Act V: Premiership

Sustainability was very important. At my first board meeting here, I asked them what did you do with the Premier League finance from the last promotion? What did you do physically to improve things? They had no money left, it was gone. I said you can’t do that again. You’ve got to do something with the money, you’ve got to put things in place for the future, to try and build something. It couldn’t just be thrown at putting a team out on the pitch and hoping to for the best. There was a reality from the board. If you go back to the last time we were in the Premier League we spent £10million on players, but we also built a training ground, we’ve done the stadium up. These are the things we put in place to make sure it helped build a better future for Burnley.
Sean Dyche

As two convoys in colour’d lines,
Divided by the wide Pennines,
Grown quite excited when road signs
Read ‘Wembley,’ how nerves gnaw;
Now eighty thousand take their seats, Some loftier than Thor,
Each a singing troubadour.

This sixty-first & final game
Beam’d globally, for Burnley’s name
Grew good & easy with her fame
Like fifty years before;
When Mcllroy a god became,
When Jimmy Greaves grew sore
If we beat Spurs at Turf Moor.

It was a nervous opening
‘Til Wadey drove in from the wing
Towards the box, nimbly leaving
Two Blades upon the floor
A pass, a shot, a block, a swing,
Delirious uproar,
An unstoppable meteor!

From that goal the Blades were blunted, Hopeless hoofballs upfield punted,
As the lads constantly hunted
For a second goal & more,
But off-the-lines & last-ditch tackles
Kept the final’s score
Close enough to feel a chore.

Then after thirty three long years,
Bob Lord’s demise, Orient’s tears,
Colchester’s pies & Grimsby’s beers,
Blades clatter’d to the floor
For Burnley’s earn’d its golden cheers,
With Coyle the Commodore,
Chested crests men proudly wore.

Wembley’s no place to face defeat,
Half of the crowd soon fled their seat
But Burnley’s half remain’d to greet
The trophy’s grand encore;
Uprais’d by Stephen Caldwell
To the greatest ever roar
Of, ‘No Nay Never No More.’

In a swirl of fun emotion
Super Burnley’s earn’d promotion,
& many millions were won
For the coffers of Turf Moor;
With its fanbase of devotion,
Now nobody could ignore
The new premier pompadour.

‘Twas the greatest of occasions
When the Claret celebrations
Came back home to salutations,
Fifty thousand flock’d, & more;
Everybody were relations,
As they danced like Terpsichore
For the team we all adore.

So up we went, when Robbie Blake
Would catch United on the break,
But top-flight football, fer fuck’s sake,
Fer small towns more a chore;
When sheiks & oligarchs can stake
Vast fortunes set in store,
Just to stay in that Top Four.

But still we held our own, I’d say,
Until that bloody Boxing Day
When Bolton came to town to play,
Whose fans sang to implore
Our manager to walk away
From us, & from Turf Moor:
Owen Coyle, you selfish whore!

He might have gone & took us up,
A right good run in every cup,
But with that bloke I would not sup,
He’s rotten to the core;
Telling the board his numbers up
He did one from Turf Moor,
The Judas forever more.

Mid-season left us in the lurch,
Forcing the board to swiftly search
For some good lad who wunt besmirch
Our famous name of yore;
So Brian Laws climbs on the perch,
& clutch’d it with one claw,
Boxing with a broken jaw.

As down we went, one final bow,
Spurs stuff’d 4-2, with rais’d eyebrow
Our fans world-wide were agate, ‘Wow!
Why weren’t that done before?’
Then to the town came Eddie Howe,
& all the birds went ‘phwoar!’
As they flock’d back to Turf Moor.

When ‘Steady’ Eddie went back home
To Bournemouth, by the hoary foam,
The Board were forced once more to comb
Thro’ candidates galore;
Until one lad stuck out like Rome
Seen from Latina’s shore,
When Sean Dyche came to Turf Moor.

His power-point had blown the dust
From Bob Lord’s long-embedded crust,
This was a bloke the Board could trust
Upon the field, & more;
His mission to replace the rust,
His vision to the fore,
Hungry as fledgling condor.

With Dyche the town soon dared to dream,
Round Volkes & Ings he taught the team
To pass, to penetrate, to screen,
To cross, to shoot, to score;
Then topp’d the league like coffee cream,
With Leicester, up once more,
Lancashire’s ambassador!

But still the Board would not invest,
Instead they swell’d the treasure chest,
Failing again their top-flight test,
& down that old trap-door
We dropp’d again, but now the nest
Twinkles with golden ore,
Some sunny El Salvador.

Tho’ relegation rocks the roots,
The Board sat down in shiny suits,
Quite lucky, as the parachutes
Increase from two to four;
So bought a bulldog & his boots
From Brentford, who could score;
Out tattooed toreador.

As the Board & all its riches
Finally invests in pitches,
Underneath the Hill of Witches,
By the Calder’s stony shore;
Stood erasing game-plan glitches,
Stood the Gaffer, stood in awe
At the Pennines rolling oer.

Dyche made a bold, strategic move
For Joey Barton, that lad who’ve
We’ve loved to hate, a point to prove,
No pamper’d pompadour,
Gelling the Clarets to his groove
Back up we went once more,
&, we hope, for evermore.

Upon the way, let it be said,
They put that blasted ghost to bed,
Came back from Bastards one ahead –
Those decades, almost four,
Old hat just like that cattle shed
Call’d Ewood, we deplore –
Normal service did restore.

From the Press the old naysayer
Harp’d we never had a prayer,
But that season Burnley’s mayor
Was mi Uncle Jeff, whose roar
Puff’d up each precious player
With his voters down Turf Moor –
& from time to time he swore!

As the world’s jump’d on the wagon,
I was in the George & Dragon
In Seattle, with a flagon
Of best bitter, pretty poor;
Watching the boys in Britain,
Before dawn at half-past four,
While the rest of Fremont snore.

As the lads play’d football dauntless,
Reinforcing Turf Moor’s fortress,
Made primadonna prince undress
On cold & dingy floor;
Who, stepping out, lost all finesse,
Unhinged as Burnley roar
Thro’, ‘No Nay Never No More.’

Altho’ atrocious when away,
Our Ashley Barnes & Andre Gray,
Mee, Keane & Heaton paved the way
To paradise, as soar
The players yon that dogfight fray,
Fought boot & tooth & claw,
Sweatin’ every single pore!

Those points we won at home that year
Enough our steadied ship to steer
From relegation, pulling clear,
We reach fair safety’s shore;
When Jimmy Mac would shed a tear
For Burnley & Turf Moor,
Only now & evermore.

Friends, if you’re ever parted
From the fans quite open hearted,
From a football team regarded
Wide, avec equis amore,
Some Claret somewhere’s started up
That song we all adore,
Our, ‘No Nay Never No More.’

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