Dave Thomas - Champions: The Story of Burnleys Instant Return to the Premier League

It has taken me over 100,000 words to describe the season we have just had. True, I have digressed a bit here and there, in fact more than a bit if I am honest, but then I have never been one for times of goals, how many corners there were, how many free kicks, what time the goals were or who passed to whom. If, along the way, theres a chance to tell a Burnley tale or delve into the clubs story, Ill take it.

A good friend of mine, a fiction writer, once told me years ago that if you write, you must be able to look right and left, and not just straight ahead. And if you understand that, he added, then you can be a writer. On a matchday I try to look left and right because life is more than just what is straight in front, its what goes on all around you.

Tim Quelch has summed up the season in under 4,000 words, not because he doesnt know how to look left and right (the proof of that is in his book Underdog), but because I asked him to condense what it is that makes it such anguish to be a Burnley supporter and to write about the agony and the ecstasy, for in a strange kind of way the agony is part of the pleasure of being a supporter; its something we need to experience in order to enjoy the delight that comes at the end of a season when something great has been achieved.

We most certainly had our share of agony this season during some games, but boy was it worth it.

Whenever I consider Burnleys prospects, I rarely manage more than a half-empty response. In fact, its more likely to be, What bloody glass?

Alice Walker suggested, Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.

Except I do live in expectation usually of the worst kind; however, that gloomy perspective makes some weird sense given that the worst often happens unexpectedly, so by readily envisaging the catastrophic; fate just might be suckered into dealing a better hand.

I came to football in the late 1950s amid bitter family fragmentation. With relegation thrice staining my early support, the game became a metaphor for personal failure. Despite enjoying many subsequent successes, that default position remains although I am strangely susceptible to occasional episodes of hope. This was the case on Saturday 12 March when Ben Mees thumping header stifled Huddersfields fleeting chance of recovery. It was Burnleys sixth league win on the bounce, and their 14th match unbeaten following the Boxing Day debacle at a drenched KC Stadium.

Andre Grays blistering shots at Bolton and Fulham had snatched victories in games we had been losing while his penalty had been enough to defeat Blackburn Rovers the first home victory over our bitter local rivals in 38 years.

As a result of their 3-1 win at Huddersfield, Burnleys lead at the top of the division was increased to seven points although Middlesbrough, their closest competitors, had two games in hand. But with Boro then losing wretchedly at relegation-bound Charlton, amid apparent turmoil in their ranks, things were looking decidedly rosy. I stupidly chuckled at the gloom to be found on their fans website. Schadenfreude is such a rash pleasure. The payback duly arrived one week later. Driving home on the Friday evening, with Middlesbrough and fellow promotion rivals Hull apparently locked in a pleasing 0-0 stalemate, laughing boy Nugent suddenly stole the points for Boro with a last-gasp header. Nugent had served us well during our first tilt at the Premier League in 2009/10, but he, like his new team-mate Jordan Rhodes, has an irksome habit of scoring against us. His scoffing amusement never fails to rile me.

Next day, Burnley failed to subdue a rugged Wolves side at Turf Moor, conceding a late equaliser from a corner. And while Wolves centre-back Batth was burying his bullet header, Anthony Kay of MK Dons was fluffing a penalty, allowing visiting Brighton to escape with three points and lift themselves into second spot, four points behind us and one point ahead of Middlesbrough. Our next game at Brighton seemed rather important.

Sean Dyche handles the pressure of intense, high-stakes football remarkably well. But even he cited Turf Moor nervousness as an inhibiting factor in the draw with Wolves, a surprising admission given his insistence that his players focus only on the work in hand. I knew what he meant, though, for I had found myself watching Burnley games in an increasingly hunched posture, stomach as taut as a drum skin, chin edgily cupped and brow deeply furrowed as if embroiled in a tight game of chess. My increasingly knotted neck and shoulder muscles would ache for hours afterwards.

Although Burnleys win percentage remained impressively high, most of their victories were ground out with the narrowest of margins. On the rare occasions when my focus momentarily strayed from the fraught action, I found grim faces all around me, expressions etched with anxiety, fingers tautly gripping whatever was at hand.

Inside the heaving Amex Stadium the temperature soared, the early-morning nip dispelled by the suns gathering strength in Falmers protective bowl. The stakes had been heightened by Middlesbroughs 3-2 win at QPR the night before. Irritatingly, QPR had been denied a potentially match-saving goal by an erring assistant referee. More troubling, the Middlesbrough players were once more fully behind Karanka following chairman Steve Gibsons decisive intervention following the managers reported walk-out and subsequent return.

Roared on by almost 30,000 fans, Brighton flew at Burnley, forcing them on to the back foot with the intensity of their pressing game, their crisp passing, dazzling movement and scurrying speed along the flanks. Led by our battling midfielder, Joey Barton, who snorted retaliatory fire, besieged Burnley just about held their own for the first half hour before Lowtons inadvertent deflection allowed Dale Stephens the space to squeeze in a header at the back post. Being mindful I was the guest of a former school friend, a long-standing Brighton fan, I politely applauded both of the Seagulls first-half goals, albeit with a lugubriously clenched jaw. I even sat on my hands as Gray rifled home a loose ball, briefly restoring parity.

We remained under the cosh at the start of the second half, too, with Knockaert at the heart of Brightons incessant assaults. As a result of his bamboozling trickery Brighton had regained the lead on the stroke of half-time. With 20 minutes remaining, Dyche replaced the industrious but largely shackled Arfield with Matt Taylor, subsequently substituting bewildered central midfielder David Jones for a pugnacious Dean Marney. With Brighton looking to protect their priceless lead, Burnley probed the home defences more, helped also by the introduction of bustling ex-Seagulls striker Ashley Barnes, on his return from a cruciate injury.

With Burnleys corner count rising, Taylors whipped crosses proved increasingly dangerous to a side that had conceded 26 per cent of its goals from set plays. With only a few minutes remaining, Clarets centre-back Michael Keane met one with his forehead, surely finding the goal before the ball was hacked away, only for the referee to rule otherwise. All around me there were murmurs of relief as the TV replay apparently confirmed that the ball had indeed crossed the line, just as the incensed Burnley players had claimed. I seethed silently.

Then deep into added time, Taylor took a further left-wing corner kick. Once again his outwardly curving cross fizzed high into the Brighton box, and once again Keane got in front of his markers, this time to plant an unstoppable header past the statuesque Stockdale. As the net bulged I leapt to my feet, repeatedly punching my left palm and bellowing, YESSSSSS! YESSSSS! YOU BLOODY BEAUTY!

So consumed was I with this roar of defiance, I barely recognised the Burnley players, 50 yards to my right, cavorting with our leaping fans behind the goal. The ferocity of that roar sent sparkling stars shooting across my vision before realisation struck. This was an unpardonable indiscretion. I had behaved like a deranged escapee, an oaf. In a situation such as this, you have two choices either brazen it out or humbly apologise. I opted for the former. Turning to confront the resentful faces around me, I met the eye of the most bullish of these and chirped, Fair dos eh? Makes up for the goal that was wrongfully chalked off. To which he sullenly replied, It wasnt a goal.