Crows and Power clash deserves to take its place in pantheon of derbies

Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock is edging ever closer to the only sporting show that matters in Adelaide this weekend. I am referring to the AFL Showdown between Adelaide Crows and Port Adelaide, scheduled to be the first such dogfight at the revamped Adelaide Oval on Saturday afternoon. As an outsider looking in, I shall watch proceedings as a highly interested observer.  I’ve lived in Adelaide for eight years but don’t feel any spiritual allegiance to either side.  To  suddenly jump on a bandwagon just because it’s there smacks of a manufactured belonging. Besides, I am already spoken for – having watched the Sydney Swans  with initial bemusement but growing empathy during my days in the harbour city in the 1980s. Neither am I a tactical expert on Aussie Rules but this does not mean I won’t be  keeping  a keen eye on what unfolds in the Adelaide confrontation.  It has been fascinating to monitor the build-up to this historic encounter at a remodelled venue and wonder where it stands in terms of other global derby tussles in various sports.  So far, from what I have seen,  it doesn’t seem to have registered much attention in the national sporting media. Maybe Adelaide has a problem in that it seems too “nice” a place to generate any genuine sporting hostility. The eastern states often look down on the city as being total Hicksville. This week my good mate Jim Nixon, of ex-Sydney Morning Herald days, phoned up and during our conversation referred to Adelaide as the ‘big old country town.”  It’s what many folk in Sydney use as a reference point towards Adelaide.  It is never imparted with any malice just taken as read.  Melbourne fans have their own AFL traditions, which is probably what the Crows-Power collision lacks.  The Adelaide Showdown is a relatively recent phenomenon compared to the ancient suburb v suburb Melbourne inner city squabbles bubbling through the former VFL years. Melbourne people also take a more disparaging view of Adelaide when it comes to life in general. Only on Friday morning, the English comedian Sara Pascoe was the guest on the Triple J “Taking Five” segment with Zan Rowe. The Essex lady is in Australia for the Melbourne Comedy Festival.  She had appeared on a Melbourne radio station earlier that morning and told Zan that when she revealed her English dad lived in Adelaide, the whole station crew offered their sympathy. What a shame, nothing happens in Adelaide, they apparently told her. Of course, that isn’t true.  However, that’s the typical Melbourne angle and they probably take a similarly patronising stance towards the Showdown. Adelaide’s colossal game probably won’t rate a mention in the English media, but then again Australian Rules rarely does. And the Showdown would not register on the same plane in terms of passion as some of the malevolent English football derbies.  Besides the traditional blockbusters such as the Manchester and Merseyside dust-ups, there are hidden gems on the parochial calendar which the rest of the country is aware of.  My own personal experience is of the bile of the Blackburn v Burnley warfare.  However, there would hardly be cucumber sandwiches between rabid tribes when it’s Newcastle v Sunderland, Portsmouth v Southampton or Cardiff v Swansea.  Maybe it’s as well there will be sausage sizzles going on in Elder Park before the Adelaide showpiece. The rival fans will be able to mingle with, no doubt, the odd words exchanged. I think the expression is friendly banter.  However, stories of Crows fans meeting this week to compose chants and practise singing them like English football crowds is positively naff.  Such fervour is spontaneous and has evolved down decades from the now long-gone standing terraces .To try to whip up similar sparks in a couple of night-class forums is laughable.  Good intentions, but doomed to miss the mark. Anyway, who cares what I think. Who cares what the eastern states think, or the rest of the world thinks. Saturday afternoon is Adelaide’s big day. So let’s look on and hopefully enjoy a truly spirited spectacle. I can’t even take sides through my tipping interests.  This season I have joined two pubs’ tipping competitions – the Alma on Magill Road, as usual, and the Stag at the bottom of Rundle Street.  In supposedly close games, I will be hedging my bets by tipping one team in one pub’s stakes and the opposition in the other. That’s the case for the Showdown. No matter, I will relish the game anyway. There is nothing like a shouting match between neighbours to keep those involved at fever pitch and have the rest of us looking on like nosey-parkers. Great stuff…

Bayern Munich pose formidable hurdle to ambitions of David Moyes

David Moyes will have to do things the hard way if he wants to win silverware in his first season as Manchester United manager.

Not only will United have to overcome the German juggernaut known as Bayern Munich in the Champions League quarter-final with the first leg starting on April 2, they will attempt the daunting assignment without injured striker Robin van Persie.  The former Arsenal man got Moyes’ men through against Olympiakos when his hat-trick overturned a two-goal first leg deficit. But he won’t be around to help out in the next European instalment.  At least Moyes will have Wayne Rooney on hand, with a wonder goal against West Ham at the weekend proving he always has the capacity to pull off the spectacular.

Why my sudden interest in United? Well, Moyes has been a compelling subject to monitor during his tumultuous first campaign at the helm at Old Trafford. Anointed to take over by his fellow grumpy Scot and illustrious predecessor Sir Alex Ferguson,  Moyes has had a rough ride. He never won a trophy in his time at Everton and this season looks to be going the same way. It is not something the United hordes are used to but Moyes knows he can win back some goodwill if his side can somehow grapple their way past Bayern to book a semi-final Euro spot.

Moyes has never been a favourite of mine. I found him a constant irritant at Everton as he did his best Marty Feldman impression with  bulging eyeballs, growling and scowling on the touchline if the fates conspired against him.  He had a litany of excuses to trot out if things had gone awry on the pitch at Goodison.  In the long list of moaning and groaning Scottish managers, Moyes took his perceived ill luck to new heights.  And he seemed to have a view on all footballing issues going on around him, even when they did not concern him directly. He got it all wrong for me when he tried to defend a Scottish kinsman Steve Kean during his disastrous dismantlement of my beloved Blackburn Rovers. During our horrific relegation campaign of 2011-12, things came to a head during a costly mid-season home defeat by Bolton Wanderers.  The fans had finally had enough of the delusional Kean’s incompetence and at 2-0 down, they let the hapless manager know with a crescendo of discontent.  Moyes was in the stands watching the game and promptly walked out at half-time in support of Kean, saying he could not stomach the crowd’s abuse any further. If Moyes had appreciated what the Rovers fans had had to suffer under Kean’s regime, he would not have been so quick to make such a pious, misguided statement. Kean duly took Rovers through the trapdoor into a limbo from which we are unlikely to return any time soon.  I wonder what Moyes thinks about all that now?

During his time at Everton, Moyes even had some touchline bust-ups with Sir Alex, so I must say I was surprised when Fergie opened the Old Trafford door for him upon his retirement. Now Fergie sits in the stand,  looking down in grim apoplexy as Moyes’ fortunes lurch from one setback to another.  Maybe the Champions League will be his salvation. It will be fascinating to watch, as I get the impression that the Old Trafford fans have not warmed to Moyes.

 My own feelings towards United have evolved from sheer contempt a few years ago to a resigned  indifference. The club are basically a global institution with millions of “followers” all around the planet.  So what is the point of investing any kind of dislike to an unstoppable force? It brings home what a behemoth United are when things start to go wrong.  Even slightly wrong.  Back in Blighty last September  my great mate Ivan Hickmott and  I were driving back from a Rovers win at Bournemouth. The fans’ talkback show BBC 606 Live was on the car radio. United had lost at home that afternoon to West Brom.  And didn’t we suddenly know it. The distressed callers to the show were bemoaning Moyes’ management after a result that seemed to take on a monumental calamity greater than the current Ukraine crisis or the search for Malaysian Flight 370 rolled into one.  Many of the callers had never even been to the match that day. In fact, I suspect many of those never even went to any United match.  It seemed to be the end of the world as we know it with these hysterical rants. There was not one call that acknowledged West Brom’s winning performance. Indeed, there didn’t seem to be any calls other than about United’s match. The rest of the footballing world had disappeared off the radar during the programme. We may as well have been listening to Radio MUFC.

I suppose all these so-called United fans have what they see as valid reasons for supporting their club. If you have no birthplace connection to any club, I expect it’s easy just to jump on board some glamour-laden success story like Man United with all the easy-earned trappings that come with such a flimsy allegiance. In recent years Chelsea and the loathsome Manchester City have joined those brackets of clubs whose replica shirts have invaded the streets of the world as fashion accessories. In Australians’ cases, I have much more respect for fans who take the harder more offbeat options.  Two of Gabs’ brothers,  Jeff and Julian Patching, look to the fortunes of Sheffield Wednesday and Aston Villa respectively. In some cases, you can even estimate an Australian person’s age by which club he has adopted from his or her youth.  My mate at The Advertiser in Adelaide, Pete Cornwall follows Stoke City. He was converted after watching on television as the Potters lifted their only-ever trophy, the League Cup, when they beat Chelsea at Wembley in 1972. Stoke are back in the big time now, but there have been some very lean times in between. Meanwhile,  Mike Cockerill, who I know from my Sydney Morning Herald sport days and Mel Mansell, my former editor at The Advertiser, are both Leeds United fans. I suspect that Mike and Mel both got hooked on Leeds when Don Revie’s side ruled the scene with an iron fist in the late-60s to mid-70s. These case studies in fandom are much more colourful than the slavish ManU bores.

However, there is no denying the enormity of the club that Moyes has inherited. In my era on the Sunday Times in London, the style on sports headlines was that “United” could only be used when it referred to Manchester United. Hard luck to West Ham, Colchester, Sheffield and all the other countless other Uniteds  around the place. Now we will see what Moyes makes of his onerous task. Maybe he could do without the constant gaze of Fergie looking down on him from the stands. The same thing happened when Sir Matt Busby retired and went upstairs. His presence didn’t seem to help Wilf McGuinness, Frank O’Farrell or Dave Sexton, who all came and went as United floundered in search of their former glories.  So good luck against Bayern Munich, David Moyes.  You might just need it.

 

Tough to feel any sympathy as Manchester City run into sudden strife

It’s been a harrowing week as a Blackburn Rovers fan. The derby day loss to Burnley appeared almost inevitable as our Claret cousins seemingly surge towards automatic promotion while we flounder in a sea of mediocrity. The midweek Bournemouth defeat could be diagnosed as the hangover effect from that derby flattener.  So I have had to take warped solace in another team’s misery.  Thank goodness for Manchester City. Surprisingly, City were dumped from the FA Cup by Wigan Athletic, who had done the unimaginable to them at Wembley in last season’s final. Then rather more predictably, Barcelona finished off the job at the Nou Camp to snuff out City’s ambitions in the European Champions League.  Good stuff.  Man City  have  always held a curious place in my footballing affections in that I have never liked them.  Never,  ever…  Even when they were the downtrodden half of Manchester as United were winning trophy after trophy.  The  reason?  I suspect that  it’s due to City’s fans. They always came across as a bunch of whingeing, self-pitying apologists when things were going badly for all those years. These same defeatist followers of the self-proclaimed “true team of Manchester” are transformed into braying braggarts as soon as any form of success appears on the horizon.  Exhibit A:  The illiterate, expletive-laden efforts of one their celebrity ilk, Liam Gallagher, on the box before the expected Wembley cakewalk all went horribly wrong against humble Wigan. My own gripe with City’s overbearing bigmouths goes way back to the FA Cup campaign of 1968-69. City had a class team under Joe Mercer and Malcolm Allison, no arguments there – Colin Bell, Francis Lee, Mike Summerbee and  the rest went on to beat Leicester City in the final that year.  So imagine the thrill when they were drawn to visit Rovers in the fifth round.  The magic of the Cup was still alive and the original capacity of a terraced Ewood Park was set at 55,000 for the all-ticket clash.  Rovers were going nowhere fast in the old Division Two so  this  was a real brush with the big time for young fans like me who had had such fleeting experiences before relegation in 1966. The snow fell consistently that winter and consequently the big game suffered seemingly endless postponements. No undersoil heating in 1969.  As a consequence, much of the sting and anticipation was lacking as many folk didn’t bother turning up when City finally rolled into town and steamrolled Rovers 4-1.  City were  a different class. And alas, so were their fans. The attendance was more than 42,000 – still the biggest I have personally witnessed or ever will again see at Ewood.  The City travelling hordes were housed in the Darwen End but seemed to be everywhere.  And wherever they were, random outbreaks of violence instantly occurred.  This was the beginning of the hooligan era, true, but for a 14-year-old like me, the whole atmosphere in and outside the ground was truly terrifying.  Next day at school, there were many tales of brutality and virtual pillage inflicted by the City invaders.  I suppose that mistrust and disgust of City stayed with me, even though both teams existed in different stratospheres for many years. Eventually City slipped out of their lofty existence and had to suffer the indignity of life in Division Two.   It was with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation that the now-adult me made my first visit to Maine Road in September, 1983 just a few months before I was due to set off for Australia.  City  were still elite slickers to me.  But their ground, set in the rabbit warrens of the cobbled streets around Moss Side, was not a desirable residence. If fact, like many in those days, it resembled a slum. We took up our places on the infamous Kippax terracing, separated near the halfway line from the City fans by a fenced-off no-man’s land,  complete  with chicken wire stretching to the roof of the stand. This didn’t seem to prevent a multitude of objects flying into the visiting throng from Blackburn.  These ranged from ball-bearings and sharpened coins to plain old bricks. It was a horrible afternoon. Out on the pitch, Rovers were blown away 6-0 by a rampant City side, with Scotsman Derek Parlane helping himself to a hat-trick. As each goal went in, the derision and gloating from the other side of the chicken wire seemed to grow more intense.   Trudging disconsolately away after the match along the dogshit-littered pavements, big Jim Chadwick, Ivan and Olive Hickmott plus myself had trouble locating our vehicle.  We wandered on and on as the streets emptied, then turned one corner to be confronted by a group of City fans who must have known we were lost Blackburn souls.  “Enjoy the game, lads?” one of them sneered.  “Yeah,  Parlane hat-trick!” I replied in a hastily improvised Manc accent. I don’t think they were fooled by that but the female presence of Olive I’m sure, saved us Peaceniks from a kicking. That would have put the lid on a truly awful day. Since then, I’ve watched games at Maine Road accommodated in the seated Platt Lane End, then the old re-roofed Open End. As Rovers’ status and fortunes soared, victories at Maine Road became quite commonplace.  Meanwhile, City lurched from one disaster to another and somehow found themselves in the old Division Three. As their former playing idol then chairman, Francis Lee, said: “If there was a cup for cock-ups, we’d win it every year.”  There was still no sympathy from me. City duly rose from the ashes as Rovers fell through the trapdoor from the Premier League under ex-City and United icon Brian Kidd. So we met again at Maine Road in October 1999. A regulation 2-0 win for City was memorable for little apart from the plain-to-see glee and verbal flak that was dished out with unexpected venom at Rovers’ plight in the pubs before and after the game. I really wondered why these City fans had it in so badly for us.  City were  flying that season and needed to clinch a return to the promised land in the last game. Unfortunately, that match brought the Sky Blue barbarians to Ewood  for their promotion party.  Rovers were marooned in mid-table with nothing to play for in front of a virtual full house. So it was no surprise on the way to the ground to see many season-tickets holders handing over their final match-day stubs to desperate City fans for outrageous amounts of money.  I got offered 100 quid for mine but “politely” turned the trade down.  I must have been one of the few. Inside Ewood there were Blue Moon singers all over the home sections including four – blokes and lasses,  pissed  and obnoxious – sat right in front of me and Tom, my dad, and Margaret, my mum.  The loutish behaviour was off and running instantly.  My dad was having none of it though. “Oi, put out that fag out!” he said to one middle-aged yob.  Thankfully, the smoking cretin obliged.  It was impossible to enjoy the game.  Matt Jansen put Rovers one up. We then proceeded to outplay City but hit the woodwork on at least three occasions that I recall.  On the other hand, City seemed to score every time they attacked. In the end, it was 4-1. It was meant to be for City that day. As full time neared, the four loudmouths in front were in orbit. One of the lasses even wanted to kiss my dad.  No thanks… Normally, I would have shook their hands and said “well done.”  But there is something that still nags away at me when it comes to the Citizens of Manchester.  Since then they have taken to social climbing.  City inherited a brand-new home in East Manchester where Rovers managed to secure a couple of draws before I left again for life in Oz.  Then the Arabs came in, but not before Mark Hughes had foolishly quit Ewood for a spell with City before being shown the door.  Now it’s all the dosh you can imagine from the Sheikh tycoons, continental mercenaries wearing sky blue shirts plus foreign managers with silly names and dafter accents. And Brian Kidd is still hanging on as assistant. City even managed to snare the title from United’s grasp a couple of seasons ago in dramatic fashion.  I was gutted  for  United – I never imagined I would ever say that.  And streets world-wide are alive with people wearing City shirts. Where did they all come from?  So it was a pleasant distraction this week to see things go wrong again for City, not just once but twice.  Now I hear the Arabs are being urged to spend big.  Jeez, how much do they need! I know Rovers had “Uncle” Jack Walker to finance us for a while. But at least he came from the town.  Ditto Lionel Pickering at Derby County and Sir Jack Hayward at Wolves.  I have no qualms with local moneybags trying their best for their hometown clubs.  But I can’t empathise with City, the club with the boorish Blue Moon brigade as fans, whose inscrutable Arab owners continue to bestow their bottomless treasure chest of garish filthy lucre on Manchester’s noisy neighbours.

Clitheroe: Breeding ground for Rovers v Clarets rivalry

This Sunday sees the latest instalment of one of the most hate-fuelled feuds on the English footballing landscape as Blackburn Rovers take on Burnley at Ewood Park.

Both clubs were founder members of the Football League is 1888 so are well acquainted, unlike Johnny-come-latelies such as fancy-dans Manchester City or Chelsea.  In recent years meetings have been more spasmodic due to Rovers’ long-standing superior status as Premier League perennials.

The last statement gives me away as an unabashed Rovers fan.  Yes, m’lud, I plead guilty to that fact. However, the rarity of the confrontations has, if anything, intensified the mutual loathing like a festering boil that badly needs bursting.  Even from 12,000 miles away in Adelaide, Burnley is always the second result that I look for –  in the hope that they have lost. Alas, this has been a rare  occurrence this campaign as their small squad has held together to maintain a promotion push from the Championship.  Under the catastrophic ownership of India’s finest, the dreaded Venkys, Rovers are still in damage limitation mode.  Still, there is all to play for on Sunday.  It is 35 years since the Claret clowns last beat Rovers but that statistic is distorted because of the intervening gap in class. In reality it is 13 meetings, but that’s handy enough from our perspective.

So why do Burnley harbour such feelings among Rovers fans when we also have countless other Lancashire rivals such as Bolton Wanderers, Preston North End and Blackpool in close proximity? To my eyes, a starting point is plain geography.  Burnley has always seemed a “dark” place to me,  clinging to  the brooding,  foreboding foothills of the Pennines. It is a town with a spirit that is almost Yorkshire. When The Fall sang “Lucifer over Lancashire,” I think I know where Mark E Smith was thinking off.  Indeed Burnley do harness much of their support from the strange hamlets to the east in the Yorkshire environs. Some of this terrain exudes a certain grimness and spookiness. Real Beelzebub breeding ground.  Perhaps this is what prompts the “inbred” taunts about our Claret neighbours.  Meanwhile, Blackburn, though in a state of despairing disrepair these days, looks west towards the light of the Lancashire plain, south en route to the metropolis  of Manchester  and  north panning out through the Trough of Bowland to the Lake District. It’s only a matter of miles but it makes a huge difference.

My own inauguration into the ranks of anti-Claret apostles stems from my arrival at Clitheroe Grammar School as an 11-year-old in September 1967. The school was comprised of kids from all the rural areas of the nearby towns. So a Burnley spillover mixed with Ribble Valley clans from the outskirts of Blackburn (including me) and various villages scattered around in the vicinity.

All went well  for the opening week. I had loads of new mates and got picked for the under-12s football team.    It was only the second week when things took off.  Rovers lost. Burnley won. We were in different Divisions by then as Rovers had been relegated from the top flight in 1966. But the  flak that flew that Monday morning was unbelievable.  So that’s how they want it, I thought. Okay, then that’s how it will be. So that was how it went on right on until I left the sixth form in 1974.

There were odd smatterings of Man U hangers-on and Liverpool glory-seekers. But mainly the school was split on Claret/Rovers lines, including the teachers.  It was hardly Arab/Israeli but it was pretty severe.  And it permeated through all the various years.  In the blue and white corner were such luminaries as myself, Rog “Mini” Bentley, Des Leathert, Mick Eddlestone, Ivan Hickmott, Tony Woods, Eric Spiby and Big Jim Chadwick.  Championing the misguided Claret cause were Adrian “Flec” Fletcher,  Malc Heyworth, Dave Howard, Jeff Duxbury and loudest of the lot, Bernard Monk. Most of the Burnley brethren hailed from Padiham,  a Claret stronghold.  Some of these folk I have never seen since school but most of ‘em are still  great mates (Clarets included).    There were never any fisticuffs. The school was a training ground for eccentrics who knew it was more cutting to inflict pain through a killer one-liner rather than a smack round the head.  And even the Burnley fans were hip, with an album desk in our classroom littered with such evening listening exchanges from the likes of Blodwyn Pig and Tonto’s Expanding Head Band.

The only trouble was that it was hard work getting the upper hand in the bragging rights as Burnley had a decent team in the early 70s – Dave Thomas, Frank Casper, Leighton James, Ralph Coates and Martin Dobson (a Clitheroe old-boy).  I would never have admitted that then, which shows how much I have mellowed.  The club also had a despotic butcher as chairman, Bob Lord, who seemed to know what he was doing in a sort of haphazard dictatorial rule. Butcher Bob kept Burnley up with the big boys.  Rovers just flailed around in Division Two.

My first meeting with the Anti-Christs came in January 1970 in, of all things, a friendly.  Both clubs had suffered early exits from the FA Cup. So some bright spark decided on a friendly at Ewood. It was a kick festival.  Both on and off the pitch.  In a  grim affair, Rovers’ not-so-deadly striking duo of Bryan Conlon and  Terry Eccles scored goals which gave us a 2-0 win. Joy.  In those days you could walk from end to end on the Ewood terraces. But because of the friction of the occasion, the police had cordoned off the Burnley fans in the Darwen End. The Rovers mad lads weren’t to be stopped though. When the gates were opened near the finish of the game, the hard core duly made an exit, sprinted down Nuttall Street and up the steps into the Darwen End. Cue kung-fu fighting as the two tribes met head on. Our own personal highlight was when Des and “Mini” spotted “Flec” , somehow marooned on his own at the edge of the Riverside terracing. Rovers were coasting so we couldn’t resist joining him for gloating time.  Just then Eccles chopped down a Claret opponent  and was instantly sent off.  Flec launched into a “typical dirty Blackburn” tirade.  The big bloke standing near him was not amused.  In fact, he was fuming.  He marched across, put his massive fist in front of Flec’s 

face and  gave his ultimatum. “Button it fore-eyes,  or  I’ll give you a knuckle butty.”  Flec went bright red, we fell about laughing. It wasn’t fair. The Rovers’ bloke was massive and Flec was just still a kid. But it proved a good line to drop into footballing discussions with him for years from then.

Next day,  the Sunday People led its report of the friendly  with the following intro: “Time has done little to erase the bitter rivalry between the players and supporters of these two neighbours.” Spot-on, I reckon. Both teams were relegated that year. However, Burnley bounced back in good health into the top flight in 1973. Rovers were mired in Division Three until Gordon Lee put things in order with a tough as teak team that won promotion in 1975. In between, I had to survive on Schadenfreude.  I got as much pleasure from any Burnley hiccup as Rovers’ successes. In 1974, Burnley were a step away from reaching the FA Cup final.  The thought of Flec’s  lot stepping out at Wembley  made me feel nauseous. Thankfully two goals  from Malcolm “Supermac”  Macdonald sent Newcastle United through instead with a 2-0 victory at Hillsborough.  I was still saying thanks to the Geordies when I went up to work for the Shields Gazette in late 1980.

The gap was narrowing.  In 1976 Burnley were relegated and we were equals on the League scene for the first time in ages. There were also Manx Cup and Anglo-Scottish Cup clashes as pre-season fayre with no let-up in the animosity.  Results went tit-for-tat until the Boxing Day epic of 1977. Rovers were playing some great football with Jim Smith’s team having real attacking flair. The experienced wing pair of Gordon Taylor and Dave Wagstaffe were often supplemented by flying young “home grown” full backs Kevin Hird and John Bailey. We set off in Eric’s van  for “incognito” beers behind enemy lines on the  other side of Padiham Indian territory.  So far, so good ‘cept Eric had begun his pre-match drinking schedule by sharing a bottle of whisky at home with his dad. Before we reached Padiham, we had to swap drivers with Big Jim taking over. Turf Moor was heaving. We managed  to get on our section of the  Long Side  before the full-up signs came up. That would have meant having to risk life among the Burnley fans on of the other three sides. Lots of Rovers fans had to do just that. It was highly charged, with fights breaking out everywhere.

 The frenzied atmosphere could be heard beneath the floorboards of the delapidated Cricket Stand End and in the dressing room below. Story has it that “Waggy” was pacing around, chain-smoking  and refusing to go out to play. He had to be persuaded by Smith.  He needn’t have worried.  Within 90 seconds the ball had found its way to Waggy, clear in the Burnley box. He was still spooked. His first touch was awful. The ball went from his “right” left foot to his “wrong” right foot. Somehow Waggy managed to jab the ball under Alan Stevenson’s body and over the line.  90 seconds.  1-0. Pandemonium.  In those days you could still buy pints on the ground. So as a mass of totally delirious humanity was hurled down the terraces there were flying plastic pints still full of ale and stout hurtling around in the air.  Bodies fell everywhere but everybody was oblivious.  After things settled, we somehow got Eric up from the deck. The whisky had kicked in and he was in a state of semi-consciousness. We propped  him up at the back of the Long Side as Rovers tore Burnley apart. Over Christmas  Rovers had signed Keith Fear on loan from Bristol City.  He scored number two and Noel  Brotherston danced round Stevenson to make it 3-0 at half-time. It was one of the most sublime 45 minutes of football I have ever seen from a Rovers side.  Before or since. I needed a break and leant against a wall in the open air with a pint of stout,  a sweating mess despite this being Lancashire (just) in December.  l looked up. Penalty to Rovers. How good was this going to be? The pensioner next to me thrust his walking stick into the air and joyfully predicted:  “It’s gonna be 10!”. Up stepped Fear to take the penalty.  Who decided that a player on debut should take the penalty? Fear duly missed and Burnley roared back.  A Rovers cakewalk almost became calamity as the enemy pulled two goals back, but we hung on.  That game is still one of my fondest footballing memories.

Joining up with the Clitheroe Advertiser  and Times took me into  Claret climes each Wednesday as the paper was put to bed under the umbrella of the Burnley Express. Pete Stevenson was an old Claret mate from school and the editor Ray Mann had the most ridiculous Burnlaaaaaah accent I have ever heard.

However, the Clarets were in decline (sob, sob).  Simon Garner gave us a 1-0 winner at the Turf during the Festive period of 82. His two penalties in the 2-1 Easter defeat of the Dingles hurtled them towards new territory in Division Three. It was too much for some of the Claret contingent to take. A few of the deranged ilk took to climbing to the roof of the Darwen End, dismantling the structure and flinging the debris into outer space. Trouble is the deadly fragments didn’t fly into orbit but fell on their own kind. The game had to be stopped as Burnley fans were stretchered out with blood pouring from head wounds. Dumb or dumber? It was quite a spectacle as the Burnley  manager Frank Casper came out to plead with the miscreants to see sense.  The team gets the fans they deserve. Poor old Burnley. They were now in abject  freefall. No sympathy from me.  

When I left for Australia in 1984, I thought I had seen the last of Flec’s lot for a while. And indeed I had.  But their descent to the devil’s basement speeded up to a level  even I could not have wished for.  In 1986 they had to beat Leyton Orient at home on the last day to stay in the League. From Oz, did I wish ‘em to implode or to survive as the team I loved to loathe?  I know a few Rovers fans decided to skip Oldham away on the last day to go to’t  Turf in the hope  of witnessing history.  As we all know, the Dingles survived.

They almost made promotion in 1991 from the dregs of Division Four but were beaten in the play-offs by mighty Torquay.  The return game prompted the famous Rovers plane fly-over – “Staying down 4 ever luv Rovers’ . Even in Sydney it seemed hilarious. Andy “Beamo”  Turner sent me the t-shirt. It still fits. I shall be wearing it on Sunday.

Jack Walker’s intervention propelled Rovers to new heights  and  Burnley were, to all aspects, totally irrelevant.  But even at away games in the Dalglish/Shearer heyday, anti- Claret songs were still in vogue. Jealous Burnley fans of 2014 should be grateful they were even remembered at all. Then it all went wrong and we were relegated to meet the undeserving rivals on a level plane.

The loathing had continued so the respective managers, Graeme Souness and Stan Ternent met for a joint press conference to talk about keeping the fans calm amid a  new “busing arrangement.”  This meant that the fans were ferried in on coaches hours before kick off.  I was in Oz for the 2-0 away win but the story about Burnley fans wrecking their own town because they could not confront the Blackburn visitors was precious news.  My mate Ian Fuge, an Arsenal fan who is now sports editor of the Sydney Morning Herald read the story and said: “ Jeez, Rosie, these Burnley fans are as thick as you say they are.”   Who needs propaganda  when they can do it for themselves.  I was worried about the Ewood rematch after my return to England but Burnley were about as soft as the current England cricket team.  5-0. Matt Jansen in his pomp.  A lovely day in the sunshine.

The advent of email meant I was able to keep in touch with Flec throughout all this. He was very funny and kept his spirits up.  Back working in London, I was on deck for  the FA Cup ties of 2005. The bus trip into Burnley amid the helicopters and police escorts was  a football-watching career  highlight. Naturally after we won the replay at Ewood, I phoned Flec to remind him of the result.  Then it all went wrong… Flec  got cancer. That horrible disease. By now he was living in the East Midlands with his lovely wife Elaine and two grown-up kids Tom and Alison. On one of my trips home I went to see him in Matlock . He was so bloody brave. “Dave, cancer is a shit disease and I’m not gonna let it get the better of me, ‘ he said. All I could say was that I’d once been to Matlock to watch Rovers in the FA Cup in 1974 when we in the Third Division. And we won 4-1. Flec laughed his head off. “Typical bloody Rovers,” he said.  “Bastard.”  I just   hope I can be as brave as Flec if I’m ever in the same sad situation. I doubt it.  Flec was still enjoying watching the Claret clowns when they visited Leicester, Derby or Nottingham Forest despite his illness. The next year when I visited from Oz,  Flec had got worse. The email jibes were as funny as ever but this time he took his car to meet me in a pub in Chesterfield.  He drove me to the station past the old Saltergate ground where I’d seen Gordon Lee’s team in 1974. As Flec dropped me off, I knew I’d never see my mate the Claret clown alive again. So I dedicate Sunday to Flec.  In Hollywood , this would be me wishing Flec an overdue Burnley win. Is that how I want it? Nah, sorry Flec.  Get stuffed.  Flec would think I’d gone soft.  If you are up there watching Flec, my dad Tom hates Burnley as much as I do, so just try to find him for a drink as the game goes on. See you soon.  For all neutrals who are still reading this… enjoy Sunday.

Australia can be hailed as world-beaters despite fresh bad-boy behaviour

Australia deserve to lay claim to being the best Test cricketing team in the world.  The red tape of the current standings mean that they are not allowed to officially do so. But having beaten top dogs South Africa on their own turf, it is plain to see where the reality lies.  With perennial bad travellers India arriving on Australian shores for a four-Test series next summer, it seems only a matter of time before things are put in true perspective.  As an Englishman, it hurts me to say that but the Aussies deserve all the accolades that may come their way after a gripping series.  They left it late on the final day in Cape Town to seal a 2-1 series verdict as South Africa looked like doing a repeat of their “great escape” in Adelaide in November 2012. However, in the end,  Ryan Harris’s last-gasp heroics did the trick. If the Proteas had held out, skipper Michael Clarke would have had only himself to blame.  For once his tactics seemed out of sync on the fourth day when he appeared to delay his declaration needlessly.  Fair enough,  the  Aussies were scoring runs at a phenomenal rate and South Africa were backpedalling to such an extent that they had every fielder located on the boundary.  Yet Clarke’s dilly-dallying indicated a rare lack of perspective.  He must have been a relieved man when things worked out after a long, hot final day of South African resistance.  Graeme Smith’s men deserve much applause for the way they kept going in the face of an apparent hopeless task. The plucky resistance put England’s recent feeble efforts in Australia in an even more embarrassing light.  At the end of sparkling summer, Australia have turned their fortunes round completely.  After the 4-0 rout in India, then arriving in England looking like a rabble for the Northern Ashes series and suffering another beating,  such an outcome would have appeared fanciful, if not ridiculous. It’s been a  phenomenal  team  effort with spectacular individual performances from Mitchell Johnson and Dave Warner.  Pocket rocket Warner has been described by Proteas’ coach Allan Donald as the most dangerous batsman since Brian Lara.  Quite an accolade. And well merited.  Indeed, Warner has progressed from being a Big Bash novelty act to a bona fide Test great. What a shame he appears to be such a prat.  Every time he opens his mouth, he seems to spout some new drivel.  Still, he’s a sportsman not an orator.  Sadly that image seems to live with the Aussies. Even Clarke let himself down with his foul-mouthed rant at Dale Steyn as things got heated in the final stages of the Test. With umpires and players having to intervene,  Clarke displayed boorish behaviour that was straight from the Roy Keane school of footballing diplomacy when the Irish midfielder was at his spiteful best for Manchester United.  It’s all very well coming out with profuse apologies after the event, but it’s not a good look.  Is this what the Aussies call “playing good, hard cricket” or a stressed captain sparking an outbreak of childish bullying tactics towards opponents and umpires?  In the end, such playground tantrums could not take anything from an absorbing series. Michael Holding spoke for many of us from the TV commentary box as the last day unfolded.  He jokingly said:  “Breaking news – the three Twenty20 games have been cancelled and we are going to have an extra Test.”  If only, Mikey, if only… Wonderful  wishful  thinking on his part.

 

Kid Creole turns back the clock to set scene for Adelaide Festival

The Adelaide Festival got off to a cracking start on Friday evening with the free concert under the stars in Elder Park which saw Kid Creole and the Coconuts provide a pumped-up, polished performance hot on the heels of an opening soulful crescendo from Charles Bradley.

Both acts exuded sheer panache as their respective front men got the crowd dancing to their raunchy rhythms.  Bradley and August Darnell may be getting on in years but their respective personas suggest that they still have an eye for the ladies.

Bradley was almost evangelical in his quest to put his message across. His seven-piece backing  band were happy to oblige with a searing backdrop of sound.  Perhaps Bradley, a bopping 65, overdid his theatrics because by the end he was beginning to sound like a lesser James Brown. But his message of unity came from the heart.

 It was intriguing to watch the crowd as all this was going on. These days the demographics of any rock/pop/jazz musical  event  seem to embrace a whole gamut of generations.  Here, the oldies (myself included) had arrived early and set out their viewing stalls with rugs and chairs. The staple drinks seemed to be wine and bubbles amid a host of picnic offerings in the pre-event hubbub. When the music started as the sun went down, the patrons embraced the event with a fervoured appreciation of Bradley’s soulful shrieks and yelps. Some even got up and danced. Oh, dear, what a mistake. Dancing at a rock gig! That prompted a foul-mouthed couple of pensioner age near us to yell their disapproval at such antics.  Their obnoxious tirade was in full hearing of kids and infants. Thankfully, they were shouted down by the majority. Not very rock n roll, is it? “Sit down!”. I don’t think there’s much of that at Glastonbury. And I can’t remember any such rants on the Woodstock soundtrack. When Kid Creole and the Coconuts took to the stage and the entire area leapt into dance mode, the curmudgeonly couple simply picked up their chairs and left.  I wonder where they thought they were. That was before the headliners had even got through their first number. It takes all sorts…

The band duly shimmied and shook through an assortment of old favourites.  KId  Creole, now a cool age dude of 63, was his usual suave self-confident gaze magnet , demanding of attention. It’s one of the few occasions when such sentiments are well deserved and amusing. The ol’ bloke still knows how to work a crowd.

 It was almost like a trip back in time for me because I remember Darnell and his troupe when they were at the zenith of their powers back in the early 1980s on two tours of the UK.  The band were bigger in England than the US at the time for whatever reasons. Perhaps because   the self-styled lounge-room Lothario was so evidently non-British.  At a time when the standard two-week summer holiday for singletons in the UK was a booze-fuelled package to Benidorm or Majorca, Kid Creole seemed like pure fantasy as the real thing. Calypso cool, with all the winning chat lines and moves to woo any female he fancied. And even then, he had the ever delectable Coconuts by his side. He’s since traded the original trio in for younger versions, who strut their stuff equally regally.  I was amazed that my Aussie contingent of Gabs and Annie had not heard of the Kid Creole phenomenon before the Elder Park gig.  In 1982 they had conquered the UK with their album “Tropical Gangsters”. They were embraced by a crossover of music factions from rock head-bangers through to mere fickle pop followers. The two gigs I saw them perform were at the City Hall in Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Geordie music crowds are as daft and demanding as the football fraternity of that energetically, crazed city. Kid Creole duly delivered on both occasions and received rapturous receptions.

Then again, Newcastle always had its own neo-elegance. Friday nights on the Bigg Market pub crawl meant lads with short -sleeved shirts and lasses with even shorter skirts.  Plenty of bare flesh  on show.  Even in the snow. It actually makes sense. It’s a Northern thing. Why bother with jackets when you are rushing round ten or more packed-out pubs, then going clubbing? You will only lose the jacket. Kid Creole would have had the look on those Friday nights, but I dunno what he would have done with his jacket.

Those Newcastle gigs seem so long ago but the main man still has his seductive style. I wonder if he kept his jacket on when he went for post-gig cocktails. After all, Adelaide is a wee bit warmer than Newcastle. Well played, Mr Darnell. A stunning  opening to the Adelaide Festival.