Charlton 1 v 2 Everton                             Sat. 17th Aug 2001

Report from last season's game

Att: 20,451

Everton : Gerrard, Watson, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Pembridge, Alexandersson, Gemmill, Gravesen, Ferguson, Campbell.

Subs: Simonsen, Moore, Tal, Unsworth (for Alexandersson 81m), Chadwick.

Scorers: Ferguson (64m pen), Weir (77m).

Bookings: Pistone, Ferguson, Gravesen .

I had a good feeling from the start about today .Don't ask me why but I did . I felt even better when they announced the Charlton team and that Salarko was playing. We were all guessing what the Everton side would be and I was a little shocked to find that Rhino was on the bench.

After a dodgy first five minutes the Toffees completely dominated the 1st half. Charlton had to thank their goalie Kiely for a number of great saves. In the 10th minute he was quick off his line to big Dunc allowing Young to make a clearance. Then he made a point blank save from Duncan's header .But he should have had no chance when Dunc sent Niclas clear through. With only Keily to beat he hit his shot straight at him .

Other than the saves being made Everton were playing some neat stuff and creating some great chances.

Scot Gemmill hit a beauty from outside the box just wide.Duncan hit the bar from a Super Kev cross.And near the end of the half Super smashed his shot over the bar after Duncan had a shot blocked.

All in all it was a good and promising first 45 , the only thing missing was an Everton goal.

Half Time 0 - 0

Charlton started the second half as they did the first but it was Everton who nearly broke the deadlock. It was good neat passes that allowed Pembo to try his luck from outside the box, this he did. I thought it was in but Kiely Minouge pulled off another brilliant save.

Disaster struck when a bad header from Davy Weir was headed over Paul Gerrard into the net by Johansson to give Charlton an undeserved lead.

Super nearly levelled a few minutes later but yet again was denied by Kiely. He was having a stormer. Everton kept pushing forward and got what we deserved when Kev was hacked down for a pen. Who was going to take it ? Up stepped Duncan. He sent Keily 'spinning around' and hit it low to the right corner. We went bonkers.

There was only one winner now. It was all us. And in the 77th minute from a Mad Dog corner the Toffees went ahead. Alan Stubbs, who had a great game, flicked a header on and the ball broke to Davy Weir. He chested it down and twonked it into the net . We went double bonkers. With ten minutes to go Rhino came on for the tiring Alexandersson to make sure that Everton cruised to victory.

What a start . After we beat Spurs on Monday we will be top of the League

There were some tremendous performances today, Stubbs and Gravesen to name a few, but the Blue Kipper Star Man goes to Duncan Ferguson ,who from the first minute made the Charlton defenders' lives a misery. If he stays fit this season we will be more than OK.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quotes after the Charlton Game

Alan Curbishley

"The best team won and we have to take it on the chin. It proves that a fit Duncan Ferguson and Kevin Campbell can make such a big difference to Everton "

Walter Smith

"Big Dunc is a threat to any team when he is up and playing - he has had a lot of pre-season training and he is as fit as he has been for two years "

"It's a difficult place to come and get a win. We had most of the territorial advantage in the first half but they were the better side for fifteen minutes in the second period and managed to get a goal. But great credit to our lads, they fought back and derserved the win."

"I thought that Alan Stubbs did great. We defended well and it is nice to get a win. It's a great confidence booster. I don't think anyone would begrudge us the win but we have to show we can continue to get results and if we can we will look forward to the season with more optimism."

Kevin Campbell

'This is a benchmark season for us. If we are to start progressing and pushing on, then we have to do it this season. If we don't, then people will have to ask questions of us.

'This is the season to do it. There's no running away from it now. We have to take a step forward. We want to be in the top half of the table and that's where we are setting our sights. I still say we should have Europe as our target because the gap between ourselves and the teams in sixth and seventh places last season was not great.

'Obviously, we don't want the injuries of last season and at the moment we have a squad that should do much better than we did last season. The feeling among the lads is that having survived last season, which was an absolute nightmare, when we only had a few of the first team fit for any length of time, we can definitely make a go of this one.

'We are not just saying it for the sake of it. I firmly believe it. This is a squad that has never got going. We have not really had a settled team but we have new players in and players who are starting to get their Everton careers on track.

'If we can have a solid start and a solid season, then I can see us up there chasing. We are geared up to chasing and we have a great fan-base and a great tradition. It's up to us to get it right on the pitch. That's what it boils down to.'

Jogger

"Gerrin there. You beauty"

Charlton 0 Bluebellies 1: Out of the desert, a mirage
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

The football mirage flickers throughout July and begins to form properly in the friendlies of early August. The lovable illusion overwhelms before there is full control of the senses. The season triggers yet another passing parade of human talent, endeavour and self-deception. And we can't wait: The first oasis comes into view across the desert of footy-less summer. We fall on it as Lawrence and the Bedu fell on Damascus.

Unless human nature has changed dramatically since last May the same tantalising djinns will be on display. Over there, you'll see a truly great performer amongst the other, more mortal ephemera. Here, the young and hungry. Off to the side, the clamour of the fellahin on miserymoan.com. Together, as usual, they will fight and argue over available water while the caravan merchants buy and sell their birthrights. There will be the usual mix of doers, heroes, hangers-on, whiners, empty gossips, quiet administrators and achievers. It is no place for a genuinely sensitive soul nursing a personal disaster best keep that for your quiet moments. That is the way it will be until the game undergoes a Pauline conversion. But don't hold your breath.

The friendlies were over, the impatient gone on and off the field, and the season imminent. The excitement was as tangible as ever, the hype acceptable until it reaches its usual tedious level after a few weeks. You tell yourself: THIS time it is going to be different. If you don't, you might as well go stick your head into the nearest lavatory bowl and pull the chain, or listen to the gossips. Me, I think life is for enjoyment and so is footy. Best to do it as well as you can and deal with the highs and lows like a human being. You only get one shot. The better instincts matter most, not the self indulgent tripe of who and what you hate.

So the season began at 6.00 a.m. Out on the Mersey the sun glinted beautifully on the water and the tied-up ships across the way. A high, thin stratum of half-grey clouds. Perfect footy weather. On the radio, Professor Angus Fraser, fish neurobiologist of Aberdeen university said, "Have you ever held a dogfish and squeezed its snout and analysed the product?" Well, no, you think, not when I'm trying to recover from last night's depredations. It seems Angus was trying to help in the burgeoning anti-huntin', shootin' and fishin' debate. Only the Beeb, you think shaking your head sadly, only the Beeb. On a personal note, I have never needed a prof of any kind to confirm the difference between killing living creatures for food/to prevent disaster and killing/pursuing them for "sport." Seems self-evident to me. Then again, I have never felt the urge to get "pleasure" from pulling a trigger or setting a trap, though I can do both rather well. Angus told us if you dropped a battery in the sea it could scatter the navigational apparatus of some fish species for kilometres around ground zero. Thanks , Angus. I am quite sure that piece of valuable research will be put to some entirely spurious and self-justifying use by one of the "sportsmen" out there.

I turned the radio off, said a fond terra, motored out into the sleeping and miraculously deserted city and collected Fred, John and Thomas at the Huyton roundabout. I excused the condition of what passes for a car. Younger members of the family had earlier tried their level best to destroy the interior until I put a stop to it by politically incorrectly, but satisfyingly, belting a couple of ears. "Tried?" sniffed an adolescent Thomas before settling down in the rear to discuss a trip to Florida with John. How times have changed.

Thirty-odd BlueBellies crammed into The Bus for the journey to our unloved and unwanted metropolis. The atmosphere was excited anticipation but slightly subdued. After last season, the wonder is anybody wanted to bother. But the genuine dedication of true fans has always drawn my admiration and affection and always will. As I said, the better instincts matter most, though you can always find some poisonous arsehole to jeer at them.

Next to me, Fred opened a can of What Made Milwaukee Famous and offered me a quaff. "Thank you, no, Fred," I said, trying to stifle an early morning rising tide of What Makes Me Ill. As usual, season opener looming, everybody was as optimistic as a rising sun. It always makes you feel good and up for it. Talk buzzed, optimism flooded. My instinct was that we would win by a goal, probably one-nil. Only one voice said we would lose. Not surprisingly it was hung thick with the overtones of hangover, like the whiff of Port you get from an old woman staring out to sea or some isolated lonely soul out walking the dog.

Five hours later we got into the Liberal Club, a tacky but friendly establishment up the hill and within minutes of the ground. Sadly, it wasn't before Mouth Almighty had got up front next to Texyla and yet again "navigated" us unerringly to completely the wrong end of the compass, dickwit. How Texyla tolerates him is beyond me. Still, we fell on the bar gasping of thirst, only to be met with the de rigeur English barcry of "Who's next?" lousy service and beer like gnat's piss.

The usual BlueBelly suspects were everywhere. Sadly, The Editor and his lady were stuck on a train somewhere in the so-called home counties, standard victims of the corrupt scam of Money For The Boys privatisation. A moby exchange confirmed we weren't going to meet. Oh well. Then Cockney Toffee and The Squire showed up with barely an hour and a quarter to kick off and then promptly spent at least half of that at the bar waiting to get served. Oh well, maybe next time. At least Dom made it. Still, there was enough clock space for each of us to do our pre-match song and dance act and get in some laughter time.

We noted The Don wants away from Sunderland after barely a year there, a development which must stick in the craw of those who saw his departure from GP as just another illiterate opportunity to beat our club. Using their peculiar logic we must assume there is something deeply wrong at Sunderland, especially when you also take into account the fate of John Oster since he went there.

We decamped to the stadium, BlueBelly songs filling the air and a scattering of police wearing the uniform mix of expressions ranging from the sour I-Wouldn't-Laugh-If-I-Saw-A-Chair-Walk to the grin of What-A-Fuckn-Way-To-Make-A-Livin'. I try to avoid criticizing these boys on the basis that I couldn't do their job in a month of Sundays. No patience with dickheads or fools, see. A few Charlton fans sang, "You're Not Famous Anymooooore!" and all we could do was agree inwardly, but grin smugly and sing back, "You've Never Won Fuck All!" The bizzies watched us with stern faces and made the occasional forward movement until we were inside their patronising cordon sanitaire, yeuk. Easy to see how it was the Brits who invented the concentration camp. Still, it isn't the police who cause the remaining problems at footy matches, it's a tiny minority of dysfunctional birdbrains with the same mentality of the huntin', shootin' and fishin' goons.

Count me in as an extravagant admirer of the miracle known as Charlton Athletic. Here's a club with no home, down among the dead men, no money and even less hope. Until the fans got themselves organised, that is. And here they are, in our top division and COMPETING. Bloody marvellous, love it. The lesson is fairly obvious. The sooner it sinks in the better for everyone in the game. Until then we are stuck with the current South Sea Bubble, now a year closer to bursting after initial inflation from the novelty of TV money. It is only a matter of time and phony primetime-pumping. The media won't help of course because they have a vested financial interest in keeping the status quo and therefore cannot be trusted, odd honourable individuals aside. Nobody should mistake a managed news event for the truth. Short of the appearance of corporate honesty, as likely an event as you becoming el presidente of Mexico, only the fans can change things for the better.

Years ago The Valley should have been redeveloped as one of Europe's major stadia. It sits in a natural bowl which could have been architecturally exploited with some serious money and sensible, determined patronage. Alas, this is centralised, cheapo authoritarian right-wing Britain. No chance. Instead, appropriately, we have a poorly designed, cheap and tacky low-key rebuild scheme. Which, let it be said, is still a miracle, given the circumstances The Addicks find themselves in. Three sides of the ground have been rebuilt and the behind-the-goal stand opposite ours is halfway through a rebuild, partly occupied, with empty pre-cast concrete terraces in place, skeletal steelwork and the bent jib of a yellow crane towering over it all. I suppose we should be grateful The Addicks are at least in existence.

Their enthusiasm was evident everywhere. I have never seen so many fans wear their club's shirt. We were surrounded by a veritable eczema rash of them, mainly because we were limited to only 1,500 tickets due to the rebuilding works. Neverthless, it transpired that the attendance of over 20,000 was their highest in recent years. More power to their alive and thrusting elbows. Except against us of course, haha.

Teams announced. No Radzinski, injured. Erm, 'scuse me? Isn't this where we came in? Otherwise we were in the formation basically settled during the pre-season runabouts. Oh well. Charlton had their own injury problems, which was a nice change for us. It might be tough on The Addicks but who gives a shit after last season? Been there, done that, don't recall anyone (including the more moronic amongst our own fans) giving us any understanding or sympathy then. Get on with it.

Which we did and with commendable first match enthusiasm too. From beginning to end it was an Owl Arse infused performance. Had to be really since it looked as though Charlton's players were younger by maybe average four or five years. Occasionally we even played some really good football. Mostly though it was a dig in and battle it out display which will unquestionably fall short against the Mancs, Gooners and Sheepshaggers. There's no substitute for real class.

The first half was all ours. It should have ended with us three goals in front but the chances came and went with ominous regularity, always SuperKev and The Big Yin at the heart of them. The Yin hit the bar and Super, long overdue as captain, looks like he is gradually recovering that lost half metre of pace caused by injury.

They are murder to play against of course, yet Charlton's young defenders coped well with them. If anyone loses concentration against them they're going to get turned over in spades. Mercifully, nobody hacked at the Yin's calves, as did Espanyol, the usual way of trying to stop him and the source of most of his injury problems. Nor was the long ball forward deployed as much as it used to. I still think they play just a little too close to each other though. Maybe that will come right during the next few weeks, Radzinski return notwithstanding.

Gemmo-Pembo beavered away in midfield and won most of the fifty-fifties while The Gravedigger ran everywhere to virtually no affect whatsoever and Nic had a mediocre game wide right until he got substituted by Beloved Lard Arse in the second half.

Davey-Stubbsy took yet one more step to forming the kind of solid central defence we have badly needed for so long. As expected, Stubbsy didn't get the space and time to deliver his excellent long passes. I am very optimistic about this pairing.

Sandro played like a plantpot at left back and should have been brought off long before the end. Stevie only a managed a few of his outstanding forward runs but his defensive work was much better……what puzzles me about him is why he shows so much forward pace, while he tracks back like a sodding elephant with piles and consequently gets skinned more than he should. My friends, this is one of the great mysteries of the human zoo.

So the half came to a conclusion with us in the missionary position and the Addicks lying back and thinking of England. We grunted with lazy self-satisfaction and almost rolled over and went to sleep. Alan Curbishley did his usual competent Freudian analysis and substituted accordingly. It made a difference.

Charlton were in full control of the first fifteen minutes of the second half while we all got steadily annoyed. Yells of, "Gerrinnnn!!" and, "Fuckn gerrONimmmm!!" welled up all around me and out of me. Well, we've had five years practice at this sort of thing. The only break in the flow came when Pembo hit an absolutely stunning half volley from left side edge of the box (for once he kept his head DOWN as he hit it) and their keeper made an absolutely wonderful diving save to his left and beat it out. Then The Addicks scored a really stupid goal and compounded the transient mood.

Davey, of all people, completely lost his concentration and sent back a sloppy high header to our right from just inside the left side penalty box. It left Paul completely stranded and their man got onto the end of it and looped a slow header over him. Our exhalations were purple but Charlton had earned it with their new lease of life. It was a testing moment. Thankfully, our Owl Arses made sure heads didn't stay down.

Ten minutes later we got a dubious equaliser after determined if unclassy pressure. Paradoxically, it originated in a wonderful sweeping cross-pitch move, out to the left, terrific long ball from Pembo into our deep right, and Charlton hustled it out for a throw-in. The Gravedigger took it and eventually it dropped in front of The Yin closing in, just outside the right side penalty area, and he knocked it down with his elbow. It bounced through to SuperKev who turned and shielded his defender with Owl Arse expertise and the boy took the bait and downed him from behind. Penalty. Which The Yin took and hit slow and low into the his bottom right. We all danced up and down and bruised our calves on the flapping seats. Nobody complained about poor knee space.

Some minutes later and more pressure saw Charlton beginning to wilt at the persistence of it all. Corner, our right. The Gravedigger took it. Stubbsy-Weir joined the queue, sniffing blood. Stubbsy got his head on it and while their defence congregated thickly around The Yin and SuperKev, Davey stole in and thumped it firmly home from between the penalty spot and the edge of the goal area. High fives, stubbly chins and ecstatic embraces everywhere, static gloom in the opposition seats.

It was a lock-out from then on, Beloved Lard Arse on for Nic, though I would have made it Sandro or The Gravedigger who went and soaked the pasta first. An agitated Smiffy was out at the dotted line towards the end gesturing and yelling at our left side defence. Interestingly, you never see him doing this at our strikers.

Overall, we deserved to win. It was a good opener and plenty of excitement and different phases of play to enjoy, but not much outstanding classy play. It went pretty much the way I felt it would. It was satisfying but not convincing. There's a long way to go yet.

Back on The Bus, a crocodile of huge grins made their way on board for the journey home, away from the unwelcoming yellow ochre of London brickwork and clouds of concentrated carbon monoxide. Next to me, Fred popped yet another can of what You Drink When You've Just Won. Again he offered me a quaff. Again I said No Thank You and decided to assume the meditative position so I could absorb the lessons of the day.

In front, Texyla counted the proceeds from the score prediction sheets and calculated how much more he needed for his brand new Orangery, having already installed double glazing and built a conservatory. Yes, yes I jest. The money goes into the club account. But I still can't account for that broad grin he wears, win, lose or draw. Fortunately he isn't a member of miserymoan.com. Nobody on The Bus is. Which is why it is well worth the trip in their company.

It is nice to know there are still fans out there who love the game, can see beyond the money and aren't interested in tedious, facile gossip, who are more interested in a good body swerve than the sum total of phony PR, photo shoots, lousy media and money-grubbing. Outright laughter is always preferable to Chinese whispers.

In the end, the fans will win or the game will die or be left to those with bad intentions or warped personalities. I hope the fans win. Like those who saved Charlton from extinction.