Massively Violent & Decidedly Average

by Lee Howey

  Incidentally, we beat Northampton 2–1.

  I returned to centre-back for the next game against Bristol City at Ashton Gate, a ground I like. The abuse was more concerted there, with about forty Burnley ‘supporters’ (look up the definition of ‘support’ in a dictionary) yelping obscenities at me during the warm-up. The other lads were very supportive and urged me to ignore them. This isn’t easy, but a thick skin is essential in football. I had a decent if unremarkable game, which did nothing to revise the opinions of my unstinting detractors as we lost again, 3–1, despite leading at half-time. In fact, we played quite well as a team, but results are everything. If you play badly and win, you’re OK.

  I played on for the next few games with a pelvic injury. There was quite some pain just above my pubic bone. So I popped my usual brand of anti-inflammatory tablets and got on with it. Defeat at home to Wigan was followed by defeat away to Fulham, with Paul Bracewell in their side. The latter game was televised from Craven Cottage on the Friday before Christmas.

  Again, we played passably well.

  Again, we lost – to a late Danny Cullip goal.

  Again, playing passably well is a fat lot of use when you can’t score a goal. I would have been given man-of-the-match by Andy Gray on Sky, were it not for the policy of giving the award to someone on the winning team. I was complimented, but fine words butter no parsnips and, if ever a man needed his parsnips buttered, it was me at Burnley.

  After a goalless draw with Chesterfield, another barnstormer, we travelled to Gillingham on 3 January for our latest defeat. By now my pelvic niggle was becoming more serious and, although I lasted the whole game at Priestfield, my season was virtually over. More bad news. I underwent X-rays and an exquisitely painful cortisone injection into the bone, which consisted of being stabbed five times with a needle by our club doctor, Norman Bates.

  I would manage three run-outs as a substitute in March, but that was all that would be seen of me in the remainder of 1997–98. Matters did not improve greatly in my absence, but enough points were squeezed to mercifully avoid relegation. I was an unused sub on an extremely jittery final match of the season at home to Plymouth Argyle, who were on the same number of points as us before kick-off. We had to win and hope that Brentford would lose at Bristol Rovers. Our wishes were granted and with them came the true highlight of the season: its end.

  We needed a holiday and I was one of a few of the lads who had planned one in Puerto Banús. We flew out a day or two later. When we arrived at the airport to depart, Chris Waddle rang me to say that he’d resigned. He had spoken with the chairman, Frank Teasdale, and was on his way. He wished me well and that was that. His experiences had put him off management for life. Chris Woods, Gordon Cowans and Glenn Roeder were to leave too.

  The only thing for it was to temporarily forget about everything and enjoy a few days of laughter and hooliganism on the Costa del Sol. So we did.

  • • •

  After Puerto Banús and some time back in Sunderland, I heard that Burnley had appointed Stan Ternent who, amid some rancour, had been dragged from the management position down the M66 at Bury. We were a division below Bury, but a much bigger club. I was aware of Ternent and knew that he was ‘old school’, which did not concern me. I was ready to go again whoever was in charge.

  Stan’s playing career had been confined mainly to Carlisle United. As a coach and manager he had been round the doors, but was originally from Gateshead and, like me, a Sunderland fan. He actually signed for Sunderland as a player, but a knee injury meant that he only managed two appearances in something called the Texaco Cup, so he became a coach for a while at Roker Park in the 1970s. I held no assumptions that any of this would mean favourable treatment for me. Indeed, I didn’t want any.

  This was just as well. In my opinion, whatever limitations Ternent may have possessed as a player, coach and manager, his credentials in those fields would easily surpass his merits as a human being.

  How to describe Stanley Mephistopheles Ternent? Physically he was short, grey and granite-featured. His personality is more difficult to present on the printed page. All I can do is compare him to someone you are all familiar with. So think of someone like Adolf Hitler, but arrogant and bad-tempered.

  Ternent was about as modest as Cassius Clay; the sort of bloke who could peer into the night sky, at the countless stars and the ever expanding universe – then wonder why he still felt so significant. His manners reflected this and he was one of life’s finger-clickers. He also considered himself to be the last word in cleverness, without silly things like evidence to back this up. He’s still out there now, waffling away to anyone who will listen about how he would have taken Burnley to the Premier League had it not been for that pesky collapse of ITV Digital, which apparently only affected Burnley. In fairness, he had done well at Bury and would be promoted with Burnley (he may have mentioned it), although he was finally given the boot by the club in 2004 after they had regressed to relegation-fighting ways.

  He was intimately acquainted with the more progressive management theories: screaming, swearing, bullying, losing your temper every three minutes and telling everyone in sight that they were fucking useless. The Yosemite Sam of football. He tried these complex techniques immediately upon arrival. On his first day at pre-season training he made an entrance that almost put paid to the hinges of the changing room door and, undeterred by barely knowing most of us, launched into an immediate tirade.

  ‘Yer all a useless load of shit.’

  Note ‘useless’ as well as ‘a load of shit.’ I let it pass. Tautology would turn out to be the least of his shortcomings. He continued.

  ‘Yer were a fucking disgrace last season. Yerra buncha cunts. An absolute shower of shit.’

  He felt compelled to use these little pet names, as though anyone was labouring under the misapprehension that 1997–98 had been a season of unbridled glory. Then he delivered his ‘plan’.

  ‘I’m gonna run the fuckin’ legs off yerz and wer gonna be fitter than anyone.’

  That was 50 per cent of his strategy. The other half was even more depressing.

  ‘Can anybody take a long throw-in?’

  Someone, it might have been Paul Weller, raised his arm.

  ‘Right. Yer in my fuckin’ team.’

  Paul was a good player with other aspects to his game, but a long throw was what Ternent seemingly coveted above all of them. Paul turned out to be injured for most of the season (by the way, if you ever meet Paul, make a joke about re-forming The Jam; I guarantee he has never heard it before and he will laugh for an hour).

  I kept my head down and did the training. The new manager hadn’t exaggerated the amount of running he required, although it wasn’t as bad as Terry Butcher’s regime. I played at centre-back during the pre-season friendlies alongside Neil Moore. I played left and Neil was right, which didn’t help my right knee as kicking with the left means planting the right. But I was in the team and so kept shtum.

  • • •

  For pre-season we travelled to Devon, where our accommodation was the University of Exeter’s halls of residence. We played Tiverton and were told afterwards that we could have a few beers, on condition we were back before midnight.

  A jolly time was being had in Exeter city centre when, at about 11 p.m., we had a happy yet unintended meeting with the Sunderland squad. They were in the area to play Plymouth Argyle, Yeovil and Weymouth. It was lovely to catch up, but one o’clock seemed to arrive earlier than it should. I was then invited to visit their hotel by Niall Quinn, the de facto ringleader (bridle your surprise if you can), to play cards and have a few more drinks. It was a plush hotel, its salubriousness accentuated by the comparison with our halls of residence. I was back in my own bed by around 4.30 a.m. The perfect crime?

  Of course not. At 7 a.m. there was a bang on the door to abruptly inform me that there would be a meeting before training. I made it there, not in absolutely pristine condition, it has to be said, but I was
well practised at this sort of thing. We sat on the training pitch in the sun, although I was looking for some shade.

  Ternent began a speech. Amid the obscenities, I could make out something about rules and regulations. He had stayed up until 2 a.m. and therefore knew when everyone had returned to the digs. The exceptions to this were those of us who had been out way beyond 2 a.m., thereby giving him no idea as to exactly when we had got back. Neil Moore, Mark Winstanley and I were to be sent home in disgrace. This didn’t quite imbue me with the intended terror and I decided to have a couple of hours’ kip before packing. My sleep was interrupted by Mark, who was quite nervous about the situation, wondering what was to become of us. I hadn’t until this point realised that you were supposed to take any notice of curfews.

  As I packed, there was another knock at the door. It was Sam Ellis, the assistant manager, who had quite reasonably come to ask for an explanation. I told him the truth, with one omission. Sam listened intently and then gave a few seconds of silent thought to the situation before passing sentence.

  ‘You’re fined £200 but you’re not going home. Just stay here with us.’

  An apology was due to Sam and Stan Ternent. I duly delivered it and that was the end of the matter. A two hundred quid fine and a bollocking.

  The one omission in my otherwise honest version of events to Sam was that I had won £400 at cards.

  • • •

  I hadn’t moved to a house in the area and would either stay in a hotel or at Glen Little’s place, or commute from Sunderland. I was given a reprieve from this when Ronnie Jepson, a new signing and an amiable chap, invited me to a day at York Races. I was glad of the invite and while I was there I met Peter Swan, a former centre-back for Burnley who was then at Bury. Through my brother I knew Peter quite well and was among a few people invited back to his place in Wakefield. Peter told me that our manager was trying to sign him back to Burnley. Apparently Ternent had told him: ‘Hang fire. I’ll get that big twat out.’

  This referred to me and I took exception to the statement. Not all of it: I was big, and my status as a twat had long been confirmed. It was the bit about getting rid of me that was at issue. Peter’s candour and straightforwardness made a silhouette of Stan’s underhandedness. I needed to be on my guard. Consequences of the incident in Exeter would perhaps be more serious than I had thought, although I think I was a marked man even before that.

  Back at training I was walking the light-year or so from the changing rooms to the pitch when Sam Ellis appeared and began to make what appeared to be polite, desultory chit-chat about what I had been doing at the weekend, what my travel arrangements were and so on.

  After training I was called to the manager’s office. I sat outside the door for forty minutes with no clue as to why I was there. Eventually Stan finished his colouring-in and summoned me inside.

  He glowered then barked: ‘Ah’ve ’eard yer commuting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Yer fined a week’s wages.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Yer were given £7,000, tax-free relocation money when yer signed. Yer still haven’t moved inter the area.’

  This was true. I had initially rented a place in Harrogate, forty miles away. But my wife hated it and returned to Sunderland, while I continued to travel. Ternent had a point, but the way he set about making it was obviously designed to instigate an argument. Forewarned is forearmed. I arranged with Glenn Little to rent his spare room, then explained the situation to my wife. I would return home when I could. At least I was in the team.

  Not for long. I played in the first two league games and in both legs of an abysmal League Cup defeat to Bury. In the second leg I received a knee in the back, which prevented me from training and left me smarting more than a bit. This was four days before the next game, at home to York City. On Thursday, Ternent asked me how I was feeling. He was concerned; not for my back, which had throbbed since Tuesday, but because he was desperate. We had a mounting injury list and he needed me. The only alternative was eighteen-year-old Chris Scott, who was simply out of his depth (a grand lad, but his next club was Leigh RMI). I told Stan I was struggling quite badly, which was the truth. I was always desperate to be in the first team at all my clubs. We agreed to see how I felt the next day. That was Friday and he spent much of it hectoring and begging me to play. True to my pliable form, I agreed. I would pop a couple of tablets and play.

  The York game was in its infancy when I began to die on my arse. Due to the pain, I could barely run and their forward line was quick to realise this. Ternent had made a mistake in persuading me and I had been wrong to agree. However, late in the half we took a free kick that was cleared, then punted back into their penalty area, presenting me with the opportunity to score with a diving header. My header struck the outside of the post; I probably should have scored, but was instead left writhing on the pitch in increasing agony from my back. The ball was cleared again, but my immediate priority was oxygen.

  Somehow I managed to last the half. In its dying minutes (and the adjective is used advisedly) we took a throw-in down the left, deep into York territory. Virtually immovable by now, I was standing a few yards from the dugout where Ternent’s cutting edge ideas on motivation were being put into practice.

  ‘Gerrin ter the box, you!’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll never get there.’

  ‘Get yer fucking lazy arse up there!’

  That was it. I told him to fuck off as loudly as possible.

  The throw was taken before the whistle ended the half a few seconds later and I stormed off the pitch in a combustible frame of mind, furious at what I had been given in recognition of playing in constant physical discomfort for this man. This was the only time in my career I had ever considered playing to be a favour to a manager, rather than what it should have been – a privilege.

  To rein in my temper in the immediate aftermath, I sat in the dressing room with my head between my knees. Ternent huffed into the room and began to weave his managerial magic by (what else?) telling everyone in turn how useless they were. My turn came, loudest of all.

  ‘And you! You will never, ever, talk ter me like that again. And you will never play fer this football club again.’

  I stood up, took my shirt off and threw it in his face, then headed for the shower. What was he going to do? Stop me from playing for this football club ever again? He’d just said he was going to do that anyway.

  He then said much the same thing to Mark Winstanley, Steve Blatherwick and Mike Williams. It was true too. The four of us had played our final game for Burnley.

  Posturing to the fans, Ternent then gave his version of events to a press conference broadcast on BBC Radio Lancashire, among other outlets. Effectively he managed to sack us with maximum publicity and drama; a touch of class and the sort of professionalism we had come to expect of him. That said, blaming players who were signed by another manager is quite a shrewd move if self-interest is your motivation.

  The result of the York game itself was a relative triumph. We only lost 1–0.

  It did my back no favours, but I drove back to Sunderland, where I told myself that if I really was out of Turf Moor then it was probably for the best. A few drinks with the lads will always make life seem better, even if it really isn’t. At about 7 p.m., I was called by Sam Ellis, instructing me to be back at the ground by 9.30 a.m. the next day.

  This I did. Mark Winstanley and Steve Blatherwick were there too and we were kept waiting for forty minutes while Ternent had his cuticles treated or whatever. I was to be mulcted again; another week’s wages for going home. It seemed that not only was I expected to live in Burnley, I was to remain within its boundaries unless granted permission, like a 1990s feudal system. Things like wishing to see my wife and toddling son were of no interest or consequence.

  I was then ordered to go outside where ‘Mick’s going t’ run yer inter the fuckin’ ground’. This referred to Mick Docherty, another former Sunderland and B
urnley player and the son of the redoubtable Tommy Docherty. He was a lovely fellow and apologetic about having to do the dirty work. After an hour of the usual running and leaping about we were told we could leave. I went back to Sunderland and returned to the training ground the next day, whereupon I received yet another summons to see Davros. As always when he spoke, t’was like poetry.

  ‘Yer went back ter fuckin’ Sun’land again, didn’t yer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fined another week’s wages.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Ah can. Ah’ve told yer, yer need permission off me. Yer’ve been given this money…’ blah, blah, blah. I was also informed that I would not be training with the first team. I would have to wait until after the sessions had finished and then be worked by Mick on my own – and that this would be my life until I left the club. That night I didn’t drive back to Sunderland, I stayed with Glenn Little.

  I contacted the PFA to explain the situation, but they couldn’t do much for me. Ternent found out and told me not to do that again, adding: ‘The PFA won’t beat me.’ What a line. He must have been a big fan of bad films.

  I complied, not wishing to incur yet another fine from this megalomaniac. However, I ensured that I turned up for training each morning stinking of drink. I would have a skinful the night before to ensure that I was hungover and incapable of training as hard as Ternent wanted (Glenn was doing the driving). Simply to annoy him, I was drinking whether I wanted to or not. It was a rare example of someone getting pissed on principle. Everything I did was at quarter pace; going through the motions, then repeating the charade the following day.

  After perhaps three weeks of this, I travelled back to Sunderland. How Ternent found this out I have no idea, but he did. Sam Ellis rang again to say I was to report at Turf Moor once more at 9.30 a.m. the next morning, because Brian Little wanted to sign me for Stoke City. I had decided I would go there without hearing any more about it.