Got To Be There

Got To Be There

© Dave Burnley 2009

Published by Dave Burnley at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior consent of the author.

Cover photo: Ecstatic Burnley fans including the author (circled) invade the pitch after the 2-1 defeat of Orient on May 9, 1987 which preserved the club’s Football League status. Cover prepared by Clare Brayshaw

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Ralph Coates

Introduction

Some Highlights of the Second Half

1. THE BIG KICK OFF

Don’t mention the war

My first school uniform

Attila the Mum

Pussy Galore

Non-uniform days

2. DESTINY CALLS: 1964-66

Pick a team, any team

Choice cuts

A particular school of thought

I get my kicks on Route 66

The first trip to the Turf

3. THE BURNLEY BUG BITES: 1967-68

Follow your feelings

The secret diary of Dave Beeston aged 133/4

Like it or lump it

What’s in a name?

The ‘Holey’ Shroud: My 33 piece suit

Thrashed out of sight for free

A lorry-load of trouble

4. THE MADELEY MAFIA

Teenage kicks

Bovver boys

The style council

Hollywood nights

A clash of cultures

5. THE BEGINNING OF A LOVE AFFAIR: 1969-71

A squirty pie is tamed before tunnelling in

Establishing a bond

Young Guns, Go for It!- Tests of loyalty

Almost boring Arse-nal!

I don’t want to go to Chelsea

An explosive finale

6 ODDBALL ANTICS

The first cut is the deepest

A love supreme

Fancy a dance?

A hair-raising experience

What a coincidence

Good morning, vicar? Perhaps not

The untouchables

7. FOUR WARNINGS AND A FUNERAL: 1973-74

The problem

The best laid plans

Doctoring the truth

An ‘auntie’-climax

8. CHARMED, I’M SURE: 1973-76

Superstitions, foibles and lucky charms

The lucky pump quartet

Drinking to success and excess

Meet the Burls

Some ‘guys’ have all the luck

Tears on Tyneside

Bear baiting

100 per cent Burnley

Read all about it

9. THAT MOURNING AFTER FEELING: 1975-78

Dark days

Carry on ‘copping’

Respect

Do not disturb

A triple blow

10. OVER LAND AND SEA

Norway to behave, Pre-season tour to Oslo/Bergen 1974

Let the train take the strain

‘Ave you got a light, boy?

An appointment with Oslo’s Fred Scuttle

This year, I’m off to sunny Spain, Pre-season tour to Majorca 1979

Inca inconvenience

Davey’s on the road again

Room for one, sir?

A passport to the match

A perfect moment

11. THE AGONY OF DECLINE: 1976-1981

Trust in your own

The third degree

Pottery cups

A travesty of justice

Interest wanes

12. ENGLAND EXPECTS

For England and St George

He’s got a gun!

Tears for souvenirs

A rumble in the Ramblas

Truncheon meat

13. ONE STEP FORWARD AND ONE STEP BACK: 1980-83

A bit green around the Gills

Big Billy

Hair of the dog

Kaiser’s tours

Not bikini weather

Getting tattooed up

Just visiting

The Ewood riots

14. INJURY TIME

The smartest monkeys?

Sing something simple

The savage Seventies

A double whammy at Cardiff

Remember Preston

Savaged by Wolves

You’ll never reach the station

15. COMIC CAPERS

The runaway bike

Pyjama palaver

The fruit and ‘The Veg’

A real sickener

16. WE’VE NOT BEEN EXPECTING YOU, MR BOND

Breaking with tradition

Goodbye, Mr Bond

Old King Coal

A dressing down in the dressing room

Delayed shock

17. DOWN AND OUT IN BOMBAY AND BURNLEY: 1985-1987

Around the world in 70 days

Ravaged by illness

I can play better than that!

18. BECAUSE OF BOXING DAY

Strange but true

A cycle for Christmas

Sheikh, rattle and roll

A family Yuletide

19. GETTING THERE

On the streets

Get on yer bike!

Hitching a ride

Always expect the unexpected

That one missed game

A phoning frenzy

20. THE APOCALYPSE COMETH

On the brink

May Day! May Day!

Unchain my heart

The longest day

A doomsday gathering

Escape to victory

It’s party time

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My grateful thanks are due to the following, without which my experiences, and therefore this book, would not have been possible.

My mother Herta Maria and late father Percy, who never fully understood my total commitment, but eventually just let me get on with it.

Tamar Hodes and the Keele University Creative Writing School for their encouragement in this project.

Phil Whalley, a friend and fellow fan, for his help and immense patience in reproducing my handwritten the text.

Tony Dawber, another avid Claret, for having the faith to publish my autobiography on the life of a football fan.

‘Ralphy’ Coates, a Burnley FC all time great, for inspiring my nickname and writing the foreword to this book.

And last, but certainly not least, Reggie Bradshaw, for helping me determine my chosen team.

FOREWORD

The word ‘fanatic’ is often used in the football world. According to the Chambers Dictionary, a fanatic is someone with an extreme or obsessive enthusiasm for something.

That description falls far short of the feeling Dave Burnley has for Burnley Football Club and the players, both past and present, who have worn the claret and blue shirt.

My first experience of this fanaticism came after a 1-0 victory at Chelsea on my 25th birthday, April 26, 1971. It was a depressing time for the club as we had already been relegated from the old First Division.

Coming off the pitch, I was grabbed by a young lad who said he was worried I might be leaving the club. National newspapers were speculating over my departure, so I could understand his concern, but I had no intention of leaving. As far as I was concerned, I was staying at Burnley and intended to play even harder the following season to get the club back into the First Division.

This I told the young lad, who of course was Dave. As it turned out, the decision was out of my hands. The club decided to sell me in the close season in order to relieve financial pressures, leaving me with little choice in the matter.

During my football career, I have obviously met many supporters of all ages and walks of life, all dedicated to their chosen clubs.

But never, ever, have I met a more loyal and dedicated supporter than Dave.

It is therefore with great pride that I write this foreword for his book, in which you will realise that Dave is also a Ralph Coates fan, to such an extent that I feel very humble that one person could admire another in such a way and not be afraid to show that admiration so openly. Thanks Dave.

May I take this opportunity on behalf of Burnley Football Club to thank Dave for all his support and devotion, the like of which I doubt will ever be equalled.

Through the good times and the bad, your loyalty to the club has never wavered. You are a credit to the game.

Ralph Coates August 2009

PICTURE CAPTION

Hair We Go: March 20, 1971; Burnley 0, Spurs 0. Ralph Coates gets a ‘full head’ of steam up against Tottenham. Within six weeks, he would be signing for them.

Photograph by Howard Talbot.

INTRODUCTION

ABOUT DAVE BURNLEY

Dave Burnley lives in an isolated village around 10 miles from the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and 75 miles from his beloved ‘Clarets’ Turf Moor home.

Though he has never driven he has not missed any competitive Burnley game, home or away, for over forty years.

He changed his name by deed poll to that of the club in 1976 when they were relegated from the top tier of English football. As a further show of allegiance his daughter is named Clarette in honour of the club’s nickname of ‘Clarets’.

But this is not just a book for Burnley fans. Its aim is to inspire supporters of any club.

Through all weathers, and no matter what life has thrown at him emotionally, physically, financially or health wise, Dave Burnley has just ‘Got To Be There!’

GOT TO BE THERE!

To all devoted football fans anywhere in the world, but particularly to those supporters whose loyalty remains strong when their team becomes weak, for to stand the test of time is to stand the test of faith.

And especially for Clarette, a wonderful daughter, named in honour of the Clarets.

Keep the faith!

Dave Burnley

REMEMBER THIS

You can change your mind, your car, your home, your job, your partner, your religion, your name, or even your sexuality. But you can NEVER change your football team.

This book is written for all the fans over the age of 50 who will remember it, and all the fans under the age of 50 who won’t forget it

1 THE BIG KICK OFF

In order to fully appreciate, and indeed, to some extent even comprehend all the true tales in this book, a little potted family background is necessary. This will help confirm the sometimes unlikely authenticity of what, for most people, would not qualify as normal day-to-day activities.

PICTURE CAPTION

No Pussy Cat: My ‘Ma’ firmly grips Ginger, one of her prized felines

Don’t mention the war!

Born on October 13, 1953 - I’m assured it wasn’t Friday the 13th - at the City General Hospital in Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, less than a couple of miles from Stoke City’s old home the Victoria Ground, I was the eldest son of Percy Beeston.

At the time, my dad was a farm labourer from the Wrinehill area, near Betley, which was located just inside Staffordshire, a mere two miles from the border with Cheshire. We later moved from Wrinehill to a small village called Basford, near Crewe, before finally settling for a council house on Brassington Street in Betley.

My mother’s full maiden name was Herta Maria Sigmund, and she was a 23-year-old au pair from eastern Berlin. She fled her home in the wake of the Soviet occupation, which saw her parents lose possession of their farm immediately after the end of hostilities, and she and her family relocated to the Allied-controlled Western sector of the city.

A few years later, she passed the relevant child care examinations at college to qualify as a nanny, and recruitment through a German employment agency found her amongst a select, hand-picked group at Victoria railway station, London.

From there she was seconded to a Mr and Mrs Moore’s farm at Wrinehill, looking after two young children.

The nearest public house to her workplace was The Blue Bell, about half a mile away. It was also the hostelry used by my father. The customers, the vast majority of which were men in those days, were intrigued by the female visitor from their former adversaries – my father more than most.

Their eyes met across the crowded bar, and diplomatic Anglo-Saxon discussions were held. There were no hard feelings – about the war at least – and after a relatively brief courtship, a European union was established. Marriage was proposed, and baby made three, thereafter being christened as David Beeston.

In 1955 I gained a brother, Shaun, who like me had asthma in his early life, but to a more severe degree. This resulted in many sleepless nights, since we both occupied the same double bed. Incidentally, due to a combination of a lack of finance and restricted living space, this arrangement would last for more than 30 years.

I always blamed this inconvenience on my first sister, Susan Mary, who came along, after another two-year intermission, in September 1957. I distinctly recall her getting her own bedroom just because she was a girl.

In between council houses, we lived at my grandparents’ cottage for six months. My grandad was, for some intriguing reason, termed ‘Chubb, who couldn’t pitch a turnip in a tub.’ Perhaps this was a reference to his underlying large bulk and consequent lack of mobility. I well remember him in later years as a giant of a man who was partial to a bottle of beer at breakfast.

During our short stay at my grandparents’, Shaun was the victim of a particularly cruel act. On this day we had our emergency childminder, Auntie Mabel, taking care of us as my grandmother did her shopping at the local Co-op, a good mile walk away.

Unbeknown to us, our dear auntie was a few cards short of a full pack, and she decided that because Shaun had got his sticky jam butty all over himself, he needed a wash.

She proceeded to place this two-year-old into a ‘dolly tub,’ which was a predecessor to a modern day washing machine. With a demented grin implanted across her face, Mabel then physically spun the upturned wooden hand grips first clockwise then anti-clockwise to agitate the warm water she had poured into the open topped container. After Shaun had suffered several revolutions around the vessel, my grandmother fortunately returned from the shop and quickly intervened.

The ensuing commotion was on a grand scale, with all the neighbours converging in our kitchen. The result was Shaun was left shaken and definitely stirred, while Aunt Mabel was committed to an institution from which she never returned, with the ‘dolly tub’ incident a deciding factor. As for myself, at the time I thought it was great entertainment, although I’ve been a fastidiously clean eater ever since.

As the brood grew, so did the needs of the family, and the damp-ridden walls of our Betley house were terrible for Shaun’s health. So, a bit like the Beverly Hillbilly Clampetts, we loaded up the truck and moved to the village of Madeley, though only after a long wait on the council house list.

The relief this would bring Shaun was of little comfort to me, however, and when my mother dropped the bombshell about the move the night before we were due to leave, I ran down the yard to the freezing cold outside toilet and cried uncontrollably for what seemed like hours. We were only moving three miles up the road, but after starting primary school and making friends from the area, we might as well have been emigrating to Australia!

But the decision had been made, and in 1962, we took up our new residence, located alongside the picturesque Madeley village pool.

My first school uniform…

A young child is, of course, totally reliant on his or her parents throughout the early stages of growth and development for the basic necessities, such as like food, drink, clothing and protection. It’s the first, inescapable factor in the lottery of life, and it dealt me one particular dodgy number.

It came about because during these formative years of my mum’s marriage, her own mother and sisters in Germany were all understandably concerned for her well-being. After all, my mum’s assignment in England was supposed to be just the first part of her ambition to travel the world, financed through her role as a children’s nanny. It had, however, begun and ended at a remote, insignificant hamlet with a population of around 50 human inhabitants and a similar number of animals.

Consequently, to allay their fears, my mother used to take Shaun and I across the English Channel on a regular basis to visit our foreign aunties, uncles and grandmother. The arduous journey by coach and ferry took us to a small town called Worms, near Frankfurt and from there we would go on to a small village called Oldenburg.

Once there, we would hardly hear another word of English as their native tongue took over every conversation. The only German words I came to learn were those that sounded much like our own. Marmelade, wasser and brot, for instance, translated to marmalade, water and bread.

More significantly, a sad legacy of one of our trips to Deutschland was the gift of a pair of lederhosen each. These were leather shorts, complete with turn-ups, as well as bib and brace-like shoulder straps. My mother translated Auntie Rita’s opinion of them to what I feared: You look fine boys, and they’ll last for years!

With the new autumn term starting at the Sir John Offley Primary School, there was good reason for my trepidation.

Under duress, we were kitted out in our stiff ‘uniforms,’ paraded through the streets, and duly laughed at and ridiculed. The only way we could have been upstaged was if a parent had taken their son to an Army & Navy surplus store and dressed him up as a Japanese general! But no one had, so we sheepishly took our seats among 30 other seven-year-old classmates, who were staring incredulously at these bizarre outfits.

When asked by the girl sitting in front, Why are you wearing those funny pants? I shyly replied, ’Cos they’ll last for years!

As a toddler, I had been taken to my German gran’s farm, and vividly remember the chickens and geese hastily scurrying along the sandy ground. She was a stereotypically large fräulein with an austere stare, the sort a young child did not feel at ease with.

Some days, my mum decided she wanted to go out shopping on my grandma’s old bike, which had a wicker basket attached to its handlebars. To avoid the problem of taking me with her on such trips, she would come up with the most transparent deceptions that even a toddler would be hard-pressed to believe. Excuses to substantiate her absences for anything up to a couple of hours weren’t given a great deal of thought. They ranged from the inane, I’m just going to the toilet, to her favourite, I’m just nipping out to feed the chickens.

However, all her statements would be undermined by the lingering Byeee! imparted at the end, obviously intimating a much longer departure than she was making out.

So, this six-year-old would dash after her, only to see a cloud of dust as she turned the corner of the powdery road. In a vulnerable child’s mind, my callous mum had ridden off into the sunset never to be seen again, leaving me in the hands of a wicked grandmother, to live forever in this strange country where no-one spoke my language. Who would feed me? Who would wash me? Who would even take me to the toilet?

I was a devastated, abandoned child in floods of tears, and the gifts of chocolate and ice cream on return were scant compensation for the trauma I had suffered.

The completion of our family came on September 30, 1963, with the unplanned arrival of our second sister, Rosemarie. Because she was to be a home birth, it turned out to be quite a celebratory time.

We children were shipped out to Mr and Mrs Krauzer’s house just down the road, so as not to be in the way of the job in hand. The Krauzers were also German nationals who by coincidence had settled in our street and befriended my mother.

However, it wasn’t the arrival of our imminent sibling we were excited about – it was more the rare sight of lovingly prepared salmon and cucumber sandwiches stacked high on a silver tray that took our attention. The bread had been cut in a triangular fashion, so we just knew it was a special day. Alongside this offering was a layered cake stand brimming with multi-coloured fairy cakes and iced fancies. It was thoroughly appreciated, testimony to which were the vestiges of crumbs upon the embroidered, white tablecloth. We left after six hours, albeit reluctantly, because we had tasted the good life and liked it.

We eventually met our new sister Rosie just before midnight. After that feast, we all hoped that we could have a baby delivered every week, but she was to be the last.

Attila the Mum…

People say I never seem to be embarrassed by anything I do or wear. There’s a good reason for this – my mother.

With four children to bring up, our family had little money to spare, but this didn’t stop my mum taking us out and about in a rather unorthodox fashion.

She’d turn up at the local children’s playground, immediately ushering the other kids off the swings and roundabouts so that I could have a go. As you can imagine, I didn’t make many friends through these ‘Attila the Mum’ style incursions, and I’d end up in many scraps sticking up for her. The disgruntled, sidelined kids would just stand and scowl as my guardian pushed me to and fro. They knew they could all too easily exact their revenge at school the next day.

Getting into the horticultural show at Betley Court Farm was another annual ordeal. My mum would accompany us both through the queue and up to the pay point hut, and then forcefully push us through the open wooden gateway entry to save a few shillings. As a result, both myself and Shaun would have to pick each other up before wiping ourselves clean after landing face down in the regular mix of mud and cowpats. If apprehended by concerned security men, mother would claim we were both under 10 years old and qualified for concessionary rates, and she did this right up to our 15th birthdays.

Her pidgin English often got lost in translation, as was the case each time when we caught the bus to our previous residential village of Betley to visit Mary Harrison, who remained my mother’s best friend right up to when she sadly passed away at the ripe old age of 90 in February, 2008.

The nearest stop to Mary’s house was ‘The Black Horse’, so called because of an adjacent pub of the same name. I was only about 10 years old, so as my mum was paying for both fares I would go to a seat as instructed near the front. I knew exactly what was coming, so I would focus apprehensively on the lower deck passengers as they watched my mum ask for the tickets in her strong accent and very own inimitable loud voice.

One-and-a-half returns to The Black ARSE, please!

The driver would look up open-mouthed, before querying her request. The younger travellers would burst out laughing, gleefully clapping both hands, their parents would gasp in astonishment, whilst the elderly would look away and pretend they hadn’t heard.

I’d just sit there, waiting for the commotion to die down, smiling to myself. My mum had been told the correct pronunciation loads of times, but she simply chose to interpret it in her own particular way.

Pussy galore…

We’ve never had a dog for a pet, as my mum prefers feline company. They’d usually be kittens, descended from a large litter and given away by a local villager. Over the years I’d say she has provided a home for around a dozen such creatures.

And as soon I saw a new incumbent in the cat basket, I’d know what to call it, as my mum employed simplistic titles based solely on appearance. So we’d had a Blacky, a Whitey, a Ginger, a Stripey, and a Spot, on a rotating basis.

However, my mother did stray from this tried and trusted formula on one occasion with alarming consequences.

That particular time, she’d taken in no less than five unwanted kittens solely to prevent them from being cruelly drowned by their callous owner. They were duly dispensed with the obligatory nicknames, but this time there was a slight dilemma. There were two identical cats of either sex.

The male was given the predictable tag of ‘Whitey’, but what of the other? We couldn’t have two Whiteys as it would lead to cat confusion, so for hours mother infuriated me with the same question.

David, what shall we call it?

She was severely testing my patience and eventually I snapped back. You can call her Aunt Fanny for all I care!

That’s nice, replied mother. Yeh, we’ll call her Fanny, she went on, instantly dropping the ‘aunt’ prefix.

So from then on, we must have been the only family in the whole country with a pussy called Fanny.

At least it satisfied my mother, who carried on as normal, blissfully unaware of the connotations of the word. She’d dutifully call in the cats one by one each day for their regular feeds. I think the control she exercised over them gave her a feeling of power, and they even seemed to understand her broken English.

This was in direct contrast to her downtrodden employment as a toilet cleaner at the local Keele motorway services, where, until the late 80s, she would earn no more than £60 for a 40 hour week on a three-shift, five-out-of-seven day working rota.

Little wonder, then, that the cats were a comfort to her. That was until the day one of them went missing.

I can’t find Fanny! she informed me worriedly.

I know the feeling, I thought to myself.

Without further ado, she was charging out of the front gate in search of her favourite moggy, and she accosted the coal delivery man who was innocently passing by.

I’ve lost my Fanny! she exclaimed.

Sorry luv, I can’t help you there, replied the startled coalman, hurriedly.

She carried on regardless down our street, repeating her plea at the top of her voice.

HAS ANYONE SEEN MY FANNY?

Now, my mother was a large, strong and fearsome woman who meted out her own physical punishment to anyone foolish enough to cross her path.

A few years earlier she had chased and apprehended one of the local teenagers who had been playing ‘knock and run’ on our front door. After a frenzied verbal onslaught, she proceeded to turn this tubby lad’s arm up his back with such force that she broke it. To my enraged mum, it would have been like snapping a chicken’s wishbone, such was the ferocity of her temper. He never knocked on our door again though, and didn’t press charges because he knew he was in the wrong.

So you can imagine the reaction of the locals as she made her way down the street, demanding an answer to her question.

People were scattering in all directions, cars accelerated away, windows were slammed shut, curtains drawn and doors firmly bolted. It was as if a dangerous outlaw had ridden into town. Thankfully, she eventually found her precious cat, and life in our locality slowly returned to normal.

Non-uniform days

As we grew older, myself and Shaun got in a few scrapes, but even the police were wary of approaching our house after being routinely run down the garden path by my mother in hot pursuit with a yard brush in hand.

A threat of You’ll get a bucket of water over you next time you come here, you bloody swines! was usually enough to prevent further questioning. Of course, they could have arrested her, but they were well-aware of my mother’s over-protective tendencies towards her dependents, and so tolerated her excesses.

A case in point occurred when Shaun had been sentenced to three months’ imprisonment for his part in a drunken brawl which had involved an assault on a police dog. It was left to a plain-clothed WPC to inform my mother that Shaun would be going on his ‘holidays’. I listened, sat on the stair well, as the young officer put in her request.

We’ll be needing a few of Shaun’s overnight things, such as toiletries, underwear and pyjamas.

Why, where’s Shaun? asked my mum, clearly agitated.

Before the girl could give her an answer, she continued apace.

Shaun hasn’t done anything! Some loonies have put some drugs in his drinks and they keep buying him beer all night to get him drunk, was my mum’s unlikely defence.

Trying to diffuse this volatile reaction, the police constable reassured her.

It’s nothing to worry about, we just need to keep him a little bit longer to help us with our enquiries.

That seemed to do the trick.

Will you give him a lift home in the police car when you’ve finished with him?

Oh yes, we’ll bring him home alright, replied the cop, sensing a breakthrough.

So my mum obliged, got Shaun’s things together and handed them over. As I looked through the front window, I saw a wide smile spread across the policewoman’s face as she discreetly punched the air, a signal to her male colleague in the nearby police van that the mission was accomplished and she had remained unscathed. By the way, Shaun returned home early, after six weeks, for good behaviour.

Then there was ‘Founder’s Day’ at Wolstanton Grammar School.

Each and every pupil was obliged to wear a smart white shirt for this special, photographed event. It was the highlight of the school year, and the day before I had been ordered to get my hair cut too.

Under my mother’s regime, there was no spare cash for such luxuries, so I cut a few chunks out myself using two mirrors to view the back of my head. As for a white shirt, I only possessed a pair of longer lasting grey shirts that were acceptable at any other time, but certainly not on this occasion.

Predictably, Deputy Head Jimmy White was not impressed, especially after he had inspected my hair.

It looks like some rats have attacked you in the night, Beeston boy! he thundered.

He added that my grey shirt was totally unacceptable and so out of a total of 680 pupils, I was the only one sent home.

There have been countless other instances of, let us say, unconventional behaviour on the part of my mother that have left me shaking my head in disbelief. But this may go some way, perhaps, to explain my own reluctance to conform to certain accepted customs associated with modern-day society.

2. DESTINY CALLS: 1964-1966

I’ll never be a ‘Potter’, a ‘Valiant’ or a ‘Crewy’, but I’ll always be a ‘Stokie’ by virtue of my birthplace. But fate decreed that I would fall in love with a club far away from home. Most fans can remember that all-defining moment which leads to a lifelong commitment to their chosen football team. This was mine.

PICTURE CAPTION

Not Amused: A typically cantankerous pose from former Burnley chairman Bob Lord

Pick a team, any team

Ra-ta, ta-tattat tat! There was a knock on the door – I’d been expecting it.

Instantly recognising the characteristic rhythm of the knock, I realised who it would be, and the purpose of his visit. It was Reggie Bradshaw, my footballing pal who, at 11, was a year older than me.

He was on a mission, calling to pledge his devotion to yet another football team, a frequent ritual during every schoolboy’s youth. It seemed to establish a recognisable identity, a sense of belonging, much like being asked if you were a mod or a rocker in the mid-sixties.

My primary school was The Sir John Offley in my home village of Madeley. The vast majority of pupils here either supported the higher placed local team, which at the time was Stoke City FC, or they went down the path of the 'glory hunter' by attaching themselves to the most successful clubs.

Today, I knew that this latter course of action would be Reggie’s intention, but I had decided that this time he wasn’t going to get his own way.

I had confidently deduced his preference and fully intended to counter it accordingly by preparing myself…or so I thought! Even before fully opening the door, I began to hastily announce my ready greeting.

Eyup Reg! I’m supporting… But my rehearsed statement went unfinished.

Reg, determined to have first say, loudly and purposely interjected mid-sentence to deliver his undertaking of football faith.

Hi Dave! I’m supporting Liverpool now! he cheerfully chirruped in a deliberately hurried retort.

Reg then waited for me to finish my own proclamation as he stepped back a pace, smugly folded his arms and fixed me with a self-satisfied grin, totally aware of the position he had put me in.

I stalled – it was the announcement I had feared.

He had beaten me to it again! Before being rudely interrupted, I was going to take Liverpool as my latest preferred choice, solely to get one over on Reg for once, but now it was too late. Reg had pre-empted my strategy by staking first claim.

I couldn’t let it be known that I was following someone else’s inclinations. My sense of independence and personal pride was coming under scrutiny.

Are yer? I asked with indignation. Well, I’m supporting… I paused to reconsider.

Burnley, I replied, firm of voice but hesitant of mind.

Reg’s frowned reaction and initial surprise soon turned to acceptance. And so the seeds were sown. Perhaps in a few months time our temporary allegiance would change again, but for the time being at least, from today Reg would be following Liverpool’s results and I would be rooting for Burnley.

The year was 1964, and there was a certain inevitability regarding Reg’s preference. The previous night, March 30, which was Easter Monday, Liverpool had defeated Spurs 3-1 to go top of the Football League. So, as kids did then and still do today, his