The tortuous trek to Turf Moor and a great FA Cup game, told through the eyes of one away fan in 1970
https://thesefootballtimes.co/2019/09/27/the-tortuous-trek-to-turf-moor-and-a-great-fa-cup-game-told-through-the-eyes-of-one-away-fan-in-1970/
As LP Hartley famously proclaimed, “The past is a different country.” Behaviours that were once considered the social norm when I was negotiating the minefield of my formative years would nowadays elicit disapproving responses from the present-day arbiters of contemporary morality. Yet, there is one tradition associated those days of yore which modern football would benefit from reviving: the now seemingly defunct concept of going to a match to watch a team that your friend supports but you don’t.
Throughout the 1960s and into the 70s, my dad and his friends, who were massive Evertonians, regularly attended Liverpool fixtures at Anfield. Others from his entourage who were rabid Reds would turn up to see Everton games. This behaviour probably stemmed from most peones having to work on Saturday mornings, which made attending away fixtures a real struggle.
A dearth of other entertainment options, especially with the pubs closed between the afternoon hours of three and five, meant that visiting either Goodison or Anfield was the most tempting option on offer – unless watching Pathé news in the cinema was your thing.
As a teenager, I continued this tradition. If Everton were playing away south of Birmingham, I would go with my Liverpool-supporting friends to their stadium and vice versa. It was simply what you did. The prospect of a Saturday afternoon without a live game was simply too painful to bear. An alternative was going along to cheer on Everton Reserves in the Central League, but nothing could beat the thrill of top-flight football.
I was fortunate enough to have passed my 11+ exam which meant I was enrolled at a rugby union-playing grammar school, situated in the prosperous leafy suburban setting of Crosby, a totally different environment to my utilitarian council estate in Litherland three miles away. There were some unexpected footballing benefits, though.
The school intake encompassed a wide catchment area and pupils travelled in from different parts of Merseyside and Lancashire. This meant that in addition to Everton and Liverpool, there were contingents of boys who followed Manchester United, Manchester City, Preston and Southport. As a consequence, if I was unable to attend an Everton fixture, I was often able to meet up with friends and watch their teams instead.
During the 1969/70 season, when I was in year 10, I started to associate with a lad called Rob Conway, a Chelsea fan. Chelsea were the glamour outfit of the period with film stars such as Terry Stamp and Steve McQueen regular visitors to Stamford Bridge. Also included in this coterie was the uber sex goddess Raquel Welch, who was purportedly trying to ensnare Chelsea striker Peter Osgood with her charms. Their players seemed to operate in a milieu of high society sophistication that us grimy northern wastrels could only dream about.
Rob often went to London by himself to watch Chelsea games, aided by the fact that his dad worked on British Rail and so was able to procure cheap tickets. I’d listen fervently to his accounts of his trips to the capital. As fate would have it, Everton crashed out in the third round of the FA Cup in January 1970 away at Sheffield United, which meant I faced the prospect of no cup football for another season. It was then that Rob came to my rescue.
During the Monday morning break-time football forums in our school yard, Rob casually mentioned that the previous Saturday, he had been present at Stamford Bridge in the notorious Shed End viewing the fourth-round tie between Chelsea and Burnley. The fact he was in the Shed End produced gasps of awe from the younger urchins who used to love listening to these tales of footballing jaunts.
Rob recounted how Chelsea had been cruising 2-0 up with just ten minutes remaining when, unexpectedly, Burnley rallied. Inspired by the imperious Martin Dobson, they scored twice to level the tie, which meant the daunting prospect of a replay at Turf Moor on Tuesday. Rob was desperate to go but his parents insisted that he couldn’t go by himself. He asked me to join him: it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. My footballing and playground credibility were at stake. Nevertheless, I underestimated the level of subterfuge and logistics that would be involved.
It was time for the final lesson of the day – except I wouldn’t be attending. Rob feigned a bout of illness at lunchtime, so he was now at home changing out of his uniform. My exit wouldn’t be quite as simple. As my classmates trudged off for their biology lesson, I gathered my school bag and walked towards the school gates.
The fearsome Mr Highton, the gym teacher, directed a questioning glance towards me as I convinced myself that my adventure was over and a thrashing with the school strap at the hands of the Jesuits awaited. Momentarily, I feared the worst as guilt was written all over my face, but fortunately he returned to cajoling another ten press-ups from his class and the danger passed. I met Rob at the bus stop at 2.30 and our trip to Turf Moor was about to commence.
Although Burnley were no longer the power that they were at the start of the 1960s, they still constituted formidable opponents on home territory, as they demonstrated when they brushed aside the challenge of Wolves with an emphatic 3-0 victory in the third round. Harry Potts, the manager who led them to the title in 1960 and almost pulled off the double in 1962, was still in charge but only John Angus remained from the title-winning side.
Nevertheless, another crop of promising youngsters, such as Dave Thomas, Geoff Nulty, Steve Kindon, Frank Casper, and future England internationals Ralph Coates and Martin Dobson, were now regulars in the side. The squad also featured defenders Colin Waldron and Jim Thomson who, having been released by Chelsea, were determined to put one over on their old side.
Neither Chelsea nor their fans were particularly relishing a trip to Burnley on a freezing cold January night. Turf Moor held painful memories for the denizens of the Shed as it was here on 24 April 1965 that Chelsea blew their chance of winning a close-fought title race by crashing to a 6-2 defeat.
The previous evening, Chelsea’s hopes were dealt a hammer blow when the manager, the irascible Tommy Docherty, sent eight players home from the Blackpool hotel they were staying in for a breaking a curfew that he had imposed. Blues fans struggled to believe that he could allow their title hopes to be crushed by this rash action as they headed north for the match whilst their star players were returning south.
Docherty was no longer in charge having left the club in October 1967. His former assistant, Dave Sexton, returned from Leyton Orient and set about applying his meticulous tactical and physical routines to finally fulfil the boundless potential of Docherty’s Diamonds, the best crop of young players in a generation.
He brought in defenders such as David Webb and John Dempsey to add solidity to the team and a streak of intimidatory steel, which combined nicely with the crunching tackles of Ron “Chopper” Harris. He paid £5,000 upfront to non-league Cambridge for the hitherto unknown forward Ian Hutchinson. It was an inspired purchase: he became the battering ram who tormented opposition defences and created opportunities for flair players such as Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke.
Yet the true favourite on the terraces was 18-year-old Alan Hudson, born a stone’s throw away from Stamford Bridge, whose sublime skills and dazzling technique combined with his indefatigable work rate was a joy to behold. With his flowing locks and his cockney lilt, Hudson was the name on everybody’s lips and was as likely to appear on the cover of Jackie as well as Goal or Shoot!.
Most Chelsea fans left Stamford Bridge bewildered after the first game wondering how their team contrived to throw away a two-goal lead with suchlittle time remaining. The players also knew that this was going to be a titanic battle, with most punters convinced that home advantage would prove decisive for Burnley.
Our bus arrived and, after convincing the driver that we were really only 13 and therefore qualified for the cheaper fare, we boarded to commence the first stage of the journey. It was now 2:45pm and if all went to plan, we would be arriving in Burnley at about 6:30pm for a 7:30 kick-off.
For some bizarre reason, the first bus, the X27, displayed Barnoldswick on the indicator board. To this day, I still don’t know where that place is nor why anybody thought that there was a demand for a direct bus service from Liverpool to Barnoldswick. Nevertheless, this route was pivotal to our planning. We eventually reached Preston Bus Station at about 4:30 and managed to stuff our faces with sausage rolls and crisps to keep us going. In those days we thought vegans were Kirk’s enemies on Star Trek.
Later, we climbed aboard a bus to Burnley and, as we approached our destination, more and more Burnley fans clambered on excitedly talking about their prospects for the evening. Many clutched their copies of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph to gather the latest news about the possible team selection.
Burnley in 1970 was a town that was apparently frozen in time. Cobbled streets surrounded Turf Moor and the streetlamps looked as though they were erected in Victorian times, still powered by gas. A cloying fog was enveloping the environs and the spooky towers of the mill factories poking through the gloom only added to our sense of eerie foreboding. Even the manner in which the locals conversed in their languid Lancastrian drawl sounded like a foreign tongue to our scouse ears. My dad, who used to work all over the north-west, often claimed that going to Burnley “was like going back in time”. I finally understood what he meant.
Nevertheless, Turf Moor, in contrast to many aspects of the town, was a thoroughly modern arena. The autocratic and seemingly much-maligned chairman, Bob Lord, was quite prepared to unleash funds to improve the facilities at the ground. At the start of this season, a brand-new stand was constructed at the Cricket Field End which housed 4,500 spectators and boasted the novelty of underfloor heating. This meant that just like Manchester City fans at Maine Road, the vocal Burnley contingent congregated on the cavernous Long Side terrace, which was located at the side of the pitch
https://thesefootballtimes.co/2019/09/27/the-tortuous-trek-to-turf-moor-and-a-great-fa-cup-game-told-through-the-eyes-of-one-away-fan-in-1970/
As LP Hartley famously proclaimed, “The past is a different country.” Behaviours that were once considered the social norm when I was negotiating the minefield of my formative years would nowadays elicit disapproving responses from the present-day arbiters of contemporary morality. Yet, there is one tradition associated those days of yore which modern football would benefit from reviving: the now seemingly defunct concept of going to a match to watch a team that your friend supports but you don’t.
Throughout the 1960s and into the 70s, my dad and his friends, who were massive Evertonians, regularly attended Liverpool fixtures at Anfield. Others from his entourage who were rabid Reds would turn up to see Everton games. This behaviour probably stemmed from most peones having to work on Saturday mornings, which made attending away fixtures a real struggle.
A dearth of other entertainment options, especially with the pubs closed between the afternoon hours of three and five, meant that visiting either Goodison or Anfield was the most tempting option on offer – unless watching Pathé news in the cinema was your thing.
As a teenager, I continued this tradition. If Everton were playing away south of Birmingham, I would go with my Liverpool-supporting friends to their stadium and vice versa. It was simply what you did. The prospect of a Saturday afternoon without a live game was simply too painful to bear. An alternative was going along to cheer on Everton Reserves in the Central League, but nothing could beat the thrill of top-flight football.
The Old School Yard
I was fortunate enough to have passed my 11+ exam which meant I was enrolled at a rugby union-playing grammar school, situated in the prosperous leafy suburban setting of Crosby, a totally different environment to my utilitarian council estate in Litherland three miles away. There were some unexpected footballing benefits, though.
The school intake encompassed a wide catchment area and pupils travelled in from different parts of Merseyside and Lancashire. This meant that in addition to Everton and Liverpool, there were contingents of boys who followed Manchester United, Manchester City, Preston and Southport. As a consequence, if I was unable to attend an Everton fixture, I was often able to meet up with friends and watch their teams instead.
During the 1969/70 season, when I was in year 10, I started to associate with a lad called Rob Conway, a Chelsea fan. Chelsea were the glamour outfit of the period with film stars such as Terry Stamp and Steve McQueen regular visitors to Stamford Bridge. Also included in this coterie was the uber sex goddess Raquel Welch, who was purportedly trying to ensnare Chelsea striker Peter Osgood with her charms. Their players seemed to operate in a milieu of high society sophistication that us grimy northern wastrels could only dream about.
Rob often went to London by himself to watch Chelsea games, aided by the fact that his dad worked on British Rail and so was able to procure cheap tickets. I’d listen fervently to his accounts of his trips to the capital. As fate would have it, Everton crashed out in the third round of the FA Cup in January 1970 away at Sheffield United, which meant I faced the prospect of no cup football for another season. It was then that Rob came to my rescue.
During the Monday morning break-time football forums in our school yard, Rob casually mentioned that the previous Saturday, he had been present at Stamford Bridge in the notorious Shed End viewing the fourth-round tie between Chelsea and Burnley. The fact he was in the Shed End produced gasps of awe from the younger urchins who used to love listening to these tales of footballing jaunts.
Rob recounted how Chelsea had been cruising 2-0 up with just ten minutes remaining when, unexpectedly, Burnley rallied. Inspired by the imperious Martin Dobson, they scored twice to level the tie, which meant the daunting prospect of a replay at Turf Moor on Tuesday. Rob was desperate to go but his parents insisted that he couldn’t go by himself. He asked me to join him: it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. My footballing and playground credibility were at stake. Nevertheless, I underestimated the level of subterfuge and logistics that would be involved.
27 January 1970: AWOL
It was time for the final lesson of the day – except I wouldn’t be attending. Rob feigned a bout of illness at lunchtime, so he was now at home changing out of his uniform. My exit wouldn’t be quite as simple. As my classmates trudged off for their biology lesson, I gathered my school bag and walked towards the school gates.
The fearsome Mr Highton, the gym teacher, directed a questioning glance towards me as I convinced myself that my adventure was over and a thrashing with the school strap at the hands of the Jesuits awaited. Momentarily, I feared the worst as guilt was written all over my face, but fortunately he returned to cajoling another ten press-ups from his class and the danger passed. I met Rob at the bus stop at 2.30 and our trip to Turf Moor was about to commence.
Although Burnley were no longer the power that they were at the start of the 1960s, they still constituted formidable opponents on home territory, as they demonstrated when they brushed aside the challenge of Wolves with an emphatic 3-0 victory in the third round. Harry Potts, the manager who led them to the title in 1960 and almost pulled off the double in 1962, was still in charge but only John Angus remained from the title-winning side.
Nevertheless, another crop of promising youngsters, such as Dave Thomas, Geoff Nulty, Steve Kindon, Frank Casper, and future England internationals Ralph Coates and Martin Dobson, were now regulars in the side. The squad also featured defenders Colin Waldron and Jim Thomson who, having been released by Chelsea, were determined to put one over on their old side.
Neither Chelsea nor their fans were particularly relishing a trip to Burnley on a freezing cold January night. Turf Moor held painful memories for the denizens of the Shed as it was here on 24 April 1965 that Chelsea blew their chance of winning a close-fought title race by crashing to a 6-2 defeat.
The previous evening, Chelsea’s hopes were dealt a hammer blow when the manager, the irascible Tommy Docherty, sent eight players home from the Blackpool hotel they were staying in for a breaking a curfew that he had imposed. Blues fans struggled to believe that he could allow their title hopes to be crushed by this rash action as they headed north for the match whilst their star players were returning south.
Docherty was no longer in charge having left the club in October 1967. His former assistant, Dave Sexton, returned from Leyton Orient and set about applying his meticulous tactical and physical routines to finally fulfil the boundless potential of Docherty’s Diamonds, the best crop of young players in a generation.
He brought in defenders such as David Webb and John Dempsey to add solidity to the team and a streak of intimidatory steel, which combined nicely with the crunching tackles of Ron “Chopper” Harris. He paid £5,000 upfront to non-league Cambridge for the hitherto unknown forward Ian Hutchinson. It was an inspired purchase: he became the battering ram who tormented opposition defences and created opportunities for flair players such as Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke.
Yet the true favourite on the terraces was 18-year-old Alan Hudson, born a stone’s throw away from Stamford Bridge, whose sublime skills and dazzling technique combined with his indefatigable work rate was a joy to behold. With his flowing locks and his cockney lilt, Hudson was the name on everybody’s lips and was as likely to appear on the cover of Jackie as well as Goal or Shoot!.
Most Chelsea fans left Stamford Bridge bewildered after the first game wondering how their team contrived to throw away a two-goal lead with suchlittle time remaining. The players also knew that this was going to be a titanic battle, with most punters convinced that home advantage would prove decisive for Burnley.
Fever Town
Our bus arrived and, after convincing the driver that we were really only 13 and therefore qualified for the cheaper fare, we boarded to commence the first stage of the journey. It was now 2:45pm and if all went to plan, we would be arriving in Burnley at about 6:30pm for a 7:30 kick-off.
For some bizarre reason, the first bus, the X27, displayed Barnoldswick on the indicator board. To this day, I still don’t know where that place is nor why anybody thought that there was a demand for a direct bus service from Liverpool to Barnoldswick. Nevertheless, this route was pivotal to our planning. We eventually reached Preston Bus Station at about 4:30 and managed to stuff our faces with sausage rolls and crisps to keep us going. In those days we thought vegans were Kirk’s enemies on Star Trek.
Later, we climbed aboard a bus to Burnley and, as we approached our destination, more and more Burnley fans clambered on excitedly talking about their prospects for the evening. Many clutched their copies of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph to gather the latest news about the possible team selection.
Burnley in 1970 was a town that was apparently frozen in time. Cobbled streets surrounded Turf Moor and the streetlamps looked as though they were erected in Victorian times, still powered by gas. A cloying fog was enveloping the environs and the spooky towers of the mill factories poking through the gloom only added to our sense of eerie foreboding. Even the manner in which the locals conversed in their languid Lancastrian drawl sounded like a foreign tongue to our scouse ears. My dad, who used to work all over the north-west, often claimed that going to Burnley “was like going back in time”. I finally understood what he meant.
Nevertheless, Turf Moor, in contrast to many aspects of the town, was a thoroughly modern arena. The autocratic and seemingly much-maligned chairman, Bob Lord, was quite prepared to unleash funds to improve the facilities at the ground. At the start of this season, a brand-new stand was constructed at the Cricket Field End which housed 4,500 spectators and boasted the novelty of underfloor heating. This meant that just like Manchester City fans at Maine Road, the vocal Burnley contingent congregated on the cavernous Long Side terrace, which was located at the side of the pitch
