Better Days

Silent, shadowed, stooped figures, silhouetted against the pools of light spilling from the terraced houses are reminiscent of Lowry’s Salford as we trudge up the Todmorden Road, past the brooding gothic splendour of Townley Hall. A cruel 93rd-minute scramble over the line that looked more Rugby League than Premier League has cost Burnley yet another deserved point in the New Year’s Day tussle with Liverpool. The festive season has yielded just two points from a potential twelve and an eminently achievable seven. One day into 2018 and the glorious 12th August in West London that kicked off the season seems like a very long time ago…

The year before at the same Stamford Bridge fixture and Burnley were outclassed on every level. This year was different. They looked physically bigger, much stronger and once seemingly in awe of such glamorous opposition, this time had a bolshy attitude from the off as if they weren’t going to take any shit from anybody. And they didn’t.

After Vokes’ deflection bobbled over the line, swiftly followed by Ward’s savage, lashing shot past a stunned keeper a few minutes later and then, the unmarked header by Vokes setting up a seemingly unassailable lead, the mood at halftime was one of dreamlike disbelief. This quickly turned to howling anguish as Chelsea barged their way back into the match, narrowing the margin to a single goal after 85 minutes. In front of me, two Burnley natives turned their backs to the pitch, staring like Easter Island statues back into the crowd having seen it all go horribly wrong too many times before. But that was then and this is now and this time, it’s different. This team is different.

Afterwards, pedalling up the Kings Road on a Boris Bike in my Burnley cycling top attracted some light-hearted booing from locals in open-top, swanky vehicles as well as some sportsmanlike congratulations from home fans. For the second year in a row, the generosity of this club to visitors and the attitude of a random selection of its supporters has taken me by surprise. In the warm early evening of mid-August, sipping an ice-cold pint of something crafty and pricey near Sloane Square, the world seems in very good order indeed.

Skating swiftly over the irritating defeat to West Brom (What is the point of this club? Can anybody even point out where West Bromwich is on a map?), the results just seem to keep coming and by mid-September I’m looking forward to the Huddersfield match at Turf Moor. As I’m on my way up to Scotland to do a motorcycle trip around the North Coast, the so-called NC500, little other than a catastrophic home defeat can dampen my spirits but this match made a damn good attempt. On reflection, the result was almost scientifically predictable insofar as a contest between two supremely well-disciplined, proficient teams with an equal determination not to lose was likely to end in a stalemate which was, of course, exactly what happened. Even so, it was a good opportunity to see how far this team has come…

After struggling to win a place in the starting line up last season, the poised Dafour is a different player.  Whereas his skill has never been in question, he has found a couple of extra yards of pace from somewhere and time after time, with a feint to one side, could surge into clear open space on the other and create something from nothing. Likewise, Cork makes for an elegant, languid counterbalance with an ability to play the ball into useful space. Add to the mix, Brady’s creativity and dead-ball skills with Hendrick, Arfield and Wood roaming menacingly and there’s trouble brewing for all but the stoutest defence. As with the return fixture at the end of December, the Burnley defence looked hermetically sealed. Only Ben Mee played in both bouts so there is clearly depth to the bench with Long, Taylor and Bardsley joining him at the John Smith Stadium. Seven to choose from for the back four and all top-drawer candidates. Not bad.

Whether it’s because stout defence was the stock-in-trade of Dyche as a player or the upgraded training facilities and coaching that Premier League riches bring, there is a solidity to the defence I’ve not seen before. Coupled with midfield players and forwards able to get back quickly and not afraid to get stuck in makes for a flexible and efficient preventative force. Mee remains the key player having grown into the captaincy in the wake of Heaton’s long-term injury. Like many left-sided players, he strikes the ball beautifully and has the same, unhurried confidence under pressure of Beckenbauer. The recent, flattering profile in the Daily Telegraph and the multiple recent sitings of Gareth Southgate at Turf Moor suggest richly deserved national recognition cannot be far off. He might also be the only England player in recent years to subscribe to The Economist…

It’s not known whether a well-thumbed copy of ‘The Art of War’ has a place on Sean Dyche’s bookshelf but I would not be surprised if it does. If so, it was possibly lightly skimmed the evening of 1st November before the visit to St. Mary’s. One of the most-quoted of the thirteen principles that makeup this 6th-century guide to successful conflict management is: “A general’s first responsibility is to avoid defeat; the enemy will always provide the opportunity for victory” and so it was at Southampton.

From the curious standpoint of being sat with home supporters, courtesy of a seventy-five year supporter of the Saints and father of my longest-standing friend, did I witness this attritional encounter. The frustration of the home crowd bubbled over into outright abuse of their team, Tadic in particular being given a torrid time . They launched wave after wave of attacks, only to see Messrs. Pope, Lowton, Tarkowski, Mee and Ward deal with every one without panic. By the eighty-first minute Southhampton were visibly knackered and two defenders gave Gudmundsson the critical five yards of space needed to flight a beautifully weighted cross for substitute Vokes to convert with a jack-knifed header. Technique and fitness, presumably honed through hours of training, appeared decisive. Any direct attempt at goal would almost certainly have been saved and it was the power and precision of the strike into the bounce that comprehensively outwitted Fraser Forster.

Fast forward to early December and a dank, slimy day for which the East Midlands is justly famed. Fatigue looks to have set in despite the excellent run of recent results. Notwithstanding its manifest charms, Leicester is not a city to set the pulse racing for either team or supporters and the match never really got out of second gear. The early conceded goal would have a pub side manager fulminating at his charges so I shudder to think what was said in the Burnley dressing room at half time. A forgettable game but a swift train ride back to Derby and a splendid curry with my mum, her neighbours and my partner at the Shalimar over the road from the station more than makes amends. Our table has a collective age of over 350 but manages to make more noise than the rest of the place put together. We taxi it back, inhale a couple of Calvados and have a last look at the atrocities of the day on MotD by which time, none of us gives a toss.

My daughter is getting married on December 21st and elects to have one of her three Hen celebrations watching the Brighton match with me. Burnley’s old demons re-assert themselves in the form of the execrable Glenn Murray. Natural justice seems to have been done when he blazed his spot-kick over the bar after cheating his way to a penalty by backing into Tarkowski. I assumed Tarkowski’s reply of a sharp elbow to Murray’s ribs was his riposte. He appeared to get away with it only to be charged, after the match, with violent conduct. What was not known at the time was Murray had, in another off-the-ball incident, grabbed Tarkowski’s wrist fractured during the first half. It was this act of pure sadism that was the catalyst for the retaliation. Retrospective justice is all very well and should clean the Premiership up overall but only if cause and effect are given equal treatment. If Tarkowski got a ban of three matches - fair enough - but then Murray ought to have got six.

It’s Christmas Day and I’m packing up my car before heading north. My neighbour and Spurs fan Charlie commiserates with me over Saturday’s thrashing. Very sporting of him, particularly as his brother Harry was instrumental in administering the drubbing. So given recent form, driving up the M6 on Boxing Day to Old Trafford is with the same sense of nervous, negative anticipation I felt when I pedalled across Hyde Park in August for the Chelsea match.

After three minutes and Burnley’s first goal, the most positive emotion my dour side can summon up is: “Mmm. Well United will need to score twice now to win”. But then Dafour’s peerless free kick curls into the top right-hand corner of the Stretford End goal (almost identical to Beckham’s dignity-saving effort against Greece nearly sixteen years ago) and a re-run of the Stamford Bridge result is on the cards.

Sadly, it was not to be but Dafour is now confirmed as Belgium’s finest export alongside Leffe Blonde. The other startling realisation was the extent to which Manchester United supporters take success for granted. After both their goals - even the equaliser in added time - the team tried to drum up some enthusiasm from the crowd. Frantically waving their arms around, like desperate Red Coats at a northern holiday camp trying to force a state of enthusiasm from a comatose audience, they barely raised a murmur of appreciation for their fightback I grudgingly admit was mightily impressive.

The post-match press conference proved illuminating also with Sean Dyche’s now formulaic, dignified compliments to the opposition followed by praise for his team and refusal to criticise the officials was in stark contrast to the bitter ramblings of that little Portuguese twerp at United’s helm. It reminded me of a comment made on ITV’s high-brow anthropological treatise ‘Love Island’ when one pneumatic, Cuprinoled participant noted: “Eee maght lok Okay but eez pursunality iz dog shite…” Quite Madam; beautifully put and I sign my unborn granddaughters up to the same Finishing School you attended so they might attain your fine judge of character and pithy eloquence.

Huddersfield have a lovely, architecturally-coherent stadium that in the visitor’s end house the worst Gent’s toilets I’ve come across. And I’ve been to France. Another couple of points slip out of sight as a disallowed goal (had it gone straight in, I reckon they would have got away with it but the rebound finish was clearly offside), a couple of wide strikes from good positions and a disallowed penalty has Sean Dyche on the verge of exasperation. In his post-match interview he suggests it is statistically improbable to have not been awarded a penalty since March, hinting that darker forces are at work. I admire his professionalism but do think a bit more publicly-displayed splenetic rage might make officials realise and acknowledge the effect these marginal decisions have on smaller clubs. A few weeks earlier, the travesty of the penalty for Arsenal in added time at Turf Moor had Dyche incandescent with rage. Again, he held it together although he must have been sorely tempted to refer to the multiple wrongs suffered at the hands of this most mendacious of clubs over the past couple of years.

Listening to the interview with BBC Radio Lancashire after the Liverpool match on New Years’ Day as I made my way back towards the M62 and the long drive home, Dyche again would not curse luck or anything else pointing out that the stats. prove that Burnley’s late goal concessions (and successes) are in line with the industry average. I’m sure he’s right but it just doesn’t feel like that.

In many ways, the team are a manifestation of their manager. Hard-working, honest and professional on the pitch and dignified off it. With mainly sensible haircuts, hands behind their back at media interviews, they give polite answers formulated of proper sentences. Combined with the retro-collar design of the current shirt, they have the air of well-mannered Edwardian schoolboys and a collective throw-back to an earlier age. Whether this is a recipe for continued membership in the success-at-any-cost, stop-at-nothing Premier League remains to be seen.

For the time being, we find ourselves in the uncharted territory and relative security of mid-table. Being realistic rather than complacent, relegation does not look on the cards but the fleeting, European fantasy of an early dinner at Cal Pep before pedalling through Montjuic Park to Camp Nou in the velvet of a Catalonian evening to see this fine team take on the likes of Messi, Ronaldo et. al. is fading fast and threatens to overshadow the heroic achievement of a top-ten finish, which is where I would put my money.

I’m writing this a couple of days before the FA Cup 3rd round match away at the Etihad. I hope Dyche rests some players and allows more of his squad the match experience that they will need as the season progresses. This fixture looks like a distraction and is an opportunity for Dyche to embrace his sensitive, feminine side rather than persist with the fierce 1970’s PE Teacher character he increasingly resembles by putting out broadly the same team that played four times in ten days and telling them to man-up.

As Rudyard Kipling observed, success and failure are imposters, deserving of equal disdain and  no-nonsense ethos of the club appears aligned with this principle.  But success is like money and as a character in Oliver Stones’ ‘Wall Street’ points out: “To have had it, and lost it, is worse than never having had it at all…”

PS

What follows has nothing to with football but is a leitmotif of how Burnley, the town, has embraced progress and modernity…

Recently, I was having a spirited if contrary discussion over the relative merits of Bitcoin with my son-in-law, a committed Marxist who - regardless of the inherent philosophical contradictions - was contemplating dabbling in a spot of crypto-currency speculation. In a failed bid to show him the error of his ways, I opened up a Bitcoin wallet on my phone I had put £5 of this funny-money into two years ago to find it was now worth £217.

“Ah” I said “But what can you actually spend it on?” believing this to be the clinching argument.

A quick Googling of the subject revealed the existence of Batch Brew, distillers of premium spirits based, you guessed it, in Burnley.

A couple of clicks later, I had bought a bottle of their Premium Gin (infused with seasonal frankincense and myrrh, no less…) with Bitcoin for £37, or £0.85 in proper money if you convert it back to what these Bitcoin fractions were worth two years again and where they are heading now.

Even at £37, I commend it highly to fellow London Clarets and have since joined their subscription program where they send you a bottle every month of whatever they are cooking up that month.

So there you have it: craft gin brewed in Burnley and bought with Bitcoin. If you’d have asked me five years ago what was more likely: the football team finishing in the top-half of the Premiership or this, I’d have said neither.

Long may my predictions prove baseless. Enjoy. www.batchbrew.co.uk