I see a right stupid prat has started the ratings. Makes it a waste of time.

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With the season's proverbial fat lady warming her tonsils under the greying Lancastrian skies, a new-look Town side emerged to chants of “Super Mick McCarthy”. However the architect of Town's redemption from the fifth horseman of footballing apocalypse perhaps needs a new sobriquet. Connotations towards the “man of steel” seem out of place when his assistant Terry Connor has been so crucial, a Robin-like figure if you will. Today was an exhibition of the marvellous job they've done at Town and very much an exhibition match all in all.

A back-line of Stearman outside of the antipodean partnership of POTY Smith and Kisnorbo was flanked by the débutante Mings. Ahead of him we finally got to see Cresswell pushed up in the year he has at last pushed on and a Wordsworth/Hyam axis was marshalled by captain Carlos. Beyond them Nouble and Murphy spearheaded the Town side in usual 442 stylings.

The line-up somewhat experimental but the opening play as smooth as a Kenny G clarinet lick. Town were comfortable and controlling but lacked the urgency to really be dominant. Movement across the lines was often assured as Town's first real chance came in somewhat more direct fashion. Over the top and through the middle, a drop of the shoulder and sweet cushion on the instep saw Murphy snake his way in on goal before a last ditch tackle cannoned the ball out for a corner.

Wordsworth swung one onto the head of a springing Kisnorbo who's back-post header looped over. Burnley seemed to have little in terms of a response early on. With both teams safe you can be forgiven for assuming players become amateur conchologists this time of year. Suspicions of the sound of the summer sea already lingering in ears as they plod along for one last meaningless 90 minutes.

With the hosts looking stronger down the right, Loach's first worry was a slack backpass which he nodded out for a throw. A quick thinking Paterson on the left byline for the home side swung a menacing ball in for Mings to improvise with a casual volley out. Numerous half chances would be served up only for Vokes to squander meekly with growing familiarity. Town's defence were comfortable and not often complacent as it was Mings who especially caught the eye. Tall, athletic and confident in his passing all game, with time to learn how to hold the line he looked far from out of place – those of a nostalgic persuasion may want to whisper a one word comparison quietly tonight, think “Herman”.

Ahead of him Cresswell did plenty of damage going forward, even a shot/cross from the right hand side dipped viciously as well as numerous other forays provided glimmers of a real eye for a pass. The lad whose played every minute of this season didn't seem to have the legs to beat a man all that often but was happy to play the ball time and again.

As the half swayed largely in Town's favour in the light breeze Hyam and Wordsworth offered a different if somewhat lightweight middle. Lots of neat and incisive play but a lack of steel would allow the hosts to hold on and counter at times. A free-kick from a vicious scythe on Nouble indicated Town's advantage in possession and territory but not in attacking the goal. Grant was rarely forced into a save as Murphy often created holes his colleagues couldn't or wouldn't exploit.

The first half was a drab affair in all as a pedestrian Edwards rarely bothered the byline and cut inside to find little space or time and Town lacked the urgency to create much. Connor sat on the edge of the technical area scribbling and screaming while Mick sat Ceaser-like in the dugout, shouting, gesticulating and raising a thumb to the vocal and jovial travelling fans chanting his name throughout as he roared his legions on.

Bar the odd flick and knock down it looked to be Worsdsworth's rasping set pieces which might yield a goal before the whistle came but even Tommy Smith's little burst down the left wing could not unlock the Clarets. The endeavours of securing safety a week before and the lack of familiarity across the ranks saw a sluggish lilt from Town at times.

The second half was a different affair. The locally unpopular Dyche, who might be mistaken for an unfortunate long lost Mitchell brother obviously snarled to great effect in the interim. The home side came out pressing and piling into Town's half. We looked nonplussed.

Some good work in the tackle provided relief as Mings was naively left uncovered by Cresswell for a break down the right. It was to be a slow burner of a game thanks in part to an official unconcerned with showing cards or officiating too stringently. Town's best periods came when they looked to do the simple things. Lovely one-twos between white shirts and triangles of football tessellated into neat possession play once more.

It was to be a second 45 where substitutions made the game tick and it exploded into life albeit briefly thanks to the introduction of Stanislas. Made to look a world beater on my last trip to Turf Moor, the tricksy winger opened the scoring out of nothing. Cutting across the channel he released a glorious drive which swung into the net with little anyone could do. Admire it, it deserves praise for the player who seems to love playing against us.

Mick showed again he was a man with a sense of the popular – lauded in the first half with his own chant Marriot completed a meteoric rise to prominence swapping the salubrious Leiston for Lancashire entering the fray with plenty of time to spare.

The youngster showed for his lack stature there is a lot of guts. Strong in the air and keen to impress the game passed him by at first as Burnley passed and passed their way into our half time and again. Murphy again combined with Cresswell to give Town fans some hope. The Waterford man of the match river-danced his way into the box like a Celtic Ronaldinho, flighting a ball across the face of goal to be cleared away.

Town would pile in to the box as Wordsworth floated one on the head of Marriot to confidently nod down into Grant's waiting dive. The youngster burst through again moments later, skidding towards goal on his chest under a hint of a challenge, it would have been a soft penalty even through my biased eyes. POTY Smith brought to mind a change of name to Miller as he crashed three shots of defenders' legs in the space of two attacks, launching himself from the edge of the area again and again.

With the game drawing to a close Edwards and Wordsworth made way in quick succession for Hewitt and Tabb. By now Town had lost their shape entirely but it mattered not. The back four became anything up to a back six as the wingbacks floated in and out of defence and Town scampered across the pitch looking for any in they could find. The best of which I've saved to last, it came around the 68 minute mark.

A smart counter attack worked it's way from flank to flank, and sat up nicely in the middle for young Marriot just outside the box. With glory in sight and the scent of fame in his nostrils the wunderkind smashed a neat drive goalward. A big grin from the overlapping Edwards told of the audacity and admiration sent young Jack's way as his shot thudded tamely into gloved hands.

When Burnley applied the killer touch moments from time, a scrappy corner knocked over the line by the lively Paterson was inconsequential. You could feel the positivity and goodwill buzz through a massive away contingent like electricity. Boots, shirts and pride traversed the line of security separating players from fans as both took their bow on a season where safety is sweet relief indeed.

Mick talked of “nails not being hammered in” at training this week. While I'm not sure what the messianic Yorkshireman meant, bear in mind Jesus was a carpenter too. Not one refrain of Sloop John B rang out today, I humbly suggest in honour of Mick we adopt the infinitely more apt “God Only Knows”. Enjoy your summer.

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