Leicester 0 v Everton 0

0 - 0 (at half time too)

                                        Sat. 24th Nov 2001

Report from last season's game

Everton : Simonsen, Watson, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Alexandersson, Gemmill, Gravesen, Naysmith, Unsworth, Radzinski

Bench: Xavier, Gascoigne, Gerrard,Pembridge, Moore.

What we need to do is keep attending those Uri Geller night school classes, you see our thought processes have convinced Walter that 4-4-2 is the way ahead and now we need to convince him that a full back at centre forward is not a good idea!

The talk in the Braunstone Working Man's club, with the Widnes Blues (including the Gerrard Bros, The Mighty 'Kyle' and Chad etc) was wether or not we were considering changing our nickname to 'The Vasectomies' cos we are always firing blanks. Well we thought not, surely Walter had seen enough effort from Stevie up front last week v Chelsea and we would see a striker today. We knew it would not be Chadwick cos Walter, unlike Arsne, does not like the kids, but surely we could go with Joe-Max and frighten the Foxes with pace?

Well it was not to be, same as last week and off we went. A first half that was dire to say the least. We had two shots on target, a Gary Naysmith volley that Walker crisply tipped over the bar and the last kick of the first half which was an effort from Tommy from 20 yards which went straight at the keeper. The disappointment of the first 45 was that so many players went missing, Gemmill, Tommy and most of all The Swede (I came back off holiday last year and was led to believe that this guy was a world beater! Or maybe it was wife??). On the defensive side we had coped well, nothing that Ade & Co threw at us could we not handle, Stubbsy & Davey were tight and Boomer was there for the big clearance, Sandro was cultured as normal, The Ice Man grows in every game. Oh, Ade gave Joe-Max a nod at half time as they walked off, they both went to the same Pig School with their banjo's!

HALF TIME 0-0

You know, when you travel, get lashed, then watch the Blues, sometimes you get memory recall and it get's better! Today was not one of those days. This report is late and for those who watched MOTD it will take you longer to read this than it did to watch the highlights! WE DID NOT HAVE ONE SHOT ON TARGET IN THE SECOND HALF!!!

I read a lad's mag recently and apparently the in phrase is 'Wake up and smell the coffee', well Walter, get the kettle on! We need to do something and fast, the Premiership strugglers are reeling us in. It could have been even worse had Simo not pulled off a late save from Scowcroft when he was through one on one, hopefully Simo is here to stay.

And that's about it, shity ground, shity performance, shity game, in fact I checked the soles of my boots to see if I had stood in dog shit again as I did on the way to Newcastle at home! No shit this time, only what I saw. Time to wake up Walter and smell what you like, the natives are getting restless, we need a win next week and to do that we need to score at least one goal. Either have a word behind the scenes at Ibrox and get Mols here early next week or lets see young Chadwick, have a word with Gary Glitter & Jonathon King and realise that kids are not all bad!

Blue Kipper star man was Simo, not that he was that busy but he was pretty much faultless, given a decent run this fella looks as though he could be top drawer.

LARD SAYS: "Wake up Kipper the match has finished."

Leicester said the better
by
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Midweek, to the Shareholders' Forum, an apparently gentle occasion where questions are addressed quietly to the top table, fielded equally quietly and then shuffled off into a convenient pigeon hole with a vague promise they will be raised at the Annual General Meeting. Frankly, the top table looked like a somnabulent session of the Retired Colonel Blimp Association. It was difficult to avoid the feeling it was little more than a scouting mission on behalf of the Board. It remains to be seen whether it was, and if so, whether the Board will be ready to answer straightforwardly, or bob and weave when the AGM is held.

I found myself at the same table as George who edits one of our fanzines. Incurably pessimistic and sardonic to the last, George (like some others) believes the Kings Dock is a "red herring." Since I once inhabited this position I can understand why. However, matters have moved on considerably since then. But George wasn't about to ask any questions. So I asked them for him, and right vigorously too. This somewhat scattered the lazy, smoky atmosphere and didn't go down at all well at the top table, as if I give a brass shit. Evertonians aren't, never have been and, I hope, never will be, yesmen. This is of course a world away from the Melledrew Tendency, that tiny bunch of miserable sour pricks who want to see the club fail so they can say I Told You So. So far as they are concerned, they can go and impale themselves on their deliberate propaganda of misery. George was better than that, though. He had genuine concerns, sensibly expressed, and not an ounce of peronalised hatred in sight.

Those in stewardship are obliged to answer for their responsibilities, temporary owners or not. The answers may or may not come at the AGM. If they don't, then the club is guilty of lousy communication with the fans, as if you needed telling. We'll see. The AGM is due to be held on Monday, 3rd December. I hope we get some verbal fireworks. Some reasonable answers would be a good deal better.

Match eve, possible PFA fireworks snuffed when the proposed players' strike was called off after the employers increased the money on offer from £30 million to about £52.2 million plus promises for the future. Make of it what you will, adopt which calculations you wish. Me, I trust the likes of Ridsdale of Leeds, former Murdoch-employee Rick Parry of the pinkies and all the other frontmen about as far as the so-called Union of Democratic Mineworkers should have trusted the mining employers and Michael Heseltine. The debris of destroyed mining communities and ruined families is still smouldering, exactly as warned by Arthur Scargill. Footy could go the same way. There are historical examples in abundance; they are ignored at the peril of remaining sanity (and it isn't much) in the game.

Precisely as I forecast, the print media stepped up its attacks on the players' case during the week. And guess whose newspapers were at the forefront of it all? Go on, guess. Yes, there he was, Rupert Murdoch the lying conman, foam flecks at the corners of his mouth at the prospect of losing even more ad revenue if the game went off the TV screens, toady journos doing exactly as instructed. [Meanwhile, Rupe's neo-fascist chum, Silvio Berlusconi, now in control of Italian footy/legislation, was attacking investigating magistrates (the ones who investigate the mafia and people like, well, like Berlusconi, actually) and reducing their armed guards. Anybody who's been alert in recent years will know the first Italian to get assassinated is almost always a successful magistrate. Rupert and Silvio, perfect companions, like Hitler and Mussolini] I thought it a pity the PFA compromised because it might, just might, have helped put more backbone into what's left of the Brit trades union movement. Never mind, it will happen sooner or later. It will have to, or we will revert to the 1930s and mass misery. The PFA could have squeezed a good deal more out of the situation and got the fans on their side for much more far reaching changes. Pity.

None of this of course remotely lightens the overall problem of the inequities of the current transfer system. Everybody in it, players included, ought to be slowly roasted. Until it gets sorted out we can expect more and more uncertainty throughout the game. In the meantime, I supported the PFA position in the same way I support anyone defending his employment rights and the benefits he/she gets from working for anyone who rips a profit out of them. Our current legislation of course was put in place by extreme right wing politicians, little different from the standard politically correct reactionary American dickhead Texan/Dixie model. It was designed to take away your right to defend yourself. Which is why nobody trusts "New" Labour, Blair Brown and co. Pity the PFA leadership didn't have the courage for the fight. But the pendulum will swing again when people have had enough and enough of our people are made redundant. Until then, grin and bear it…………then get mad AND get even. In the meantime the media will unceasingly tell you what a bunch of useless, unemployable turds you and your families are………particularly if you have the courage to stand up to them.

During the week, former player Marco Materrazzi, originally an average centre back player I much admired for turning himself around from turgid when he joined us a zillion years ago, fell for media enticement and came out with the kind of cack you expect from someone who sells a story for, say, £2000 to Trinity Mirror International. (I know one who works for the pinkies and did just that for the infamous Christmas party orgy, the pimply drunk little gobshite.) TMI, based in Chester, own both the Echo and the Daily Mirror. Most of the Echo staff are in a provincial potting shed waiting to make the transfer to our unloved metropolis, and therefore are deserving of even more contempt. Marco is plainly angling for more money, one way or the other. Whatever, neither he or TMI are worth anything more than a loud fart. Just don't buy their muck. That way, you drive them into the unemployment they keep threatening everybody else with. Fact is, they live off the backs of you, your family and your life and couldn't give a shit if they swat you like a fly. Fuck 'em. Destroy THEM by not buying their garbage.

Also during the week it became swiftly and melancholically obvious that our "strike" force was binned good style. Everyone was out, The Yin, SuperKev, The Little Yank etc. etc. Only The Rad was available. And we were due at dull old Leicester. Oh well.

Match eve, I made the baaad mistake of having a few bevvies in town with a good friend of mine. Apart from the fact that he is very good company, he is a pinky and the Barca result still hung in the air like a Damocles sledgehammer. Who could resist the opportunity? So we went through the entire evening with me deliberately shying away from the subject every time we got near footy…………all the time wearing a maddening grin. Believe me, it WORKS. Let them stew, I say, let them stew. But I paid a heavy price in next-day fragility. Serves me right.

Match day, and an early morning call from Stevie disturbed my weak struggle to recognise the distraught geezer in the bathroom mirror. Time to go. I fell heavily into the back seat, wherein a slumped Gary looked as badly as I felt and that lifted me to a recognisable level of humanity. We decamped to The Bus via a farewell from the luverly Mrs. Stevie.

Now, when you are hung over absolutely the last assault you need on your senses is a faint odour of bleach. The Bus was spotless clean but my olfactory system was in deep disarray and accompanied by sinuses like a blood-orange. Eventually Texyla opened one of the roof hatches and rescued me from imminent separation from life. The atmosphere was a little more subdued than normal, possibly because we were going to Leicester, possibly because we were without Ray-o, The Bus's equivalent of Magwich. It seems Inspector Knacker extended an invitation which Ray-o graciously accepted and he now helps out in one of Lizzy's HMP establishments. We miss him. Anyway, it aided my mostly unsuccessful attempts to get my nervous system back to acceptable levels.

I looked around The Bus. No Mogsy. Seems he asked Texyla if he could bring a pinky on board for the trip. You won't need me to describe the kind of response he got. It never ceases to amaze me how many choice and novel uses of our language can exist before you get to the word "No." So, morning of the match, Mogsy "had a cold." Miffed, I think. Made me smile, though, especially when I heard Texyla had taken a vote on whether to let the pinky on and it was, erm, unanimous against. Democracy, don'tcha just love it.

Eventually we arrived at the Braunstone Social Club just after midday. I am reliably informed that the Braunstone area is Leicester's answer to Kosovo but you wouldn't have thought it from the club, which was quite acceptable and well run. I liked it from the minute I arrived at the bar and asked for six hundred pints of lager, always a seminal moment in a barmaid's life. The lady grinned and said, "Bloody Nora!………Oh alright, then………Heineken or Foster's?" The sinus weight began to lift immediately. Quite soon the tables were awash in more hangover juice, footy chat and the usual mad optimism.

This alcohol lark is crazy isn't it. Here I was, still hungover and still swigging it back to prevent it getting worse. But that was nothing compared to Gary's determined frontal assault in his own battle with John Barleycorn. He won it by some distance, something like six or seven pints to nil. He has this interesting theory that it's pretty stoopid "laying off the ale" for a couple of weeks, since you revert to type anyway and all you do is lose two weeks drinking time. After a couple of pints my nervous system flamed out and I resorted to automatic pilot.

At which point Mark and Ray arrived from the south coast and I joined them at the bar to swap fluent licorice allsorts. Mark, recently returned from the US of A, was attending his first match in ages. You couldn't help wondering how reverse-culture shock was hitting him but he seemed fine, and a good deal more coherent than yours truly. Sterling fans both, a fact confirmed by their lousy navigation which ended with them walking a couple of kilometres to the meet. Amazing. Such fans deserve a good deal better than we're getting out on the pitch. Meantime, Stevie and co. were taking enough photos to open a gallery. Pity Ray-o wasn't there, presumably because his photo's already been taken in profile, both sides, and full face with a number.

And so, back on the coach and the few minutes trip to the ground. Our route circled it and then passed the site of their new stadium under construction, as yet little more than a steel skeleton with some of the concrete seating terraces in place. The new site is within a few hundred metres of the old one and has a capacity of 35,000. It can't help but be an improvement on Filbert Street, a ground which even fails to meet the description "quaint." Frankly, it's awful and always has been. I can't imagine there will be much lingering nostalgia when they move. I doubt too if they've had to contend with the claque of Melledrew Tendency whiners who dog our projected move to Kings Dock.

We started with the same team as last week, Stevie up front. And then…………the match was almost too pooey to describe. If you can summon up the image of a fat Rupert Murdoch pigging out on a bowl of decomposed beetroot stew you'll get an idea of how bad this match was. It was Winter made manifest. I was cold, hungover, hungry, raddled with sinusitis and generally feeling as though I wanted to find a cat to kick. I was Down And Out In Leicester.

Two moments enlivened the proceedings like a couple of sparks on an iceberg and just as shortlived. Firstly, Stubbsy banged in a low free kick from midway inside their half and it ricocheted to one of ours (glumly, I can't remember who) and nearly got converted into a goal. Secondly, Akinbyi did well to turn either Stubbsy or Davey (sorry, I can't remember that either) and got in a close range shot which Simo saved brilliantly with an instinctive legs block.

Stevie once again laboured away up front but simply has no guile whatever when faced with inevitable tight marking in the centre. There was nobody capable of taking full advantage of The Rad's bursts of speed over short distance and he was reduced once again to lonely long sprints which ended nowhere; put him one on one inside the box and he'll do severe damage. Trouble is, we don't have a Peter Reid to deliver those little killer balls around the edge of the D. Possibly Gazza could have an Indian Summer there if we had a better midfield to support his lack of staying power. These are all ifs and buts which likely will never be realised.

It goes without saying that we missed SuperKev terribly, even half fit. What we didn't miss was the idiots who call him "lazy." Sadly, though, there was an odd smattering of racists ready to have a go at any black face which attracted their insane attention. Equally sadly they had two ready targets in referee Uriah Rennie (who had a dreadful game and, on this showing, will surely be back down in the Nationwide next season) and Sinclair (who carried on a grubby running battle with The Rad all afternoon). The club must move in on these tiny minority idiots NOW, before they do even worse damage to our reputation.

Our defence was solid enough though Leicester were as clueless as we were up front.

In midfield, Dennis Wise outplayed The Gravedigger by and large and was at the centre of much of what little they managed to achieve. Nic worked hard in yet another display of holding action at inside right, a position he's not built for or much good at, despite non-stop running. Gemmo had hardly any impact on the game.

The only truly encouraging thing to emerge from this game was the fact that we kept another clean sheet and Simo's confidence now seems to be growing. In the second half he made a superb one-on-one save when their man got clean through, left side box and closing. Most other occasions he picked the ball out of the air cleanly and with certainty. Let's hope he can keep it up.

Gazza came on in the second half for The Gravedigger and demonstrated yet again that his pace has virtually gone. Almost immediately he gave the ball away and they broke quickly into a threatening attack which fortunately got snuffed around the edge of our box. He persists in trying things he can't do anymore, such as hold the ball and then sprint with it across a challenge, thus taking out one or two defenders. Invariably he loses it as he tries to hold it and that puts us in difficulties as everyone scrambles for emergency make-up positions. I wish it were otherwise. Increasingly Gazza's play looks like the difference between having sex and making love. The former is a mere cold, biological impulse and the other is what your imagination and feelings make of it.

As the game beat it's tedious path to mediocrity and much worse I let my mind wander to better things:

There were many great comedy moments performed by the immortal Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise, scripts by scouser Eddy Braben. While Eddy underpinned their brilliant presentation the scene was set for some of the greatest piss-takes of celebratories ever seen on TV. For me this reached its peak with a famous sketch with brilliant Yank musician André Previn. Diminutive Previn is one of those rare people, an incurable snob with genuine talent who is quite ready to acknowledge his snobbery and poke fun at it too. This is a feat the English will never be able to accomplish. In England, snobbery is mistaken for ability in much the same way self-designated accents are mistaken for style. However, we are pretty good at poking fun and lacing it with venomous satire. So when gorgeous pouting André agreed to appear on the show he knew what he was in for. And he duly got it, and in spades too.

If memory serves, it was supposed to be a piano (say it: piahno) duet, complete with grand pianos, beautiful hand cue gestures and white tie and tails. André led off and Eric followed. As usual, Previn's play was immaculate. Then Eric came crashing in with a set of chords you can only find when someone breaks plate glass windows by throwing metal chests filled with cutlery through them. Horrified, the Yank sprang to his feet to defend his violated sensitivity, the fey little cupid's bow of a mouth shaped as a melted blancmange. "Stop! Oh please STOP!" He howled wringing his hands in artistic despair.

Pause.

"Mr. Morecambe………please………please………you are playing all the wrong notes!"

Eric slammed the lid down in magnificent temperamental outrage. He stood up and strode over to the tiny figure. He grabbed him by his lapels and lifted him roughly into the air where Previn shiny shoes thrashed wildly in space.

"Look, MUSH," he said in controlled angry tones, "I'm playing all the RIGHT notes."

Pause.

"But not necessarily in the RIGHT ORDER."

He let André fall to the floor like a sack of spuds and walked off diva-style with his nose in the air. The audience nearly died laughing, thus demonstrating you don't have to wax dirty to be funny. The key of course is in the word "mush," addressed to one of the world's leading snobs.

The right key is what we didn't have at Leicester. It eludes us for the time being because injuries have once again done in any minor hopes we may have entertained. Of course it comes as no surprise that the Championship is well beyond us but we might have got some consolation from a good run in the FA Cup, something our squad is surely still well capable of. Mind you, that ignores our appalling cup record since Smiffy took the reins.

Which brings me neatly to where Smiffy stands now. Six matches ago I opined that he should get at least nine points from the available eighteen, ending with the Leicester match. We managed to amass seven and it is truly no exaggeration that it should have been at least twelve. Dreadful luck ensured we got only a meagre return. Smiffy wasn't to blame for any of it. That's the way the game goes. But maybe Smiffy is a living example of the famous Napoleon question leveled at those who suggested new generals, "Yes, but is he lucky?" Maybe Smiffy is just plain unlucky in the English game. If he is, then he should recognise it and make way for someone else to have a go. Now, while there's still time. A bad run of losses and we could be right back down among the dead men. Which means we haven't moved forward at all. I found this a dominant view among many of our fans after this match. You can't blame them. And it is a discontented crew which mutinies.

I believe Smiffy is now back in the position he was before the West Ham home match. If we don't beat Southampton, then I feel he should go. A draw is no good for us if we want to maintain our view of our club. Lose, and we might as well resign ourselves to another relegation battle. Either way, it isn't good enough. Smiffy and the players are responsible for what goes on on the pitch, nobody else. Time for them to deliver or do the honourable thing, Smiffy first. That is the essential loneliness of command.

After the game, I repaired to The Premier Centre with Mark, Ray, The Editor and the lovely Barbara, wherein we met John and his two boys for a few, aaargh, bevvies. I was wilting by this time but the company picked me up considerably, match result notwithstanding. We could still laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. In due course we departed to the Castle Hotel for an aprés ski candlelit dinner and the company of John's beautiful girls, Kate and Clare. Mark and Ray disappeared into the night to wrestle and fail with their navigation back to the south coast.

And, do you know, Winter, lousy match, sinusitis or not, everything was just blissfully perfect. I had a shoulder of lamb to die for and we murdered several bottle of rioja reserva into the bargain. The chat flowed freely and pretty soon I felt, hey, I wouldn't swap for this for anything, especially when we got onto the subject of Neville Chamberlain, his reputation and the tragic image of a piece of waving white paper. When it is known, the truth will endure. The likes of Kate and Clare will make sure it does.

Late evening, The Editor drove us back to Merseyside. I lay horizontal on the back seat, a blissful smile on my face, and drifted in and out of sleep. Yellow road lights flashed by as meteors. Dreams ensued. We were top of the league and everything was all right. Funny thing, life, isn't it. Precious too.

Preview

The job of trying to think like Walter & pick the team is one hard job. On top of that we have a late inclusion of Jesper Blomqvist, who we think will be on the bench. Gazza has talked & talked to Archie all week, saying he should be in the team. We think he will start, & this will leave The Rad up front on his Jack, with Gazza the man to back him up. We think this is wrong. We have had limited success since Walter started playing 442. The main thing is the players look comfortable. Even a right back playing centre dash, & a left back playing right back. (23/11/01)

With the 2 big strikers out injured, namely Super & Big Dunc, Walter will need to find another STAND IN. He must be congratulated for sticking to the 442 formation, which everyone wants. In the past he has come up with 'we must change the system, as we haven't got the front players' Well we hope he goes for Nic Chadwick. He played & scored for the reserves on Monday. He fits the bill he's big, a striker, & he scores goals. Mind you he may get injured before the game. What goes on at Bellfield?

The other rumour doing the rounds is that a place may be found for Gazza. It is hard to see who he would replace. We think the team will be the same as last week, with Chadwick replacing Stevie Watson up front, Watson going back to right back, & Pisto taking over from Unsey at Left back. Hey but what do we know? (22/11/01)