"What are you doing?"
"Not much."
"Oh, you don't fancy going to watch Burnley play at Cambridge then?"

It was Saturday 25 November 1978, Football Focus was on. My dad had just come in from work and offered me (all be it with a fair bit of persuasion from my mum, I reckon) my first chance to see my footballing heroes in the flesh.

My dad had always been more of a player than a watcher. He was a swift, tough tackling right-back who had played the best of his football during his two-years of National Service. His year in this country was spent in Carlisle where he gained what amounted to an HGV licence, which has quite handily negated the need for him to ever take any kind of driving test. He was subsequently posted to Aden (now South Yemen, I think) where his unit played regularly against the locals. On rock-hard surfaces, all the army lads would bandage their feet for extra protectin before putting their boots on. Their opponents, of course, took to the pitch in bare feet.

On moving down to the Peterborough area, he continued to play a good standard of local junior football. The last regular football he watched was in the early 1960s. As a fitter working for the engineering company Baker Perkins he would catch the works bus into the city centre and take in an evening game at Peterborough United before starting the night shift. He had never been the one to nurture my interest in the Clarets.

As a six year old in 1970, my big passion was football cards. These came in bubble-gum packets produced by the American company 'A&BC'. These were great big full-colour beer mat sized slabs of cardboard. They were fantastic. When you went into the shop and bought them you really felt like you had purchased something substantial. Their latter-day equivalent, the Panini sticker, is a pale imitation.

Anyway, one evening in the Autumn of 1970 I was, as usual, spreading these cards all over the floor in formations copied from the team line-ups that were shown at the beginning of each game on 'Match of the Day'. There was a knock at the door. It was my uncle Roger and his fiancee, my soon to be auntie, Jan. They wedding was a few weeks away and he had come down from Burnley to introduce her to our extensive and far-flung family, prior to the happy event. It was just as he came into the living room that I began to lay out my collection of Burnley players.

"I were with him in't pub last week," he said, pointing to Dave Merrington. "Him und Nulty. He thinks they're done for this season."

This was a lot for an impressionable six year old to take in. Here I was holding a football card which had probably been traded all around my classmates, and my uncle had been out drinking with the bloke! Unfortunately, this gem of information failed to enhance Dave's reputation in the 'transfer market' to the point where he was able to command a 'fee' of two cards in exchange.

A few weeks later, we travelled back to Burnley for the wedding. It was the first time I had been there. Whilst my mum's side of the family hailed from the area they had by now become spread far and wide. Although a number of my relatives still remained there, a road journey from the East Midlands to North-East Lancashire, with a young family, was still quite a trek, even as recently as thirty years ago. I felt immediately at home. Obviously, as a six year old I couldn't expain why, but in later years the reasons became more apparent to me. Burnley in particular, Lancashire in general had an identity and a pride sadly lacking where we lived. I imagine this is true of most if not all of Southern England. There is no focal point, no binding force, no feeling of strength through unity.

Filled with this feeling which I couldn't explain, but I knew I liked, I pledged my allegiance to Burnley Football Club. Shortly after the wedding, uncle Roger and auntie Jan visited again. It was during this stay that auntie Jan baby-sat while my mum and dad went out. Her stories about the Clarets fascinated me. From when she was a child (about my age) she was a regular at the Turf, witnessing at first hand the exceptional Burnley side of the early 1960s. Her older brother had had a trial at the Turf but wasn't offered terms. Devestated, he emigrated to Australia where he did make the grade as a professional.

The last time I spoke to her that season was in about March. I can clearly remember her standing in our hallway and saying, "We've still got a chance." Unfortunately the candid views of messrs. Merrington and Nulty over a midweek pint proved to be depressingly accurate. Burnley slipped out of the top flight for the first time since the 1940s and things were never really the same again.

On reflection, why it took me another seven years to go to a game I'm not really sure. A number of reasons conspired against it I suppose. My dad, who I would have relied on for transport was none too bothered and anyway he generally worked on a Saturday. Although, in 1975, he did paint a blue 'V' on the shirts of my Burnley subbuteo team in such a professional way that, at the time, it seemed worth any number of matches.

It was a good few years before the teams very local to us, Peterborough, Cambridge and Northampton started to play the Clarets on a regular basis. The nearest feasible opposition was Leicester and whilst a trip to Filbert Street was hinted at one year nothing materialised. I started to play for the school team which usually took care of my Saturday mornings. The sportsmaster was Mr Hollyhead, a goalkeeper previously on the books at West Brom..... allegedly. His background was called into question when, on his much vaunted debut for the local team, Ramsey Town, he conceded five goals including one which was a carbon copy of the shot Ray Clemence allowed to go through his legs at Hampden Park. Whilst the majority of the school team were watching, the incident was never referred to again.

Mr Hollyhead was in charge of the school team at the time when Ron Saunders management style was very popular. Hence we did lots of sweating and, had anyone thrown-up at the end of training, I'm sure this would have ensured automatic team selection. To be honest, he was alright. He was a tad unlucky really. Although we were a fair team he just missed out on a remarkable set of lads who were a year above us and proved to be the most succesful school side ever.

For a sleepy market town just outside Peterborough to produce three players who turned professional was quite something. Two of them, Andy Tuff and Andy Hollis, played for Peterborough and Cambridge respectively. The third was goalkeeper Alec Chamberlain, currently with Watford. The highlight for me was playing in a Zonfrillo (no idea where the name came from) Cup tie which was apparently watched by Aston Villa and Manchester City, who had their eye on a pair of twin brothers who played for the team. It was a cracking 3-3 draw, but unfortunately nothing came of the scouts' interest.

A while later, I and about five team mates were offered the chance to go for a county schools trial but I decided against it, and so did they. Personally, I wasn't that good. The others had, generally speaking, already signed for local teams and felt ther was a greater chance of advancement through that route. School work was getting a bit heavy and by now it was 1977. A large group of my friends and I were very much influenced by the punk rock explosion and this now formed an important part of our lives.

I'd seen the Ramones play at the Cambridge Corn Exchange before I'd seen Burnley. At that time, the Corn Exchange was this bleak, eerie auditorium which resembled a Victorian railway station. The acoustics were shocking and a thorough knowledge of the performing group's material was always helpful in picking out recognisable songs from the wall of noise. Temporary ringing in the ears normally lasted about a week. It wasn't long before the venue was closed down as a result of the unacceptable city centre noise level. It remained closed for some years before re-opening as a multi-entertainment venue more adept at hosting Cinderella than the Clash. In the intervening years, The Junction was the only place in Cambridge big enough to host larger bands. It was there that I saw the excellent Milltown Brothers, all of whom were staunch Clarets. Matt Nelson (the lead singer) had apparently introduced some pro-Claret chanting into their performance at Leicester's De Montfort Hall, but, to the disappointment of the smattering of us wearing Burnley shirts, this was not repeated at Cambridge. The only downside to the evening was being cornered by some guy who wanted an in-depth discussion with me on Burnley's decline from former glory.

Putting all those excuses to one side, I was at last on my way to see Burnley play. We parked fairly near to the ground and walked from the main road across the common land that leads to the away end at the Abbey Stadium, Cambridge. This was a Division Two match. For Cambridge, who had achieved promotion in the previous season, it was their first ever campaign at this level and they had made a fair to middling start. Burnley, having made a fairly brief return to the top flight in 1973, were now embarking on their third season back at this level. The Clarets had made a sound start and were lying sixth.

The match attracted a crowd of around six and a half thousand, not bad by the standards of the time and something Cambridge can only dream about today. Recruits to the 'new' football of the 1990's would choke on their clam chowder in the executive suite at Stamford Bridge were they exposed to the concept of the awayday experience as it existed twenty years ago. We approached the away terrace.

In front of us walked two lads carrying, if memory serves, a twelve pack of lager, two of which they were consuming at the time. They arrived at the first police check-point on the tarmac area in front of the turnstiles. "You're not bringing that in," remarked one of the boys in blue nodding at the aforementioned beverages. The lads look at each other and make a quick mental assessment of the situation. There is only one solution. They sink what remains of the cans that are on the go and break open two more. I didn't see the final conclusion to their brave efforts but I reckon there wasn't much wasted. The police were none too concerned as long as the cans weren't taken inside.

Next, the search. I am dressed in jeans and brown Doctor Marten's. There wasn't really anything else for teenagers to wear at the time. I am allowed past unchecked. My dad, late forties and a walking C&A advert is frisked from head to toe. Fortunately he has nothing confiscated, but only after careful examination of a metal comb he has in the back pocket of his trousers. Several other people are not so lucky. The police had at that time, I assume it has gone by now, a small garden shed which they used to store confiscated items. Notwithstanding that this game was taking place in the early winter, several pairs of boots parted company from their owners and were slung into the shed, other items considered 'offensive' included studded belts and afro combs!

We entered the ground, a large group of around 1,000 Clarets had massed behind the goal. The usual pre-match pleasantries were being exchanged between the two sets of fans when the chant of "Celtic, ran away, Celtic, Celtic, ran away" breaks. The relevance is explained by a lad who was the spit of Ralph Malph (from the American TV show 'Happy Days'). A few days beforehand Celtic had visited the Turf for an Anglo-Scottish Cup match (which incidentally attracted a crowd of 30,000). Apparently, their supporters were chased with improvised 'spears' which had started the evening as the green railings dividing the two sets of fans on the Longside.

My dad, not in the best of humour at this point, decides we should make our way to a more thinly populated area towards the corner flag. By now, Burnley are warming up and I am getting really excited. Cambridge is a fairly intimate ground and despite a large red mesh fence I am actually within a few yards of the players. For some reason, the Clarets are not sporting the ill-fated 'V for Victory' home kit. The normal away kit at the time was a quite tasteful all-yellow number with claret and blue trim. Unfortunately this clashed with the home side, so the Clarets resort to a third choice: the best away strip they have ever sported. White shirts with claret and blue trim, claret shorts. It's got the wispy 'BFC' embroidered in blue on the shirts instead of a proper badge, but it is still a timeless classic.

I am so absorbed in all that is going on that when a policeman leans over and says to my dad, "Ere, who's your number 3?" I scarcely realise he is talking to us. My dad gives me a nudge. "Ian Brennan," I helpfully reply. To this day I have wondered why he wanted to know. I just hope Ian didn't get his collar felt as he was climbing onto the coach.

The match started. Burnley were swamped early on. As a result of mounting pressure we go one down after six minutes or so. If memory serves they had a big centre-forward called Bill Garner, ex-Chelsea, who outjumped his marker (probably Billy Rodaway) to head home. Some bright spark decides to send this poor seven year old round the ground with a board displaying the 'goalden goal' time. On three sides of the ground this was greeted fairly amicably, however travelling Clarets were not best disposed to a reminder of the score. Fortunately the board did come in handy as it shielded the lad from a volley of gob cascading down from the terraces.

Billy Rodaway (No.6) outjumped again

Cambridge, bouyed by the early goal, continue to attack, primarily down the flanks. Tony Arins, who'd only played a couple of times previously, found himself one-on-one with their speedy left winger. Taking the only sensible course of action, he floors him with a lunging tackle. A man, who I can only assume was a steward, dressed in a white coat and a flat cap was incensed by the challenge he got up from his seat, right on the touchline, and gave Tony a right earful. He was waving his arms and his face was scarlet. Only when the ref arrived on the scene and he was able to relay the incident to the man in black did he sit down. The inevitable booking ensued.

Cambridge increased their lead when Bill Garner capitalised on some poor defending (almost certainly Billy Rodaway) to double his tally for the afternoon. At 2-0 down, the Clarets at last started to play. Prompted by the outstanding Peter Noble, the tide slowly began to turn and Billy Ingham reduced the arrears before half time. In the second half, the Clarets attacked the goal behind which we were standing. Despite intense pressure, Cambridge were holding out. The bloke standing next to us, a small fella in a second-hand car dealer's sheepskin coat, spent the entire afternoon repeating the same phrase: "C'mon, even bloody Rovers won here!" with increasing intensity as each chance was spurned.

I think my dad was a bit worried that this was about to result in spontaneous combustion, so he decided to go and get us a couple of teas. Yet another wave of pressure saw Peter Noble with the ball at his feet in the inside-right position. He beat his man and advanced towards the edge of the penalty area. Looking up he spotted Paul Fletcher charging through the centre. Noble floated a first-time cross towards the penalty spot. I remember seeing the ball glisten in the floodlights moments before Fletcher jumped, twisted his neck and thumped a crashing header into the bottom left-hand corner of the net, 2-2.

During the ensuing celebrations, my dad made it back with the teas. He warned me to beware of any coppers that might be in the bottom of the plastic cup! Apparently, just as the bloke in front of my dad was about to hand over hi cash, Paul Fletcher found the onion-bag. His obvious reaction was to throw his hands up in the air thus showering all and sundry with his loose change. The game ended in a draw and we made our way out of the ground as happy Clarets were reunited with their afro-combs. My mind was racing, playing back the best parts of the day. I think my dad was just pleased to get it over with, feeling that he had done his duty, although he was moved to say that Peter Noble was a different class from anybody else on the park.

For me, this was just the start. As I got older I formed stronger ties with the family back home, facilitating plenty of visits to the Turf. Watching Burnley on their travels has always been a good day out, although unfortunately spoiled by the football on occasions. My dad has never accompanied me again though. My first match was his last.

Back to Index page	Forward to next article

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws