Diary 7--Coats of paint & men up ladders

      Now it’s a tight squeeze to get through the turnstiles, and I only have distant memories of the ‘trim little bum’ I once had that Mrs T notices every time she sees Jason Shackell. I used to have one in my hockey playing days.

     I wouldn’t say I was dreamy-eyed when I had a tour round all the new developments at the ground on Thursday 14, but I was certainly hugely impressed by all that has been done in such a short space of time to get the old lady ready.

     ‘Amazing what a coat of paint will do,’ said Clive Holt as we wandered through the away concourse and I clapped my eyes close up on the newly painted seats and interior. As well as improving all the facilities, what they’ve also done down there is create a lounge and buffet area for ‘away executive fans’ as they will be called who will also have their own designated enclosed seating area. Nice idea I thought; a bit more money for the coffers.

     Workmen hammered and drilled in every corner you looked. Electricians were setting up the electronic perimeter advertising boards, more financial benefit. Builders were wrestling with a corner camera gantry that needed moving. Technicians were installing and testing the goal-line equipment with laptops and dummy figures. Thorn employees were testing and completing the new CCTV systems; and it is some system. Let’s just say with this new gear the guy who lobbed the coke bottle at Joey Barton would have been clearly identified and successfully convicted. This is high definition equipment that can see the spiders making webs on the back of my seat; equipment that can see a whole stand, zoom in, and be reviewed afterwards frame by frame picking out dimples in chins or zits on noses. Cameras can see right down Harry Potts Way to the traffic lights to gauge crowd volume, behaviour, watch coach arrivals and if the kebab place is open.

     Be warned. Hooligans, there will be no escape; your collar will be felt.

   In another corner experts were checking the new auxiliary back-up generator, a huge thing bigger than my kitchen. People were cleaning, tidying; the arrival of several huge skips was imminent to clear out the detritus. Lee Hoos was wandering round checking on things. Doug Metcalfe was touring round checking on things. Clive Holt looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. It’s fallen on him and Doug to oversee things and the hundreds of Premier League stadium requirements.

       There is an £80thousand CCTV system for the main areas and a £40thousand system with a camera in every turnstile that sees every face and every transaction although a different system looks at away turnstiles. The latter are all newly built.  

     The new card system has certainly sorted all those adults who have hitherto used junior season tickets. The ticket office says “hundreds” of people have made use of the ‘amnesty’ period to buy the correct category. Hundreds – that is staggering and a huge loss of income in previous years. It might be easier now to beat the bank in Las Vegas than use an incorrect ticket.

     In the Family Stand there will be a games room for juniors. There are two new SKY TV studios, newly created rooms that will be filled with their sets and equipment, one for home and one for overseas. At least six small Interview areas are dotted round the tunnel area. Players can be grabbed by TV people as they leave the field.

     No-one has quite worked out how many miles of new cabling there is for all the new systems. What they do know is that it has cost £460,000. The new groundsman’s hut in the Bob Lord area was £14,000. The back-up generator was £39,000. There are 17 new dugout seats for each team, comfy too.

     The matchday press area at the back of the Longside almost stretches end to end serving up to 314 press people, reporters and cameramen, from all over the world.

     And then the dressing rooms: the away dressing room is marginally upgraded but still nothing to write home about. It’s just one level up from basic. You can well imagine the spoiled galacticos coming in and muttering ‘what the f*ck is this,’ as they collide with each other and wonder where to plug in their hairdryer. That’s how Sean Dyche wanted it although I do believe they will have hot water.

     The home dressing room however is ten grades up from the old cramped, one chair one hook, and that’s yer lot, that served the home team for years. Now it’s remodelled, spacious, with new showers and the dreaded ice bath, plus a bigger physio area. Sean D has his own comfy changing room. The laundry is unchanged. The machines were busy. A guy was in the corridor on hands and knees fixing floor covering. Everywhere you looked there seemed to be guys up ladders.

     You did actually wonder how all this £4million re-fit and last-minute work will be ready for Monday night. They’ll be in all over the weekend working including Sunday. As far as they know, Roman you-know-who will not be in attendance because his security team have not been to vet the place and smoke out assassins. I kind of felt the sense of relief. If he does appear, quite where his helicopter will land is undecided.

     Whatever would old Bob Lord think of all this, I wondered, as we looked at the umpteenth electronic equipment room, the mass of new technology, the camera gantry areas (remember he banned cameras) and even a newly installed separate shower in the match officials’ room for any female officials. In Bob’s day the female of the species was simply a nuisance, there to be seen and not heard – until Margaret Potts came along and began to ruffle a few feathers, the first lady ever to wear a trouser suit at Turf Moor, or dare to set foot in a men-only room. The one thing that might please him is that the Bob Lord Stand seats will indeed be painted at some stage. It would be nice to think that a blue plaque could be affixed to one of them, ‘Bob Lord Sat Here.’

     And so it came to pass it was Monday and Chelsea. The last lick of paint had dried. The Chelsea end a sell-out, the ground heaving, packed, expectant and record gate receipts. How could they not be at those prices? Fabregas said it was an honour to visit Turf Moor. Mourhino said they were the underdogs. Cahill said he was looking forward to coming; the place was still special to him. From his very first game for Burnley you knew he was exceptional. The whole team was a who’s who of talent and internationals, star names and medal winners. The game was beamed around the world.

     Before the game the Daily Telegraph’s panel of 7 experts unanimously tipped Burnley to go down. Charlie Nicholas, research bang up to date, was looking forward to seeing Vokes score lots of goals. Mark Lawrenson couldn’t wait to see Mourhino’s team playing in the Ribble Valley.    

     “To win against Burnley will be very hard,’ said Mourhino on Chelsea TV. That of course would be true enough if they all got off the coach in Clitheroe. Mourhino meanwhile had never lost an opening day game as manager of Chelsea.

   ‘Come on clock bloody move, I just want this game to start. I can’t settle, I’ve got loads of jobs to do but just need to get to Turf Moor and get the season underway,’ wrote one MB poster. I think we all felt that way.

   ‘Cinderella at the ball,’ said a Polish newspaper in its season intro.

     And so it proved on the night when push came to shove. I wanted to write that we were dreamy-eyed at Burnley’s wondrous 1-0 win over the galacticos when Scot Arfield scored a stunning goal to put Burnley 1-0 up in front of what I read was an audience of billions around the globe. And stunning goal it was as he fired home from just inside the box early in the game. Images of that 1-0 win over Man United 5 years ago raced back into probably every head round three sides of the ground.

     Before kick-off surveying the ground, the heaving crowd and the view and hearing the buzz and feeling the atmosphere you could only feel pride and a lump in the throat at Burnley’s wondrous achievement the season before. The reward was what lay before you, the Premier League and all its media attention, cameras, star players and celebrity managers and all the rest of it; pure razzmatazz and pure theatre, with those advertising boards around the perimeter like stage spotlights. Turf Moor looked just memorable. ‘Can’t think of many better views from a football ground,’ wrote Oliver Holt.

     Alas the dream did not last long. Chelsea 1-0 down remained calm, unruffled, and took control. The next 20-25 minutes they produced a brand of football that was just a different level, as if it were from another planet. The gulf in class and resources surfaced and within something like 10 minutes they were 3-1 to the good. Images of that awful game versus Man City came back. It was as if the floodgates were about to open and there’d be another 6 or 7 goal tonking. Fabregas was immense. Humiliation seemed on the cards. And yet other than picking the ball from the net three times, Tom Heaton hadn’t had much of a save to make. Nor was he unduly troubled in the second half.

     The Chelsea first was sod’s law. The ball bounced not to safety or out for a corner, but back off the post to the lurking Diego Costa. He didn’t miss and said thankyou very much to his God. The second goal was from Mars, quite brilliant in its slickness and speed of thought. The third was a gift from slack marking at a corner. With supreme irony Chelsea were doing to Burnley what Burnley did all last season, pressing, hustling, and not allowing the opposition a chance to play. Burnley had to pass the ball back to Heaton probably more times in this one game than all last season put together. Unable to gather the ball Heaton was reduced to whacking the ball upfield. Possession was usually lost. It was not pretty.

     The Chelsea work rate is phenomenal, their first time passing and speed of thought at pace overpowering. It comes from world class talent and it’s hard not to admire. And to think, Ron Chopper Harris and Eddie McCreadie were once their best players.

     But Burnley are resilient. They did not become the punch bag. Slowly they got more and more back into the game. In the second half they forced fine saves from Courtois. Ings was suddenly through but his crisp shot was wide. Arfield smote another mighty shot. If the first half was lost 3-1, the second was a gritty 0-0 draw and much to appreciate in it. Duff was outstanding; The Jut the best of the forwards.

   There are consolations. They did not become lambs to the slaughter. They will not play Chelsea every week. Stick to the game plan that served them so well last season and they’ll win games. And how many more people round the world now know where Burnley is and will probably look for their results in games to come? The game was reported from the USA to China, from the Middle East to Oz, the roll call of newspapers providing a geography lesson.

     The media in the morning drooled over Chelsea and the joy of Cesc and how costa effective Diego was. Sky drooled over the second goal over and again. Burnley scored one just as good against Wigan in the game that clinched promotion. But that was Championship. It doesn’t count.

     Sometimes there is honour and pride even in defeat. This was one of those games. We drove home by no means dejected but upbeat and optimistic.