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Match tally 2007/08 [Apr. 28th, 2008|11:30 am]
Accrington Stanley 1 – 1 Burnley (14 July 2007)*
Burnley 1 – 1 Middlesbrough (21 July)*
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 Scunthorpe United (11 August)
Scunthorpe United 2 – 0 Burnley (18 August)
Charlton Athletic 4 – 3 Stockport County (28 August)δ
Colchester United 2 – 3 Burnley (1 September)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 0 Norwich City (18 September)
Bristol City 2 – 2 Burnley (22 September)
AFC Bournemouth 1 – 3 Carlisle United (29 September)#
Cardiff City 2 – 1 Burnley (6 October)
Dagenham & Redbridge 1 – 3 Accrington Stanley (14 October)&
Barnsley 1 – 1 Burnley (20 October)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 2 Plymouth Argyle (23 October)
Charlton Athletic 0 – 1 Queens Park Rangers (27 October)
Tottenham Hotspur 2 – 0 Blackpool (31 October)%
Sheffield United 0 – 0 Burnley (3 November)
Luton Town 0 – 0 Carlisle United (6 November)#
Leicester City 0 – 1 Burnley (10 November)
Brighton & Hove Albion 2 – 2 Carlisle United (24 November)#
Watford 1 – 2 Burnley (27 November)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 3 Burnley (1 December)
Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 – 3 Burnley (8 December)
Burnley 0 – 2 Queens Park Rangers (11 December)
Burnley 2 – 3 Preston North End (15 December)
Ipswich Town 0 – 0 Burnley (22 December)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 West Bromwich Albion (5 January 2008)£
Burnley 0 – 2 Arsenal (6 January)£
Charlton Athletic 4 – 1 Blackpool (12 January)
Charlton Athletic 6 – 0 Sheffield United (16 January)±
Coventry City 1 – 2 Burnley (19 January)
West Bromwich Albion 2 – 1 Burnley (2 February)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 0 Crystal Palace (8 February)
Queens Park Rangers 2 – 4 Burnley (12 February)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 2 Watford (16 February)
Charlton Athletic 5 – 1 Swindon Town (19 February)+
Plymouth Argyle 3 – 1 Burnley (23 February)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 2 Sunderland (27 February)Σ
Burnley 2 – 2 Watford (1 March)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 Bristol City (4 March)
Burnley 1 – 0 Charlton Athletic (11 March)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 West Bromwich Albion (21 March)
Preston North End 2 – 1 Burnley (22 March)
Charlton Athletic 2 – 3 Wolverhampton Wanderers (29 March)
Charlton Athletic 1 – 1 Southampton (12 April)
Southampton 0 – 1 Burnley (19 April)
Burnley 3 – 3 Cardiff City (26 April)
Dagenham & Redbridge 2 – 0 Mansfield Town (3 May)&
Crystal Palace 5 – 0 Burnley (4 May)

All games Coca-Cola Championship league fixtures, except where indicated

* Pre-season friendly
δ Carling Cup second round
# Coca-Cola Football League One
& Coca-Cola Football League Two
% Carling Cup fourth round
£ FA Cup third round
± FA Youth Cup fourth round
+ FA Youth Cup fifth round
Σ FA Youth Cup sixth round
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Preston 2 – 1 Burnley [Apr. 22nd, 2008|11:00 am]

Deepdale
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

You’ve gotta love Lancashire police. Arriving at Preston station, I approach three of them with an air of inquiry; two immediately turn their backs on me, so I ask the third if there are any buses going to Deepdale. “Yeah,” he replies. Getting no further, I approach three more policemen by the exit; two immediately turn their backs on me, so I ask the third if there are any buses going to Deepdale. “Yes, but they’re for away fans,” he says, and walks off. Right.

After walking to the ground – head-on into a blizzard – it’s a relief to discover that the ‘facilities’ remain superb. The women’s toilets have doors that don’t lock, no hot water, and signs warning us that not all the cubicles are equipped with sanitary disposal units (presumably all ladies at a certain time of the month have to queue at one end of the bogs). And my hotdog is stone cold.

The hospitality hasn’t improved by the time I reach my (or rather, someone else’s) seat; their obnoxious tannoy man says “let’s see if they can keep up…” and reads out the Burnley team at breakneck speed. Preston then have a ‘white out’, where everyone in the Alan Kelly Town End holds up a large white piece of card as the players run out. It looks like they’re all advertising for guide dogs.

Hearing the word “reyt” in a Burnley accent always makes me smile, but we’re surprisingly quiet before kick-off, and the players give us nothing to shout about. Just five minutes in, Unsworth presents the ball to Tamas Priskin on the edge of the 18-yard box, and he coolly curls it around the keeper. (We’re back to Jensen today, after Kiraly’s idiotics against Wolves, and he hasn’t a chance.)

Chris Brown then has a header saved, Harley clears off the line after a corner, and the lads behind me start to discuss what time they should leave. “There’s only two of you singing,” carol the delighted Nobbers – and that’s a generous assessment of our support.

Alexander and Carlisle are all over the shop, and the normally excellent Unsworth looks like a pub-team player. We’re making Priskin look like sodding Ronaldinho, and he wastes a golden chance to double the lead when he bursts clean through (courtesy of Carlisle) and is blocked by the Beast. We’re being bombarded, we’re losing battles all over the pitch, and to continue the military metaphor, we don’t even look up for the fight.

The performance also highlights how little protection the midfield offers the defence. Today’s central midfield display is the worst I’ve seen since Scunthorpe away, summed up when Wade threads a ball along the halfway line and both JOC (atrocious) and McCann (a disgrace) completely miss it. Mahon remains on the bench.

It’s left to Blake to single-handedly drag the side forward, and he shoots over the bar after Ade heads on an Unsworth free-kick. Lafferty works his way into the D but, crowded out by Youl Mawene and Billy Jones, scuffs his shot wide. He also plays an exquisite backheeled ball into the box to JOC, who passes it neatly to Mawene.

On 37 minutes, Preston let the lead slip through their fingers – literally, as Andy Lonergan fumbles O’Connor’s speculative shot over the line – and we play more fluently until the break. However, when Brown beats Alexander and Carlisle simultaneously in the air, something tells me the game is up. We are very, very lucky not to go in four or five goals down.

It’s back to the attention-seeking tannoy man at half-time, and after apologising for his earlier behaviour, he proceeds to read out our substitutes at incomprehensible speed. He is, presumably, the same berk who got reprimanded last season for bitching about Uriah Rennie. Incidentally, Rennie is the referee today, and has a decent game.

Caldwell emerges for the second half in place of the hapless Unsworth, and the signs are initially promising – Blake puts the ball in from the left, Wade nimbly skips over it and McCann shoots just wide from the left of the D. But Preston score the winner on 54 minutes; seemingly hypnotised by Paul McKenna’s corner, the Beast punches it down into the ground, and Brown’s shot from the edge of the six-yard box scythes through a forest of legs on its way into the net. Classy as ever, the Nobbers celebrate by chucking coins at us.

Having got up at 5.30am to watch this rubbish, I’m tempted to numb the pain by going to sleep, but it’s too cold. Priskin, meanwhile, is doing his best to maximise our misery; sporting the ridiculous orange boots currently plaguing the Championship, he starts taunting our creaking, leaking defence by doing Ronaldo-esque tricks. He also sets a world record for the slowest walk off the field after being substituted 20 minutes from time.

Cole replaces Lafferty, who’s picked up a knock, and Gudjonsson comes on for JOC, making no difference whatsoever. Elliott wakes up for the last 10 minutes and breathes some life into our attack, with Akinbiyi forcing Lonergan into a save – but although we dominate possession, Preston carry more of a threat.

The play-off dream may be finished, but the drama isn’t over yet, and Carlisle gets a straight red for flattening Sean St Ledger in stoppage time. We’ve picked up seven reds in just over three months, and it raises serious questions about our disciplinary record under Coyle. With a relatively small squad, we simply can’t afford to have key players suspended so often.

The tannoy plays ‘That’s Entertainment’ as we trickle out, but a more appropriate soundtrack is provided by a small child in front of me who, obviously bored, screams his head off just for something to do. I feel the same, son. I feel the same.
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Burnley 1 – 0 Charlton [Apr. 13th, 2008|03:10 pm]

The happy couple
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

With Charlton, it’s as simple as this. When they’re good, they’re good; when they’re bad, they’re absolutely bloody awful. This is a team that prepared for a windy February afternoon on the Fylde coast by decamping to Spain for a week (they got hammered by Blackpool on their return). Tonight, it’s teeming with rain, and Charlton are well out of their comfort zone.

I’m not really in mine, either, having spent the six-hour journey from The Valley squashed into the back of a Renault Mégane with Jose Semedo’s interpreter. A huge Portuguese lad who slightly resembles Ade, he later looks around the JHU in bewilderment and whispers: “I’m the only coloured person here.” We’re charged with delivering Leroy Lita’s match shirt, and as we walk down the dimly-lit corridor to the dressing room, I spy Duff playing darts as Mahon picks his boots. (This is after the stewards, with customary BFC efficiency, send us from the north-stand car park to the players’ car park and back.)

‘Patchy’ is probably the best word to describe Charlton’s performances and Alan Pardew’s squad. Their inconsistency is due to a lack of cohesion: Pardew has named an unchanged starting XI only three times since our win at The Valley on December 1st, the squad is stuffed with loan players (despite his numerous summer signings), and his Warnock-esque collection of strikers is on weekly rotation. He’s used 35 players so far this season; we have a squad of 26, including three loan players and two kids.

With the conditions in mind, Pardew leaves his lightweight players (Luke Varney, Zheng Zhi) on the bench. He recalls Ben Thatcher at left-back after a six-month absence through injury, and starts Andy Gray in the mistaken belief that he’ll get a good reception. But Charlton barely get out of their own half for the first 15 minutes, as we play with the wind at our backs. JOC puts a header over the bar, and there’s a wonderful moment when Mahon angles the ball in to Cole, who pirouettes and flicks it on to Wade.

The Addicks have three major problems in central midfield: Matt Holland and Semedo are an overly defensive pairing, they keep losing possession, and for the first 10 minutes they look as if they’ve never met. Right-backs Alexander and Greg Halford provide a masterclass in giving the ball away, but the former wins an important challenge on the byline when Jerome Thomas breaks, and Paddy McCarthy almost heads into his own goal from a Blake cross. Tellingly, Kiraly’s pants are still dazzling white with half an hour played.

But Charlton gradually get into the game, their first golden opportunity arriving when Gray whips a ball across the face of goal and Lita, three yards out, somehow fails to convert. Kiraly saves from Darren Ambrose, and we witness a rare Varga headed clearance as he diverts the danger from a Halford free-kick. Lafferty has the measure of Halford, and the returning Mahon impresses in the opening period, but Elliott is unusually subdued, and despite some nice touches from Blake, there isn’t enough threat from the front two.

Early in the second half, though, there’s some sparkling interplay between Mahon, Blake and Cole that reminds us how technically gifted our best players are. Conversely, Gray fails to capitalise when Alexander puts him clean through on goal – it’s 20 games since he last scored.

From the ridiculous to the sublime, and on 59 minutes comes the mother of all goals: Blake traps the ball, spins away from Thatcher and nutmegs Semedo, and Wade wellies it into the top corner with his left foot from 20 yards. Turf Moor goes absolutely mad, and it obviously gets the adrenaline pumping – minutes later, Harley rattles the bar with a 30-yard drive.

Pardew quickly rings the changes, and Charlton look much more threatening with big targetman Chris Iwelumo to aim at (he replaces the prodigal son, who leaves the pitch as he entered it – to a chorus of boos). Semedo, already booked for a foul on Harley, is walking a fine line with referee Joslin, and makes way for the infinitely more creative Zheng. Kiraly is at his wobbly worst, but Charlton don’t test him enough – and Lita seems to be in competition with Cole for the number of times a striker can be caught offside in one match.

Charlton throw everything at us in a tense last 10 minutes, and some excellent defending secures the points; the marauding Harley poses a real threat, Varga’s positioning more than makes up for his lack of pace, and Carlisle is simply superb, winning everything in the air.

Varga blocks from a corner, and Varney heads wide after Alexander carelessly heads the ball across goal (compare and contrast with Carlisle, who frequently pops up at set-pieces to perform the same function in an attacking capacity). Holland shoots wide in the final stages, as Spicer, on for the tiring Mahon, makes a timely interception and late substitute Randall picks up a silly booking.

The result is a little harsh, and Pardew’s dissatisfaction is clear – he refuses to sit down during his press conference and walks out when someone broaches the topic of Scott Sinclair (frozen out of the squad, like fellow loanee Lee Cook). The team bus travels back to London in stony silence.

Meanwhile, I corner the lovely Wade, who laughs “no, no” when I beg him not to leave. I can’t tell if he doesn’t want to leave or doesn’t want to discuss it, but less than three weeks later, he pens a new deal extending his time at the Turf to summer 2011. It could prove to be a very important signing indeed.
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Charlton 1 – 1 West Brom [Mar. 28th, 2008|01:30 am]

The Valley
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

“Stand up and be counted.” This hoary old cliché is Alan Pardew’s latest rallying cry to the troops, and having used nearly 40 players this season, he might actually need a quick head-count to remind himself who they all are. West Brom, conversely, are a streamlined passing machine. They’re not at their best today, but they link up fluently in the opening stages, with the athletic Zoltan Gera catching the eye.

The first half is scrappier than you might expect from two of the BFSITD, or ‘best footballing sides in the division’; this basically means fashionable teams who aren’t Watford or Stoke, though how anyone can still include Charlton with a straight face is increasingly beyond me. The highlight is the hailstones that hammer onto the roof and give Jonathan Greening’s hair a long-overdue wash. “He looks like Jesus, appropriately for Easter,” Charlton’s press officer observes. “Yeah, but it’s Pardew who’s going to get crucified,” I reply.

Halford nets a consolation on 30 minutes, squeezing a header between Dean Kiely and the left post, but just before half-time, Kevin Phillips controls the ball in acres of space and thumps it in off the underside of the bar. Both the finish and the celebration – his right arm raised arrogantly in acknowledgement – are pure class.

Charlton storm out of the blocks after the break, with Lita and Thomas both going close. We’re also treated to some classic Sodje when he goes for a diving header on the edge of the box and Weaver, the only player anywhere near him, gives him a funny look. I wish someone would tell him you’re allowed to use your feet.

Fellow Reading loanee Leroy “I don’t do programme interviews” Lita is now a fully paid-up member of Pardew’s never-going-to-score-in-a-million-years strikers’ club, along with Gray, who starts (as he means to go on – badly). Late in the game, he consults the physio with an eye problem (reports that dollar signs caused the damage are unconfirmed), and I later catch him checking in a mirror that the shiner hasn’t spoilt his looks. He’s in Zero Degrees in Blackheath by 8.30, so the result obviously hurt.

Palpably more disappointed is man of the match Paddy McCarthy, who’s caught on camera by yours truly when the official matchday photographer fails to turn up. This entails loitering for almost an hour in the tunnel, where some supremely ill-advised sartorial choices are on display: Toddy in a hideous checked coat, Grant Basey in a tight wrap-around top, and Paulo Monteiro in head-to-toe skintight black satin. Quite frankly, he looks like a pimp.

Sodje seems inappropriately chipper, but Matt Holland obviously cares; he’s actually gnashing his teeth as he returns from the warm-down. When we escape the shit trance music coming from West Brom’s dressing room, Paddy is happy to chat, though it remains a mystery how anyone that good-looking can photograph so badly every single time.

A point doesn’t do much for either side, and while there are some half-hearted boos at the final whistle, the overwhelming feeling is one of resignation. On the horizon, both the O2 and Canary Wharf are ablaze with miniature lights; above them, a towering black cloud is etched into a liquid navy sky. The signs are not good.

Official teamsheets: Charlton and West Brom
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Shortlisted for Best Writer [Mar. 25th, 2008|10:35 pm]
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A huge thank you to everyone who voted for me in the Football Fanzine Awards 2007/08.

I have been shortlisted for Best Writer.

The judges will be reading my pieces on our 0 – 0 draw at Ipswich, Andy Gray’s departure in January and our 3 – 1 defeat at Plymouth.

I maintain that I’d have more to choose from if Charlton hadn’t stolen my life!
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The 92 Club [Mar. 25th, 2008|10:25 pm]
Ground count: 37.

Stadiums visited:

Turf Moor Burnley
Ashton Gate Bristol City
Bramall Lane Sheffield United
Carrow Road Norwich City
Deepdale Preston North End
Elland Road Leeds United
Emirates Stadium Arsenal
Fitness First Stadium at Dean Court AFC Bournemouth
Fraser Eagle Stadium Accrington Stanley
Glanford Park Scunthorpe United
Griffin Park Brentford
Home Park Plymouth Argyle
KC Stadium Hull City
Kenilworth Road Luton Town
Layer Road Colchester United
Loftus Road Queens Park Rangers
Madejski Stadium Reading
Molineux Wolverhampton Wanderers
Ninian Park Cardiff City
Oakwell Barnsley
Old Trafford Manchester United
Portman Road Ipswich Town
Ricoh Arena Coventry City
Roots Hall Southend United
Selhurst Park Crystal Palace
St Andrews Birmingham City
St Mary’s Southampton
The Hawthorns West Bromwich Albion
The New Den Millwall
The Valley Charlton Athletic
Underhill Barnet
Upton Park West Ham United
Vicarage Road Watford
Victoria Road Dagenham & Redbridge
Walkers Stadium Leicester City
White Hart Lane Tottenham Hotspur
Withdean Stadium Brighton & Hove Albion

Non-league:

Champion Hill Dulwich Hamlet

International:

Wembley England

Full statistics )
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Plymouth 3 – 1 Burnley [Mar. 20th, 2008|12:00 am]

Home Park
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (64), March 2008. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

HAVING TRAVELLED ALL THE WAY TO DEVON, YOU’D THINK THAT… oh, sorry. First mention must go to the sadistic Home Park soundman, who presides over the loudest tannoy in the Championship – and that’s no mean feat. Plymouth play fairground music, wartime music and atrocious contemporary film-score music, all so loud that you have to shout to make yourself heard. And the rather unfortunate shade of dank green the Pilgrims sport makes the place look as if it’s made of garden furniture.

Onto the football, then, and the opening period is scrappy, with little in the way of accuracy from either side. Wade, unusually, overhits a couple of crosses, and referee Singh is forced to discard two balls; they’re flat, like our performance. Fittingly, the first goal is a howler – Lilian Nalis shoots from just inside the D and the ball squirms through Jensen’s legs. He sinks to his knees with his head in his hands, and the 730 Clarets behind him follow suit.

We’re on the back foot, with Elliott dropping deep to cover Alexander and McCann retrieving the ball at left-back when Blake is rounded too easily by Nadjim Abdou. But possession continues to ping back and forth, and we fashion an equaliser from some lovely play: Wade beats Abdou and crosses to an unmarked Kyle, who tees up a looping header for the excellent JOC to nod home.

There’s an early change, as Carlisle, returning to first-team action for the first time since December, replaces Varga on 23 minutes. On paper, it’s an improvement, especially given Carlisle’s superiority in the air, but he’s understandably rusty. He and Caldwell spend most of the match mopping up each other’s mistakes – and Caldwell, as captain, has to take responsibility for some horrible collective non-decisions in the lead-up to Plymouth’s second goal.

Signalling our kamikaze intent, the Beast goes for a diving header on the edge of his area – and minutes later, that intent is realised. Plymouth put the ball back in, and nine of our outfield players rush after it like a flock of headless chickens. Not one of them manages to clear, although there are half a dozen chances to do so (think Michael Doyle’s goal at the Ricoh in January), and Péter Halmosi chips the ball over the line.

For the next few minutes, Plymouth tear us apart. A measured pass into the box from Steve MacLean rolls straight past three clueless Clarets, and after Caldwell ushers Jermaine Easter through on goal, the Beast makes an excellent save to keep us in it.

But Kyle offers us hope – and ironically, given that this has been billed as his big chance up front, it’s with some good work down the flanks. Just before the break, he picks up possession in his own half, shows strength and determination to ride a couple of challenges, takes the ball into the corner on the left and lays it off stylishly to Blake. (I’m less enamoured of his tendency to appeal to the ref while play is still ongoing, mind.)

Half-time passes without incident, unless you count an Argyle fan proposing to his girlfriend in front of a 13,557 crowd. Tina accepts, presumably then dying of embarrassment in the Devonport End.

We restart brightly: JOC has a shot blocked from a Kyle cross, Russell Anderson almost knocks the ball into his own net after Blake flicks on an Alexander free-kick, and Luke McCormick saves a swerving shot from Kyle to his left. Wade comes into the game, and at one point, Gary Sawyer falls over in front of him, seemingly dazzled by his superb control; he traps the ball with exceptional skill and hits an exquisite cross on the half-volley to Kyle, who can’t quite convert.

Lafferty gets some stick, but the boy plays well all over the park, and does his best up front after being marooned on the wing for months. Perhaps the price tag he’s been saddled with raises expectations (the same demands aren’t made of McCann), but it should be remembered that he isn’t the finished article yet.

McCann, who has heretofore redefined the word “anonymous”, sends an angled shot whipping past the post; minutes later, he flashes an excellent ball across the face of goal. He’s replaced by Randall on 86 minutes, and although I’d love to call it the passing of the flame – from one decent young midfielder to an indecently talented one – the substitution is pointlessly late. Still, credit to Randall for persisting with a haircut that went out of fashion before he was born.

After half an hour of pressure (and just as the unpleasant chav contingent in the Burnley end start kicking off), Plymouth finally venture out of their own half. Paul Sturrock makes a double substitution, and a minute later, Harley clears the ball straight up in the air; Halmosi claims it gratefully, powers around him on the edge of the box and thumps the ball into the bottom corner. (They aren’t gracious about it, either; the tannoy man practically creams himself, and his post-match gloating over Leicester’s defeat does Plymouth Argyle FC no favours whatsoever.)

Sturrock’s substitutes all cause havoc – Jamie Mackie shrugs off Carlisle as he charges down the middle, and Rory Fallon takes the ball off Alexander’s toes in a dangerous position with embarrassing ease. There’s a chance for Caldwell at the back post in the dying seconds, but with no forward options on the bench (Cole is injured, Ade ill), we’ve looked up against it ever since the defence decided to self-destruct.

Unsworth, who replaces Harley for the last nine minutes, is straight down our end to applaud the travelling fans; I love him dearly, even though he has the pace of a tectonic plate. A guilty-looking Beast is right behind him, and mouths “sorry” to the crowd. It’s scant consolation when we’ve gifted three points to an eminently beatable team – but with the battle for the play-off places so tight, we’re not out of the reckoning yet.
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Football Fanzine Awards 2007/08 [Feb. 19th, 2008|12:25 pm]
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Yours truly has been nominated for Best Writer in the Football Fanzine Awards 2007/08.

Please vote for me – and for host fanzine When The Ball Moves – here!

Football Fanzine Awards 2007/08
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Monopoly money [Jan. 26th, 2008|12:45 pm]

Valley Review
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (63), January 2008. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

“The defining moment for me,” said Brendan Flood, “was when Frank Gray, Andy’s father and agent, was ringing me every half hour on Thursday to try to persuade me to allow him to leave.” I’d be more than a little embarrassed if my dad behaved like that, but Andy Gray clearly has no shame, having all but refused to play for the Clarets after Charlton made their interest in him known.

The latest January transfer saga began with a rejected bid and ended with the undignified departure of an unhappy player, after Gray had accosted his manager three times, reiterating that he wanted to leave. Finally, Owen Coyle sent him home from training, and Steve Cotterill’s “model professional” didn’t hang around; he was at Charlton’s training ground having a brew and reading Coyle’s comments on the Burnley website before 5.30pm. He’s doubled his money at Charlton, and you can’t blame him for that, but he’s done it with a remarkable lack of class.

I’d like to remember Andy Gray as one of my Burnley heroes, as the scorer of that opener at Watford in November, as a footballer who taught me an awful lot about quality forward play. Sadly, though, the image that will linger is of him beating down Coyle’s door to leave, the contract that resurrected his career no longer worth the paper it was printed on.

While I’m not impressed by his behaviour, I’m not particularly enjoying the Stalinist rewriting of his history, either. After the Plymouth match, when Gray failed to connect with two or three crosses in the box, fans began to opine that he’s “not a real goalscorer”. This is insidious nonsense; the bloke hit 30 goals in 73 games for Burnley. What would you call someone who scores a goal every 2.4 games – a chef?

Gray may not have the poacher’s instinct of a Payton or a Wright, but that criticism only surfaced during his first real barren patch for almost two years. It’s bad news that we’ve lost one of the division’s leading scorers (13 in all competitions this season), especially when the rest of the squad hadn’t managed twice that number between them by the time he left; and it’s bad news to lose him for £1.5m upfront in a market where fees are so inflated we were rumoured to be reinvesting most of it in Alan Lee.

There are, though, wider issues than the tarnished reputation of our former favourite (didn’t we always say he was the type of player you’d want inside your tent pissing out?). Charlton’s chief executive Peter Varney argues that parachute payments are necessary to help clubs relegated from the Premier League drastically restructure their finances – but they stifle competition in the second tier. Essentially, they allow ex-Premier League clubs to pack their benches with the best players from the Championship’s middling clubs, by offering those players weekly wages their existing employers can’t hope to match.

Does that sound familiar? You could argue that the gap between the Premier League’s “top four” and the rest is being replicated in the Championship by a continual cycle of relegated clubs like Charlton, whose liberal, often wasteful spending creates a climate in which clubs like Burnley simply can’t compete.

Parachute payments also help former top-flight clubs to hyper-inflate transfer fees. Last summer, Alan Pardew spent over £4m on three strikers: Luke Varney from Crewe (League One), Izale McLeod from MK Dons (League Two), and Chris Dickson from Dulwich Hamlet (Ryman Isthmian Football League Division One South). Still, when you consider that McLeod – one (lucky) goal in 20 appearances and absolutely hopeless on the eight occasions I’ve seen him play this term – cost up to £1.55m, an initial £1.5m for Gray begins to look cheap.

(Incidentally, McLeod was dropped from Charlton’s squad to face Watford on January 19th and replaced by Gray, who became available after signing on an emergency loan. If the Football League could enlighten me on the precise nature of Charlton’s “emergency”, I’d be grateful. Having only four fit and available strikers for a match must be tough.)

Peter Varney also believes that we should develop a two-tier Premier League, in an attempt to close the gap between the top flight and the second tier. If that gap is a problem (which it is), the FA should resolve to close it themselves, rather than allowing the Premier League to subsidise its worst-performing clubs in the slim hope they’ll get back on the right side. (That would, of course, require the FA to stand up to the Premier League – another slim hope.) I’d also wager that this little scheme would create another chasm between the Premier League Mk II and League One; presumably clubs like Varney’s, which have no intention of dropping into the third tier, aren’t really arsed about that.

But let’s leave the last word to Owen Coyle, who’s been a pillar of integrity throughout this whole sorry mess. I don’t believe he disclosed the gory details about Gray’s behaviour out of spite. Having met him a couple of times, and having heard and read his press interviews over the past two months, I can only think that his comments – which also acknowledged his professional respect for Gray – were the product of his honesty, his decency and a genuine sense of hurt.

They say actions speak louder than words, but Coyle ensures that both do him credit. Winning at Coventry the day after Gray’s departure was an important, defiant performance from both team and 1,100 chanting fans; afterwards, Coyle spoke with real warmth about Ade Akinbiyi’s performance, professionalism and commitment to the club. And his final response to losing Gray? “The money’s certainly not going to sit and lie there. I’ll be spending it.” If anyone can do something special for Burnley right now, this man can.
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Ipswich 0 – 0 Burnley [Jan. 26th, 2008|12:45 am]

Portman Road
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (63), January 2008. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

Ah, Portman Road. There’s so much going for it (notably the all-too-rare chance to sit on the touchline rather than behind the goal) and yet – those extortionate prices. Today, we’re paying £26.50 for the dubious privilege of perching high under the Cobbold Stand roof, isolated from the home fans and surrounded by more stewards and police than a good-natured bunch of Northerners could possibly need. And it’s £29 if you pay on the day, which in old money would probably be enough for you to launch a takeover bid.

Still, the ground always scores points with train travellers for being a hop, skip and a jump from the station; it boasts a super statue of a much younger Bobby Robson pointing enthusiastically at the Suffolk sky; and staff are handing out free mince pies on the turnstiles (given that the attendance tops 20,000, you wonder if David Sheepshanks is baking furiously in a pinny somewhere behind the stand). For those arriving in time to catch the end of Arsenal v Spurs, an excitable tannoy man commentates on Robbie Keane’s missed penalty, which makes a change from bellowing the usual banalities at twice the volume your average cochlea can reasonably be expected to take.

The football is entertaining, too, and we aren’t intimidated by Ipswich’s phenomenal record at home (won 11, drawn 3, lost 0 in the league this season as of January 15th). Tommy Miller hits the bar from just outside the D, and Kiraly saves well from Pablo Counago and ex-Claret Alan Lee, but while the Tractor Boys have the best of the chances, we have the better of the play.

Elliott is simply outstanding on the right: he consistently beats his man, whips in some excellent crosses and repeatedly harries his opponents off the ball. He links well with Alexander, although the defender’s distribution isn’t at its best, and the pair’s composure is demonstrated by a cheeky spell of keep-ball in their own 18-yard box. Harley merits a special mention, too; superb in defence and a real attacking threat, he’s the pick of the back four. Jon Walters and Danny Haynes look dangerous, but we contain Counago well, and Lee fades after a bright start. It’s also encouraging to see the entire midfield protecting the defence, with Spicer in particular playing some neat, incisive balls.

But Sporty Spice gets it spectacularly wrong in stoppage time before the break, committing the offence du jour – a two-footed tackle – on Walters and receiving a red card for his trouble. It’s the culmination of a niggly period in the game, and Caldwell doesn’t help matters by immediately blowing his top and shoving Walters away. It’s our third sending-off in two games, after McCann and Gudjonsson’s dismissals against Preston, and leaves us desperately short in midfield (pun intended) over Christmas and New Year. While Joey’s is the only dubious decision of the three, it’s probably just an unfortunate coincidence that the red mist has descended on a number of players at once.

Unsurprisingly, referee Phil Dowd becomes the focus after the break, with the noisy away contingent taking great delight in the three (count ‘em) decisions he awards the Clarets in the second half – the first two prompt standing ovations, and he even gets a chorus of “Umbaba” for the third. It’s all part of a fantastic effort from the hundreds of travelling Clarets, who really are the 11th man for the remainder of the match, and the players – notably Unsworth, who always looks ecstatic when we get something from a game – show their appreciation at the final whistle. Conversely, Ipswich are silent throughout, which is bizarre given their near-invincibility at home.

It seems inevitable that we’ll concede, particularly when the Tractor Boys start shooting on sight, but as the minutes tick by, they look less and less likely to score. Their composure in front of goal begins to shake, and by the end it’s shot, with most of their efforts going high, wide or both. Kiraly commands his area well, there’s a good (if initially rusty) performance from the returning Caldwell, and Unsworth makes some important blocks as we pack our 18-yard box.

But our numerical disadvantage, which sees Elliott move into central midfield, doesn’t stop us pressing when the opportunity arises (although Kyle tends to slow the attack down when he’s on the ball). We win a couple of corners in the last 10 minutes, and Akinbiyi – replacing Gray, who’s not in the game – comes off the bench to run full tilt at the Ipswich defence. They say attack is the best form of defence, after all – and how different from our former philosophy can you get?

Of course, draws are all about context, and this is one we celebrate like a win, given that a point would have been a fine achievement with 11 men. Not according to Radio Five Live’s Sports Report, however, which describes every Championship sending-off in detail, then blithely concludes “and Ipswich drew 0-0”. I’m so irate that I immediately fire off a text to the show, and it’s just as quickly read out on air, which at least gives us a little of the credit Coyle’s men so richly deserve.
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Capital gains [Dec. 28th, 2007|06:30 pm]

Ria with the Beast
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue



Ria with Jon Harley
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue


This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (62), December 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

“Gone are the days when Burnley were rated no more than a tough defensive team, always hard to beat but dull to watch. We’ve still a sound rearguard, but now the accent with the Clarets is on attack and not defence…”
Jimmy Adamson, 1960/61

The date of the Charlton match has been branded on my brain since 23rd July. That’s when I started work at The Valley (as production editor – inhouse journalist with responsibility for the matchday programme), and in the week before the Clarets arrive, I’m promised a hiding by everyone from the commercial director to the trainee chef. I’m notoriously bad at forecasting the score, but I predict 1-2 in said programme, feeling cocky after our glorious victory at Vicarage Road.

I spend the hour before kick-off in the tunnel, where Alan Pardew teases me about my allegiance to the visiting team. Owen Coyle, meanwhile, is a lovely man, as you’d expect of someone who turns the “O” in his signature into a smiley face. He chats away affably, although his accent is so Scottish I can’t make out a word he says.

Suddenly, a didgeridoo honks at deafening volume, and all seven mascots shit themselves. “It’s coming from the Burnley dressing-room,” says a colleague, peering round the corner. It segues into Jamiroquai. At this point, Andy Gray walks down the tunnel, turns those huge blue eyes on me and smiles “hi”. I turn to mush. Charlton’s press officer, standing behind me for moral support, hisses: “Is that Gray? Phwoar!”

Unfortunately, I start talking about our dwarf midfield just as Alan Mahon walks past.

After the obligatory pitchside photos with Harley and the Beast, I proceed to the away end, almost colliding with Ade and falling into the dugout en route. We’re 1-0 up before my arse hits the seat and double our money on 13 minutes, courtesy of Gray and McCann headers from virtually identical Blake free-kicks. I lose count of how many times my neighbours exclaim “oh, beautiful” (a delicate chip, an intelligent crossfield ball) – we’re falling for Burnley all over again.

There’s no chance of a conflict of interests, even though I’m paid to immerse myself in Charlton minutiae all week: the Addicks stand in our way, and even my favourites (Chris Powell, Andy Reid) are the enemy today. When they pile on the pressure, it gets personal: I refuse to acknowledge the performance of Luke Varney (a decent striker, but a lousy dinner companion and an immature brat), and I still haven’t forgiven Zheng Zhi for producing, against QPR, the most hideous individual performance I’ve ever seen.

We seal victory with a Gray penalty, won when Danny Mills helpfully handles Elliott’s cross, and The Valley empties with 15 minutes to go. The post-match press conference is like a wake, and Pardew, emanating a cold rage, keeps glaring at me as if Charlton’s horrible defending is all my fault. Our esteemed WTBM… editor leavens the atmosphere by yelping “Tony!” at the passing Mr Cottee and persuading him to sign an Ade Akinbiyi mask.

Fast-forward to Monday morning, when Charlton’s retail manager – who is also Chris Rea’s brother, trivia fans – says peevishly: “Burnley weren’t very good.” There’s nothing else for it: I grin, sit down at my desk, and wear an Ade mask for the rest of the day.

Of course, this all began earlier in the week, with a superb win at Watford on Tuesday night. Our first-half performance is entrancing, a seamless display of pass and move, and we count ourselves unlucky not to score before the break. Although Watford are threatening pouring forward, with the huge Danny Shittu on the near post at every set-piece, we pass them off the park.

Gray opens the scoring at our end with a header from Elliott’s pinpoint cross, and Blake sets up substitute Gudjonsson for a wonderful finish. He takes possession inside the centre circle, thunders down the Watford half, rounds Mart Poom (almost losing his balance in the process) and, just as he seems to have made the angle impossibly narrow, bangs the ball into the roof of the net.

Three days later, I finally put my finger on what makes this goal so different to the last year under Cotterill – it’s a moment full of joy. Just five days into the new regime, Joey seems brimful of confidence, and his solo run is exhilarating from the second he picks up the ball.

Same squad, different mindset – it really is as simple as that. Coyle speaks of his side’s “obligation to entertain”, and says his players should be creative and brave in the final third; at Watford, they play imaginatively, and aren’t discouraged when Lafferty spurns chances or when McCann hits the post. As stand-in captain Alexander observes after the Charlton win, Coyle is “really encouraging if we make a mistake; he’s not on your back, he’s telling you to try it again”. It’s obvious that they’re enjoying the chance to improvise – and, finally, all 11 players are thinking on the ball.

Credit must go to Steve Cotterill for assembling this squad, but credit is equally due to Owen Coyle for unleashing the talent therein. With the new-look Clarets, the accent certainly is on attack – and so far, Burnley under Coyle are a pleasure, and a privilege, to watch.
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Leicester 0 – 1 Burnley [Dec. 2nd, 2007|10:00 pm]

The Walkers Stadium
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue


This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (61), December 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

November 6th was a significant day. A significant night, too, as it proved, but the tone was set at 11am (the time I find the ticket-office staff start answering the phones).

Their latest display of competence went as follows. Tickets for the Leicester match weren’t available online because the system can’t cope with a range of price codes, and the 30 loyalty points missing from my account couldn’t be restored because said system can’t correct its own mistakes. (“If you didn’t get points for those games, nobody will have,” they say, which obviously makes it alright – especially for anyone who comes up 30 points short of the number required to apply for Blackpool tickets.)

This may seem like a minor inconvenience. But chaos has ensued every time I’ve contacted the club for the past 18 months (notably when they lost a cheque I’d written for £200 and, despite my frequent reminders, failed to look for it for a year). The most memorable conversation went thus:

Me: “Hi. I’d like to buy a ticket for the Cardiff match on Saturday.”
Ticket office: “I’m sorry…?”
Me: “I’d like to buy a ticket… for the Burnley match at Cardiff… on Saturday.”
Ticket office: “What?” [pause] “Sorry, I don’t understand…” [hands phone to someone who knows where they are]

I’m labouring the point, but Burnley FC, funded and run by successful businessmen, is supposed to be a business. I’ve seen better-organised market stalls. The standard of service is appalling, and it’s particularly infuriating when those businessmen talk about attracting the “armchair fanatics” (an oxymoron if ever I heard one). They seem to take for granted those of us who already pour time, effort and money into BFC – and given that they have us over a barrel, knowing we won’t sack it off and support Manchester United instead, they seem to be taking the piss. So on November 6th, thinking of the Cotterball that would surely be played that night, I felt myself losing the stomach for the fight.

As I’ve argued elsewhere, the decision to dispose of Cotterill after that evening’s ‘performance’ was the right one, and overdue – so we arrive in Leicester managerless for the first time in three years and looking forward to the football for the first time in (at least) three months. There’s a carnival atmosphere, with kids parping horns on Filbert Way as if it’s Wembley Way, and a helicopter completes the party, landing in the centre circle to deliver the match ball. “That were better than Chico,” my neighbour remarks.

There are an unusual number of women and children here, so perhaps the all-inclusive Matchday Experience can work; but the real highlight is the deafening racket in the away end. Optimistically, we carol “we’ve got Mourinho”, followed by “Steve Davis’ Claret and Blue Army”, though I refrain from singing the latter in case Brendan hears and gives him the job. Note to the board: creating an atmosphere is best left to the fans.

On the pitch, of course, some things never change: Mahon is on the bench, a move that provokes annoyance among fans. It’s already emerged that Davis accepted Cotterill’s help with the team, which seems bizarre (I can’t imagine any employees of Barings Bank asked Nick Leeson for investment tips on his way out the door).

Still, we press from the off, and our early domination culminates in a lovely finish from Gray, who goes mental when the ball hits the back of the net. Five minutes later, Lafferty puts in a fantastic ball for Elliott, who hangs back – a moment indicative of the awful defensive mindset we need to erase. But Leicester rarely threaten, and don’t seem to share our desire; a Matty Fryatt/DJ Campbell combination forces Kiraly into his only real save of the first half.

Carlisle is outstanding, particularly in the air, while Harley provides the threat we’ve been missing on the left. Captain Alexander uses our throw-ins to hone his favourite technique (chucking the ball to the nearest defender, receiving it back and dinking it over the top to Wade). Jordan fares better at centre-half, but goes off injured just before the break, with McCann dropping back. Leicester pose so little threat that he isn’t really stretched, though in the last 10 minutes he clears twice with headers deep inside the 18-yard box.

We play decent football in the second half, including some lovely interplay between Mahon, Blake and the impressive Spicer, who makes a couple of defence-splitting passes and looks ever-more stylish in midfield. Lafferty spurns an excellent chance by shooting weakly at the keeper from 10 yards, but he’s been marooned on the wing for so long that he’s probably forgotten how to score. The second coming of James O’Connor is greeted with uproar, and he breaks up play twice in five minutes, a concept so alien I’m a little bemused.

The Foxes are chronic, so there’s always the possibility that our performance looks better the worse they get. Their fans chant “sort it out”, but they’re drowned out by the travelling Clarets, and stream for the exits 10 minutes from time. When we turn to their obese topless drummer and sing “you’re not drumming any more”, he picks up his instrument and pretends to hurl it at the pitch.

But we can’t get carried away by one victory, especially as football’s unwritten rule – that clubs who dispose of their manager always win their next match – has now expired. It’s vital that we find the right man, and fast; but for now, we’re back where we currently belong (13th).
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Leave right now [Dec. 2nd, 2007|09:40 pm]
The following was originally published as part of a survey of WTBM writers carried out in When The Ball Moves… (61), December 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

Was the decision to part company with Steve Cotterill the right one, and why?

The decision to part company with Steve Cotterill was the right one.

He did a lot of good work at the club, particularly on improving the facilities, and we’re grateful to him for that – but it’s a results business, and he wasn’t getting the results.

After three long years of (mostly) dour football, we’ve started to stagnate, and the evidence is in our dangerously dwindling gates. We turned in an abject performance against Hull and fewer than 10,000 turned up to watch it, with some refusing to return to the Turf until Cotterill left. When the manager inspires both anger and apathy, replacing him is the only way to stop the rot.

It’s all the more galling because Cotterill built a decent squad – but he crippled it with defensive tactics, hopeless substitutions and a shambles masquerading as a functioning midfield. It’s been alleged that he wasn’t on speaking terms with certain players by the end, surely making untenable a position that had been characterised by strong team bonds.

He should have been sacked during last season’s 19-match winless run – and the board, knowing that history has a funny knack of repeating, took action before it was too late.

Who would you like to see as the next Burnley manager, and why?

The field of candidates for the Burnley manager’s job isn’t exactly inspiring – but I’ve never had any truck with the argument that you keep the wrong manager because the right one isn’t waiting in the wings. Many more performances of the Hull ilk and by Christmas we’d have run out of fans, let alone potential gaffers willing to touch us with a bargepole.

So what can we realistically expect? We didn’t look likely to finish in the play-off places under Steve Cotterill, with his teams’ frequent failure to play for 90 minutes, let alone nine months – but we have a sound infrastructure, financial backing and a real desire to escape this congested, low-quality league. To exploit that potential, we need a manager with experience of hauling a club out of the second tier; and at the very least, we need someone with experience of managing a football club. We all love Steve Davis, but despite his 20 years in the game, I don’t want a manager whose CV lists two weeks’ experience as a number two.

Nor do I share Brendan Flood’s desire for someone “younger” and “northern by nature”. The manager has to understand how club and town overlap, but to effectively exclude candidates from outside the north of England seems myopic in the extreme (look what happened when fans clamoured for an English coach for the national team). I doubt that a deep kinship with the denizens of the Ribble Valley will prepare our new boss for the thankless task of sorting out our midfield, or elicit my sympathy should he fail to do so. We need to spread our net wide, not cement the impression that this is just a local club for local people.

Speaking of which, I’m prepared to overlook any Bl*ckburn Rovers connections, but knowing that we won’t become “Graeme Souness’ Burnley” is a big relief (a star name might tempt the stay-aways to return, but our last venture into celebrity managers didn’t exactly serve us well). Personal dislike, meanwhile, has set me against Mike Newell. Peddle your unreconstructed sexist bilge somewhere else, Mickey boy, or I might trot off to the beauty salon with the £2,000-plus I chuck at Burnley every year.

As this has turned into a list of things I don’t want, I’ll throw my hat into the ring now – I want Paul Jewell. He’s taken two clubs into the top flight and kept them there against the odds – and his tight leather jacket always makes me laugh. He’s unlikely to become our Jewell in the crown: I’d guess that his wages are astronomical, that the “different challenge” he desires doesn’t involve another smallish Lancashire club, and that his future lies in the Premier League. Still, he’s had “three or four” job offers already, so we can only hope Brendan’s been on the phone.
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White Hart Shame [Dec. 2nd, 2007|09:00 pm]

White Hart Lane
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue


Ground number 32 sees me a third of the way to visiting all 92 League grounds, and White Hart Lane is probably the worst of the lot. Think the 1980s with seats. It’s also Hallowe’en, and the cornucopia of ghosts, witches and other eerie entities couldn’t be more apt: the N17 experience is the scariest thing I’ve encountered for some time.

The steep tiers and compact feel contribute to an intimidating atmosphere, and the first sign that the Spurs lot aren’t exactly welcoming comes 90 minutes before kick-off, when the Blackpool goalkeeper jogs out to warm up and receives a resounding boo. They then unleash a torrent of abuse aimed at Steed Malbranque: not once, not twice, but three times, before a ball is even kicked.

In an attempt to ignore this behaviour (and the video replays of Spurs thumping Burnley in the 1970s, and the film clips pleading with their supporters to remain seated during the match), I chat to my stale-breathed neighbour and peruse the programme, the highlight of which is an advert offering all-inclusive UEFA Cup holidays to Tel Aviv.

Blackpool start brightly, with some lovely passing and stout defending. They aren’t intimidated by their opponents (Dimitar Berbatov aside), and they’re playing one-touch football by the end of the first half. Spurs, conversely, are playing banana football (going around in bunches). Whenever Blackpool press, there are six white shirts strung across the back: not only do the defenders not trust the goalkeeper, the midfielders don’t trust the defence. Michael Dawson looks vulnerable paired with Younes Kaboul in central defence, but improves in the second half when Pascal Chimbonda moves inside.

Robbie Keane gives Spurs the lead on 18 minutes, but it’s Blackpool who should be ahead, after Gary Taylor-Fletcher runs onto a beautiful through ball and curls his shot into the side netting. Unfortunately, our view is impeded when a dozen fans in front of us are ejected by their seats’ rightful owners; Spurs’ orange-jacketed stewards shrug and continue to watch the game. Such is the chaos, it’s difficult not to conclude that order could have been restored more successfully by Blackpool’s orange-shirted representatives or, indeed, by the orange inflatable pumpkin that floats onto the pitch.

The anarchy is soundtracked by a group of six-year-old boys chanting “Yid Army”, a chorus intermittently taken up by the rest of the 32,196 crowd.

At half-time, I venture onto the concourse, which is painted a dank shade of navy and criss-crossed with so many yellow markings it looks like a crime scene. I’m the only female in the refreshments queue, inspiring some horrified looks from the male fans, who all look like debt collectors. I then walk approximately three miles in search of a toilet, and join the queue behind a gaggle of drunk teenage girls, one of whom turns and pukes all over a small ginger lad’s head.

Things get worse in the second half, when the fans start to bully their own players. There are those, such as Aaron Lennon, who can do no wrong (and when he does, it’s conveniently ignored). However, they have no intention of giving Darren Bent even a sliver of a chance. Two blokes behind me spend a full five minutes hurling abuse at Bent, then quieten down; after a pause, one of them remarks: “His confidence is shot.”

Paul Robinson twice raises his hand to acknowledge chants of “England’s number one”, but you get the distinct impression he’s motivated not by appreciation, but by apprehension, knowing that vitriol would rain down from the stands if he didn’t. (Our much-maligned custodian makes one first-class save in the first half, but drops a long-range shot near the end, perhaps leaving Blackpool to rue the fact that they didn’t test him from distance earlier on.)

It’s not just nasty behaviour, it’s hypocritical, too; Malbranque is persistently booed, but when he produces an excellent ball, the crowd coo “oh yes, Steed; well done, Steed” as if they’re all his best friends. Jermaine Jenas passes sideways and is abused for his trouble, but a minute later, he completes a forward pass and the fans stand to scream “OH YES!!” as if he’s just scored a World Cup-winning goal.

By the 58th minute, Spurs are 2-0 up, but the fans make their displeasure known whenever Blackpool threaten to cross the halfway line. Conversely, they practically cream themselves when Spurs string four passes together. With such ridiculously high expectations, they seem to think they’re Barcelona; but their thirst for even the tiniest glimpse of free-flowing football shows that they can only dream of being their (far superior) rivals Arsenal.

They are also fantastically self-obsessed. “You’re going down with the Bolton,” carol the Tangerines. “Down with the Watford? They’re in your division, mate,” smirks one bright spark, failing to grasp the concept of clubs beyond the M25 having, like, local rivalry and stuff. This entire debacle goes some way to proving that Spurs, like West Ham, are beloved of (and their significance over-estimated by) the London football media and no one else.

Having survived this particularly insalubrious part of north London and the pack of animals resident therein, I join one final lengthy queue – this time for its poxy train station, where I’m sandwiched between two groups of men who proceed to hold burping competitions in close proximity to my face. Boarding a train to central London (civilisation), I’m wedged in beside a fan who smells like he’s lived in a gutter for 17 years and repeatedly shoots projectile snot at the area around my feet. It’s at this point that I begin to think fondly of Ninian Park.

“To dare is to do”, trumpet the banners around Spurs’ ground. Some alternative advice: do one, and don’t go back.
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Cardiff 2 – 1 Burnley [Dec. 2nd, 2007|08:55 pm]
An edited version of this article was published in When The Ball Moves… (60), November 2007. With thanks to Martin Barnes

Of the many unsatisfactory aspects of being in the Championship, arguably the worst is that we still have to visit Ninian Park. There are fewer Burnley fans present than in November last year, but some things remain the same: the sole turnstile open to away fans, the full body search, the scuffles outside after the final whistle, and the unpleasant nationalist chanting (from both sides). Still, Cardiff have splashed out on hospitality this year, by putting some netting around the home fans to stop them bottling us again.

Speaking of unchanged circumstances, we still lack a quality final ball, although we pass fairly fluidly for 30 minutes after surviving a shaky start. Mahon puts his foot in, tracks back and wins the ball, looking surprisingly strong; Spicer makes some important clearances, shows some good touches and is composed on the ball. Kyle, playing on the right, adds energy and strength; he doesn’t fulfil all the requirements of a winger, but he isn’t one, so I’m not going to blame him for that.

Cardiff don’t trouble Kiraly with their frequent long-range shots, but we go in at the break 1-0 down after Joe Ledley nods home Darren Purse’s cross. As our subs warm up, the travelling Clarets begin a chorus of “Chris McCann, my lord, Chris McCann”. Sung rousingly to the tune of “Kum-Ba-Yah”, it gives the impression that we’ve been reduced to praying for a reasonable central midfield performance (the sort of tenuous strategy Cotterill might approve). Meanwhile, omertà has kicked in at BFC; we receive no indication that J*mes O’C*nn*r is still alive.

I almost choke on my pie when Cotterill makes a triple substitution at half-time: Unsworth, Mahon and Lafferty make way for Elliott, McCann and Akinbiyi, who heads us level on 50 minutes. Unfortunately, I’m also eating later in the week when I read Cotterill’s comment that the players were tired, and my reaction to that nearly necessitates the Heimlich manoeuvre. Just to remind you, this game takes place on October 6th, giving his remarks more than a slight whiff of Cotterill getting his excuses in (very) early.

We have a decent 15-minute spell after the break, but the game becomes scrappy, including a prolonged period of ping-pong in Cardiff’s half. When it comes, our downfall is not only the hapless Jordan, but Blake’s continuing refusal to help him out – he’s bollocked by Caldwell three times for not tracking back.

The winner comes shortly after Blake gives away possession, when the left-footed Paul Parry turns Jordan inside out and cuts in from the right to slot home. A despairing Jordan holds his head in his hands, and after the restart, when Peter Whittingham bounds away from him all too easily, it’s clear his confidence is shot.

The central defensive pair give a decent performance, with Caldwell approaching the form we’ve become accustomed to. Both he and Carlisle look comfortable on the ball, and are clearly capable of working it upfield with rather more panache than the long balls we too often resort to. They contain Cardiff’s unlikely all-star forward line-up, Robbie Fowler and Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink, both of whom depart the fray early to chants of “wanker”.

Completing the (relatively) so solid crew is Unsworth, who plays 45 minutes just in front of the back four and mops up every loose ball. Impassable as a rock, and built like one to boot, his performance is epitomised by the moment when Whittingham breaks down the centre and Unsworth arrows through the air with razor-sharp precision to scythe the ball off his toes. His presence can’t fail to inspire confidence in those around him, and he’s missed in the second half.

Also missed is the injured Michael Duff, and I extend my sincere best wishes to Michael for a full recovery. Alexander, now established at right-back, does his best to drive the side forward, although his distribution goes awry during the frantic final minutes, when he wastes a glorious opportunity to put a ball in from the edge of the area by skying it onto the Spar Family Stand roof.

This time last year, a defeat at Cardiff sent us on a 19-match winless run. There are wonderful promises of long-term development swirling around Turf Moor, but as someone who attends more away games than home, I find it difficult to get excited about future plans when all I see are the same old problems trotted out on every Championship pitch.

Admittedly, it’s tricky to gauge the atmosphere when the away end clears in 10 seconds flat, but there’s no sense of anger here, no feeling that we’ve been conned: just the resignation of fans beaten down by (mostly) dour football for three long years, ensconced in a lethargy that, ironically, protects the club by insulating it from protest, even while it results in dangerously dwindling gates.

The club may have progressed, but the football has not changed. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
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With Reidy and Mills [Oct. 26th, 2007|11:30 am]

Ria, Reidy and Mills
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

With my considerably richer workmates, Danny Mills (right) and the adorable Andy Reid (The Valley, 25 October 2007).
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Burnley 1 – 1 Middlesbrough [Aug. 20th, 2007|10:15 pm]

Turf Moor
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (58), August 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

A week after escaping from Accrington with a draw, it’s back to the Turf to take on rather more illustrious opposition – and it’s a little disappointing that the attendance is only 4,328. This is, after all, the apex of our pre-season schedule, the “glamour tie” of the round: it’s the visit of Gareth Southgate’s Middlesbrough (most recent Premiership finish: 12th).

It’s a year to the day since we beat Bolton 2 – 1 on a sweltering afternoon, and as that victory was marred by an infestation of racists in the James Hargreaves Lower, I decide to sit in the Jimmy Mac for the first time. I haven’t been on this end since I stood on the Beehole behind Marlon Beresford aged 14, often getting soaked to the skin, and the climate is equally inhospitable today, the pitch a vast expanse of saturated grass. There’s a huddle of 17 gloomy-looking Boro fans in the away end, and the tannoy man plays Crowded House’s ‘Weather With You’, implying that one or t’other of these teams takes meteorological misery wherever they go; but a troupe of damp cheerleaders negotiate the Bob Lord bog with enthusiasm undimmed, and said squads provide a pretty entertaining game.

Middlesbrough show moments of class (not least George Boateng’s slick passing), but the Clarets look keen to match their top-flight opponents from the off. Adam Johnson is turned and dispossessed first by Elliott, then by Duff, and for the first 15 minutes, Jeremie Aliadiere is neutered up front. Boro may pay the price for breaking up the Yakubu/Viduka strike partnership, and at times, the former seems to be doing it on his own. At one point, he lunges towards the ball in the six-yard box, slides on the soaking grass and ends up behind the goal-line himself – which looks like the closest Middlesbrough are going to come to getting anything in the net.

Boro, let’s face it, are an impossibly dull prospect, down to their amiable but hardly awe-inspiring manager. Southgate has turned up in a trackie, which seems faintly disrespectful when he’s normally attired in an immaculate suit. His side, meanwhile, are kitted out in a camel and cream effort that’s already a strong contender for worst kit of the season.

There’s some lovely play from Burnley, and Gudjonsson is nearly always involved. He links well with Gray, exchanging neat passes that wrong-foot Boro at every turn, and he displays fearsome power, launching free-kicks like battering rams. One curling, dipping shot scrapes the top of the bar, and it’s his cross, headed on by Duff, that Gray converts two minutes before the break. We even threaten to double the lead when an exquisite ball from Wade falls just out of Akinbiyi’s reach.

Ade’s performance (although he manages to shoot straight at both Rochemback and Andrew Davies in the space of five seconds) is significantly better than his showing at Stanley, his confidence perhaps boosted by Cotterill’s supportive comments in the press. However, it remains painfully obvious that we require an entirely different style of play to accommodate him. At times, we seem to be fielding two teams: on the right, Wade tries to ping the ball in for Ade, or shoots from the edge of the box himself; elsewhere, there’s fluid, creative interplay between the other midfielders and Gray. It’s not particularly cohesive, but after last season, nobody’s going to complain if we have too many ideas rather than too few.

Halfway through Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, the actor playing Rosencrantz points to the back of the theatre and screams “Fire!” The audience collectively soils itself. Rosencrantz then explains: “It’s all right – I’m demonstrating the misuse of free speech. To prove that it exists.” We experience a similar anticlimax during the second half, when fire engines screech up to the kerb and the press are evacuated from the James Hargreaves Upper. Nothing else happens. (Given the ban introduced on July 1st, perhaps Turf Moor is the perfect example of no smoke, without fire.) An announcement warns the occupants of the JH Lower to “be careful on leaving the stand, as there are two fire engines in the car park”. Presumably this announcement is for the more impressionable among us – those so overcome by the sheer glamour of seeing Fabio Rochemback in the flesh that they stagger starstruck into the car park and collide with the nearest stationary vehicle.

On 54 minutes, James Morrison scores his last goal for Boro, rounding the Beast inside the box and angling the ball home from the left; hopefully, he won’t repeat the feat when he returns with West Brom for the Clarets’ first Championship match of 2007/08. There’s a definite pre-season feel to proceedings – at one point, Duff trots over to the dugout and removes his shorts – and it’s an end-to-end game. David Wheater clears a dangerous ball in from Harley, and moments later, Tuncay skews a shot narrowly wide of Jensen’s post. The Turkish international is heavily involved, tussling for the ball with Harley on the touchline until a second ball bounces onto the pitch and, confused, they start trying to play with both.

Berisha, on for the second half, makes an instant impact on the left, as Cotterill’s numerous substitutions eventually form a 4-5-1 (Berisha and Harley on the flanks, Mahon, James O’Connor and Spicer in the middle, and Gray up front). Ade’s withdrawal allows Stephen Jordan to tread the hallowed Turf for the first time, briefly playing his part in a thoroughly deserved draw.

Boro might find themselves struggling towards the wrong end of the table this season, they won’t have to play in a monsoon every week, and yes, it’s only a friendly – but today, the Clarets are their equal at least.
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Accrington Stanley 1 – 1 Burnley [Aug. 20th, 2007|10:10 pm]

Fraser Eagle Stadium
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (58), August 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

It’s easy to romanticise Lancashire when you’ve moved away, which explains why one of my favourite places on earth is a stretch of the M65 – specifically, driving towards Burnley through Hameldon Hill at night, with Accrington ablaze below. The town in question seems delightful by day, too: the Fraser Eagle Stadium is a bracing walk from the station, the travelling fans have been allocated an open terrace from which to enjoy the balmy afternoon, and a steward mowing the adjoining field completes the idyllic rural feel. Until quarter to three, when it’s shattered by a medley of mid-period Supertramp exploding from a tinny speaker right by my ear.

The lavatories, housed in a tiny wooden hut, are an experience in themselves: there are no windows or lights in the cubicles, so we’re required to urinate in total darkness. It’s to be hoped that the male Clarets in attendance have good aim. The tannoy man does his best to sex up proceedings with an enticing preview of Stanley’s next home friendly, against Manchester City: “Sven-Göran Eriksson’s coming for an education in how to play football, and there’ll be late-night shopping in Accrington town centre for Nancy Dell’Olio.” Duff emerges from the changing room and pensively inspects his studs.

Come kick-off, 3,225 fans pack the tiny stands, almost 1,000 up on Accy’s average attendance in League Two last season. Stanley fly out of the blocks, and triallist Jason Walker knocks the ball home on four minutes after Kiraly, resplendent in his trademark joggers, parries the initial shot. Caldwell shores up central defence, partnered adequately by Duff in the first half, but Foster – who plays right-back in the first half and centre-back in the second – struggles. He’s repeatedly done for pace by young midfielder Romuald Boco, and his distribution suggests that his ability to cut it at Championship level disappeared with his relegated Crewe side. Harley puts in a lightweight performance, and the arrival of Stephen Jordan two days later speaks volumes where left-back is concerned.

I’m still worried by the absence of a dedicated right-back, but we can be confident that one man on that wing will show up, and Elliott’s performance delights throughout. He picks up exactly where he left off in May, and his enthusiasm is invigorating, as he sprints down the centre with his untucked shirt billowing in the wind.

Jones is injured, so Mahon – who displays an excellent rapport with the younger lads – starts on the left. Sadly, the game is a microcosm of his time at Burnley so far. In the first half, he goes close with a shot from a tight angle, and his movement, passing and vision are beyond reproach. But he’s less effective in the second half, with too many balls gifted to Stanley’s defence – though he sends a stinging shot narrowly wide from just outside the centre-circle near the end.

The central berths are filled by Spicer and McCann, which is fairly traumatic when you remember Djemba-Djemba isn’t coming back. McCann retires hurt after 21 unremarkable minutes, replaced by James O’Connor; but there remain openings for Accy, whose first summer signing, Paul Carden, surges easily through midfield.

We create a number of chances in the first half, but our problem is still putting them away. O’Connor has a quickly taken free-kick cleared off the line, but a goalmouth scramble just before the break is probably the closest we come to an equaliser.

Akinbiyi makes his presence felt in the first few minutes, breaking down the right and neatly laying the ball off to Blake; he looks lean and fit, his movement is better, and even his touch seems to have improved. But he soon begins to misfire, hacking at numerous chances to the delight of the “Accrington Ultras” behind Ian Dunbavin’s goal. When Mahon screws a beautiful curving ball into Akinbiyi’s path, only for him to shoot weakly at the keeper, a fan remarks: “He’s missed four chances; he’ll score the next one.” He doesn’t; he blasts wide from five yards. Our play quickly deteriorates into long balls aimed at Ade, which is the cue for assorted Burnley fans to start fiddling with their mobile phones.

Robbie Blake, another 30-something prodigal son, gives the impression that the final chapter of his Clarets career may play out rather differently. He gets a rapturous reception, and his quality is obvious: he passes with pinpoint accuracy, his vision more than makes up for his lack of blistering pace, and – in contrast with our headless-chicken tendencies – he exudes a classy calm.

Berisha, Lafferty and Gray appear for the second half, and link up better than any combination of players including Ade; but while Gray brings more purpose to proceedings, our finishing still lets us down. Kyle heads over from a corner (though he twice gets up to the ball like a bloody salmon), Gray scuffs a shot from point-blank range, and Berisha blasts the follow-up high over the bar and the perimeter wall. The Albanian’s ability is apparent, though, and he seems delighted to be here; cheered off after the warm-up, he glances shyly at the travelling fans with a thrilled, boyish smile.

The match becomes woefully scrappy towards the end, not helped by the constantly changing personnel. The final piece of entertainment comes when Polish centre-half Marcin Staniek collides with Ade and goes down as if he’s been shot; it’s a charade so ludicrous Ade points down at the sprawling defender and laughs himself silly. One fan leaves the terrace early, instructed by a fellow sufferer to “send a bottle of bleach back”. On 87 minutes, Blake chips the ball in (via Gray’s back) for a late leveller we only just deserve. Things, one suspects, can only improve.
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Match tally 2006/07 [May. 12th, 2007|07:25 pm]
Burnley 2 – 1 Bolton Wanderers (22 July 2006)*
Burnley 0 – 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers (19 August)
Crystal Palace 2 – 2 Burnley (26 August)
Dulwich Hamlet 3 – 0 Three Bridges (3 September)∆
Burnley 1 – 2 Colchester United (9 September)
Burnley 4 – 2 Barnsley (12 September)
Dulwich Hamlet 3 – 2 Dartford (19 September)†
Burnley 2 – 3 Southampton (23 September)
Dulwich Hamlet 8 – 1 Godalming (26 September)†
Burnley 2 – 0 Hull City (14 October)
Luton Town 0 – 2 Burnley (31 October)
Cardiff City 1 – 0 Burnley (11 November)
West Bromwich Albion 3 – 0 Burnley (18 November)
Burnley 1 – 2 Birmingham City (25 November)
Coventry City 1 – 0 Burnley (9 December)
Dulwich Hamlet 1 – 0 Cray Wanderers (16 December)†
Burnley 0 – 0 Derby County (23 December)
Hull City 2 – 0 Burnley (30 December)
Burnley P – P Stoke City (1 January 2007)
Reading P – P Burnley (6 January)£
Reading 3 – 2 Burnley (9 January)£
Southampton 0 – 0 Burnley (13 January)
Burnley 0 – 1 Stoke City (23 January)
Brentford 0 – 0 Carlisle United (27 January)#
Queens Park Rangers 3 – 1 Burnley (3 February)
Brazil 0 – 2 Portugal (6 February)$
Arsenal P – P West Ham United (13 February)Ω
Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 – 1 Burnley (17 February)
Arsenal 3 – 2 Cardiff City (19 February)Σ
Colchester United 0 – 0 Burnley (24 February)
Millwall 2 – 0 Carlisle United (10 March)#
Southend United 1 – 0 Burnley (13 March)
Arsenal 1 – 0 Manchester United (14 March)√
Preston North End 2 – 0 Burnley (17 March)
Burnley 0 – 0 Luton Town (31 March)
Manchester United 4 – 2 Arsenal (aet) (2 April)∂
Burnley 4 – 0 Plymouth Argyle (3 April)
Birmingham City 0 – 1 Burnley (7 April)
Burnley 2 – 0 Cardiff City (9 April)
Leeds United 1 – 0 Burnley (14 April)
Arsenal 0 – 1 Watford (16 April)Ω
Burnley 1 – 2 Coventry City (6 May)
Burnley FC XI 6 – 4 Branch Select XI (7 May)¢
Kidderminster Harriers 2 – 3 Stevenage Borough (12 May)§

All games Coca-Cola Championship league fixtures, except where indicated. Burnley finish 15th

* Pre-season friendly
∆ FA Cup preliminary round
† Ryman Isthmian Football League Division One South
£ FA Cup third round
# Coca-Cola Football League One
$ International friendly
Ω FA Premier Reserve League South
Σ FA Youth Cup sixth round
√ FA Youth Cup semi-final (1st leg)
∂ FA Youth Cup semi-final (2nd leg)
¢ Graham Branch testimonial
§ FA Trophy final
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Out of darkness, into light [Apr. 25th, 2007|10:00 pm]

Turf Moor
Originally uploaded by clarette_and_blue.

This article was originally published in When The Ball Moves… (57), April 2007. Reproduced by kind permission of Martin Barnes

Playing lowly Luton at home, you’d think we could proceed to the Turf with something resembling optimism – but we’re into our fifth month without a win, the atmosphere is funereal, and despite the sun, few fans linger on Harry Potts Way. It’s a depressingly familiar story, even if wholesale changes are the order of the day: Coyne makes way for Jensen, there’s no place for Elliott or O’Connor, and Duff and Lafferty, after their midweek exploits with Northern Ireland, drop to the bench.

We’re the better side in the first half, with that dubious honour passing to Luton in the second, but neither team poses any threat whatsoever. Luton have come for a point and pack the midfield, with Keith Keane venturing forward every half-hour or so. Jones’ finishing is awful, McVeigh needs games, and McCann might as well be at home. Gray misses a header, and a poor first touch prevents him capitalising on a (difficult) chance to turn and shoot on the edge of a crowded six-yard box. Ade doesn’t even get near a chance.

Two tangible shifts occur during the game. The first takes place on 10 minutes, when Luton realise that we’re as crap as them: their confidence flutters weakly into life, and they start to play (albeit badly). The second occurs just before half-time, when Jones misplaces yet another pass and the crowd’s patience runs out.

The second half is mind-bogglingly dire, forcing us to seek entertainment elsewhere. Pigeon-watching proves popular. I note that various players visited the salon during the international break: Harley and substitute O’Connor have had trims, McVeigh is sporting an artfully casual ponytail, and there’s some sort of modification to Steve Jones’ hairdon’t. Iceland is represented not by Joey Gudjonsson, but by a red-and-white supermarket carrier bag that drifts in from the wing more effectively than any of our wingers (sorry, midfielders told to play on the wing) have done for months.

It’s like the death of sport.

There’s just time for some loony substitutions before the players depart to a round of boos (there are no chants of “Cotterill out”, the Burnley faithful giving various saints a run for their money in the patience stakes). Kyle replaces Ade, a decision I’d like to see made before the game, not 68 minutes into it. O’Connor comes on for Jones, implying that Cotterill is afraid of losing the game – though with Luton camped in their own half, there’s not much chance of that. Finally, Garreth O’Connor replaces McVeigh. Having disposed of both wingers, this looks like our usual game plan – declining to use more than a third of the width of the pitch – but the substitution, made with only two minutes to go, is pointless anyway.

Cotterill’s post-match comments leave me speechless. Elliott – who, for some time, has been our only creative player, our only attack-minded player, and one of the few players who seem to give a toss – was dropped from the squad because he “hasn’t scored a lot of goals”. This from the manager of a side that has scored six goals in the last 16 league games; from the manager who paid £750,000 to re-sign, and persist with, Akinbiyi (one league goal in three months).

He then admits that the kit man handed out traditional white shorts and socks in an attempt to kickstart our form. There’s no urgency to our play, no apparent motivation, and this debacle conclusively proves that there’s no plan B.

Come Tuesday night, plenty of fans have had enough; kids with grim faces are slumped in stony silence, and there are gaping holes in the stands. But we finally start like a side with something to prove, and we finally play as a team – with balance, fluency, rhythm and fight (Cotterill: “The lads played angry tonight”). By half-time, we’re in complete control.

The opening goal comes on 13 minutes, when Duff converts Elliott’s beautifully flighted free-kick. Seven minutes later, McVeigh doubles our lead, latching onto Gray’s flick-on and taking the ball around goalkeeper Luke McCormick. Jones adds to Plymouth’s problems on 38 minutes, when he lashes a shot home. It all feels slightly unreal, prompting a reprise of Saturday’s chant: “What the fuck is going on?” When Elliott caps an excellent performance with a fourth – collecting the ball 10 yards outside the box, rampaging in from the right and burying his shot in the far corner – we’ve scored as many goals in 61 minutes as in our last nine games.

Caldwell is excellent again, and Thomas plays well alongside him, winning a lot in the air. Djemba-Djemba is outstanding, and the strike partnership of Gray and McVeigh is promising: McVeigh is far more mobile than Ade, allowing Gray to play his game. If there’s a weak link, it’s the full-backs: Harley copes reasonably well with Chelski wonderkid Scott Sinclair, but offers little going forward, and Duff loses possession too often, repeatedly telegraphing his passes.

The Beast’s handling is superb, and his kicking is good. He twice finds time for his heart-stopping routine of dribbling nimbly around oncoming strikers deep inside his area – and he goes wild when Sylvan Ebanks-Blake, having won a dodgy penalty, puts it wide.

By this point, Plymouth have given up. Shortly afterwards, Akos Buzsaky beats Jones to the ball and proceeds to completely miss his kick. Giddy with delight, we launch into “can we play you every week?”, while Bertie Bee prances onto the touchline to take the piss.

At the end, Cotterill applauds three sides of the ground, coming to NU3 last: he clutches the crest on his BFC jacket, stirring the JH Upper to sustained applause. He grabs the badge again, and the reception continues. He tries it a third time, and the contrivance is too much; the applause dies, and he retreats down the tunnel, alone.

For the next 10 minutes, Turf Moor celebrates as if we’ve won the FA Cup, not our first match in 19 league attempts. It’s not an achievement. It’s a reprieve.
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