NO CALL FOR THE CROWD DOCTOR AS CANARIES SHOW PREMIER LEAGUE CLASS

NO CALL FOR THE CROWD DOCTOR AS CANARIES SHOW PREMIER LEAGUE CLASS

I didn’t know until I sat in The City Stand before the FA Cup tie against Burnley that the club even had a ‘Crowd Doctor’. However, there in front of me was a man in a fluorescent jacket with those two words emblazoned across his shoulders. Inevitably I pondered the potential demands of his job. Would he be called upon to administer collective therapy for shock in the event of another MK Dons debacle? Or was he there in case the Barclay End crowd surfer came to grief on the pitchside hoardings? As it happened he wasn’t required.

I was excited, being old enough to remember the days before the FA Cup lost some of its magic. The Third Round still seems special even though it is now the stage when highly paid Premier League reserves  try desperately to remember where they left their boots as Sir Alex, ‘Arry, Arsene and AVB rest their galacticos.

Arriving at the ground I had bought my usual ‘Golden Goal’ ticket. I never win and I sometimes wonder if anybody does. You never hear, do you? Such things are shrouded in mystery. At Liverpool they used to run a competition where you bought a ticket with a crowd number on it and if your number matched the official attendance you won £100. I actually once heard a Scouse wag whose ticket was just one single digit over the right figure exclaim ‘Oh would you look at that? If I hadn’t come I’d have won!’

The Burnley fans outside the ground were optimistic. Ray, Frank and his son, Stuart, had travelled from the North West to meet up with Ian, a Claret now exiled in Norfolk. All four considered their resurgent side stood a good chance against Norwich who, they believed would be below strength. ‘You’re like we were a couple of years ago’, said Ray, ‘staying in the Premier League is more important than the FA Cup.’ Ian proudly informed me that he had seen Norwich’s 1959 first round win over Ilford which launched the then Third Division Canaries’ amazing march to the semi-final.  They told me, too, that their team once won the game’s most famous Cup, though, understandably, that 1914 triumph was soon eclipsed by subsequent events.

Both clubs, then, have proud cup history but this time there was not a white police horse or a tin-foil covered cardboard cut-out FA Cup in sight and the only wooden rattle I saw was the one wielded by the programme seller outside The Barclay. This is the FA Cup 21^st century style and to quote Mark Chapman on 6-0-6 the magic is now ‘more Paul Daniels than David Copperfield’. So despite recently having  performed in knockout competitions about as impressively as Ann Widdecombe in ‘Strictly’, on this occasion Lambert’s men were ‘at it’ and cruised to a win which underlined how far they have come since twice struggling to overcome Burnley last season.

You can always tell when the Norwich crowd are not anxious about events on the pitch; it’s when The Barclay and The Snakepit begin their chanting competition and I timed its first arrival at around forty minutes. The home fans, too, revelled in taunting the meagre Burnley contingent with a chorus of ‘We are Premier League!’ which, in fact, was a fair commentary on City’s performance.

The most disturbing match day experience for me happened, incidentally, as I queued for my half-time cuppa. The man next to me asked ‘Would you hold my sausage roll while I have a pee?’ I was so shocked I nearly called the Crowd Doctor!