Tales From East Somerset To East Lancashire

Burnley vs. Chelsea : 5 March 2022.

We were in the midst of a run of away games at venues that could well be described as “old school.” After Selhurst Park and Kenilworth Road now came Turf Moor. Many in our support hate a trip to Burnley’s home and many dislike the team too. Under Sean Dyche, and over the past eight seasons of top flight football, the team has become known for its rather rudimentary and physical style of football. But I love a trip to this particular corner of East Lancashire. I especially love the approach up to the ground from the town centre. I have shared a few words about this walk in previous episodes so I won’t repeat myself again. Suffice to say, it takes me back to an older time, and that is no bad thing. And in this old mill town, football goes back a long way. Burnley Football Club have played at Turf Moor since 1883.

I had set off from East Somerset at 7.30am and had made perfect timing. As I turned onto the M62 from the M6, the road signs soon indicated that I was in the middle of the old football heartland of England. There were signs for Manchester and Leeds, but also for Blackburn and Bury, for Rochdale and Oldham, for Accrington and Burnley. On my last visit to Turf Moor in the October of 2019, our pre-match took us to a pub in Clayton Le Moors. On this occasion, I had highlighted a pub in Accrington. But this was not just any pub. My destination was “The Crown Inn” and what made this pub so special was that it was right outside one of the entrances to Accrington Stanley Football Club. We arrived bang on midday.

This was just perfect. Burnley was only a ten-minute drive away. The pub looked warm and inviting. PD, PDs’s son Scott – on his birthday – and Parky ordered pints of lager, and I sipped at something a lot less alcoholic. It was time to relax for an hour and a half or so. A friend of a friend – David from Silverdale on Morecambe Bay, last seen at Anfield in late August – soon arrived and picked up a spare ticket.

I zipped outside to take a small selection of photos of the nearby Wham Stadium, a ground where I am yet to witness a game, looking neat and tidy in the winter sun. A local, who had been sitting in the pub when we arrived, walked past me on his way to watch Accrington’s away game at Portsmouth in a brand new hospitality suite that was opening for the very first time that day. He spoke to me about his joy of how the ground has been recently developed. The club has risen from the ashes after being turfed out of the Football League in the ‘sixties. He enthusiastically answered my question about the whereabouts of their old Peel Park ground which was evidently just a mile away.

“Where are you from, then?”

“Oh, Somerset. We’re Chelsea.”

“Are you going to the game?”

“Yeah.”

“Hope you beat those bastards.”

This was a view shared by a lad in the pub, who was drinking next to us with a mate. I had to ask of his allegiance.

“Are you Blackburn?”

“Oh aye. He’s a Knob Ender, like, but yeah.”

The fact that the two lads were watching Blackburn Rovers’ game at Craven Cottage – in SW6, of all places – was a clue, but nothing is ever a certainty in football.

In a space of five minutes, I had met supporters of Accrington Stanley, Blackburn Rovers and Preston North End. It was a perfect welcome to the area.

Back in 1888, all three clubs – plus the seemingly despised Burnley – were founder members of the Football League. It seemed just right that we should be drinking at the epicentre of the origins of the game in England.

All four clubs lie within twenty miles of each other. Bolton Wanderers, another inaugural member, are close by. The other seven clubs – Everton, Stoke City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, West Bromwich Albion, Aston Villa, Derby County and Notts County – are further afield.

At the end of our spell in the cosy pub, we wished each other well and the Blackburn fan said “I hope you beat them four nil.”

The short drive from Accrington to Burnley was a breeze. I must admit I love the sight of the naked Pennines to the north-east of the town and on this occasion they didn’t disappoint. I have noted before that other clubs might well be geographically more northern, but there is no club that is spiritually more northern that the one that resides along Harry Potts Way in deepest Burnley.

We nabbed what seemed like the last car park spot near the town centre and were soon walking towards Turf Moor. The cold wind almost cut me in two, but nearer the stadium, in among the terraced houses, the wind seemed to quieten. There has been a fair amount of gentrification of good old Turf Moor of late – a splash of paint here and there, the wooden seats in the away end have eventually been replaced, there are corporate tiers rising up above two of the corner flags and the Blackburn fan had warned us of every spare inch now being devoted to neon signage – but I liked how “Burnley Football Club”, in ‘sixties font, was still emblazoned on the old stand adjacent to Harry Potts Way.

There was time for one more drink in the awning adjacent to the away concourse and we then made our way to our seats in the away end. In that packed concourse, it again seemed that Aquascutum scarves were everywhere. It must have been the threat of the cold. As with my last visit, I was adjacent to the home fans, right behind the goal. A few very drunk youngsters stumbled in. I was stood next to Parky and Gary, but also Sophie – Porto 2021 – and her father Andy was two rows in front. PD and Scott were ten rows behind us.

The minutes ticked by.

The teams were shown on the two large TV screens in the corners.

Chelsea lined-up as follows :

Mendy

Chalobah  – Silva – Rudiger

James  – Jorginho – Kante – Saul

Mount – Havertz – Pulisic

Talking points? No room for Romelu Lukaku then, and I had no complaints. Saul at left wing-back? I trusted the manager.

The teams appeared. Chelsea wore the nasty and messy jade, orange and black. I suddenly felt nauseous.

There was an announcement from the PA that detailed a minute of applause for the people suffering in Ukraine. The teams stood in the centre circle. The scoreboard, the advertising boards, the balcony walls and the roof fascia all around the ground turned yellow and blue. I took a few quick photos and then joined in by clapping alongside thousands. I was far from pleased that hundreds of Chelsea fans decided at that moment – during the minute of applause – to yell out the name of our owner.

Sophie and I spoke.

“We’ve done ourselves no favours there.”

Indeed.

The timing of this support of Roman Abramovich was completely wrong. This was no time to roar his name. This was no playground pissing contest. This was a moment to show solidarity with the poor folk who were being shelled by Russian troops. It came over, I am sure, as a reaction against the minute of applause rather than a show of support for our owner. I just didn’t need it. Chelsea Football club didn’t need it. The locals a few yards from me were pretty livid. And I think they had a point.

Fackinell.

There were prolonged periods of debate about our recent funding between a few Chelsea fans standing nearby and some equally headstrong locals throughout the game. It was a sideshow that I didn’t warm to.

It was a dire first-half. In the first twenty minutes, Burnley – playing with light blue shorts at home just didn’t look right – easily carved out the better chances. Thankfully our defence were strong both individually and as a unit. As with the last visit – OK, not last season, that doesn’t count, I couldn’t even remember the score – Dwight McNeil looked dangerous on their right. Wout Weghorst is a big lump, eh? A cross from Aaron Lennon found Weghorst but that prince among men Thiago Silva was able to clear off the line. A few defensive headers at set pieces kept Burnley at bay.

Thankfully, Chelsea saw off the early Burnley pressure and saw more and more of the ball. However, a long shot from outside the box from Toni Rudiger, which the ‘keeper Nick Pope did well to smother at his post, was the only real effort on goal.

The locals to our left were noisy at the start of the game but neither Sophie nor myself could decipher much of it.

It’s funny how I sometimes pick on certain things during games. In that first-half, as we were positioned right behind the goal, it was so noticeable that on three or four occasions when Silva was bringing the ball out of defence, I noticed a channel of space right up the middle of the pitch – maybe five yards wide – with no players blocking a pass to a run from a player into space. Alas, there were no runners and thus no ball was pinged at pace into the final third. And if anyone could ping a crisp ball to feet it was Silva. It was so annoying. But this lack of movement encapsulated our play in that woeful first forty-five minutes. It was exasperating stuff.

With our goalkeeper only a few yards away, he was serenaded loudly with his own song.

“He comes from Senegal.”

Thankfully, the home team ran out of ideas and were pushed back by us.

Gary : “they’re playing for 0-0.”

Chris : “So are we, mate.”

On the half-hour, a ball was skied way high and Mendy had to time his leap to perfection. Sadly, he seemed to mist-time everything and his punch fell to Jay Rodriguez, but his shot was off target. We applied a little more pressure as the first-half came to its conclusion but created only half-chances.

In the crowded concourse, I crept past a few pals on the way to the miniscule gents. Our performance was summed up by myself in the briefest of ways.

“Shite, eh?”

The second-half began and how. Chelsea were now attacking us, the two and a half thousand members of the away army. With the second-half just three minutes old, I had a perfect viewpoint to watch Reece James collect the ball just outside the box with a defender immediately up against him. Some sublime skills – a beguiling mixture of twists and dummies – allowed him a spare yard. I expected a cross. Instead, the ball was drilled into the far corner, low at the post.

We erupted.

Reece beamed. His face was a picture as he raced off down to the far corner. We love our post-goal celebrations at the corner posts, eh?

Just five minutes later, a magnificent cross from the boot of Christian Pulisic was absolutely inch perfect, allowing Kai Havertz to leap and head in at the far post. Space was at a minimum. The header had to be as perfectly placed as the cross.

It was.

We roared again.

Two minutes later, we watched a cracking move involving Mason Mount, N’Golo Kante and James develop. A low cross was bundled home by Havertz from very close in.

Three goals in ten minutes. Bloody hell. Nobody could have expected such a blitz at the start of the half. Surely the game was safe? Maybe not. In 2019, we went 4-0 up with goals that included a perfect hat-trick from Pulisic, only for us to gift the home team two late goals.

The home fans were quiet now, with only the occasional song about “Bastard Rovers” to keep them warm.

Sophie joked that three goals in ten minutes had given us a false expectation as the second-half continued. As ten minutes and then twenty passed, we grew restless.

“Boring now, innit?”

I laughed.

With twenty minutes to go, Saul knocked a ball into the danger zone. James Tarkowski took a swipe in an attempt to clear but Pulisic was on hand to smash it in from inside the six-yard box. Thankfully there were no chants of “USA” – ironic or not – to accompany our fourth goal unlike in 2019.

Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

Excellent.

We had now scored four goals on each of my last three visits to Turf Moor. That Blackburn fan in the pub would be happy.

Thomas Tuchel made some late changes to rest weary legs.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for James.

Mateo Kovacic for Kante.

Timo Werner for Mount.

“Bloody hell, Soph, Ruben is playing right back now.”

We saw the game out. I summed the game up in one sentence.

“First-half everyone was 5/10, second-half 8/10.”

We shuffled out into the dusk of a Burnley evening and there was the usual amount of posturing behind the guard of two police horses from the home fans as both sets of supporters headed under the bridge on Harry Potts Way. We made it back to the car in double-quick time; it was our quickest ever exit from the town centre. A smash and grab raid? Maybe. As I headed west towards the M6 on top of the ridge of high land on the M65, the views of the Ribble Valley beneath the hills to the north and the peaks of the Lake District further west were quite spectacular.

Burnley never lets me down.

Next up, a long drive east to Norwich City on Thursday.

“Thursday?”

“So am I, see you in the pub.”

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