the shite 1 v 1 Everton                                                     Sat. 23rd Feb 2002  

Kick-off: 3.00pm   Live on Jumbothon @ Goodison Park                                    Att: 44,371
    
Report from last season's game

Everton: Simonsen, Clarke, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Gemmill, Carsley, Linderoth, Naysmith, Ginola, Campbell.

Bench: Gerrard, Unsworth, Radzinski, Gravesen, Pembridge.

Subs: Radzinski for Ginola (45m), Gravesen for Linderoth (45m).

It was a bit different going to watch a derby on a screen. It had its good points, but it also had its bad. The Park end looked full, except for the Legends bit in the middle. The screen used, was the one from the corner of the Park End. So obviously there wasn't that much expenditure for the club. So well done Bill. A bit of thought went into that. Now that's out of the way, lets get stuck into them. The screen was placed on the half way line. Too far away, for some people to make out who was who. Nearer the 18yard line would have been better. For the first 15 minutes the picture on the screen kept going off for a few seconds, & then when it was on, it had a quarter of the screen, which should have been at the bottom, at the top. It needed someone to give it a bang on the side. For the rest of the game the screen was fine.

I've just read back the last paragraph, & I'm beginning to sound like Mickey Blue Eyes. So lets get on with the match. We were pissed off when we found out that the Rad was only on the bench. Most of us thought that the only way to beat these was to play two up front. Ginola doesn't play up front. He just wonders. With Campbell not at his best, he needs help. We were well warmed up by the time the match started with a couple of renditions of 'Kopites are Gobshites'

It started well for the Blues with the midfield getting stuck in, & not allowing the shite to dictate play. Stubbs, Carsley, Weir, & Clarke were throwing some crunching tackles in. Their no 10 was one moaning little shit. Trying to get Davie Weir booked. Everton knocked it around well when they had possession Ginola was holding the ball up well, with Nace, & Pistone working well down the left. Simmo was commanding his area well, collecting crosses, like picking cherries from a tree. How assuring it must be for the back four to have a goalie, who can catch a ball.

Everton's first shot on goal was from Lee Carsley, who shot from wide on the right, after good work from Campbell & Ginola. Nace then had a half chance, but it was scrambled away. At the other end. Their no. 9 had a chance, but Simmo came off his line to block, & Stubbsey, coolly played his way out of danger.

Their ugly full back, should have been booked, when he smacked Super Kev in the back with his ear. He was lucky to get away with a warning. The game was hotting up & again the Homer of a ref, refused to book the little squirt of a no 10, after a late challenge on Stubbsey. The crying Norwegian twat was the next to try and get Davy Weir booked, when he went into a 50/50 with the Everton stalwart, only to come off second best. Davy lent over and gave him an earful as he lay there squirming with pain. Throughout the first half the red shite were no threat to Everton.

Half Time 0 - 0

Everton replaced Daveed and Toby with the Rad and Tommy Grav. Gravesen went on the right hand side with the ineffective Gemmill moving into the centre of mid field with Carsley. The Rad went up front for a more attacking 4 - 4 - 2 formation. Everton looked more comfortable straight away, Radzinski played a one two with Campbell, who sent Naysmith down the left, but his cross was blocked for a corner. Everton took the lead within 5 minutes of the restart, Gravesen broke down a move on the right and switched the play to the left. Past played a sharp one two with Nace this split the shite defence completely open. He continued into the box and picked out Thomas Radzinski who smashed the ball into the bottom right hand corner of the shite net. Cue delirious celebrations. The Park end was in uproar. The great thing about watching the game on the screen is that they replayed the goal four times from different angles. We went bananas. We're Evertonians, & have just scored against the Pinkies.

Everton continued to have the better of the game for the next 15 minutes or so, with the tackles flying in fast and furious from the Everton players Nace, Stubbsey, Weir, Carsley and Gravesen all doing tremendously. Thomas Gravesen showed his metal when he was fouled by the Everton reject, Tommy tried to take a free kick and the shite number 3 kicked the ball away, Tommy reacted by charging after him and grabbing hold him, the smurf showed his true form by juddering away. The only threat the red shite showed was a few crosses which Simmo dealt with confidently. The shite scored a lucky goal to equalise, when the number 9, who must have been ten yards off side, toe poked a shot under the advancing Simonsen.

The Toffees came back into the game and could have won it when Radzinski turned on a sixpence and shot, only to see his great effort tipped over the bar. Everton had many stars in their ranks today, Naysmith, Pistone, Weir and Clarke all defending magnificently, Carsley and Gravesen getting through some tremendous work in midfield and the Rad and Super Kev back in tandem. Thomas Radzinski is top drawer. But the Blue Kipper star man has to be Alan Stubbs, who can call himself an Evertonian.

Full Time 1 - 1

Hear the one about the dyslexic pinky?
He went to a toga party dressed as a goat
by
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Following the interminably dreary Crewe game we were drawn in the FA Cup against Middlesborough away. Well that's alright then. That's all we need, a trip to the most goddamned awful dump ever dropped from Pandora's arse. It's like Warrington with fast food chains administered by tooled-up no-neck bizzies. So even if we get through frankly I'd rather slide down a mile long razor blade and use me balls as a brake before I went to there. Which means of course I'll be going, assuming the worst doesn't happen. Which is also a very stupid thing for an Evertonian to say these days, since it appears that the worst ALWAYS happens. Interestingly, Middlesborough's last Chief Bizzy ("zero-tolerance" Mallon) has just been roundly condemned by his replacement. Mallon's response is to try and stand as mayor. Oh well.

Crewe also got bladdered 4-1 at home to Wolves, another sure sign that we'll struggle in the replay, which we should win by some distance.

Tuesday, Walton Labour MP tubby over-the-hill Three Chins, not to say Two-Faced, Peter Kilfoyle also finally dropped any pretence in his dealings over the Kings Dock project. He appeared on stage doing a very good impression of a sour politician trying to pull economic blackmail: Pay up or I'll try to sabotage the project. Supporters will therefore have to deal with him by demolishing the one remaining partly-valid argument, the fair distribution of European Objective One funds. His argument wilfully ignored the fact that local pols like himself have managed to orchestrate huge underspending of European funds since 1994. So much for HIS stewardship of the Walton constituency and his contributions to our city. Sadly for him, the tubby one has never been the same since he departed the position of junior minister in one of The Chief Messenger Boy's governments. Long term Blue Kipper readers will know of his slippery dealings over the Kings Dock. Increasingly he has looked and sounded like someone who was maneuvered into resignation; if so, that might explain his "opposition" to government policy. Those who don't know of his actions on the KD issue are invited to read his words in the "Kings Dock" section of the home page and make their own judgement. But be warned, you'll want a shower afterwards. You will also find a complete rebuttal of his latest stance.

On Wednesday there was an important European match at Nantes which the Mancs drew with a typical last minute goal. You know, I think they do that sort of thing purely to annoy the pinkies. Heavens. It works too. Meanwhile, the pinkies had some bad luck of their own when they lost Gerrard to injury while only managing a draw with the baaad boys from Turkey. Things are looking bleak for them in Europe and elsewhere. This inspired a brief surge of hope for the derby match. Which was very welcome because I haven't seen so many derby match pessimistic Blue Bellies in years. I didn't meet anybody who thought we could get anything out of this match, me included, although it is a game redolent with Anything Can Happen And Probably Will. A draw would be considered equivalent to all that nonsense at Lourdes. Straws, clinging to. Even when you made due allowance our recent form has been so rock bottom you felt it would need something different for us to survive. Nobody I know gave us a remote chance of victory.

All week the weather got steadily stormier and stormier, rain lashed everywhere and the wind blew harder. Presumably the latter happened in imitation of the pinkies.

Thursday night I was prevailed upon to watch GB win a first gold medal in 18 years in the Winter Olympics. I almost had to be bolted to the floor since viewing TV is largely my idea of watching curdled turds. Imagine my horror when I realised it was a curling joust. A weird, weird game which just might have had the Ancient Greeks rolling around in laughter. It was a great victory, apparently, but I still can't figure the entertainment value in sliding old kettles down a strip of ice while brushing up in front of them. While the gold medal was most welcome I reckon this game puts back the course of female emancipation by decades. And that middle aged lady, the "skip," why did she have to have a voice like a distraught Aberdeen tug boat hooter? Still, very well done girls. The contemporary fascist obsession with winning medals and trophies isn't my idea of sensible sports glory.

From Friday onwards the world was suddenly full of Pauls. There was Paul 1, who got me a ticket for "An Evening With Howard Kendall" at GP. Then there was Paul 2, Jim's son. The company was amiable and genuinely funny, not one Kings Of The Kids in sight. Plenty of passionate argument without it getting silly. Nice. I have been to so many of these occasions I can almost do Howard's speech for him, backwards. It is still very funny though and full of authentic footy stories. The mood was caught perfectly by the comedian Eddie Archer, as mad an Evertonian as you or me. Eddie told us the only reason old men take Viagra is to avoid pissing on their slippers. I still laugh long and hard too at Howard's story that after he signed Paul Rideout some of the directors expressed horror. To which HK said, "Hang on a minute. You told me to sign him." Boardroom consternation. "No we didn't," said somebody, "we told you to get dried out!"

This kind of story was new to young Paul 2 who was intent on proving Generation Xers aren't all devoid of humour. For instance, he claims these are the full words to the anti-Gonzo song:

"The shadow outside is fright-e-ning
It stops the sun from shi-e-ning
You can see wherever he goes
That Thompson's gorra a fuckn big nose

SIT DOWN PI-NNO-CHI-O
SIT DOWN PI-NNO-CHI-O"

Then there's another one to the tune of the old Kinks number "Lola":

"She went up to him and she asked him to dance
He said 'Fuck off pinkshite, I'm the King of France

I'M GI-NO-LA
LA LA LA GI-NO-LA"

Across the table, Keith was busy winding up anybody who fell for his usual line of welcome patter. Thing is, he does it so straightfaced almost everybody falls for it hook, line and sinker, me included. By the time we left I was so full of plonk I must have had a distinct sloshing sound somewhere in my walk. But footy is made for nights like this. Good talk, good company and loads of laughter.

Match day dawned and I looked outside. There was a howling gale, the Mersey growled angrily at itself and it was………hailstoning. Nothing, I thought glumly, to the storm we're gonna be hit with at Dracula's Castle. I checked my stock of Royal Blue and white garlic, mallet, wooden stakes and crucifixes. I phoned doctor van Helsing but he was permanently engaged. I checked the phone number of The Samaritans. My family were told what to do with the body. Yes, I had a hangover the size of your mortgage. I was completely addled with Alcoholic Remorse and pre-derby tension. If you don't feel the latter there is no point at all in you having footy as a part time hobby.

Then the sun came out and the wind eased off. I tell you this is the only country in the world which suffers from paranoid schizophrenic weather. It's too loopy to analyse. No wonder we have TV "forecasters" (read: guesstimators) like Michael Fish, a classic case of an Englishman who looks and sounds exactly like his name. The radio told me The Rad and Carsley were available and so was The Gravedigger. I lightened considerably at the former news but couldn't give a shit if Gravesen played or not. I figured if Carsley could play the way he did against Arsenal then that was about as strong a midfield as we could have, an in-form Gemmill-Pembridge centre combo excepted. Maybe we could keep the score down and even pinch a goal ourselves. I brightened up.

Just gone midday I fell out of a taxi and into a city centre hostelry, wherein dwelt some of The Bus. Fred assured us Owen wasn't even on the bench for the pinkies. Despite that, it was a subdued group for the most part so I exchanged a few pleasant family words with Tommy before we got another taxi and ended up in the Blue House opposite GP. I mean nothing indirect when I say the Blue House is an awful dump on a par with the hole that is Croft's on City Road or the Netley on Walton Road. I won't be dragged kicking and screaming into either venue ever again. Before we got there, somebody assured the company the Blue House "has been done up." You can say that again. Two coats of emulsion everywhere, floor included, is indeed my idea of being stitched up. The beer and service perfectly complemented the paintwork. Yeuk.

Still, there are always compensations somewhere, somehow. You have to be optimistic even in the face of Guinness Malaria. Mogsy showed, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from a morning footy match, and promptly lied about our Tuesday night snooker encounter. I asked him what position he played in the footy match. "Wide left provider," he said sounding like a Yank grid-iron commentator. "Did you provide?" I asked. "Er, no," came the reply. At least this was a hundred percent more honest than his snooker calumnies. Then Paul and co showed up from the previous night, this time with the addition of son Michael who forecast we'd win 5-0. I love the optimism of children.

So we took the Stanley Park trail to Dracula's Castle. Everywhere was bright and sunny, but around the castle there was nothing but black clouds, teeming rain and forked lightning. Goblins and gargoyles with funny accents were everywhere dressed in pink and white. Doctor van Helsing showed up and distributed strings of garlic, mallets, wooden stakes and crucifixes to everyone dressed in Royal Blue. Werewolves howled somewhere in the distance. We locked and loaded with silver bullets. In the immediate vicinity someone in pink and white was distributing phrase books in Norwegian, west country and "home" counties.

Inside, there's an odd feel to the place these days. Fat Ron Atkinson once said he thought "there's something sinister about the place." But it was the kind of thing you would say if some idiot had just sprayed the dug-out with ammonia or lodged a dart in the bridge of your nose. Like all Evertonians, I have never liked the pinkies or their ground and now it has been rebuilt I like it even less. Small wonder they want to completely re-develop it along the lines of their original proposal. The other two schemes, one at Speke and another expanding into Stanley Park, were merely kite-flying to reinforce their chances of the original. Interestingly, LCC CEO David Henshaw, a pinky, let the cat out of the bag at a midweek Kings Dock meeting when he referred sideways to the fact that even the original scheme included part of Stanley Park. Sadly for him, a man in the tiny audience got to his feet and said, "As a member of the Stanley Park Preservation Society………………" I wasn't there but I wouldn't make book against the fact that Henshaw's kecks rolled up at the gaffe. Actually of course the Anfield area genuinely needs the redevelopment (the proposal is much wider than the football ground) and all scousers should welcome it. I hope it goes through for all our sakes.

We were joined in the ground by the immortal Gerrard brothers, Paul and Steve, and an excited, nay hysterical Geoff who immediately informed me:

(a) He's pissed off with the blatantly biased marking of the bastard capitalist Olympic judges against the former Soviet Union

And

(b) Of an important word change to a former song. It now goes

"When the ball hits the goal
It's not Shearer or Cole
It's Ginolaaaaaaaaa."

You know, I would never have got to sleep tonight without either valuable nuggets of information.

Teams. For us, Sandro, Carsley and Ginola in, The Rad and The Gravedigger on the bench. For them, Owen and Anelka in. Thanks for the insider info, Fred. At kick off the sun came out and half the pinky following immediately decayed like Christopher Lee in the final scene of a Hammer horror movie.

As usual, there wasn't a lot of good passing footy, mainly because we seemed to have five men strung across the middle and the pinkies didn't have a clue how to get through. They did most of the combination passing but we also did more than our usual low share. Gemmill and Carsley were winning the ball a lot and passing it short. To one of ours. Think about it: How long is it since we've had that luxury? It looked promising.

The first chance fell to them when Anelka, henceforth The Dome, sprinted clear on our left and got off a narrow angled shot into the side net from the edge of the box. Almost immediately we did the same thing at the other end when Carsley got away on our right but it hit it straight at their 'keeper. If we could keep this up the pinkies weren't going to have it as easy as I thought they would.

The game began to settle down into an edgy midfield battle. Bodies fell to the ground at regular intervals as both sides let it be known they weren't going to give in easily. You know the sort of script. They were at home so the pinky fans howled a lot. It's an odd noise, not the sort of thing you expect in a derby game. Pink friends tell me it has been like that for a long time now. Well, that's their problem and they're welcome to it.

They had slightly the better of the real estate but couldn't do anything at all with it. Owen seemed to fall back further and further, which suited us right down to the ground. He also got further and further away from The Dome, which was even better news. So The Dome went out to the wings to try and do more damage. He only managed it once when he tricked Clarkey at halfway on our right and closed on the penalty area before Simo rushed out and blocked him brilliantly.

I wondered how this would affect young Clarkey's confidence. He is after all playing out of position. I needn't have worried, not then or later when he was stretched much more. In fact our entire defence looked good, as it had to be if we were to leave without getting a good hiding. Davey and Stubbsy were a much better centre back combination than recently, possibly because Stubbsy was really up for this one and dead focused into the bargain. Davey was pure gold as usual. Sandro returned well at left back and only occasionally looked ring-rusty. Simo made some brilliant instinctive saves as the game wore on.

This formation stuff bores me shitless so I'm not sure exactly who was supposed to be playing where in midfield. But it looked like Gemmo-Carsley-Toby-Gary plus Daveed when he could be arsed. Up front, SuperKev was on his own mostly except when Daveed could be arsed to get close. Unfortunately, Daveed had his hands full most of the time so Kev was in the same old familiar role, with the same odd smattering of dickheads and their thick "lazy" comments. Meantime, in the real world, Kev gets knees stuck in the back of his thighs or in his lower back almost every time he goes for the ball. But there's no telling this to the dickheads who can't see any further than the end of their loony scapegoatism or crack brained prejudices.

Toby's play is interesting. He tackles as solidly as a brick shithouse but then has difficulty passing accurately. Understandably, his match pacing isn't up to scratch yet. I hope he makes it because he seems to have a lot of promise. In this match he looked slightly bewildered, if quite determined. Good on yer la.

I am on the verge of changing my mind completely about Lee Carsley. This match was an ideal opportunity to compare him with The Gravedigger, who came on later, and tot up the gains and losses. On very short evidence Carsley wins hands down. We can dispense with Gravesen's services without blinking an eye in the way he asked for, preferably tomorrow. If Carsley keeps this up we can assume we have a midfield player who tries for ninety minutes, makes minimal mistakes, doesn't curry sly fist-waving favour with the crowd and never hides out on the wing or calls for the ball when he knows there's somebody better placed. In short, he's a modest but effective midfield player. 'Bye Tommy.

The first half came to a conclusion with the pinkies getting a free kick virtually dead centre of the D and a goal looking certain. By this time the tension had taken its toll of me and I was en route to the loo when the free was given. The Middlesborough bizzies could learn hugely from Merseyside bizzies and stewards. I stopped at the top of the steps to watch and nobody said a word to me. Fortunately, a Norwegian out on the pitch fucked up the free kick to howls from the Norwegians in the crowd. I could hurry down to blessed relief.

Our substitutions came right at the start of the second when The Rad and The Gravedigger replaced Daveed and Toby. Smiffy appeared to please everyone with this move, me included. It made a big difference to our play and within seven minutes or so we were in front.

The Gravedigger collected the ball about half way on our right. For once he didn't screw around and gave a short ball to a motoring and determined Gemmo on a diagonal run toward our left. After a couple of turns he got it to the left wing to Sandro and then called for the return closer to him. It duly came back. The peroxide one fell for it hook, line and sinker and dived in at Naysmith while Sandro got outside his marker wide left. Naysmith duly sidefooted as sweet a one-two pass as you'll ever see and took out the two pinkies in a flash. Sandro was clear and closing to the bye line, edge of the box. Panic in the pinkies' ranks as everybody headed for their goal with some of ours. Everyone, it transpires, except The Rad. He did the kind of thing no coach can ever teach you: He held back instinctively on the edge of the box, centre D. All outstanding strikers have this kind of touch. Sandro rolled it beautifully into his path and he despatched it with a half hit ground shot inside the left post.

Pandemonium.

The Rad's electrifying pace makes all the difference to our scoring prospects, even when it looks as though he doesn't have a chance of getting the ball. You wouldn't bet against him. He burned up the pinkies two centre backs on a few occasions in this match. And not coincidentally he formed a really good partnership with SuperKev, which is what I expected.

Gonzo then got out to the dotted line to bring on Heskey and Smicer their wide left and wide right respectively, presumably to push Owen and The Dome closer together. After some further skirmishing it began to work too. I particularly watched how Clarkey dealt with the lumbering Hesky. While Clarkey's physique is still developing, lumbering Heskey already looks dangerously close to being fat. So it was a real test. And, no question, Clarkey came through again with flying colours, only occasionally caught on the outside. Smicer threatened a lot against Sandro but never really delivered anything, anymore than did Heskey. But the overall affect was to stretch play the full width of the pitch instead of crowd it in the middle. It told about twenty minutes after the subs came on when The Dome got through the thinner Royal Blue Line and got on the end of a through pass to nick it past Simo.

After that, play was mostly concentrated in our half as they forced the pace without looking convincing. A couple of chances were missed and there were a couple of nervy ricochets and Simo made two outsanding saves. There was always The Rad though and they could never leave him or SuperKev on their own so the pinkies had their own restrictions too. This was exacerbated by The Gravedigger's willingness to make forward runs when the chance presented itself. Which was the least he could do for leaving Clarkey on his own too many times.

And then during a late breakaway, a cross came in from our left and the Rad hit a half volley from the D that the pinky 'keeper kept out with a brilliant save low to his right. Had it gone in The Rad would've achieved immortality and we would have won. A second at either end would've been enough.

So we got a well deserved if unlikely draw. If, a big if, we can keep this sort of organised determination there's absolutely no danger of relegation or of Crewe being an obstruction to the next round of the FA Cup. However, footy just doesn't work that way and we all know it. That's part of its beauty.

At the end, the Anfield Suits, of whom ex-Murdoch employee the ineffable Parry is typical, had decided a lock-in wasn't necessary. Maybe they've learned their lesson after the appalling shambles of the last two or three seasons. I hope so. Theirs is the kind of behaviour, along with that of that piece of shit Emlyn Hughes, which has helped to bring us to the present state of affairs between the clubs. So much for so-called "professionalism."

You could say, and I wouldn't disagree since I am as biased as you are, that this was a moral victory for us. Which won't explain young Michael's gloomy face when I saw him after the game. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "I thought you'd be made up we got a draw out of it." But the disappointment was genuine. "I thought we'd win 5-0," he said, and meant it. Out of the mouths of babes.

Isn't footy wonderful?

Team News

This is it boys. Give us a day to remember. We deserve it. Lets get into the shower of shite. Now that I've got that off my chest I will give you some of the latest team news.

The Rad, Pisto and Tommy Grav have all been declared fit. It looks like Duncan is touch and go.If they are fit they all should play a major part in the game. The next four or five games will decide what kind of a future Everton has. We have to start now , not next week or the week after. Now. Walter has got to play 2 upfront and hopefully with Ginola on the wing to supply them forwards. Whoever plays make sure you realise who you are playing against and kick the shit out of the shite. Don't forget they don't like it up them.

Walter had this to say on the injuries:“We have Radzinski, Gravesen and Pistone all available again. They are clearly not match-fit, and the debate is at what point we decide to use them, whether they are involved from the start or otherwise."(21/02/02)

Carsley is back from suspension to beef up the midfield. The Rad & Big Dunc are in the squad. Walter is not sure if either should play. We say you must take a gamble with their fitness. We have been crying out for some pace upfront, & The shite are still scared of Dunc.

On the Rad, Walter says: “There is no point in bringing him back unless he is ready. I think he will be back to a level of fitness that will enable him to play the only problem is the length of time he has been out. We will have to monitor his training and make sure he is up to playing in a game, but he will join in the rest of the squad and we will wait and see if he can be involved at the weekend. Duncan will go back into training and is in a similar situation to Tomasz in that we will monitor his situation.” (20/02/02)