The winter of 1983-4 was particularly cold. Regular snowfalls left the country under a fairly regularly white carpet and even though most schools remained open (not like in modern times, because you know… progress or something) it was somewhat of a slog. Undeterred by such small factors as “living” my Father was determined for us to travel to watch any Hull City game where he wasn’t at work. Thus me, him, an ordinance survey map and a few rounds of sandwiches in a tupper ware container invaded a rather dinky red Datsun Cherry in the early weeks of 1983 and headed to Turf Moor from South Humberside. (yes I know… it doesn’t exist blah blah blah… it did then…)
Sometime later (I was at the time 9 years old) my middle school teacher would wax lyrical about my geographical knowledge of England only for my mother to retort “Yes, he reads maps for his Dad as they go and watch Hull City play away, that’s probably why”. This journey definitely pushed my abilities however as not only did it we attempt to cross the Pennines in frozen conditions with driving snow, we did it in a car with an engine slightly less powerful than the average hair dryer. My Father, ladies and gentleman, no respecter of mother nature or the limitations of Japanese industry.
However, arrive we did, only to get to the game and be greeted by the radio declaring that the game was off and Jimmy Armfield castigating City for not arriving (something that made my father add him to his “shit list” for the rest of his existence, more about that another time). It seemed the City coach had not endured the M62 quite as well as we did and we had indeed gone “all this way for nothing” as the song goes. So we turned around and did the same insane journey in what was essentially a 1983 version of Fred Flintstone’s car, only with the pretense of an engine rather than our feet.
We have done the story many a time about how the re-arranged game months later led us to be denied promotion by one goal scored, so I won’t do it again, but somewhere between Burnley playing to lose a game by less than three goals, rather than say “win it” in a match that meant nothing to them, Armfield’s north west biased rant against City and my nine year old’s tears in May added up to a lifetime love of City, and also an irrational hate of the wooden chaired dump that is Turf Moor and everything that came with it.
Over a decade later I was at University in Liverpool and a lad from my digs had a girlfriend who supported Burnley. Talking to her only served to confirm most of the things I already believed about the club. You’d honestly think that AC Milan and the San Siro had been dug up, rebuilt in Lancashire and covered in twenty four carrot gold. The sense of entitlement and how “big” they were was breathtaking. Especially considering the lack of doing anything in particular since the sixties. I went to watch us lose 3-1 there in 1993? I think. Against my better judgement and probably more surmised by my lack of money, I accepted a ticket with my housemate’s girlfriend in some sort of posh Burnley stand. I may have, as City were bounced around by the physically stronger but crass Burnley team said a tad too much, and her father, gave me a mouthful, the miserable old goat. It once again highlighted my dislike of anything claret and blue or Lancastrian, or both.
Where else to go? Well Brian Laws, the biggest end of a bell that ever drew breath was the manager there, which again makes me grind my teeth like a stray dog seeing a fat postman that he longs to assault. Help me stattos but didn’t he help them win 4-1 at City to all but send us down in 2009-10? I may have tried to blot the entire thing out. That season just about summed up the curse that this horrendous club seemed to have on us. We’d equalised in October at Burnley through the mercurial Geovanni’s free kick, only for Mike Jones to disallow it, because he was a gigantic plum and then doubled this down by booking Geo and later sending him off. That season alone they were awarded three penalties against us in 180 minutes of football. My one redeeming crumb of comfort was that they were relegated too, although this only guaranteed we’d have to keep playing them.
Now I know I’m biased, but I’d like to think that in our best versions (The promotion team of 2007-8, the Prem team of 2008-9, the Bruce promotion team of 2013 and FA cup team of 2014) we were essentially a good watch. We had players you wanted to see, sometimes these days I still have people when they know I support Hull beam about the likes of Geo, or Jelavic, or Huddz. Again I know I’m biased in reverse, but they really don’t add an awful lot of entertainment, even in their effective phases. Any team where Sean Dyche is the most successful modern day manager gives you a major clue. The fact that Eddie Howe spent a year there and then decided he left the kettle on in Bournemouth and left also indicates somewhat of a pattern.
I mean, there are some slightly redeeming factors I guess (If I had a gun pointed at my head) Robbie Brady played for both, as did George Boyd and I like those players, erm… didn’t Tony Norman start there? Possibly.. It’s just hard, I don’t argue that most of my rampant hatred of them is illogical (it even makes my quite like Preston North End and Blackpool) but as the old Monty Python joke goes in an abridged fashion “What did Burnley ever do for us?” I’d argue almost nothing and in fact they’ve been a source of pain for this club for many years. Even the current money bags version of them have built a reputation as conceding no goals and not entertaining anyone, it just seems to be their DNA.
Occasionally we’ve laughed in the face of the devil and turned them over, just as we’ll be hoping for later (Clue I’m writing before the game takes place, but expecting the worst, please please let me be wrong) a 1-0 away win in freezing conditions in 2013 helped us on the road to promotion, in front of a paltry 10,450 fans (yes, you’re not the giant you claim to be) thank to the ageless Stephen Quinn. A 2-0 home win over Christmas in 2015 featured Abel Hernandez essentially retiring Michael Duff as he turned him inside out that day. It hasn’t always been a snake bitten match up.
Somewhere on my X/Twitter/Elonbook timeline will no doubt feature a Burnley fan saying something original like “Bless the Hull fans” etc. Which, whilst proving a point in some ways, is inevitable with this kind of blog. However, my claret and blue heckler… if you’re still having this read to you by your literate friend… I admit most of my dislike of your club is irrational (like most peoples) perhaps inflamed by some injustices and casual acquaintances that underlined the bad taste I already had from my earlier experiences… take it as a compliment, you’ve probably just beat us 2-0 after being awarded 14 penalties and the ref celebrated with a knee slide, be happy… or not… after all… you might have to live in Burnley, so in many ways… I’ve already won… 😀
Send your hate tweets to @thelikesofhull on twitter and UTT. Cheers.