeping, I was informed that there were no facilities available for public use at either.

This was a particularly poor state of affairs for a place like Crewe. Its miles of surrounding flatlands encouraged hundreds of cycling commuters, who turned rush hour in the town into a scene more associated with Beijing or Amsterdam. I'd tried leaving barely serviceable examples secured to fences, gates or lampposts for an easier passage home, but inevitably they would be nicked. So the walks home continued right through the 1970s. However in 1980, my luck turned at last with a couple of breaks on the transport front.

The first occurred as a result of catching by chance a Radio Stoke programme that just happened to be interviewing the Crewe railway station manager. He came across as a reasonable bloke, and so I decided to write to him stating my case and asking if I could leave my bike in the staff bays at either Crewe or Stoke station. A few days later, a message of acceptance popped through the letterbox, the only proviso being that British Rail would not accept responsibility if the bike was stolen or damaged. It was a much better option than leaving my bike in secluded woods and bushes, which I had been doing in an effort to thwart the thieves.

My second piece of fortune took the form of a chance meeting on a Tuesday night in August, 1980 at Turf Moor. Burnley drew 1-1 with Shrewsbury Town in an Anglo-Scottish Cup Preliminary Round group game. As I made my way round from the Longside terrace to the Bee Hole End in readiness for a getaway sprint to the bus stop, I bumped into Trevor Slack.

I'd last seen Trev way back in February, 1969 outside the players' entrance at Arsenal's Highbury Stadium before a First Division fixture. I recalled asking him if the team bus had arrived, as in those days a sizeable gathering used to congregate to welcome the team as they made their way into the ground.

For some reason, I thought he lived in Accrington, five miles from Burnley, but that night he instead offered me a lift to Stockport, close to where he actually did reside. This meant that not only could I get the last train home, but we also had time to cop the odd pub or two en route.

It transpired that Trev had been living in the Stockport area for many years, and after passing his test in 1973, had driven up for most home games. If only I'd known this. With his help I could have avoided all those insufferable nights out.

From that point on, Trev and I continued our pre-match and post-match pub copping culture on a Saturday. Generally, after sampling a couple himself, Trev would drop me off in a requested suburb of Greater Manchester. There I could visit a few hostelries before catching the last train back, where my bicycle would be waiting for the 10 mile ride home. It wasn't ideal, but it was certainly a vast improvement on my previous routine.

Hitching a ride

Having hitchhiked north, south, east and west, to all points and extremities of the country to support Burnley, I now have a collection of more than 100 cardboard signs that carry the names of towns and cities nationwide in permanent marker pen. My accumulative miles total while hitching stands at a conservative estimate of 171,250 miles over a 40 year period. The vast majority of this mileage was clocked up in the 1970s and 1980s, when I had the dual task of fending for myself in order to reach my destination and doing so at minimal cost.

In the last 15 years however, probably only in the region of another 20,000 miles have been added, primarily because I now have the comparative luxury of lifts to most home games courtesy of Midlands-based Clarets. In addition, I am also now accommodated on the great majority of away matches as well as there were two major supporters' clubs who frequently picked me up on the M6 motorway at Keele services.

The Rossendale Clarets trawl the valley of the same name over a wide area to gather followers from isolated towns and villages. This club is run by Steve and Bev Todd. Wild haired fisherman Steve resembles the archetypal lead singer from a Seventies rock band, or some say one of the manic puppets from the TV series 'Fraggle Rock.'

He is ably assisted by Burnley FC's most fanatical female follower, the pretty, elfin-like Bev. Her attention to detail in supporting her club extends to her perfectly manicured long fingernails, painted with alternate claret and blue lacquer.

The Colne Clarets, though sadly now defunct, was easily the bigger organisation with a membership that once reached more than a thousand, though it later folded due to a lack of volunteers needed to help in running away trips. Their natural born leader, co-ordinating match day proceedings, was one Alan Beecroft.

'Beeky', a self-styled Sergeant Bilko type character in both looks and manner, kept his troops together and in good spirits with the same indomitable attitude as the TV personality. Whereas Bilko's platoon at Fort Baxter have individuals like Henshaw, Barbella, Doberman, Fleischman, Ritzic and Pepperally, Sergeant Beeky's soldiers, who used the Morris Dancers pub as their base, carried monikers such as Breezeblock, Brucey, Dumptruck, Rocket, Cotty and Beats. All were ardent disciples of 'The Beek' and most still travel to games despite the Colne Clarets organisation now being wound up.

Sleeping out is also an integral part of hitching a lift to football matches if the journey requires you to set off the day before the game. There is no point saving on travel costs if money is alternatively spent on bed and breakfast lodgings. It is therefore imperative to take a sleeping bag on the longer excursions as a necessary guard against harsh, cold British nights.

There's been many a time, however, when I have been caught without a bag. It's usually when you least expect it, stranded on a motorway slip road with no one stopping for hours on end as darkness descends. In such a situation, there's nothing for it but to wrap up in little more than the pages of a newspaper.

Even though the tabloid I used was The Sun, it didn't keep me warm enough to prevent a double bout of acute pneumonia, caught in separate instances, firstly in the mid-Seventies then during the late Eighties. After a sustained course of antibiotics and a three month period of expelling persistent chest catarrh, this most stubborn of ailments did eventually clear up each time. More dauntingly, my GP administered a stern warning.

"David, give up sleeping rough or you'll face far more severe consequences to your health," he said. "To use your term, David, your dossing days are over."

I now only sleep out in emergencies.

There are both good and bad points to hitching. Primarily, of course, it is free transport within a country where travel is very expensive. Although there is no obligatory financial cost to the hiker there is, however, a debt of gratitude outstanding.

It must be remembered that usually the principal reason for a driver to stop is because they require a bit of company. Therefore, the passenger has a moral duty to perform by engaging this stranger in an interesting confabulation to offset the tedium of the open road. It is up to the guest to supply this bonhomie.

The driver may be a completely self-centred bore or a stimulating conversationalist. But whichever they come across as, the hitcher must approach the dialogue like a good pub landlord, with tact and diplomacy. After all, in such a relatively short space of time, whether you agree or disagree with the views expressed is of no consequence in the context of what is nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

Out of the thousands of vehicles I've been invited into, I've met robbers, cheats, thugs, predatory homosexuals, racists, bigots, wife beaters, and even a murderer. Occupations have ranged from vicars to drag artists, but each had a common denominator. They all just wanted someone to talk to.

If I can be allowed to don my 'statto' hat for a moment, a few figures show the stark reality of just how far regular football fans have to travel over a sustained period of time. It also illustrates the great financial lengths to which they must go to follow their favourites on the road.

In my own particular case, the least number of Burnley matches played, including all first team friendlies and any kind of cup competition, was a mere 48, in the 1971-72 season, with 70 being the most which could be attained in 2008-2009, including a mammoth amount of miles to cover friendlies in the USA, Scotland and Northern Ireland. Therefore, for the purposes of this calculation, a realistic average of say, 60 games per season, would give a fair reflection of my total personal mileage over the last 40 years of my attendance run, up to May 2009. The away match statistic takes into account eight trips to Scotland over these years.

30 home games per season @ 150 miles = 4,500 miles (x 40 years)=180,000

30 away games per season @ 250 miles = 7,500 miles (x 40 years)=300,000

50 postponed games travelled to, home and away= 9,430

8 abandoned games travelled to, home and away= 4,090

40 games attended overseas (including Isles of Wight & Man)= 18,200

TOTAL ACCUMULATIVE MILEAGE=508,720

So, as you can see, I've surpassed my first half million miles following Burnley, or, as it stands, near on 21 complete journeys around the world. At a conservative 10 pence a mile, it has cost me £50,872 to cover such a distance, certainly highlighting the importance of having hitched around a third of this distance.

Even today, the travel expenditure alone would probably buy me a half-decent terraced house in the North of England. But to what end? Although still living with a parent at over 55 years of age may conjure up images of a Ronnie Corbett's 'Timothy Lumsden' character in the 1980's BBC sitcom 'Sorry,' paying your weekly board ensures that your disposable income is maximised.

I travelled to a projected total of just over 2,400 Burnley first team games up until the New Year in 2010. Of these, approximately 2,000 competitive matches will have been consecutive since the fateful day on April 10, 1974 when I missed that hastily rearranged fixture at St. James' Park, Newcastle.

And do you know what? Given my time over again, I wouldn't change a minute of it. I don't regret spending one single penny. It's been a great ride.

Always expect the unexpected

When travelling to any game, my adopted adage of 'always expect the unexpected' is uppermost in my plans.

Motorway crashes, road works, rush hour congestion, breakdowns, punctures, lost car keys, delayed trains, cancellations, electrification faults, strikes, extreme weather, obscure grounds and even a change of venue have all been factors to overcome.

Though I can now laugh at some of the situations I have found myself in, at the time each one brought me out in a cold sweat and a racing heartbeat.

A series of cancelled trains, due to adverse weather conditions, delayed my arrival to our home game with Watford in 1972 until 15 minutes from the end. Another incident saw Trev Slack, my regular companion for home games, leave his car keys inside his motor while we were pub copping in Todmorden, eight miles from Burnley, before the home game against Bristol City in 1985. Luckily, a reasonably frequent bus service enabled me to make the kick off, whilst the hapless Trev waited for the RAC to bring out a duplicate key.

On the occasion of another 1985 home game, this time against Orient, I set off to meet up with Trev in Manchester. My train from Crewe called at its first scheduled stop, Sandbach, and then stayed there for more than an hour as the electrification system had been closed down due to an attempted suicide on the line. Neither driver nor guard knew how long the situation would remain, and there were no telephone boxes around to ring a taxi. Once power was eventually restored, I arrived at Manchester at 2pm, just one hour before kick off. A sum of £25 got me to the Turf as the teams kicked off, via a taxi direct from Piccadilly.

A puncture on one of two transit vans that had been hired by our party of 24 for our away League game at Swindon in 1986 was another near miss. With an estimated wait of an hour and a half for a breakdown truck to arrive, and being at the time stuck on an A-road still 40 miles adrift, drastic action was needed.

It resulted in most of the party squashing on to the only mobile vehicle. Loaded with 18 beefy lads, the overloaded conveyance, with its back end inches above the tarmac, struggled along at barely 30 miles an hour, finally rolling on to the County Ground's car park in time for the second half. Besides losing the game 3-1, we had a set-to with the locals afterwards, resulting in one of our tyres being slashed.

With road traffic accidents almost a daily occurrence on Britain's busiest stretch of motorway, the Midlands section of the M6, delays are a regular hazard. But when an RTA completely blocks all three lanes for a period of time, you know you're in trouble.

On one such occasion, I was awaiting my lift from 'Steve the Veg' from Wolverhampton for a Saturday home game against Huddersfield Town. He was due to pick me up by 11am, but midday arrived with no sign of him, forcing me to hitch a lift north. All traffic going past Keele services was reduced to a 10mph crawl, so I had to act. I secured a lift at 12.30pm, but only to Knutsford transport café, barely 20 miles onward.

I was dropped off by the petrol station, and I scanned the forecourt to evaluate my options. And there they were. A middle-aged Asian bloke, with his son of about 25, was refuelling his Toyota.

But why did I think that this unlikely pair was my salvation? Demographic reality. My mind's eye flashed up the probable destinations like an electronic departure board at a major rail terminal. I knew from my extensive travels throughout the original county of Lancashire that the predominant Asian populations in the North West resided in nine main towns, Preston, Rochdale, Nelson, Oldham, Accrington and the four 'Bs' of Bolton, Bury, Blackburn and Burnley itself. A lift to any of these locations would give me a sporting chance of making the game.

I approached the father with extreme caution, so as not to appear threatening. His dark eyes were intently focused on the pump's flickering price panel. As soon as he had expertly stopped it dead on £10, I took my chance. Holding my cardboard Burnley sign that I carry with me in case of such unforeseen events, I thrust it forward at head height, engaging him with a smile.

"Are you going near Burnley?" I inquired softly.

I received an instant and firm response.

"No, no, no, no, no. We don't go there."

"Anywhere around Burnley?" I pleaded.

"No, no. We're only going to Blackburn," he stated.

"Yeh, yeh. Blackburn's okay. Can I come?" I said, by now imploring him to give me an affirmative answer.

"No, no, no. It's not possible," he replied.

My last hope of being rescued was swiftly slipping away, but what else could I do to change his decision? It was extremely frustrating. Just as he was about to climb back into the driver's seat, I desperately fumbled through my back pocket and pulled out a tenner.

"I'll give you this," I offered, not thinking it would make a blind bit of difference, so categorically had he refused any kind of assistance.

Bingo! I was wrong. Within 10 seconds, he had instructed his son Akhtar to move to the back seat, and I was on the road again. To reassure him that my intentions were genuine, I held the £10 note vertically above my legs, within his sight. He would intermittently glance across to make sure it was still there waiting for him, and I found myself raising it higher as confirmation.

A slow trawl saw us arrive at his home town for 2.30pm. I handed over the note and produced another before he turned off the Preston New Road.

"If you take me to Burnley, you can have another, too," I beckoned with my last 'ready.'

With a nod and a smile, he duly obliged. I was dropped off outside Turf Moor at ten past three, and everyone went home happy. Except for 'The Veg,' that is. Due to the sheer weight of traffic, he aborted his journey and turned back.

That one missed game

The first snow in the winter of 1973-74 came down at the beginning of October. The last fell at the start of April. Throughout the intermittent months, drifting regularly reached 10, and sometimes 12 feet high, across large areas of the country.

These ice age conditions had caused the original postponement of the League fixture at Newcastle United as early as December 1, 1973, when the weather had frozen the St James' Park pitch.

It still hadn't been played deep into the New Year, by which time incredibly, with less than a month of the season remaining, we were still due to play the same opponents five times. This broke down into two League meetings, one hugely important FA Cup Semi Final at Hillsborough, as well as a home and away Texaco Cup Final. This last pair of games was subsequently condensed into just the one leg on Tyneside so as to ease the demands on both teams.

But it was to be the League fixture at Newcastle that finally proved elusive, confounded by six months of the worst weather conditions that I have had to cope with while watching Burnley. After another four re-arranged dates and the same number of postponements, fans of both teams were thinking that the game would never be played. Time was fast running out to accommodate it.

Any kind of media-related football information was wholly inadequate during this era. It was still a full 20 years before the inauguration of Radio Five and its half-hourly sports bulletin that provides such an essential update to the isolated fan. There was no premium rate 'Club Call' telephone service, no Ceefax or Teletext facilities, or Internet access to refer to. Not so much as a recorded tape message from the participating clubs was available.

With the Newcastle fixture outstanding, I was on my works' telephone daily to try and establish when the game was to be played, and my task was not helped by the fact that Burnley FC had just the one phone line, which was invariably engaged.

Undeterred, I'd forfeit my dinner hour to carry out the laborious procedure from a public kiosk until I did eventually manage to get through. It was a preposterous way to run a public service and, once contact had been painstakingly established, the condescending attitude of the overworked office secretary on the other end of the line made the experience all the more galling.

"No. There's no new date yet. Okay? Bye," she said.

This short, curt reply was uttered in a tone suggesting the employee was wondering why I had asked such a futile question in the first place.

It was all the more annoying to me when I had taken such time and trouble to engineer that call on so many occasions. It really did feel as though she had recognised my Stoke-on-Trent accent from previous enquiries and was sick to the back teeth of my persistent questioning. Her manner made my blood boil as she seemed completely oblivious to the potential difficulty this particular fixture was to fulfil for any out-of-town supporter. Even so, it was still vital for me to find out the information.

However the following day, a Wednesday, I was in the midst of my balance sheet preparations for my employer and and though I tried, I couldn't get through, though I concluded it was highly unlikely that they would try and squeeze it in this week now, at such short notice.

My regular check of the fixtures for the night in the two newspapers at work, the Daily Mirror and the Daily Mail, had nothing down to be played. And of course, I'd had the word of honour from the surly representative of Burnley Football Club only the day before. Besides, I also had my emergency team of contacts, all Burnley fans who had proposed to ring me with the news in just such a situation. They were Henry from Watford, Danny West from Romford, and Pete 'Nuzzler' Marsden from Burnley.

So I arrived home in the evening at my usual time of just after 6pm, apparently safe in the knowledge that no game had been planned yet. My Tuesday edition of the Burnley Express had arrived, and, as usual, I eagerly opened it. I'd subscribed to this publication because of its excellent football coverage, but more importantly to keep me informed of further developments.

"The Newcastle versus Burnley game still to be rearranged," read a small insert in the town's very own journal. That was the solid confirmation I needed. I settled down on the sofa to peruse our copy of the Daily Express which was always delivered after I left for work in the morning. My mind was now at rest, and yet I continued to seek reassurance by referring to the fixture list.

So imagine the feeling of despair that overtook me as I turned casually to the inside back page to find that, according to this publication anyway, the one and only match scheduled to take place that night was...Newcastle v Burnley.

A phoning frenzy

"It must be a mistake. They've got it wrong, haven't they?" I cried out in horror.

Scrambling across the settee and over the wooden coffee table, I ran out of the front door in my carpet slippers. We had no phone, you see, so I had no option but to dash to the red kiosk by the Co-operative store.

"Why is there always someone in it just when you need it," I raged at the occupant.

In a highly agitated state, I circled the phone box like a Red Indian around a wagon train until the young teenage lad surrendered his post submissively.

"Ta mate. It's really important," I exclaimed hurriedly. They would all have gone home at Burnley, so it was no use phoning them. After a good half hour of feverish dialling to Newcastle United, I finally got through to receive the news that I was dreading.

"Yes, son. It's taking place tonight, 7.30 kick-off," was the reply to my agonised inquiry.

"But they can't play it. It's not been in the papers. Nobody's told me," I stuttered, by now in a panic.

"Well, it's definitely on son, get yer sen up here quick," he reiterated, assuming I was calling from just down the road. I laid the phone down in absolute disbelief.

"Get yer sen up here quick," I whispered back his advice. How the hell do I do that?

"That's it. Hell!!" I shouted in complete frustration.

In my mind's eye, I could see all hope of attending the game evaporating into the cold night air, and my sense of reason was diminishing just as rapidly. There was no other option open to me. I needed a helicopter, and fast.

I frantically searched the Yellow Pages, and under the listings for 'Air charter and rental' found a company called Heliflight (UK) Ltd. The company offered 'Training, trial lessons, pleasure flights, weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, filming, lifting, firefighting.'

"Bloody firefighting?" I screamed. "What's that about?"

Well, this really was an emergency in my eyes, so I had to phone. It was to no avail. As had happened for most of the day, nobody seemed to want to take my call. Flummoxed again, I rang the operator for assistance.

"Good evening, operator service. Can I help you?" came the reply.

"Yes, evening. I need to be put in touch with an organisation that hires out helicopters, please. Oh, and I'll need a pilot as well."

She slowly and deliberately repeated my request back to me in the second person singular, then added her own words.

"Business or pleasure, sir?"

"Neither," I barked back with an acute sense of urgency. "I just need a helicopter to take me up to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. It's an emergency."

A pause at the other end prolonged my misery.

"An emergency, you say? Well why don't you phone the police, sir?"

"No, no. Not that kind of emergency. It's personal. Could you at least try for me, please?"

By now, my voice was betraying my desperate state.

"Er...okay. Hold the line, I'll see what I can do."

With a click, she disappeared. The five minute wait that followed seemed like an eternity, my last remnants of hope that I might yet make it to the game hanging in a silent void, interrupted only by the occasional, tense crackle of static. At last, her voice returned to my ear, but her apologetic tone sank my heart.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, sir, but as you can imagine we don't get many requests for helicopters on a Wednesday night in April. We've had difficulty making contact with the relevant flight control departments. However, my supervisor has informed me that the nearest available heliport facility to yourself would be either Wolverhampton or Stourbridge, but that to obtain clearance for take off and landing procedures first to Stoke-on-Trent and then Newcastle-upon-Tyne would take at least half an hour. Is that any use to you, sir? Sir? Are you still there?"

I looked at my watch. It was already ten to seven. The only way I could travel the 200 miles to Newcastle now before the final whistle was by bloody space rocket.

"No," I sighed, barely audibly, "No good at all." Then with a dismissive "Thanks anyway," I plunged the phone down resignedly onto its cradle, defeated by the sheer hopelessness of the situation.

I hadn't even bothered with a quote for the proposed venture. The last throw of the dice had proved to be a complete non-starter. I would now gladly pay £10 per minute to have been able to view that game, but a set of circumstances had prevented me from doing so. It simply wasn't to be. I was totally devastated.

I shuffled back home in a dejected state, went straight upstairs to my room, lay face down on the bed and cried tears of sheer frustration. I had been let down by both local and national tabloid press, the radio, my friends, and, to top it all, my own football club.

Even worse was the fact that the secretary at the club had told me that there was no new date for the game the day before it actually went ahead. Unforgivable. If the club staff didn't know, then who the hell did?

As for my friends, Danny and Henry down south, I later discovered that they had assumed that, like them, I had read it by chance in the morning paper and travelled up. The crucial difference was, of course, that their paper had actually listed the fixture, while my chosen ones hadn't. My third EWS (Early Warning Supporter) was Nuzzler, and he had only discovered the game was on from that afternoon's edition of the local Lancashire Evening Telegraph.

Around 50 other Burnley fans who managed to make it to the game had also been alerted to it through this publication. Yet communication hadn't been a problem in the North East as more than 30,000 attended that night.

At half time, I'd recovered sufficiently to return to the telephone kiosk for an update on the game. Once again, that engaged tone was to frustrate my intentions, meaning an agonising wait until the sports bulletin at the end of the News at Ten. And there it eventually was: Newcastle United 1, Burnley 2. Goals from Martin Dobson and Geoff Nulty had sealed a great victory.

"They've won. Hooray!" cheered my mum, just before my slipper winged its way towards her.

"What's that for?" she questioned, quite legitimately. "It says Burnley have won, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but I'm not bloody there, am I?" I bellowed back rather unfairly.

"Well, you can go to the next game," she reasoned in her typically logical fashion.

My glare back received no response. She just couldn't grasp the gravity of the situation from my perspective. I retired to bed and attempted to sleep it off, but I couldn't. Knowing that my team had just played a game without my being there to support them was intensely hurtful.

I dissected the day in my head continuously. Was there something I could have done to avoid this disaster? I felt like a coroner holding an inquest into an unnatural death. In real terms, it was only one-and-a-half hours of a full day, a mere 90 minutes, just 5,400 seconds of my whole life. But, in my own eyes, I had failed. Although I thought I had taken all possible measures to prevent such an occurrence, I had still been caught out.

Given the advent of new forms of information and communication technology of the past few years, this lamentable episode would not happen today. That's little consolation to me now, however.

But the most infuriating aspect of that Wednesday night in 1974 was that I hadn't missed my first fixture in more than five years because of a delayed train, a static queue of traffic, a serious injury or an act of God. It was the simple, basic requirement of not knowing that the bloody thing was taking place at all.

I became doubly determined that it would never happen again.

# 20. THE APOCALYPSE COMETH: 1986-1987

Everyone has a tolerance level that cannot be surpassed, when something in life means so much to someone, they will do anything to preserve it, regardless of the consequences. This chapter is an examination inside the head of a very desperate man. Impassioned or irresponsible? That's for you to decide.

PICTURE CAPTION

A Close Shave: The head and eyebrow shave which commemorated Burnley's survival

On the brink

Fanatic: fa-nat'ik. noun: addict, bigot, devotee, enthusiast, zealot, extremist.

So reads the Collins dictionary definition of the word 'fanatic.' Never, particularly in respect of the last word of that definition, has there been such an accurate description to define one individual's state of mind on one particular day in May 1987.

Saturday, May 9, 1987.

Orient (Home).

Score: 2-1 (Grewcock, Britton). Attendance: 17,696.

'The Apocalypse.' Too strong a word to use to describe a mere 90 minutes of sport?

Not a bit of it! For in football terms, this was an unprecedented finale that symbolised the possibility of an end, not only to my own football world, but that of thousands of others.

It was a day when I could quite easily have lost my liberty, but far worse, my team could have forfeited their League status, and perhaps their very existence. Make no mistake, this was our very own Armageddon.

I faced this very real prospect as I made my contingency plans to prevent my club finishing bottom of Division Four in the last game of the 1986-87 season.

It had been designated the first season of automatic relegation from the Football League. The GM Vauxhall Conference champions would be the promoted replacements, and the biased, outdated system of conveniently voting the bottom placed club back into the League through re-election would be obsolete. It seemed an altogether much more favourable solution for the future.

But not this year, for Christ's sake!

We were one of the original founder members of the Football League way back in 1888. Besides, it was only our second season in this confounded basement division. Compare this to such habitual residents as Hartlepool, who had applied for re-election a record 11 times, Crewe Alexandra, who had made seven applications, and Rochdale, who had made six.

No, it was a grossly unacceptable state of affairs whereby one of the oldest and indeed proudest clubs in the whole country could be so mercilessly jettisoned into the obscurity of the part time world of non-league football. Even worse, in view of the burdensome financial debts still owed, perhaps not even that.

To this day I defy any fair-minded supporter to disagree that this was a totally unjustified predicament for Burnley Football Club to find itself in. OK, the previous years of mismanagement and the total lack of direction had now come home to roost, but it didn't stop me asking the question: "Why us? Why Burnley? Why me?"

Bob Lord must have been turning in his grave, his empire in ruins. The club's high achievers of the Fifties, Sixties and early Seventies could not comprehend how such a formerly cherished institution had been allowed to deteriorate to such a stark extent.

But Burnley's past glories would count for nothing. We were not just a mere possibility for the dreaded drop, but strong favourites. The stark fact was that after 90 minutes of agonising torture, this club could be heartlessly flushed away down the pan like some discharged excretia.

To a truly dedicated follower of a football club, one who stays loyal through thick and thin and continues to support when times are really bad, there is only one analogy of relegation. It is the same painful hurt experienced when someone you know closely passes away. Genuine tears are shed and your heart is temporarily broken until the mourning period is complete.

But to suffer a clinical demotion from the Football League itself must be akin to losing a treasured, loved one. For to the devoted fan, a football team is like an adopted child, an extension of the family.

May Day May Day!

The penultimate fixture of the 1986-87 season had been played at one of my local clubs, Crewe Alexandra.

Wooden railway sleepers formed the backbone of the Gresty Road terraces and the so-called temporary roof scaffolding on the Popular Side had remained there for countless years. This made it an appropriately depressing setting for a match of such consequence to both teams, as Crewe themselves were also embroiled in the fight for survival.

It was a May Day Bank Holiday Monday night game, and the distress signals had been well and truly sent out. A David Platt goal – yes, the very man – condemned Burnley to a 1-0 defeat and had greatly increased the pressure upon us.

In yet another dour spectacle the referee, a Mr KA Lupton, had inexplicably blown up for full time after only 87 minutes of play. This had denied us three minutes of normal time and at least the same for stoppages. He had possibly feared a pitch invasion from the excess of away fans who had dangerously overflowed into the home supporters' 'Pop Side' paddock area.

A complaint was made to the Football League headquarters, but this was overruled. Their representative, who was present on the night, must have come to the same conclusion as us, that Burnley wouldn't have scored given an extra three hours, let alone three minutes.

Tensions had run high in this relegation encounter, with the following night's local Evening Sentinel newspaper confirming as much. "Seventeen arrested, three locals stabbed as Burnley fans run amok!" read the front page headline.

It didn't help our cause. We were going into the Orient game in 92nd place, rock bottom of the entire Football League, and suddenly the survival clock was very slowly and very distressingly ticking down.

Now the equation was complex. Any one from Tranmere Rovers, one place above us, to Rochdale, Torquay United or even Lincoln City, fifth from bottom on 48 points, could mathematically drop through the basement trapdoor that by now was wide open and gaping.

There were many result permutations which would allow the other four clubs to survive, but we had fewer options. We had to win as our goal difference was far inferior to the three teams only one point above us, and even then had to rely on developments elsewhere to assist our plight.

Our opponents Orient also needed victory, but in their case to qualify for the divisional play-offs at the other end of the table. There was therefore little likelihood of any favours being handed out, so given the situation, I contemplated the next five days with dread.

Unchain my heart

I previously likened the scenario to anticipating an imminent death in the family, and nothing but nothing else occupied my mind leading up to the final countdown.

At night I found it almost impossible to sleep, frequently tossing and turning in bouts of restlessness. Consistently, I would literally 'backhead' an imaginary ball from a dream-induced throw in. The result was always the same. The simulated 'flick-on' would find our oncoming attacker in the opposition penalty area who would dispatch it into the net to score a precious winning goal that might just keep us up. The effort would be instantly ruled out once my skull had thudded against the wooden headboard behind to abruptly arouse me.

Conversely, I'd also awaken in a cold sweat from a nightmare which featured defeat and relegation. Sitting bolt upright in my bed as if premature rigor mortis had set in, I would slowly lie back down again with a thankful sigh, and this only after the relieved realisation that it hadn't actually happened.yet.

I couldn't carry on in this state. My heart was aching, my head was spinning, my veins twanged like plucked harp strings. Finally, I believed my subconscious instructed me to do something about it.

"Don't let your club die!" was the message being continuously relayed through my mind. Either whilst I was asleep or when I was awake, a vision would appear to utter this solemn directive. As I made a cup of tea, the kettle seemed to hiss it. The early morning birds would sing it, the back street dogs would bark it and our cat would stare at me intently with focused eyes as he meowed it.

"Don't let your club die!" over and over again.

It wouldn't go away, as if it was my own personal responsibility to do something about it, like a pre-ordained duty to Burnley Football Club. I thought that this voice could be a direct communiqué from the maker Himself, and began to wonder about the old saying that when you talk to God you are indeed a Christian, but if you hear God talk to you, you're a paranoid schizophrenic.

Perhaps it was just such a divine order from above. After all, there had been many well documented past cases of a spiritual calling, although I can't remember too many being attributed to saving a football club. Nevertheless, that was my desired interpretation of events and so without any reservations I prepared accordingly to carry out the decreed salvation of my troubled team.

Desperate situations require desperate measures and so I found myself walking with a purpose down to my local Manor Road football fields. There were three pitches here. I chose the goal posts of the village pub team for whom I would later play Sunday morning football, the Offley Arms FC, this pub now being the sole hostelry in a village with a 6,000 plus population. It was also home to the well established Madeley White Star FC, a Saturday side of local league renown for almost 80 years.

I had brought my thickly set bicycle security chain with me, which featured a numbered combination lock. At three feet, six inches long, the chain fitted tightly around me when I used it to secure my waist to the goal post. As dusk fell, I pondered the consequences of my proposed attempt to get the match abandoned if it was drifting away from us.

Staring blankly into the night sky, I had figured that if the worst came to the worst and defeat looked imminent, I would need to act swiftly. I had to fasten myself to the stanchion, suffragette-style, in a bid to curtail the game before the 77th minute watershed after which point, in those days, a result would be allowed to stand. Perhaps the fire brigade would be able to cut me free with their bolt croppers after a while.

By this time, however, the word on the street was that equally fanatical Burnley supporters on each side of the ground would also be preparing to take direct action. What had recently become the self-proclaimed 'Suicide Squad' hardcore hooligans would have to live up to their name in order to make an impact. From all accounts, they were going to form a rapid response force.

Many others had discussed a planned strategy of subterfuge, such as 'Mad Jack', who had 'Burnley FC' brazenly tattooed across the front of his neck, flanked by two blue ink stars. He had left his house that morning telling his wife not to expect him back if Burnley lost. What his intentions were only he knows. The whole thing was criminal, but only in the sense that a famous club of Burnley's stature had been allowed to sink so low.

I knew it wasn't right as I was undertaking the task of an anarchist, but the alternative was inconceivable. No doubt I could be locked up for being prepared to act on my beliefs, but so be it.

I'd made my mind up. I could never passively witness the execution of my club. I had invested too much time and money into watching them play to see them capitulate now. They had led me to make sacrifices in health, wealth, love and happiness in order to travel to every game. Burnley FC weren't just a hobby or some pastime to me. They were my life.

In the meantime however, I'd got so deeply involved with the implications of my proposed operation that I'd forgotten the four digit security number that I needed to unchain myself. Fortunately, after a few minutes and some frantic fumbling, I hit upon the right sequence to enable my release. I even forced a wry smile as I imagined the local newspaper headlines if I hadn't managed to achieve freedom:

"RIDDLE OF MAN FOUND BY POLICE CHAINED TO FOOTBALL GOAL POST OVERNIGHT!"

I'm sure it would have made interesting reading. But how would I have explained events to my liberators in the morning? Assuming I would have lasted until the morning, that is.

The longest day

The waiting was finally over, judgement day had arrived.

I'd hardly slept all night, and my stomach had been tightly knotted in trepidation of our final destiny.

Saturday, May 9, 1987 was to be a day etched in stone in the memory of every Burnley supporter. I felt like a man on Death Row preparing for his physical existence to be taken away from him. Metaphorically speaking, mine too would be taken away. Although my fate wasn't terminal, it certainly felt that way at the time.

Getting dressed, I carefully threaded my combination chain lock through my jean loops as if I was putting on a belt. I pulled on my replica Burnley shirt and wore it outside the strides so as to conceal the chain. I wasn't normally a 'shirt boy' for many reasons, primarily because most other fans were, and I didn't want to be categorised as one of a herd, but also because I believed the garment to be vastly overpriced, and that the sponsor's name turned the wearer into a walking advertisement.

Today was totally different. It was being worn to show that in the club's hour of need I was there to stand up and be counted.

By now my mind was racing with pessimistic thoughts over the forthcoming match. We had only won four games during 1987, how the hell were we supposed to win this one against promotion contenders?

"I don't know when I'll be back," I informed my mum upon departure.

I didn't want to alarm her about something that she could never understand. Her advice to "Shake your fist at the bloody idle devils!" would have hardly offered any positive encouragement to the players either.

I caught the 8.05am bus to Crewe railway station and then the train to Handforth, near Stockport, where Trevor Slack was waiting to meet me.

I'd suggested this game for his 'free beer day.' This was a reward for our annual pre-season wager which involved us each predicting the teams to be promoted and relegated from all four divisions of the Football League. As a result, whoever forecast the least correct positions was obliged to buy all the beer, day and night, from opening till closing time, and Trev had already secured a big enough lead to win this season's competition, regardless of today's results.

A score of five or less by the loser also qualified the winner for a free meal from the wayward tipster. The 'grub' wasn't an issue this time, as I had secured more than this figure in defeat, but the beer most certainly was though, big style.

With such a traumatic forthcoming event in prospect we needed to make sure that we were both fully anaesthetised before this particular attempt at a lifesaving operation.

We set off for our designated 'pub copping' destination of Clitheroe, a town that lay 10 miles north of both Burnley and Blackburn. As such it remained border territory, evenly divided between 'Clarets' and 'Rovers' fans.

Unusually for me and Trev, there was little conversation pertaining to this impending football fixture of such great magnitude, perhaps understandably so, given the grave circumstances. We were simply keeping our innermost thoughts to ourselves.

Clitheroe was reached, and the Buck Inn opened as stated at 10.30am. It was a comfortable, openly arranged lounge bar that incorporated two raised levels either side of the main entrance. The first of eight pints in the same number of pubs was swiftly dispatched. The alehouses visited were indistinguishable for the most part, although the clientele in each varied considerably. Multi-tattooed Hell's Angels drank in the Cross Keys, whilst serious diners ate at the Dog & Partridge. Pensioners preferred the Victoria, but loudmouthed youths were attracted to the equally blaring juke box in the White Horse lounge.

Amongst this latter group was a contingent of some eight lads who gave the distinct impression of being overenthusiastic in the way they were enjoying themselves for such an early hour.

But enjoying themselves they were, at my expense. These were Rovers fans, Burnley's deadliest enemies. The source of their delight was my replica shirt, which had been spotted by the group as I surveyed the room for my pub notes. Annoyed but unconcerned by their juvenile giggling, I carried on towards the bar entrance to rejoin Trev. After all, they were hardly genuine fans as none appeared to have been ready to make the effort to travel and watch their favourites play away today, had they?

But just as I was exiting the lounge, an undisguised barbed comment was clearly directed towards me in a mocking tone.

"They're going down today," announced one of their gathering cheerily.

The room went deadly quiet, giving an instant rebuke to this derisory jibe. This statement, once absorbed, hit home like an arrow to the heart. I couldn't let it pass unchallenged. It was bang out of order. No one had a right to say that, and most certainly not a 'Bastard,' which, today at least, was the Burnley fans' very appropriate sobriquet for this team's followers.

Stopping dead in my tracks I turned to face them, my body quivering with rage.

"Who the fuck says so?" I thundered, walking towards them whilst staring them down. "Come on big gob. Who says so?" I repeated, in an attempt to unearth the protagonist.

There was no reply to my terse enquiry. Instead they turned their heads to each other's gaze, some perturbed, some still smiling, but none offering a confession.

As I overlooked them disparagingly I knew I couldn't take this snide remark any further. I still had a duty to fulfil, and risking arrest before the game was not the way to go about it. I drained my pint pot and left the pub all the more incensed by this little spat.

As we motored on towards Turf Moor and our destiny, I had time to contemplate the possible consequences that may have occurred given my pub 'face off.' I concluded that some situations needed to be confronted and that was one such instance. Nevertheless, it made me wonder what anyone else connected with the club would have done under the same circumstances.

For instance, would Burnley's manager Brian Miller have challenged the group? Would the chairman or any of the board of directors have let it ride and just ignored it? Was this a mirror image of the dilemma that the club found itself in, where the supporters seemed to care more about defending the honour of the team than the players or officials? Probably not, but this sudden irrational behaviour only served to stiffen my resolve and reinforce the ever-louder voices in my head that continued to plead:

"DON'T LET YOUR CLUB DIE!"

A Doomsday gathering

Although arriving in plenty of time, it was clear to me that there were going to be considerably more on the game than the sub-4,000 gate for the previous home game against Southend.

Up until today, that result had easily been the most fortuitous three points of the season. A last minute, unwarranted penalty was dispatched into the net by Leighton James to complete a 2-1 scoreline. It would prove precious.

But where had all these people come from? Brunshaw Road, which was the main thoroughfare to the ground, was a sea of bobbing heads.

"Were they just turning up to see Burnley die?" I contemplated. "Well, they won't die," I whispered to myself, growing ever more agitated. And anyway, where were this lot when we needed them all season? Had they awoken from the big sleep?

It later emerged that the vast local majority had come down with a guilt complex. These townspeople had not visited their sick football relation for years, but to make themselves, and no doubt their consciences feel better, they wanted to be there at what could turn out to be the final laying to rest. I consoled myself that at least it reflected a modicum of concern.

Alternatively though, there must have been a good couple of thousand that had literally just turned up for the wake. I witnessed total strangers buying up piles of the match day programme in the macabre hope that Burnley's final League game would make them a nice tidy profit.

"Wankers!" I thought, deciding I had no time to verbally confront them as kick off was fast approaching.

"I'll see yer when I see yer, Trev," was my short farewell as I approached the Bee Hole End turnstiles. I needed to go on this open end of the ground to be near to the goalposts, even though the adjacent Longside terrace had been my spiritual home for more than 20 years.

I popped a minty chewing gum into my mouth to disguise my beery breath as I still needed to get past the police body search. I needn't have worried. Even the coppers seemed sympathetic. An almost apologetic upper torso frisk by the PC posed no threat to the discovery of my bicycle lock. I was in.

I took one final deep breath before ascending the range of concrete steps to the top. It was the busiest I had seen it since 1982, when more than 20,000 had attended the Boxing Day clash with Blackburn Rovers. In fact, it was so busy that an announcement had been made delaying the kick-off until 3.15pm to allow the queuing thousands to get in.

I deliberately made my move down the terrace to claim a prime site in order to carry out my assignment should it be needed. I was like a ticking time bomb primed to explode. My body was tensed but my head calm and a hundred per cent focused until another irritating quip disturbed my concentration.

"'Urry up mate, get yer boots on. Thez waiting over yon to start the game!"

This statement was followed by a few chuckles from the crowd. I took exception to this. On any other day I may have found it amusing myself, but in the context of today's most vital fixture, I simply couldn't. It was bad enough fending off disparaging remarks from Rovers fans without having to contend with cheap gags from my own so-called supporters, who failed to comprehend, or simply didn't wish to comprehend, the gravity of the situation.

Spinning round on the spot, I retraced my steps, grabbed the perpetrator of the comment by his shirt collar and lifted him off his feet to leave his stomach resting on the crush barrier he had previously stood behind.

By now I was raging and a lava flow of abuse erupted from my mouth.

"Yer find that fucking funny, do yer? That's the reason Burnley are in this shit. Too many wankers like you who couldn't give a fucking toss!" I shouted.

"Alrate mate, alrate, calm down. I'm on your side," he proclaimed as his face turned crimson with the pressure I was exerting with my closed hands. His girlfriend, standing by him, interjected to reason in her colloquial tonque.

"'Ee were only jorking, 'ee didn't mean to upset yer, honest."

"Well he fucking well did," I fumed back at her, making my feelings clearly known before continuing my passage through the stunned crowd.

Now, I'm not an advocate of bad language by any means, but there are two occasions when I consider it relevant and acceptable. The first is for emphasis to denote the degree of dissatisfaction that I have with something. The second is when I need to express my utter contempt and condemnation of a particular issue or act that I find inadmissible. This incident, no matter how trivial most other people would have found it, fell into the latter category.

I forced my way through the mass standees in order to locate a barrier to grip in an effort to curb my anxiety, and the match eventually kicked off in a combustible atmosphere.

Now, there's no point in pretending that I could give a detailed, analytical, blow-by-blow breakdown of this, Burnley's most important fixture in their entire history. The truth is I couldn't, and what's more I couldn't care less because it was a day when simply nothing else mattered but the final result. We just desperately needed to win it.

Escape to victory

Only the most marked moments are indelibly imprinted in my memory bank.

The first was the sheer wall of noise that signalled the eventual 3.15 kick off, and then there was the furious tempo of the game, with both sides having scoring efforts cleared off the line within the opening two minutes.

Then there was the agony of Joe Gallagher, our central defender, misdirecting a headed ball back to our keeper Joe Neenan and seeing it intercepted by an Orient forward. A desperate lunge from captain Ray Deakin, nicknamed 'Whoosh' by the Burnley fans because of his impetuous big clearances upfield, managed to skew the direction of the ball just past the angle of post and bar. I loudly cursed the error as an impending sense of doom descended upon the ground.

But then the mood of the fans changed dramatically as wing wizard Neil Grewcock cut inside and crashed in a left foot drive from 20 yards. Oh, what deep joy! It's got to be the first and only time that I've pogo danced on the same spot for a full minute to celebrate a goal. It was 1-0 to Burnley.

As referee George Courtney blew the whistle to bring the first half to a close, I looked at my watch. We had scored in injury time. The relief was tangible as all but the few hundred Orient fans rose in unison to applaud the Clarets off the pitch.

News came through via the transistor radios clasped to many hundreds of intensely receptive ears that Swansea were beating Lincoln, one of our fellow relegation candidates. What seemed like the whole of half time was spent in the cave that was the Bee Hole End toilet as fans fought over every available space to empty their bursting bladders. No one had left to go before the interval as every minute of the game demanded their full attention. Never have I known a match watched so intently by so many people in a state of sheer purgatory.

By now I had made my way around to the adjoining Longside territory and the patch of terracing that was my usual home on match days. I wanted to gauge both the reaction and opinion from the still tense but slightly more upbeat assembly.

"We've got to hold on, Dave. We've just got to!" was the most repeated and heartfelt line from the army of dewy eyed, fully grown men.

Expressed with total sincerity and emphasised by their accompanying clenched fists, the desperation was there for all to see. These were the 100 per cent diehards, the lads that had paid hard earned money to watch this shit all season. It would be a complete tragedy for all of them if it was to go against us now.

As Mr Courtney got the final 45 minutes under way, I began to walk back to the open end in case I still needed to put into operation my determined bid to ensure those boys would not have to witness the worst case scenario.

Then, after only three minutes of the second half, came a goal from the most unlikely of sources. Chief playmaker and easily my man of the match, Neil Grewcock, was once again involved. He flighted a perfectly placed free kick for Ian Britton, the smallest man on the pitch, to head home.

Burnley 2, Orient 0! As the ball hit the net there followed an instantaneous phenomenon. A mist of condensation burst upwards as thousands of open mouths greeted this most precious of strikes with an almighty roar. It was as if a giant pressure cooker had suddenly exploded.

After intensely scrutinising the man in black for a couple of seconds to categorically confirm the goal had been given, I joined in with the biggest 'mental' ever witnessed at Turf Moor. It was unbridled delight.

Now, with a two goal cushion, I reviewed my strategy. My heart told me to stay with the choristers and will on the team with every last breath in my body. This I did, convincing myself that surely we wouldn't let it slip now.

But I should have known better, as all season Burnley seemed to have adopted a practice of letting the opposition back into the game. Orient gratefully accepted this kind offer with Allan Comfort, without doubt the most inappropriate name in the circumstances, volleying into the roof of the net after a poor punch out from our custodian to make it 2-1 with 56 minutes played.

Now I was twitching. I had less than quarter of an hour to decide whether or not to stop the game before it could be officially classed as an abandonment. If the Londoners scored again within that time I couldn't hesitate. I had to go on. If they didn't, then our fate was in the hands of the Gods and I couldn't do a thing about it.

As the 70th minute ticked by, the score remained 2-1 to Burnley. I stayed put.

The 34 minutes that followed Comfort's goal were the longest of my entire life until finally, yes finally, the now newly crowned 'Sir' George Courtney blew the full time whistle.

Lincoln had already finished on the losing side at Swansea, so we now knew that we were staying up and they were the unfortunate vanquished. Fittingly, their taste of non-league life was only brief as they made a swift return to the Football League as champions of the Conference the following season, finishing two points clear of Barnet.

Within seconds of the referee signalling that it was all over, the Burnley players disappeared under a sea of fans that had invaded the pitch, me included. But whereas their feelings were joyous as they proceeded to attempt the world's biggest conga dance, my contrasting raw emotions were of both ecstasy and anger. After the week I had just been through, I was furious that they had got themselves embroiled in such a precarious position in the first place.

I ran straight across the field to the directors' box to vent my spleen, pushing through the bank of press photographers that were by now corralling manager Brian Miller for that celebratory pose. This was in direct contrast to their vulture-like demeanour before the game, when they were no doubt pre-empting Burnley's fate with morose shots of the same man.

I yelled up to the Bob Lord Stand at no one in particular, but rather at anybody who was prepared to listen, my fingers pointing accusingly as I shouted at the top of my voice: "This must never be allowed to fuckin' happen again. D'yer hear? Never!"

There was but one respondent to my frustrated outburst. 'Doc' Iven, a white haired old gent who was the official club doctor as well as being a director, slowly made his way down the walkway to meet me. He at least had the guts to agree with my sentiments.

"You're right, we must make sure it never happens again," he answered, with a certain stoicism as he patted my back to both reassure and placate me.

Putting over my point so forcefully had helped ease the pain of the day's efforts. I felt much better for it and now it was time to celebrate.

My head felt like it had been split in two due to the combination of excessive alcoholic intake, frenzied screaming and the sheer enormity of the occasion. Dozens of male supporters' hands were shaken, many female cheeks kissed and emotional rivers of tears shed as thousands of us sang and danced upon our hallowed Turf.

I imagined that this must have been how it felt on VE Day as a sense of liberation and safety took over. The state of near-hysteria lasted for a good half hour. For me, the rejoicing chant of: "Now you're gonna believe us, the Clarets are staying up," will always be associated with our lowest ebb, being just 90 minutes away from Football League expulsion.

I bumped into 'Tricky' during the proceedings.

"Where are we doing it, Trev?" I gesticulated with both hands in a drinking motion.

"Fancy Bollington?" suggested Trev.

"At this moment in time I'd fancy fucking Beirut!" I responded gleefully.

It's party time

Set within the rolling hills of the Cheshire countryside just outside Macclesfield, in reality Bollington was about as far removed from the trouble-torn Middle Eastern city of Beirut as it was possible to be.

It formed part of the wealthy Manchester commuter belt and was entirely typical of this type of town. However, for us there was a far greater attraction, namely the excellent choice of pubs to be copped and their quality beer selection, predominantly from the locally renowned Boddingtons, Robinsons and Marstons portfolio.

To say that the beer flowed freely would be a gross understatement. It was like completing a stint of army conscription, the heavy burden of duty having been lifted from our shoulders.

We sympathised greatly with the Manchester City fans that we met during the evening. They had seen their team relegated to Division Two that day. Always in the shadow of their more loudly illustrious neighbours, they longed for parity one day. It was hard not to feel sorry for them.

There and then, I made a spontaneous pledge to commemorate Burnley's 'close shave' with expulsion from the Football League by having all my hair and eyebrows shown off for charity at the local Newcastle Carnival Day.

Eventually we said our goodbyes in the last pub, which had accommodated us by doing a bit of overtime. It was gone midnight as we staggered out, breaking into a rendition of Burnley's anthem 'No Nay Never' as we draped our arms draped over each other's shoulders.

This was in order to steady ourselves as much as anything else as our total beer consumption for the day stood neatly at two gallons apiece, made up of eight before the game and eight after. So it came as no surprise that we hit the night air in a merry mood, or to put it in layman's terms, 'pissed as rats.' We were both physically and mentally exhausted.

Going out through the front door, Trev burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter as he pointed to a car that had been atrociously and illegally parked. It looked a sorry sight as it must have been a good four feet away from the kerb and was causing an obstruction to passing traffic.

"Haa haa," mocked Trev. "Just look at 'ow that plonker's parked his car.hic.he wants locking up for that."

I laughed out loud with Tricky in full agreement, as it was an inexcusable act of carelessness. As we meandered up the hill in search of Trev's car, with no vehicle in sight I glanced behind once more at the abandoned vehicle before doing a double take as the realisation dawned.

"Bloody hell, Trev, it's yours. That's your bloody motor."

I grabbed his arm and sat him down on a nearby bench as his smile evaporated and his usually rosy face paled significantly as he gazed in total disbelief at his inadvertent negligence and inability to recognise his own car.

"Come on, Trev. I think it's time we headed back," I whispered sympathetically. So we did, albeit very slowly and of course apprehensively, finally getting to our beds at some unearthly hour of the morning.

The whole day had been a surreal, manic experience from start to finish, and one I certainly didn't want to repeat.

But there were two big positives to be gained from this stressful time. The first was that now we had experience of being at the very bottom of the Football League, so from this day on every position we climbed in the future I would appreciate that little bit more. Secondly, I believe that the 'Orient game' galvanised the population of this small mill town into action by reminding them that their football team is the flagship of both the town and its people. Once that importance had been established, every cheer got louder and every day seemed just that little bit brighter. The start of a Claret revival back to the good times had begun in earnest.

Five years on from this game of crucial significance, a two page spread in relation to the pre-match build up was disclosed in the sports pages of a national newspaper. In an exclusive interview, the Orient manager on that day, Frank Clark, made a number of disturbing insinuations under the headline: "Cop told me to throw match."

In Clark's own words, one allegation was that "a very high ranking local police officer" had advised him that it would be safer to deliberately lose the game rather than face the wrath of fanatical Burnley fans, some of whom had already made a number of threats. The officer added that his force couldn't guarantee Orient's safety if they were to win.

Clark said though he protested that he didn't want to take part if that was the situation, the game got the go ahead. He went on to recall: "I remember late in the game we were losing 2-1 and at one point I jumped on the bench to scream at my players to get forward. At that point, the physio tapped me on my shoulder with a timely suggestion that I sit down and behaved myself, which I obeyed."

Clark, who at the time of the report had just become the new chief executive of the Football Manager's Association, had angrily pointed out to the Burnley policeman that: "You've protected Salman Rushdie from death threats for years but you can't seem to do anything against football yobs!"

Too right Frank, there's no place for that sort of behaviour in football circles. But if it's any consolation to the O's, at least they can say that they played a part in the rebirth of Burnley Football Club, a momentous occasion that has already passed into the folklore of the town.

As for the allegations against Burnley's desperadoes that day, I'd say they were slanderous. No responsible policeman would tell a manager to throw a game. But thinking about it, I do recall making a remark about some incidents in the closing stages of the game as Orient contrived to miss two sitters in the last 10 minutes. Something along the lines of: "My bloody granny would have put them away!"

Criminal, it was, bloody criminal!

But as I said, and most importantly of all: "This must never be allowed to fuckin' happen again. D'yer hear? Never!"

In Memoriam

Ray Deakin, Burnley's inspirational captain on that fateful but ultimately euphoric day, died on Christmas Eve, 2008 from cancer of the brain.

Ray, who was affectionately known as 'Whooshy,' valiantly rallied his troops to win the battle against automatic expulsion from the Football League. Thanks Ray, you will always be remembered.

# THE END OF THE FIRST HALF

And so my near quarter of a century of support for my team drew to a close in dramatic fashion as the sun set on the most critical day in the club's long history. Accordingly, this seems the most fitting moment to press the pause button on proceedings, a time to sit back, take stock and personally muse on what was a distinctly poignant juncture, not only for Burnley FC, but for English football in general.

PICTURE CAPTION

Check Mates: In 1985 I met Derby County fan Michael Stack of Chaddesden who also changed his name to become Mick Derby.

Reflections

It cannot be emphasised enough that the final hours of the 1986-87 season commemorate what was in effect the rebirth of Burnley FC back into the football world.

It was as if time stood still within this small town in North East Lancashire right up until two minutes to five in the afternoon when referee George Courtney blew his whistle to signal the start of the biggest ever party on the 'Turf.'

The Football League was due to celebrate the centenary of its formation the following year, 1988, and during the whole of those 100 years, no club had capitulated to such an extent, from being champions of England to occupying 92nd and very bottom spot in the whole four divisions with one game of the season to fulfil. And we had managed to achieve this unenviable feat within the space of just 27 years, the slide culminating in what really was a 'must in' match in every sense of the word.

I'd been right through the 'wringer' watching them week in, week out. The full gamut of emotions had been experienced, particularly in the last decade, but certainly not, I must add, in equal measure.

Oh no! Joy, happiness and elation were far outweighed by feelings of grief, sorrow and deflation. They had to be, as barring the single promotion season of 1982, performances had been atrociously poor given Burnley's previous standing of 24 consecutive top flight campaigns up to 1971.

In our case, I remain fully convinced that if we had not obtained the required result in the 'Orient game,' the club would have folded as no guarantee had been given to the contrary.

Perhaps the same path as near neighbours Accrington Stanley may have been followed. After losing their League status in 1962, they reformed in 1970 and after climbing back through the non-league pyramid, at long last they are making a concerted effort to maintain their acquaintance with the Football League.

However, if we had been forced to give it all up as a club, the title of this summary could quite easily have been abridged to read simply 'The End!'

It would also be true to say that my own health has been indirectly affected by watching Burnley over the years.

My two separate bouts of pneumonia were a result of being forced to sleep out after matches, and the severe strain of cholera was a legacy of my budget round the world sabbatical I undertook after my club slipped into the bottom division.

My finances too have taken a continual battering in the quest to attend every first team fixture, as everything from travel costs to turnstile admission prices has rocketed.

As for employment, prospects of a long term career were greatly restricted by the continual need to take regular time off to reach matches at various destinations.

Personal relationships with everyone I came into contact with were also determined by each result as my own morale and sense of well being rose or plunged in accordance with the club's fortunes.

The abysmal public transport system, plagued by delays and cancellations, grew more infuriating the more wretched it became, with paltry explanations proffered to excuse these failures only exacerbating a traveller's anger.

As a result, I have hitchhiked more than 170,000 miles thus far, in all weather conditions. Besides saving on travel costs it was, with forward planning, an adequate alternative to the railways.

The inordinate lack of basic news and sub-standard communication that existed for many years was also an acute challenge to making an appearance at every game.

And finally, there was the power of nature, such as atrocious wintry weather conditions which sometimes lasted up to half the year also needed to be overcome with considerable durability.

Each formidable obstacle and hindrance tested my resilience to attend the main event, but I'm proud to record that throughout it all I was, and currently remain STILL THERE.

Tragedies that changed football forever

The month of May, 1985, two years before the 'Orient game,' was one of mourning.

The hellish Bradford City fire tragedy at Valley Parade was just so hard to take in and come to terms with for many football followers.

I'd been on the home supporters' end at Bradford only three weeks previously to save a couple of quid as it was more expensive in the away end. Burnley had lost 3-2, but my abiding memory was of the antiquated state of the gents' toilets in the home end, where I had to duck under a cave-like entry to gain access. All the other parts of the ground were in a similarly neglected condition, including the Midland Road paddock, the narrowest terracing I've ever seen at any league ground and certainly the lowest roofed.

But it would be the large amount of uncleared debris accumulated over many years under the broader stand opposite that provided ready tinder for the wind assisted inferno which claimed so many lives that day.

Just before the half time interval in the game against Lincoln City, a wisp of smoke would accelerate into a raging conflagration fuelled readily by a tar-covered roof, and within five minutes the entire length of the structure was ablaze.

It claimed 56 lives that day and badly scarred many, many others both physically and mentally.

Later in the month, Liverpool played Juventus in the European Cup Final at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels.

After listening to eyewitness reports as well as studying TV footage of the confrontation that led to the English fans charging the Italian supporters, in my view one thing is blatantly obvious. The Belgian police underestimated the potential for trouble.

Just a flimsy fencing arrangement kept two volatile factions apart, and when that gave way, panic stricken Juve followers trampled their own countrymen underfoot when a perimeter wall collapsed under a tide of humanity.

This all happened even before the match kicked off, but amazingly the game went ahead as 39 Italians lay dying with hundreds of others injured.

Ultimately, the conclusive nadir would turn out to be the Hillsborough disaster of April 15, 1989, when Liverpool were due to compete for an FA Cup Final place against Nottingham Forest. Amid nightmare scenes, 96 supporters were crushed to death and at 3.06pm, just a few minutes after kick off, the game was abandoned.

Towards the end of the 1973-74 season, Burnley had played Newcastle United at the same venue, once again in an FA Cup semi-final. The date was Saturday, March 30, and my ticket cost me just £1 and was marked for the Leppings Lane End's West Enclosure, entrance B, gangway 3.

Rightly or wrongly, I ended up directly behind the goal with the main mass of Burnley choristers who were cheering on their team. What struck me initially about gaining entrance to the ground was the tight funnelling of fans into an inadequate queuing quadrant outside the limited turnstiles. It was definitely not a large enough holding area for big crowds as it led to confusion and eventually impatience as individual queues merged into one in the confined space.

Once inside, supporters were drawn into the long, dark, unsupervised connecting tunnel where fans were jostled to and fro relentlessly before emerging on the terracing just yards from the pitch.

I questioned why there were two sets of railings on either side of us which in effect served only to segregate us from our own fellow supporters. They were totally unnecessary and didn't even serve a purpose when we played the home club Sheffield Wednesday in league matches. So why were they there?

Worse still given such circumstances was the addition of pitchside perimeter fencing to prevent fan invasions which was in operation for the Liverpool v Nottingham Forest game and completed the appearance of the area as an animal compound.

And don't let me hear the excuse of drunkenness for events on that fateful day in 1989. I would imagine the majority of football fans would want a few drinks before their club's semi-final appearance, so surely it was up to the local constabulary to expect that and to police proceedings effectively. On that day they certainly didn't.

So, with the floodgates almost literally being opened and a tide of humanity sweeping towards a one way tunnel leading to a captive audience, there was little hope of avoiding disaster.

A few days later, I paid my own respects at the improvised shrine made up of hundreds of scarves and flowers outside the Leppings Lane gates. Like myself, those who died were dedicated followers of the greatest game in the world. Set against the claret and blue scarf I laid at the scene, I placed my own handwritten plaque which read 'Divided Loyalties, United in Grief – Burnley's Longside.' It didn't matter one bit that I didn't know a single one of them. To me they were my brothers and sisters in the family of football.

All three of the above were dreadful catastrophes that claimed hundreds of lives within the confines of football stadia, places supposedly primed in anticipation of just such situations and manned by a full complement of uniformed personnel supposedly ready to react accordingly. The authorities had failed all these victims and they knew it.

When such happenings occur, I evaluate my life and a sense of perspective inevitably emerges. Although my chosen team made me endure many lousy seasons, I was at least 'still there,' able to support them no matter how low they sank. But for many of my own kind, their support for their team saw them in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they paid with their lives.

Of course, hindsight is a wonderful thing, but I still feel that all these mortalities could and should have been prevented by the application of the fundamental principles of ground safety measures.

The vital issues of strictly monitored crowd control procedures, adequate but not unnecessary segregation, swift evacuation practice, basic hygiene rules and emergency contingency plans should all have been prerequisite requirements stringently enforced by each local authority.

At long last however, the men in suits at both the Football Association and the Football League were forced out of their lethargy and to accept their responsibilities. The changes which resulted also brought an end to an epoch of unabated gratuitous violence, a problem which seemed to have been conveniently forgotten for too many years.

The archaic plight of large capacity locations with rudimentary amenities of course didn't affect those in authority as it did the ordinary fans who attended matches. Like most governmental organisations, these faceless bureaucrats didn't live in the real world, the world of unreliable public transport, walking the poorly patrolled streets to enter an unsafe arena, having to pee in open air toilets and queuing endlessly for everything from the match programme to a plastic cup of insipid Bovril.

Now they had to act to restore confidence to the very lifeblood of the game – its supporters.

The Nineties – a new era

The 1990s will go down as an era that spawned a new generation of fans and a decade when football finally took off.

I believe that this resurgence can be attributed to a combination of factors.

To begin with, formulating an almost independently governed Premier League enabled it to attract the services of a good proportion of the world's best international players.

This in turn induced a fresh clientele to take notice and attend games. They were the punters from the higher earning echelons of society, and as a consequence the corporate hospitality bracket boomed. Companies who were always willing and able to pay for the very best registered to sponsor a box to impress their clients by allowing them to see this exhibition of the very best, elite sporting talent via this prestigious event package of food, drink and football.

Close on the polished heels of the obligatory collar and tie brigade were the high heels of the female gender. One of the requirements of the post-Hillsborough Taylor Report was for all teams in the top two divisions to provide safe, all seater stadia within three years.

With the help of grants, a large proportion of antiquated pre-war football grounds were dragged kicking and screaming into the late 20th century.

Lord Justice Taylor's report would go on to make all seater stadiums mandatory in the League's top two divisions with an overhaul of security to include stewarding and better policing following. Family enclosures with a range of catering and clean toilets for both sexes would be added and a number of brand new stadiums were eventually built with help from the Football Trust. But most important of all, each club had to conform to public safety legislation to hold matches.

The elitist Premier League would subsequently be formed and the other three divisions change their name twice, while hundreds of foreign players would invade our shores and England's national team would winnothing!

But above all that, I firmly believe there's a unique bond which links English fans of any club. It is their durability in being able to withstand not only the atrocious weather conditions, but also the lost sleep travelling back from night matches and the reduced income resulting from having to take time off.

There is an in-built mechanism which determines the fact that they, like me, have just GOT TO BE THERE!

#  SOME HIGHLIGHTS OF THE SECOND HALF

This book covers part one of my story. But there's plenty more to come in the soon to be published volume two, and here are some of the highlights.

PICTURE CAPTION

Downing Street: Tony Blair, Cherie and myself gleefully anticipate the start of Burnley's new season!

1988 – My first trip to the Twin Towers with Burnley

More than 80,000 flock to Wembley Stadium to witness two Fourth Division sides battle for.wait for itThe Sherpa Van Trophy! Burnley 0, Wolves 2.

1988 again – Mutiny at the pie stall

A first round League Cup tie at Spotland, home of Rochdale FC, deteriorates into chaotic bedlam when the pie hut runs out of supplies before kick off.

1989 – I'll be supporting someone else next season

After my premeditated disclosure of those few choice words to the town's football gossip merchants, little did I realise the consternation it would create as it spread like wildfire. I finally had to confess that the 'someone else' I would be supporting was not another football team but my newly born daughter Clarette.

1990 – Tears for souvenirs

When Paul Gascoigne gets booked while playing for England in their World Cup semi-final against West Germany in Italy, he bursts into tears for his own selfish reasons, as it meant he would be banned from the final if his team made it. Yet that image attracted a suitably impressed legion of admirers back to football. And I was lucky enough to see it first hand.

1992 – Promotion commotion

After seven long years in Division Four, Burnley finally win promotion and become only the second team in history, behind Wolves, to win all four divisional titles.

1994 – Up through the playoffs

After finishing sixth in the newly titled Division Two, which was the old Division Three, and a staggering 12 points behind both Plymouth and Stockport, we overcome each of them in dramatic fashion to win promotion once again.

1994 – Trelleborgs twinned

With Burnley's rivals going out of Europe to the part timers of Trelleborgs in the UEFA Cup, myself and Steve 'the Veg' Mackriel concoct a plot to twin Burnley with the Swedish town.

1995 – A Longside epitaph

Dressed head to toe in funereal black, I am the last man to leave the famous Longside terrace before it is demolished. As the stewards finally escort me off the gates close for the very last time.

1997 – Meeting the PM at No10

An invitation to visit Prime Minister Tony Blair turns into a football debate rather than a political one as myself and the PM's Press secretary Alastair Campbell discuss the merits of Burnley's season.

1999- We've signed Wrighty!

England legend Ian Wright swaps the bright lights of London for the dimmer lights of Burnley but proves the catalyst for promotion under Stan Ternent.

2000 – Up to the Championship once again

No better way to celebrate the millennium than by grabbing promotion via a stunning last game win at sunny Scunny!

2001/2 – Now we've signed Gazza!

It's close but we agonisingly miss out by one place on a play-off spot in our first year back in the Championship. Then Gazza nearly gets us there the following season as a couple of his speciality free kicks are splendidly saved by Coventry keeper Magnus Hedman in the final game and we miss out on goal difference to Norwich City.

2004 – Stan the Man leaves the Turf in tears

After six years in charge, Stan Ternent is relieved of his managerial duties to the shock of many after her had dragged the club up by its bootlaces. But 18 games under his tenure in which the Clarets conceded five goals or more make gruesome statistics.

2009 – Owen's era

Owen Coyle in his first full season in charge takes the Clarets to the new Wembley Stadium, where a Wade Elliott goal realises the dream of a return to the top flight after a 33 year absence.

2009-2010 – Into the Prem

And so Burnley embark on their Premier League campaign. How will they fare against the big boys?

#  Dedication

This volume I dedicate to the memory of all those fellow supporters who paid the ultimate price in pursuance of their wish to follow their respective football teams.

Myself and all devotees of this great game grieve as one for each one and their family, friends and relatives. R.I.P

Dave Burnley's life has, over the past 35 years, attracted the attention of numerous national and international press reports and also television and radio features. The Daily Mirror, Sky TV, Setanta, Granada are just some of the organisations that have run interviews with him.

In May 1988, Dave was invited to No10 Downing St to meet then Prime Minister Tony Blair, and found that he was already well aware of his exploits thanks to his press secretary Alastair Campbell, also a dedicated Burnley fan.

This book takes the form of an autobiography originally handwritten solely by Dave, and is loosely divided into chronological eras of his time supporting Burnley, leading up to the club being just one game from possible extinction in 1987. There are also occasional interludes focussing on a particular aspect of his colourful life.

This is Dave's first book and represents 'part one' of the tale of his lifelong devotion, and is intended to offer a broad appeal to any follower of 'The Beautiful Game.'

Tony Dawber

Freelance journalist and writer

This is the real life story of the ultimate football fan and it will have you nodding your head in agreement and at times shaking it in disbelief.

A very funny and hugely passionate account of an all-consuming lifetime's obsession – 'being there' at every single game with his chosen team, Burnley FC, despite living in an isolated village fully 75 miles from the town and not being able to drive.

"Live it, breath it, inhale it deeply. This is the story of true football fever." – Lorne Hayhurst, freelance sports journalist and ex-Yorkshire Post deputy editor

###

OTHER BOOKS BY DAVE BURNLEY

' **STILL THERE!'**

As the new Millennium dawned, and after completing over a quarter of a century without missing any Burnley F.C first team competitive game, I decided that the time was right to formulate a personal diary of the trials and tribulations of following a team from afar and the inevitable stories that entails. And so my first autobiography was published, entitled 'Got To Be There! It encapsulated the difficult task of doing so throughout the 1960's, 70's and 80's culminating in the pivotal 'Orient' game in 1987 when the club, in my mind, narrowly survived extinction.

However I found I had so much to write that only another book to bring proceedings bang up to date would suffice. That is why Part Two 'Still There!' is due out after the present 2014-15 season to hopefully dovetail perfectly with 50 years of my support and Burnley retaining their status in the Premier League.

Connect With Dave Burnley

Although I've never been fully able to embrace the technological age of personal computers, nor ever desired to if the truth be known, I have been forced to realize that in the modern electronic world abstinence just isn't an option.

To this end I have endeavoured to go back to school in order to catch up with what is a stark reality. Which all means I now have my own email address where I can be contacted at dburnleyextreme@gmail.com, website www.daveburnleyextreme.co.uk or you can follow me on Twitter at dburnleyextreme

