I’d groaned and muttered something about did she really want to go… it was a horrible place to go, all permits and stuff, it was easier parking in City Square, and other sundry reasons for giving it a miss.  Don’t get me wrong, if I could press a button and be transported to an away ground without any hassle I’d be happy to go. I love the away trips with the supporters club. We’re off to Millwall. I treated her to the Cork trip. But, I’m no longer a great fan of driving to away games, battle with motorway holdups, have to find somewhere to park, sit through what last season were frequently thoroughly uninspiring games, wait ages to get away, and then drive all the way home again. My protests were all to no avail. She wanted to go.  There was no escape. I couldn’t even say it would be difficult to get tickets. It was pay on the gate.

     And as if that wasn’t enough. She looked through the programme before the Bolton game. “Ooh,” she said. “Did you know they’re at Sheffield Wednesday next Saturday?” Well of course I bloody knew but I’d kept quiet. We’ve been to Wednesday a few times before, Gawd we were even there when we lost in the FA Cup semi-final. Saw them get hammered in an FA Cup replay years ago, too.

     “Why aren’t we going?” she said. “We usually go… don’t we? We are going to go aren’t we?” It was agreed that we would go on condition that she paid and battled with the online booking system.

     And thus it was that the decisions were made to go to two away games that I’d been keeping quiet about and hoping she wouldn’t notice until about an hour before kick-off whereupon she would have said: “Ooh you didn’t tell me Burnley were playing tonight,” and I’d have said: “But darling I’m sure I did… didn’t I?”

     “I’ll make bacon sandwiches,” she said. “We can go early and find a parking space in York.” Thus it was decided and I do like bacon sandwiches. That was the clincher.  And then I thought it would be good to see the site of the great promotion triumph of ’92, the place that people go all misty-eyed about and speak of in such awed voices, where Johnny Francis slammed home the goal that ended all those years of torment and suffering. It would be a pilgrimage, like people make to Lourdes or historians make to Agincourt.

     York is flat so I thought all I need do is head round the northern ring road, turn down into York, head for the Minster but before getting there look for the floodlights. It worked a treat. Parking problems: no bother; by some fluke we found a street where you didn’t need permits. A very kind bloke confirmed: “Yes that’s the ground, walk down that street and there’s a chippy, and then you can go in the pitchside bar.” How very nice. The bacon sandwiches went down a treat and then we walked round the ground and down a little way into York wondering if it’s always gridlocked.

     The site of Bootham Crescent had previously staged cricket for 50 years. Nearby was Asylum Lane (now renamed), and the site of the old Lunatic Asylum. For steam train enthusiasts the ground is a bit of a mecca. Over the tunnel is the restored nameplate of an old York City steam locomotive with the name ‘Minster Men’ inscribed over a golden ball. As we walked to the ground we saw a line of old crimson railway carriages with faces hanging out of the windows. Some of them had ‘steam train nut’ written on their foreheads. Wisps of steam rose from above the trees, the polished loco gently simmering. We hurried over and there was a gleaming old steam engine at the head of the carriages, filling up with water. It wasn’t allowed to do this in York Station so they’d rigged up a hose from somewhere across the fence.

     In the setting sunshine the ground looked clean, neat and trim; a reminder of what little grounds always looked like, homely, slightly ramshackle, eccentric, and higgledy-piggledy but well-cared for – a bit like the old city itself.  At the end where SuperJohn scored his goal I stopped to think; that this was a goal scored only just over 20 years ago that began the road to where we are today. Perhaps I should have bowed my knee in tribute and kissed the terrace.  I was an absent supporter during the seven years of suffering and famine so I can’t wear the badge. Today I feel I missed out on something truly heroic.

     The game was a good’un. Burnley like Real Madrid for the first 25 minutes and could have been 3 – 0 to the good. Then York took over, belying their lowly wages, dominated, battered the back four, Shackell repelled all boarders, all hands to the pumps, some desperate defending. York must have gone in at halftime thinking this game is ours in the second half. Out they came and carried on… but post-Howe, Burnley are made of sterner stuff these days and fended them off again. And then class told. One by one three more goals went in as Burnley scored almost at will finishing the game strong and dominant.

     Sean D said his men had “manned up” after the York onslaught… hmmm… naughty Sean… he’ll have the Liverpool FC politburo after him… doesn’t he know that ‘manning up’ is on their list of things not to say cos it’s sexist.  Absolutely bloody daft: can pirates not say ‘man overboard’ can a sinking captain not say ‘man the lifeboats’? Do I tell little grandson there’s no such thing as a ‘fireman’ and Fireman Sam is banned at Anfield? One thing I’d do if I was Sean… I’d be on the phone to York about their storming left-back. The lad could play a bit.

     The Claretsmad topic “Would you be happy if the Charlie money was spent to improve the academy and not on his replacement” was one of the best discussions for years. It was measured, reasoned, fair, and was most certainly a resounding “no.”

     Investing more money into the youth set-up is for me a total waste of money now. The last player of any value to emerge, Rodriguez, was five years ago. The two newest hopes, Hewitt and Howieson, don’t even get on the bench. Young players go out on loan one after the other and are then released. The debate was united on one topic; that without the maintenance of the first team and investment in it; then Division One would inevitably beckon by a process of simple natural selection. 

     The question led to comments about the roles and contributions of the current directors, particularly some of the things they have said. There was a reminder of the statement earlier in the year from one director that the club had no need to sell. When one of them says that the club has no need to sell, and then the club does sell its best player; when another says that the club can “really go for it” whilst being fully prepared to sell the club’s 30-goals-a-year man, then you do wonder just why you fork out for a season ticket when you hear and read these statements. The guy who sits near me on a matchday actually phoned Lee Hoos to berate him because he felt so short-changed. The discussion on the messageboard by a vast majority was critical of the board, but increasingly sympathetic towards Sean Dyche.

     One comment stood out: “By not improving the first team squad based on this sale, the board are now dangerously testing the patience of even the club’s most adoring fans.”

    Maybe there will be a signing, but the signs are against that, and an “undisclosed fee” simply makes many think it was a low figure that the club is reluctant, maybe even embarrassed, to reveal.

     The message is clear; that we all need a boost, something to make us think we can still compete, that we are not just drifting, that the promotion and the year in the Prem did count for something, that we can recover from the Laws appointment fiasco, and then the wasted Howe period. If cuts are to be made, can the club continue to haemorrhage money on youth development; does it really need the ever-growing army of playing support staff.

     And yet, there we were at Sheffield, down the M1, down the A61, pay to park the car in a convenient spot, pay for a programme, pay for the two tickets, another coupla gallons and 12 quidsworth of petrol gone, because despite all the frustrations, despite all the pessimism, and all the moans and groans, BFC is in your blood and it’s been there so long that it’s an addiction. It’s fortunate that as a doddering old pensioner it doesn’t cost me as much as others.  So for now I can afford it and that’s why I continue to attend. But, increasingly, others can’t.

     The attendance in the away end was far less than others there in the recent past, another indication of ever-dwindling support and difficulties finding the money to pay for these trips.  But what a boost the 2-1 win was for all of us needing an injection of optimism and regeneration of fervour. It was a fantastic display of grit, bravery and courage, particularly in the second half when Wednesday pushed, shoved, elbowed, playing balls into the box and balls over the top with incessant menace. The aerial bombardment was relentless. Up close to the defenders we watched them battle and fight to the end and hang on to the points that were won in the first half.

     It was a game of three periods. For the first twenty minutes Sheffield were like greyhounds out of the traps. For the next 25 minutes it was Burnley dominant, in control and they scored twice.  And then came that second half of backs-to-the-wall defending when Heaton, Long and Shackell were magnificent. Even under the constant pressure, there were good chances for Burnley to have scored again. Marney, Trippier and Vokes were equally superb throughout the game.

     During that second 45 minutes when Burnley defended the end nearest us, we saw every block, every last ditch tackle, some of them breathtaking, every header; we felt every bone-jarring collision, winced at every bruising encounter and breathed constant sighs of relief when danger was cleared and whenever Heaton pounced on the ball or made a stunning save. Burnley caved in just once and with the score at 2- 1, the nerves and tension doubled, every minute felt like two; and then to prolong the agony there were SIX minutes of extra time. We groaned. It seemed Burnley must capitulate but ironically those extra minutes presented least danger as Burney played out the game and I’ll swear blind that weird little referee with the matchstick legs didn’t play the full six.  The players were shattered by the end. If they have a Saturday night out on the town by God they’d earned it. Well done Mrs T; two games you made me go to and we won ‘em both.

     A great win at Sheffield: but a message to the board. One swallow a summer does not make. Sean Dyche still needs some cash from the jar on the mantelpiece.