Who? Where? When? Release of English football fixtures means it’s time to start planning ahead

This week heralded one of the most anticipated dates on the English sporting calendar — and there wasn’t even a single fixture played. Of course, I’m referring to the release of the football fixtures for the next season, which will come around in August. Every fan at each club, no matter what the disappointments of the previous campaign, will rush to see what hurdles lie ahead as a hoped for new dawn beckons in every respective case.

Usually, this will mean seeing who awaits on the opening day, when any derby clashes are scheduled, what’s in store on Boxing Day and who rounds things off on the final day — home or away when something important could be resting on the outcome. For Blackburn Rovers, the fixtures have bestowed an opening day home fixture against newly-relegated Norwich City. Boxing Day has delivered a trip to Barnsley which should make for fine trans-Pennine trek for those driving to South Yorkshire from Blackburn. New Year will see a first footing from a healthy contingent of Geordies with Newcastle United at Ewood on January 2. The season will sign off with an outing at the compact West London abode of Brentford,. This is always a popular destination thanks to the numerous pubs dotted about the vicinity of Griffin Park. There used to a pub on each corner of the ground. Not sure if one has disappeared now. And it’s all good fun to browse through the other fixtures and take dates in — even form 12,000 miles away.

In a new innovation, the cashed-up, hyped-up Premier League has already released its fixtures separately, a week earlier. That’s another sign of the EPL’s growing swagger and seemingly condescending outlook towards its cousins in the lower tiers. But there are some big names in the Championship. Clubs with real tradition and pedigree now that Aston Villa and Newcastle United have been forced to sample life at a level below their assumed station.

An amusing aside last week saw a Bristol City fan-related piece assessing the merits of various away trips for the coming season. Unfairly or not, they rated a visit to Huddersfield Town as the least attractive away day from their West Country starting point. My own recollections of visits to Huddersfield can only be based on two treks way back in the early 1970s. When Rovers enjoyed prolonged Premier League status, our paths did not cross often. Back in the days of yore the Terriers were based at their old Leeds Road ground. I recall a windy open end for the away fans and a couple of welcoming pubs pre-game. But that is all ancient history now with Town having been established since 1994 in their multi-purpose ground which seems to change its name to whoever the sponsor is. It is a venue I have never experienced. Huddersfield fans got their own back by suggesting the Bristol jibe might be a “kettle and pot black” situation and listed their five top grounds for the coming season. Surprise, surprise — Newcastle and Villa were included along with Leeds United, for a derby experience, Brentford (the clusters of nearby pubs) and Brighton.

Again, oddly at the end of last season the Newcastle fans’ forum The Mag had a dig at Villa fans for gloating at the Toon joining them in the Championship soon. “At least we have an attractive ground and city which visiting fans can enjoy,” was the claim. That’s true. The ground is virtually in the city which is packed with pubs which are packed with fans. The craic in Rosies before and after games with my Geordie chums Chris Baines, Ged Clarke, Simon Malia and Mick Ramsey used to be stirring occasions. The only drawbacks for me were twofold. In all my visits watching Rovers — both as fan or as reporter in the old press box — I have never seen us win. And the view from the elevated away section on the Leazes End means you may as well be watching from Everest. The players are the size of ants. On my last trip, another defeat, we tapped into Ivan Hickmott’s Tyneside links to procure a seat in the home ranks. Rovers did not give us much to shout about so me and Ivan were quite safe in our incognito status.

But the Toon publication’s slight on Villa Park is wide of the mark. The ground may not have a scenic approach, being in the shadow of Spaghetti Junction, but it is expansive and impressive from the away end when visiting fans were housed in the North Stand seats. And there is a hidden gem of a pub called the Bartons Arms about 15 minutes walk away near the A34 on High Street Aston. This hostelry was cannily discovered by Mick Eddleston, Ian Neville and their former away day group. It is positively ornate and spacious inside and has copious real ales on tap. Plus the kitchen serves wonderful Thai cuisine. I have experienced both wins and losses at Villa. Notable victories were the 4-0 rout featuring a Chris Sutton hat-trick in August 1997 and a 4-1 FA Cup romp with Matt Jansen briefly back on the scene in January 2003.

It looks like those two fallen giants will be high on every everyone’s wish-list to visit. But there are plenty of other enticing days out in a Division that houses some grand names from English football’s rich tapestry. And of course new kids on the block, Burton Albion. Happy travels to those fans back in Blighty.

Burnley arrive for tribal tussle that holds genuine animosity

The nerves are starting to kick in. It’s derby time back home with our Claret chums from near the Yorkshire border dropping into Ewood for a Saturday dinner time date with Rovers (that’s lunchtime to the rest of the world outside northern England). Yes, I still call lunch dinner and confuse everybody but myself. And while the majority of people sit down for dinner, I still eat tea. It’s a 10pm kick-off Adelaide time live on the box so there will be plenty of time for both. I don’t even know if I’m looking forward to the game. For the first time in generations, Burnley will start favourites. They edged it last time, 2-1, on their way to an unlikely but probably deserved promotion to the Premier League. We hadn’t suffered that fate since 1979 as Rovers had mainly been able to lord it over ex-butcher Bob Lord’s club. It was a strange feeling and even from 12,000 miles away it’s not one that I want repeating. It is a derby that doesn’t hog the headlines but is a genuinely nasty confrontation both on and off the field. Visiting fans for both games have to be shipped in on coaches in specially policed convoys. The travel costs are incorporated into the price of the match ticket. It’s the only way to get into to the game. I did it myself for the Turf Moor FA Cup tie of 2005 and I found all the police cars at roundabouts and helicopters overhead like something out of an episode of DCI Banks. But the loathing among the fans is mutual. I just wonder what happens in any ‘neutral’ pub with supporters of both clubs watching the action live on telly in somewhere like Whalley. Maybe they need security there too. When Graeme Souness’s Rovers locked horns with Stan Ternent’s Burnley near Christmas 2000 in the first East Lancashire League derby for 17 years, both managers held a summit to tell the respective fans to behave themselves. The Sunday Times picked up on the fervour in the intro to its preview of hostilities. On the same day old foes Liverpool and Manchester United were going toe to toe and Arsenal were taking on Tottenham Hotspur. But The Sunday Times had a feel of what was brewing between the Clarets and Blue and Whites. The piece began: “Forget Liverpool v Manchester United or North London handbags, the real fierce derby action will be elsewhere today.” They had it right of course. As Rovers completed a 2-0 victory, incensed Burnley fans, unable to break the police cordon around the travelling Rovers’ revellers, decided to trash their own town. It is not the first time Burnley fans have shown their dim-witted attributes. And when I tell this tale to any outsiders, to this day they still look at me in disbelief. This weekend the Rovers v Burnley game will again be overshadowed by more high-profile local skirmishes with City visiting United in the Manchester conflagration while in the North-East Newcastle United nip down to Sunderland in the Tyne-Wear affair. I never sampled a North-East derby during my time working up there but I believe travel arrangements are pretty similar to East Lancashire. My Geordie mates Simon Malia, Ged Clarke, Mick Ramsay and Chris Baiyyyyynes assure me the atmosphere can be quite lively. Again, I wonder what it must be like in territory where loyalties are divided 50-50. Some of the pubs in South Shields would provide interesting viewing vicinities for that match on the box. So it should be a spicy weekend all round. Perhaps, the last word should go to Sir Alex Ferguson, who knows a thing or two about derby rivalries over the years in Scotland and Manchester. In one of his autobiographies he recounts how he used to receive regular abuse from other clubs’ fans when he went to see games to check out a player as a potential transfer target or sound out future opposition for his Manchester United side. This was in the early 90s when Rovers were tussling with United at the top of the Premier League. “I got stick from fans everywhere I went,” he recalled. “Except Burnley. There they would just say to me: ‘you can’t let them win the title, you just can’t’ ”. The ‘they’ referred to Rovers. Ferguson was amazed by the depth of feeling. “Jeez, I would love to see a derby between those two – there would probably be bodies lying around on the pitch.” Not quite, but you get the picture. Of course, Burnley were almost an irrelevance to us in those heady days which now seem so far away. Times change. So fasten your seat-belts for tomorrow’s encounter. It might be a bumpy ride.

Liverpool can only look on as Manchester City walk off with title

It all seemed a little matter-of-fact on Sunday as Manchester City breezed past a seemingly disinterested West Ham side 2-0 to collect their second  English Premier League title in three years. The table never lies so City can rightly be hailed as the best team in the land. But what the ladder doesn’t  tell is simply that Liverpool handed the title to City. Only a few weeks ago the Scousers had the crown within their grasp. It was “their’s to lose” to use popular parlance. After all, they had overcome City 3-2 on an emotional  afternoon at Anfield  on April 13 and were seemingly geared for a smooth run-in to lift the ultimate domestic trophy for the first time since 1990. But in the end the pressure got to them and they buckled. A calamitous 0-2 home lapse to Chelsea opened the door for City, who needed no second invitation.  Liverpool’s loss of control was emphasised when they conceded three goals in a barmy eight minutes at Crystal Palace to give away a 3-3 draw. It seemed all the expectations after a 24-year drought had served to addle Liverpool’s collective mind.  The stirrings of the 25^th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster mixed in with all the overdue yearning for the title seemed to swirl around the club like a claustrophobic mist. It’s strange to think that just back in the 1980s it was Liverpool who won the title ad nauseam while Manchester United, their hated rivals from the other end of the East Lancashire Road, looked on in undisguised envy. It’s also easy to forget that until Sir Alex Ferguson’s regime reversed the roles, United had gone from 1968 until the first year of the Premiership in 1992 to be top dogs. So in my eyes, this will be the year that Liverpool threw away their big chance.  How they react to this when the new season rolls around will be fascinating to behold.  I wish no ill to Liverpool.  Strangely, in a world awash with “plastic” football fans walking down the city streets of the planet in Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal,  Chelsea and Johhny-come-lately Man City replica shirts, I know very few mates of Scouse persuasion. A rare Red in my global social circle is Stewart Jackson. An admirable former Daily Telegraph colleague from Longridge, who has shared many convivial occasions with me down the years over-imbibing and thriving on talking footballing nonsense. I feel for Stew after his Scouse mob have caved in. I am sure they – and he – will bounce back. Stew follows Liverpool all he can from his Enfield base, when his lovely wife Vicky will allow it.  He was most famous for popping up in the crowd on TV during Liverpool’s “miracle of Istanbul” in the 2005 Champions League final against AC Milan.  As Gabs and me watched the game in the Metro pub on Holloway Road, I declared  in my know-all pundit tones that Liverpool had “no chance at all” of coming back from being 3-0 down at half-time. But what did I know?  Come back they did, to secure the trophy on penalties.  And Stewie revelled in the achievement on his return to the Canary Wharf office. Deservedly so. Yet despite all Liverpool’s successful adventures in Europe, this long-overdue  Premiership accolade would have meant perhaps even more.  In the end, the suffocating  pressure told.  It just shows that the race for the title can be a harrowing experience.  Especially  for the fans. The happenings bring back warped memories for me from 1994-95 when Blackburn Rovers almost committed a similar hari-kiri collapse so close to the finishing post.  And I was in real jeopardy of being dubbed the biggest Jonah of all time.  It was all a new phenomenon for us followers who had travelled the country watching Rovers through thin times and thinner.  Bankrolled by Jack Walker’s cash and Kenny Dalglish’s shrewd and canny management the unbelievable was about to happen. We were on the brink of the title – only a matter of seasons since meandering along as nobodies in the old Division Two. Maybe it had all happened too fast. But all I know is that as I landed back in the UK to from Sydney to witness our march to glory, it all almost unravelled in front of my disbelieving eyes.  My first stop was fine – a 2-1 win at Everton in true “muck and nettles’ style as we somehow survived a furious late onslaught by the home team.  My later joke was that as Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton mulled over the ball at kick-off time, one said to the other :  “I hear Dave’s back and at the ground.’  So I reckoned they gave me a “welcome home present’ in the form of Sutton’s goal after a mere 14 seconds.  But the nearer we got to the prize, the more jangled things became.  A 1-0 win at QPR seemed business as usual.  Colin Hendry nodded in a goal at Elland Road but Leeds United pegged us back in injury time. I watched, twitching with nerves,  from the press box as the accredited Sydney Morning Herald Northern England correspondent . (The Rovers away end had been sold out for weeks so sometimes you have to improvise).  A surprise 2-3 home defeat to Man City (yes, those sods) meant that the supposed cakewalk to the summit that I had been surveying from 12,000 miles away in Sydney was suddenly becoming almost one step beyond.   True, Crystal Palace were edged out at Ewood but then came an anaemic 2-0 surrender at West Ham. The massed ranks on the away end at Upton Park watched in muted bewilderment. This was not supposed to happen. I could see it all slipping away. Suddenly it seemed like Rovers were wading through treacle. “Jeez, why did you come home, Dave?”.  None of my loyalist mates said that, but I knew – paranoid or not – that they were thinking it. Shearer’s header saw off his home town Newcastle United on VE Day, which became Victory at Ewood Day.  The lead-up to the final hurdle at Anfield was horrendous. Mind games galore played out on me by myself. We all know that somehow Tim Sherwood lifted the trophy after our 2-1 loss didn’t matter as MUFC’s Andy Cole fluffed chance after chance at West Ham.  Or rather, the crazy keeper Ludo kept everything out.  We had won the title but I didn’t enjoy that evening. It was like we had done the deed by default.   But we prevailed.  Almost two decades on (where have the years gone?)  at least I can reflect on one of my most poignant sporting pinnacles.  Only next morning as I wandered round to Hannah Hickmott’s house (Ivan’s mum) on Ribchester Road was I able to take in the true significance of the event as we mulled over the sporting headlines with toast and brews of tea. Then, the following season, I went through the same crazy script but this time looking on as interested observer.  Rovers’ post-title malaise had left us out of the running, but into the breach as the new challengers  to Fergie’s  ManU bullies stepped the free-flowing stylists of Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle.  The Toon had not won the league for yonks and were in a similar state as Rovers had been.  In other words, the nearer you get, the further the prize seems away. I had spent three crazed years living in Geordieland in the early 1980s during my time on the sports desk of the Shields Gazette. I knew what this would mean. I was willing them to do it. They had lost to ManU about Christmas time but as 1995 became 1996 they were 12 (yes, TWELVE) points clear at the top. I admit to being a fatalist at times – if something can go wrong, then I believe  it will. But my great Geordie mates Mick Ramsey, Ged Clarke and Simon Malia can sometimes outdo even my dour Lancastrian forebodings. Yet as the run-in beckoned, the Toon were in the clear. Or were they?  Cavalier Keegan took  things into overdrive by introducing the maverick genius of Tino Asprilla into proceedings. Mental.  Wonderful, but mental. Rather like Man City bringing in Rodney Marsh to complicate a title push in 1972, it proved too much to accommodate. Fergie’s mob pulled back the points until the Toon were floundering. Then came that epic 4-3 implosion against Liverpool at Anfield. Amazing television for all us neutrals, but not for bare-chested beer-bellied Geordies who started sobbing their eyes out on the away end as Sky’s cameras zoomed in. The title trail was becoming too much. Now my guilt complex kicks in. The Geordies were due at Ewood with us sauntering along to seventh place.  The away contingent had sold out so we got the boy Ramsay a ticket in the Riverside Stand next to Shaun Gill and billeted him at Shaun’s pad, care of Ray and Sonia.  Mick even enjoyed a  monumental pub crawl around Accrington when the town still had pubs and the Sunday nights were famed as the place to be. He was showing no title nerves. He was mortal (Geordie lingo meaning drunk). We all were. We wished him well. “We hope you win tomorrow,” was the inebriated chorus on that Sunday night. But of course, you can’t do that. For Mick and the Toon hordes, the pre-game Bank Holiday Monday bevvies turned into mission A-OK  as ex-Rover David Batty scored a rare goal on his return.  Four minutes to go. Then the title curse struck. A non-entity striker of Geordie descent named Graham Fenton in cahoots with his Tyneside superstar pal Shearer, conjured up a very messy equaliser. 1-1.  In those days, me, mum, dad and Mick Charnley had season tickets on the Darwen End right next to the away supporters.  It often made for interesting viewing. When Fenton scuffed in another untidy goal in the final minute, it meant cruelty on a major scale. 2-1. Game, set, match. As I leapt up and down in delirium then settled down I looked across to see fat Geordie blokes crying. Again. We walked out, apologising to them over the fence. I said sorry to Mick in the Havelock. What to do? The title jinx had kicked in big-time. Newcastle had not managed to do what Rovers had the year before.  ManU duly cleaned up. Rovers and Newcastle have never come as close again to claiming the ultimate prize. These days it’s all about the sort of disgusting cash that would make Jack Walker’s philanthropy look like pocket money. I hope Liverpool can come again, to spare us the sight of too many more Man City triumphs. Before the Arabs got involved, Rovers used to win at City for fun. Ditto at Chelsea before that shady Russian, Mr Abramovich, came onto the scene. But history has weighed heavily on Liverpool’s shoulders.  Maybe they can make another charge next season. Chin up, Stew, there’s still plenty to look forward to.

 

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Fantasy team would give gobby Australians as good as they got

The sudden and surprise departure of Graeme Swann has added more woe to an already hellish Ashes tour for England. It seems a strange time for him to exit, but he has given his reasons. Now the traumatic trip goes on without him in Melbourne.  And needless to say it has given the natives more ammunition to hurl as the Aussies relish their Ashes ascendancy. There is no escape for me. The flak continued to flow in Adelaide’s Hotel Wright Street on Sunday. But I can take it. I have to. I’ve been in this situation before. If anything, England losing the home series in 1989 was even worse. And just as unexpected. A compositor by the name of Ray Thomas was constantly on my case during my Sydney Morning Herald days. Then, amazingly, Lancashire beat the Aussies in a tour game after stand-in skipper Mark Taylor had declared.  Surprise, surprise, Ray couldn’t handle my retorts. Even the Aussies on the stone floor backed me that day. But there’s no real escape this time. Even strangers are queuing up to have a say. My Lancashire accent is a bit  of a giveaway to where my allegiance lies so fair play to ‘em. Unless I embark on a crash course of elocution lessons to develop an Aussie accent, I’m in the firing line. But no thanks. The loathsome David Warner seems to be trying to mellow by sitting on Santa’s lap. But no matter which Aussie player or member of the backroom staff comes out to face the press, an Aussie accent can never be considered as cool. No way. In Warner’s case it makes him sound terminally dim. I find most English accents have character, unless it’s someone speaking with the tone of Hugh Grant or some other toff. So I got to thinking: What if I could compose a fantasy make-believe English cricket team along the lines of Billy the Fish of Viz fame. Not real cricketers, just characters with well-defined accents who could give some lip back to the sledge-happy Australians with gusto and still exude total cool.  Even if these characters can’t play cricket, it would be fun. But my opening batsmen did play cricket. Step forward the Roses pair of Geoff Boycott and David “Bumble” Lloyd. A straight-talking Red Rose-White Rose combination to curb the early Aussie onslaught. Boycs played for the enemy and he was always the Tyke wicket that Lancastrians treasured above all others. He would have plenty to say to the Aussies. Most outsiders seem to think that the Yorkshire and Lancashire accents are alike. No way! I can tell somebody from Yaaaarkshire, the wrong side of the Pennines, straight away. Coming in to bat at number three would be the bard of Salford, John Cooper Clarke. His manic Mancunian monotone would drive the Aussies daft. And he has already penned a ditti that could been dedicated in advance to Warner. Check out the lyrics to the classic “Twat”. At number four, just to continue the Manc flavour, would be Mark E Smith, creator and front man to The Fall. The Aussies wouldn’t “get’ The Fall. I saw ‘em once do a free gig at Clitheroe  Castle in summer 1985 on the way back from a Roses trip to Headingley. Brilliant. Even if Mark can’t play cricket, he doesn’t like Aussies as he frequently spells out in his autobiography “Renegade”.  And of course, the Prestwich maverick penned the ultimate snearing put-down of Aussies with the acerbic  “Australians in Europe.” In next steps John Pittard, an Ossie icon. Yes, Ossie as in Oswaldtwistle. Legendary Rovers fan and global follower. John, Haysey, Woody and more took over the Station pub in Sydney for the Rovers  pre-season tour of 2010. When I returned 12 months later for a wedding do and popped in, the  landlord still remembered their drinking exploits and cash outlay with much affection. Mr Pittard has the patter to shut up Brad Haddin and co. The lower middle order would then be beefed up with a Geordie flavour.  Ged Clarke and Simon Malia are two Newcastle  media gurus who operate out of Liverpool. So street cred a-go-go.  There is something about a Geordie accent which is both mischievous and likeable. The canny undertones suggest that a pint is just around the corner. Ged was out in Oz in 1988 when Allan Lamb slammed 18 runs off a Bruce Reid over to win a one-dayer at the SCG so he would know the score. There is a  Scouse link with Ian McCulloch, lippy front man of Echo and the Bunnymen. I see Ian as wicketkeeper, complete with trench coat on and fag in his mouth. He managed to sing like that at a Fleadh do in Finsbury Park one year.  And keeping up connections comes John Lydon, one of Finsbury Park’s favourite sons and Sex Pistol supreme. The Aussies surely would not want to take on this master of the one-liner.  Dunno what he thinks about Aussies, but he didn’t mince his words with the crew on The Project  last time he was here. If Lydon fielded at first slip next to McCulloch, the craic would be intense. And now come the bowlers. To add a Brummie twang I’ve called up Jasper Carrot. I spent my student days in Birmingham. It’s a cool place cos it isn’’t cool.  I wonder what Warner would have made of such late-night haunts as the Rum Runner or Barbarellas? And the accent is a killer. Jasper’s sense of madcap imminent doom  would stump the bepuddled Aussies.  Last man in would by cricket tragic Mick Jagger. His accent is Kent via the River Thames and we all know how his singing delivery goes with the Rolling Stones. So there we are – my fantasy cricket team of people who mainly probably can’t play cricket. But there would be no talking back from the Aussies. Our lot would always have the last say. So let’s see how it pans out from Boxing Day at the MCG. Keep the banter going. Swanee may be gone but the spirit must go on.