There was another fine media piece about Sean Dyche. He was already being nominated as his choice for manager-of-the –year, by Stuart Pierce.

     Dyche was squashed into his small, windowless room at Gawthorpe for the interview, with his red-stubble haircut and a goatee beard that allegedly glows in the dark. ‘A decent journeyman’ he described himself as a player. He is only 42 but feet on the ground, common sense pours from him. He does find it strange that foreign managers come into the English game rather too easily. Nor is he deceived by flattery such as comes his way at the moment. People haven’t always called him the Ginger Mourhino,’ he laughs. ‘Man management is the key now,’ he says. ‘Having 25 players is like having 25 mini companies.’ He is pragmatic: ‘passing like Barcelona is all well and good; but only if you have the best players in the world.’

     ‘Look at what you’ve got, not what you haven’t got,’ is another of his key mantras. ‘Look at what you have got and that’s the unit to make effective.’ He is as down to earth as Brian Clough who he looks back at with fondness, doing his garden, sweeping the leaves, brushing the drive, and then Clough would give them a tenner and cook for them. Today, camaraderie, team-spirit and respect in the group are what he looks for.

     But if some players are strong others are fragile like china cups he maintains. Empathy with that is important. Most players are like this. Perhaps never playing in the Premier League has made him more human and given him his core values and a little more humility than many in the game. How grounded and honest to say ‘people like me come and go,’ meaning that no manager stays forever unlike some who may say things that prove to be empty and hollow.

   I was looking through an old scrapbook and found this that was said by one previous Burnley manager. ‘I’m here for as long as the club want me. We have a responsibility to do the right thing. We have a moral duty.’ That previous employee walked out in mid-season.

   In another old scrapbook is the account of the night that Celtic came to town and caused mayhem and bloodshed; when hundreds of them were filled with drink and had Burnley fans reeling onto the pitch to escape the violence. Back on the coach home from Charlton and filling the hours on the journey home I continued with Mike Smith’s new book ‘The Road to Glory,’ and came across this about the time Turf Moor hosted the English League versus the Scottish League:

     Some five thousand football excursionists came into Burnley early on the Saturday and for the rest of the day the town was turned into what is usually styled a pandemonium, a general assembly of evil spirits, whisky in this case appearing as Beelzebub, the chief of spirits. Disorder, drunkenness and extravagance prevailed, respectable people avoided the town and shopkeepers suffered and a sigh of relief was raised when the railway companies again swallowed up the pleasure seekers whom they had disgorged early in the morning.’

     That was in March 1914. The Reverend Whitfield, who was incensed by the Scottish fans, didn’t spare Burnley fans either:

     Take the English Cup competition at Sunderland. Thousands of our Burnley working men spent the whole time from 6am on the Saturday to 6am on the Sunday to see this match at Sunderland. We are told that the whole week’s wages were selfishly and meanly taken up in many cases for the excursion; that families were cruelly left un-provided for, that tradesmen were unpaid for the week’s goods supplied to the homes which had to depend on further credit, that the pawnbrokers did a roaring trade the day before. The railway journey was largely taken up with gambling so that many found themselves pounds in debt on their return and many unfit for work the day after.’

   Mike Smith’s book is rich with snippets of social history in between the match reports. In 1913 Burnley’s groundsman was called Onias Pickles. Burnley Suffragettes disrupted Ramsey MacDonald in Nelson. And in 1914 the 8-month strike at the Albion Bobbin Works ended. These are the things that bring the book to life.

     What brought the game at Charlton to life, as well as the goals, was the marvellous away support. Sean Dyche is right to say that people like him come and go. But a club’s supporters are there for all time. That’s what makes the situations at Charlton, Leeds and Blackburn so sad. They are just three of the clubs where fans scratch their heads and wonder just where their clubs are heading as ownership moves around like pass the parcel. At Burnley we know what’s what. Charlton fans on their blogs and websites were filled with praise for Burnley and how well run they are. How many other clubs, they asked, have a chairman and directors who meet up with the away fans before a game in a local pub and buy them a pint, for that is what John B and Barry Kilby were doing.

     The singing was splendid. The sound of ‘In our Lancashire homes’ reverberated around the ground. ‘We speak with an accent exceedingly rare; the Longside of Burnley will always be there.’ Imagine three sides of the ground at Turf Moor singing that at full volume – awesome. ‘Who needs Mourhinio, we’ve got Sean Dychio,’ was another one. And the best of the lot: ‘who put the ball in the bastards net, who put the ball in the bastards net, who put the ball in the bastards net… super Jason Shackell.’

     On the coach home we had to give our nominations for goal of the season and player of the season. Just where do you start? More often than not it’s an easy choice for player of the season, but this time it was not. Heaton, Trippier, Marney, Jones, Shackell, Ings, Vokes, Arfield can all say they’ve had their best ever seasons. All of them got a mention on the coach. And goals – so many of them have been outstanding. For player of the season mine was Jason Shackell, the unflappable rock at the centre of the meanest defence in the championship. Goal of the season – Ings away at Yeovil, a rocket of a shot that came quite out of the blue, a masterpiece of opportunism, accuracy, surprise and power. Then there was his solo effort at Derby. There was the Stanislas goal at Turf Moor against Blackburn, a beautifully placed shot that followed some intricate passing. But you can only pick one.

     Tuesday 25 March and Doncaster at Turf Moor: Billy Davies had been sacked at Nottingham Forest. It was confirmed that Massimo Cellino was unfit to finalise his takeover at Leeds United leaving them in total financial chaos. It made you appreciate the achievements and stability at little ol’ Burnley even more.

     Nobody was assuming there would be a Burnley win. Nobody was taking things for granted. We continued to pinch ourselves after each win and three more points. We looked at the 10-point lead and yet again pinched ourselves. Alas there was still time for things to go pear-shaped, we fretted.

     It was a feeling that manifested itself during most of the first half. The crowd was mute, still, on edge and apprehensive. The continuous songs and chants that 2,000 fans produced at Charlton had vanished. Doncaster were neat, tidy, industrious, breaking down the flanks several times. A free header flashed just wide. Burnley, meanwhile, were uncertain, in attacking mode yes, but there was always a gear, you felt, they could shift up into. It was almost as if the prize on offer was too big to contemplate so that nerves and extra care were playing a big part. Passes went to Doncaster players all too often.

     But even so the Burnley shots mounted up, but alas either wide or high or saved by the ‘keeper. There was plenty of play that was slick and inventive but relentlessness was replaced by tentativeness. The longer the half went on without a Burnley goal the more you wondered if this was the night for the kind of horrible upset we all feared.

     Then the moment came that we felt sure would give us the deserved lead. It looked like it was Barnes that was held in the penalty area when a defender clung to him as he tried to rise to his feet. That alone was surely enough for the whistle. But no: then the defender hauled Barnes to the ground again but still the referee waved play on. It was as clear a penalty as you could ever wish to see. Dyche calculated there have been seven clear pens denied during the season. For a brief moment the crowd woke up incensed by the lack of action by the referee. But quietness descended again, the mood resigned to just one of those nights.

     Around us, during half-time, Brian from Settle, Joe from Ormskirk, Paul from Stansted, John from Seattle (and we’re from Leeds) wondered if Burnley would manage to break through. There were one or two thoughts that it had been a poor game so far, that Burnley were listless and off-colour. But not so, I thought, the shots had continued to mount up, the goalkeeper had made two stunning saves, Stanislas was causing havoc; Vokes was winning everything, Mee having a superb game, and save for the one Doncaster header they had been totally ineffective once they got in the area. But with the crowd so quiet, the atmosphere was dead. The game was badly in need of a goal.

     And it came. And it arrived in the most bizarre circumstances within a minute of the re-start. A corner drifted over, Stanislas rose at the back post and the referee blew and pointed to the spot. Dickov was mystified at the end of the game and when the ref blew, we, right in line with incident, had no idea why. Mrs T texted her friend watching things on TV at home, to ask why was it given. Apparently it was a shove on either Vokes or Barnes. Vokes strode up. Vokes put the ball down. Vokes took a deep breathe. We all did. Would he miss? Was it going to be one of those nights? Vokes looked at the goal. Vokes approached the ball on the spot and Vokes smacked the ball into the top right hand corner. The cheers and chants were as much relief as jubilation. And that was as good as game over.

     Now the crowd came to life. Now Burnley came to life. Now we should have been singing ‘In my Lancashire home’ (but we didn’t). Burnley turned on the style, Stanislas having a stonking game. And fittingly he scored after a lovely move that carved Doncaster apart. It was no more than he deserved. On his day he is a match winner and a player to excite when he takes defenders on and gets the cross over. It took Eagles a long time to impose himself at Burnley. Maybe it’s the same with Stanislas. Blokes like this are thoroughbreds not carthorses, artists not labourers; they dance the tango not the hokey cokey. In the snow they leave no footprints. Blokes like this have to be cossetted, stroked, and forgiven for when they do lose the ball or a dribble doesn’t come off.

     And Vokes: this was a textbook centre-forward display. Winning the ball in the air, leading the line, laying it off, holding the ball, using all the spaces, beating his man on the ground, working his socks off all over the place, closing down defenders, winning the ball, retaining possession, showing a delicacy of touch and control that belies his size; and all capped by his masterful penalty. Ings player of the season… hmmm… don’t forget the Vokes.

     More shots rained in, 26 by the end of the game but alas only eight on target. Yet more superb saves from the goalkeeper; yet more brave last-ditch blocks by defenders. Burnley began showboating, passing the ball around with contemptuous ease to the cries of ole… ole. Yet again there had been another display of relentlessivity (a new word). Ease into the game, test the water, keep ‘em out, wear ‘em down, deny ‘em space, hustle ‘em, harry ‘em, make ‘em play the ball back to the goalkeeper over and again and then unleash the re-born Stan. Dare I say it; Ings and Trippier were barely missed? Barnes might not be the prettiest most subtle player in the division but by God he makes defenders work with his presence and running.

   Derby lost, Wigan lost, but QPR won so that the points gap on third was not increased. And one really sour note: Marney was booked and would therefore miss the next two games. He knew immediately and raised his arms to the heavens in dismay. The ten point gap was still there but still eight games remained. One of the statos worked out that assuming QPR won all their remaining eight games, Burnley needed to win five. Only five weeks to go but, we felt afterwards, this was feeling like the slowest run-in ever to a season’s end. And whilst the finishing line inched agonisingly closer, there was still no certainly that little Burnley would make it in second place, thereby creating one of the biggest and most unexpected football fairy tales of all time.