Extracts from the Book
Choice cuts...
Ra-ta, ta-tat...tat 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 true answer to the question ‘Why Burnley?’ lay in circumstance.
When Reg called for me on a fateful day in 1964, 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 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.
A perfect moment…
It was the close season of 1979, and I had been surviving on a shoestring in Majorca waiting for news of when Burnley, who were staying in a hotel on the island, would be playing a promised friendly.
I managed to find the date, and 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 then manager Brian Miller, who I had met when walking past the team hotel a few days earlier..
It seemed a tad unusual that I was being assured that the bus I had caught quite a few times when I was sleeping rough at a nearby disused airfield 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 f***ing 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 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 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. 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)
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!”
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 beheld 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.
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 ralreadyasleep. 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!
Got To Be There!
Dave Burnley an extreme supporter