Southampton 0 v 1 Everton                                    Saturday 20th April 2002

Kick-Off: 5.15pm  Live on Sky TV (Pay per view)                                           

Att : 31,785

Everton: Gerrard, Watson, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Carsley, Gemmill, Gravesen, Unsworth, Chadwick, Campbell.

Bench: Pettinger, Radzinski, Linderoth, Pembridge, Rooney.

Subs: Radzinski for Chadwick (28m)

Scorer: Watson (41m)

'Shity ground, shity ground, shity ground', the Toffeemen never let you down! After a journey from hell we found ourselves on the doorstep of the second best ground in the Premiership and a taste of what is to come at King's Dock - well I for one will be coming if and when we get a new ground like this, if Sunderland is the best then WE will undoubtedly be taking their mantle when we move to the banks of the royal blue Mersey.

The kick off had been delayed so that we could be even more slaughtered than usual, we had a double take when we saw the team sheet, no Ikea sisters! Was Moysey shopping at MFI? Rumour had it that Saint Nic had a bad back (surely the World Cup isn't around the corner?) And there was no rumour about Jesper, was his and Daveeeeed's absence significant for the future? We wait and see. We didn't have to wait for the future on the bench, with big Dunc suspended for the last 3 games for the Bobic kidney punch, The Rad dropped to the bench for missing 248 sitters in the last four games, we had Andy Pettinger and THE Wayne Rooney (aged 16 years & 5 months) on the bench - the Sower must have asked Saint John's for a cloth in case Rooney came on!

So here we were, a midfield that would not be out of place outside of any establishment in Matthew St and with THE St. Nick making his full debut alongside Super. Back 4 as usual with Stevie (I hate the Inter Toto) Watson looking to make up from his worst ever performance in a Blue shirt last week at Leicester. We thought it would be difficult, the Saints used to be be a cert 3 points and I have always loved going there, remember Sharpy's 4 & Sheedy's stonker and getting smashed in The Gateway - oh what memories, but recent years have not been too kind. In their fanzine they used to say 'when on when will we beat those bluenose bastards'.. gone were the days, how would it turn out?

Now you would have thought that without the big fella we would play it on the carpet, early doors we resorted to the hump, but the Super had renewed vigour, he was wearing Audi boots with the Four Sping Duck technique winning everything in the air and was having a quacker!

Pisto did well with a headed clearance with Beattie lurking ready to pounce and Gerrard as usual rooted to his line, how much longer do we have to put up with Dracula? Or Pisto's hair do, when will someone tell him that = redshite and he must change it next season - not a par on Wavy Davy's Blue number though!

We were having to rub our eyes, the Moyz revolution was starting to roll, youth and possession & the Blues on top and looking comfortable, season ticket renewal talk was in the air. Delap was booked for a foul on Super and shortly after we nearly went one up. From Unsey's cross both The Chad and Super had goes at putting it in but Jogger in nets saved. What a good start, maybe it was the Burberry pitch, whatever, we were well happy.

First corner on 20 mins saw Unsey once again endear himself to us by not even reaching the near post! The Chad was in the wars with a split lip. That Williams is a big dirty bastard! Next thing The Chad is stetchered off, fuckin' ell ere we go -kiss good-bye to the good start we thought. The Rad replaced The Chad. But in the face of adversity who should stand up but Inter Toto Stevie.

Dracula had just made a save from a Beattie free kick ( on his line of course) when Stevie Watson stood up to be counted, breaking in from the right he played two 1 2's with The Rad and Super, Super's pass was sublime and Stevie dinked in over Jogger deep joy one up.

Now the ref Halsey was like a Supergrass, seeing things that never happened at all, but he was balancing it out by giving shite decisions equally! We went for a pie well happy.

Half Time Southampton 0 Everton 1.

As you would expect, they came at us, in the second half, but we were comfy, Dracula didn't have a save to make. The Rad was trying to impress us & Moyzey by running his bollocks off and whilst they had the bulk of the second half possession, we had the chances. The Rad forcing Jogger to tip over, Stevie weaving in from the touch line and getting all giddy after scoring his first and Super almost scoring only to be given offside. We pissed ourselves as Tommy had a shot that went out for a throw in but we had the points in the bag so we were high.

There was a late scare when they got a freekick on the edge of the box but when it sailed over the only shouts were for Rooney, the Milky Bar Kid. The whistle blew and we went mental, 3 points, you think we'd won the cup! Then we realised that the extra journey time and late kick off meant we were more pissed than normal - it's allowed!

Stubbsy, the Star Man was first over to us, Stevie Wat shook his fist at us - Inter Toto here we come!

The Bus does Soton.
And so does Stevie.
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

On Sunday the Cup semis were settled in favour of the unloved metropolitan corporate logos of Arsenal and Chelsea, courtesy of own goals. Nice one, logos, and after all that money spent too. The Chelsea-Fulham match at Villa Park was played out in front of thousands of empty seats thus proving hardly anybody wanted to see the Battle of the Frenchies. Which is alright by me since I have said all season Fulham's narky, nasty, narcissistic Gauls couldn't hit a cow's udder with a banjo at a radial range of three metres. If luck holds good they might even drop right through and return to the lower division. In which case there will be continent-wide celebrations. There is a European expression which goes: "The English drive on the left. We drive on the right. And the French drive in the middle." Yes, everybody's got the humourless garlic-chompers sussed………… and their name is Fulham midfield.

(Remember that glorious spoof Brit written reclamation of the US after the Bush family stole the Yank election [democracy my ARSE] and had The Pretzeldent appointed? As an important foreign policy aside, one of the items advised the Yanks to immediately nuke Quebec and France. Quite right too. In fact, better do it now before the nazi Le Pen gets in and makes an anschluss with duce Berlusconi.)

In the meantime the FA Cup remains the greatest knock-out competition on the planet, bar none. True, anybody can win it even when overwhelmed. Look at last season, tee hee. But that's the beauty thereof. You can never argue about league placings because the table never, ever lies. But The Cup does fib, and frequently and sometimes enormously. Entropy in action, always more exciting than mere straight line living. I mean, an analogy, who in their right humanist senses would want to live in the detrited bucolia of grid-line suburbs amongst what Bob Newhart once called The Button Down Mind? (Don't bother looking up "detrited." I just invented it. Cute huh.) Nope, gimme The Cup every time, at least while we're playing shite. Of course I might change my mind if and when Moyesy wreaks further magic.

Also by Sunday I was overjoyed to hear the Jock Scab League has been planning for two years for life without Rangers and Celtic. Good. I hope they pre-empt the situation and re-form without either and leave them both on their arse in the cold. Which by Tuesday became a distinct possibility. Rangers Suits promptly appeared on TV full of apprehensive bullshit. Scottish footy is probably better off without the Old Firm. In the long run it will probably have a healthier sense of identity and less distorted economics. By Wednesday Bradford's chief Suit was saying they'd be welcome in the Football League. It's crap of course. Most English fans don't want them within a length of a religious riot/Jock inferiority complex of our game. Fellow People, I tell you it's a bouquet of barbed haggis up there.

And if our clubs had any sense they would do the same thing with the few G14 members in England and flush them for all eternity into the middle of the Mediterranean to play in their own submerged league in front of a dead shoal of fish heads.

Monday was remembrance day for the Hillsborough disaster, the day we remember so many innocent lives needlessly lost, the day footy was finally put in its right perspective for all Merseysiders for all time. The game has never been the same since, nor should it be. The families remain the victims of an appalling injustice and an English establishment which largely hates its own people. RIP. May the search for justice never end.

In wearily familiar fashion the remembrance was almost drowned out by the sound of cash registers at ITV Digital as they continued to welch on the £180 mill they owe the Football League for breach of contract. Needless to say they accused the Football League of "negative publicity." They would, wouldn't they, since they started out offering £10 million, then upped it to £60 million, then £74 million, then withdrew everything in the usual bully boy tactic. As noted before, the company is owned by Carlton and Granada, both of whom have billions of ££££££. If the legalities allowed, I'd sue individual Suits for the dosh and/or make them individually bankrupt. That would loosen a few bowels and doubtless a few purse strings too. Friends, NEVER trust a corporation or PLC of any kind. As Enron and countless other examples have demonstrated they are merely devices for concealing the truth and stealing the life of you and your family. So thieving your money via footy presents no ethical or moral dilemma at all. At the time of writing they have been given to next Tuesday to reach agreement with the Football League. If it gets settled at, say, £100 million, that will give you some idea of how derisory was the original offer of ten million. Next time you see a Suit/Suitette on telly automatically assume he/she's lying and you'll be a good deal nearer to reality than their PR. All Suits and Suitettes suffer from echolalia.

England demolished Paraguay 4-0 on Wednesday night in the Adolf Hitler stadion. Three of the goals were deflections and one was a header by a short arse from Hawarden. Things can only improve. I watched the match on a large screen in The Walkabout, an "Ozzy theme bar," an exposed brickwork barn on three levels in Concert Square. The agreeable company was Ron the pinky, Si the Chelsea fan and Bill the mackem, but we spent most time leching the assorted exposed female midriffs and hips and wonderful curves in all the right places. They moved a good deal better than the footy. I'll be surprised if the Paraguayans are such a pushover in the World Cup. I'll be even more surprised if we manage three deflected goals in one match again.

The Walkabout will interest you if you're an Ozzy baiter since it contains everything you associate with their perceived legendary crassness…………………including allegedly short visit Ozzy bar staff who live in cramped quarters up in the attic. Typical of this was a stencilled slogan in the web of an exposed high level steel beam: "Go hard or go home." Toilets, needless to say, are referred to as "dunnies." There's also an interesting mural of a kangaroo on the first floor dance floor wall. Interesting, because it looks very like fat Ozzy Clive James. The only thing missing is a collection of wide brimmed hats with dangling corks. Now, look, don't get the wrong idea here, but apparently a section of the lowest level is also occupied by nubile lesbian couples who all look like Ozzy female swimmers, not Sheilas. At least that's what Ron told me and I believed him even though I knew he was still cringing from the Leverkusen debacle, harhar. I hasten to add there were no extrovert antipodean preversions (® Bat Guano in "Doctor Strangelove") on display. Theirs is the only western culture which could make a merely outstanding exuberant movie of "Moulin Rouge!" when it could and should have been a great one. In fact The Walkabout looks like a bad set designed by Baz Luhrmann after a few tinnies.

Friday arrived with the not unexpected announcement of a six months delay at Kings Dock. See my article in the Blue Kipper Kings Dock section after meeting Joe Dwyer on 8th March, paragraph 5.3. Here's the important bit:

"If this were Germany or the United States I would be confident of meeting the completion date. However, this is Britain, home of the most anarchy-ridden and incompetent construction industry on the planet. I therefore expect the stadium to be completed in 2006."

Pretty good huh. But every now and then you've got to loosen the lead on the Melledrew Tendency to stop them choking on their own spittle. It also provides mildly cruel if entirely predictable humour, a bit like encouraging your dog to chase its own tail. You get bored with it quickly.

(REALITY CHECK: By Thursday, war criminal Ariel Sharon had repeated the massacres of Shatila and Chabre refugee camps, this time in Jenin. Right wing realpolitik made manifest. A UN monitor described the result as "horrifying beyond belief." Parallels with the nazi Warsaw Ghetto massacre are uncomfortable for everyone, not least among decent Israelis with a conscience. It is of course useless appealing to Sharon's better nature since experience shows he doesn't have one. Nor does the western establishment who stood by and allowed it to happen in contrast to the limited action in Yugoslavia. The current generation of suicide bombers grew up in the wake of Shatila and Chabre. The next generation are the children who witnessed Jenin. Untreated, the logical conclusion is both obvious and inevitable as the envelope gets pressed ever outward: One day soon or distant an American or European city will get lit up by a rogue nuclear flash. The technology isn't exotic anymore, all it requires are the right materials and the will. The latter is now well entrenched, the former merely a matter of time. It could all be avoided tomorrow with ethical action. But of course Powell's visit to the Middle East was deliberately staccato to allow the Israeli invasion to play out. The West will never learn, particularly while loony Texan oil money literally calls the shots and good men turn their backs. Churchill's "agony of little nations" will continue.

Blair Brown announced the Brit budget on Wednesday and trumpeted much garbage about alleged extra money being invested in the NHS. Many of the claims were bollocks since it is only restoration of what was stolen in the first place. In amongst all their lying guff is the reintroduction of something laughingly called "the internal market," a sly move which still leaves the way open for the eventual target of privatisation. That slimy piece of shit health minister Milburn looks more and more like Uriah Heep as he goes about selling out what's left of political decency. Maintenance of a genuine NHS depends on a good deal more than mere confirmation of direct taxation to pay for it. It requires the kind of transparent will and honesty you won't find anywhere in the current cabinet. More and more of them begin to look and sound like faintly-ridiculous empty-headed Ronald Reagan mouthing lousy dialogue in a forties B movie. You know the sort of thing: "Some of you stay here and guard the girl. The rest of you come with me. We'll head 'em off at the pass." Problem is, neither they nor Reagan act(ed) a part. They really ARE vacuous opportunists and nothing more.)

One of the reasons I have stayed with The Bus this season is there's none of that unhealthy skin-crawling narcissism you get with a tedious knob'ead clique. Sure, people usually sit in the same place and chat away in the same groups. But there's loads of footy talk, plenty of good natured piss-taking and exchanges of views. There's only one or two control freaks, which is just enough for everybody else to tolerate with a slight smile and a discreet move in the opposite direction. Everybody gets their own space. Usually anybody who pushes his luck too far soon gets told what to do. The basic group works just fine most times. Occasional trippers come and go and are made welcome.

But the trip to Southampton was a first, an overnight stay in the Travel Inn within a ten minute walk of the new Soton ground. It was bound to test the fragile infrastructure of friendships particularly when you added John Barleycorn to the formula. And so it transpired, but not without its moments of hilarity.

Actually I couldn't have had a worse preparation. The Bus was due to leave at seven a.m. but I didn't get any sack time until gone midnight and then I managed only a few hours shut-eye. The result left me looking and sounding like a bear with a sore head when I boarded The Bus. Five and a half hours later we disgorged into the Travel Inn, newly opened and therefore trying to please. Which, by and large, they managed to do quite well. It isn't the Ritz exactly but it is spotless, sensibly priced and the staff are cheerful. This is no mean achievement considering the English are rank clueless at operating services of almost any kind.

En route we stopped at a service station in the sarf. The place was full of Brighton fans in blue and white striped footy shirts. As we all know, their very existence is nothing short of a miracle after being ripped off by a Suit. But here they are, surviving and promoted into the bargain. I almost wept with laughter when I noted the front of their shirt carries, not a sponsor's logo, but the single word…………"Skint." Jaysus, I LOVE this game.

So we all checked in, showered, emptied weekend bags and re-assembled in the bar. The management had thoughtfully allocated us all rooms on the fifth floor. Which is where the bar is. Nice one, Basil. Fred was there holding stentorian court. I asked him where Texyla was. I was told with the usual huge certainty that said party was in a bar called the Chicago Rock Band. Fearing the worst I set off following Fred's directions. Eventually I traced the reprobates to the first floor of the Hogshead. Oh well. I sat down to quaff. The moby went off. It was Ray asking where the fuck I was because HE was in the hotel bar where I'd said I would be. After much map reading viewed not wisely but too well through a glass darkly we were joined by Ray, Mark, their two nippers, and Dom and The Squire. The latter has still not abandoned his striking contemporary coiffe which looks like a burst couch set in epoxy resin. Well, that's Generation X for you.

I am right to be concerned about Xers. You cannot trust anybody who will not wear a Ché Guevara tee shirt. A further ghastly development is the tendency for some of them to look like, no BE, chained-up leather fetishists with curtain rings skewering loose folds of flesh. Some of us are far too busy doing sex rather than getting strung up by the heels and thrashed by a mad Thatcher-lookalike dominatrix. Personally I believe we can solve the Xer problem by shipping them all off to France and Australia. Wait a minute. We tried that once and it didn't work. They got their own back with Walkabout theme bars, Les Routiers cafés, Barry Humphries and Mikael Madar.

But I digress.

Justice and a sense of proportion demand that I tell you Sarfampton is an odd place swarming with dingbats speaking an odd combo of cockney and west country. It was warm and reassuring to know our southern based lads have determined not to lose their argot in the face of such phonetic vandalism. Mark has the fiercest struggle of all of course because he still has strains of Yank in there somewhere. For a moment I reeled when I thought he said he was due to go and work in Utah amongst the descendants of Brigham Young. Anybody who has faced one of these suited-up quiet-voiced charming fanatics on the doorstep, or, worse, on their home turf, will tell you this is a baaad idea. When a Mormon says, "Have A Nice Day," he MEANS it or else. But I had misheard. Mark is going somewhere else.

Of course I am being my usual disgraceful chauvinist self in these remarks about Soton. Actually it is a reasonably neat place which has seen much better days, that's all. In other words, it bears a striking resemblance in its general feel (if not its aesthetics) to every other disgracefully ignored Brit provincial city. Its High Street appears to be fifties-sixties rebuilds in the International Style. That is, fucking awful. Damn, I'm getting typecast here.

In fact it is a cultural catastrophe not unlike the immortal moment when John McEnroe's verbal hysteria snapped into focus on the Centre Court at Wimbledon in the 80s. Normally all you could hear was SuperBrat yelling, "Newn blarghing sarg!" or "Yah! Ghang shim! Shnargh!" at a wincing umpire or line judge from sleepy Guildford. Instead, clear as crystal, you suddenly got, "You can't be serious man! You can-NOT be SEE-RI-OUS! This man's an incarmpetent FOOL!" I used to watch the Brat, a truly great tennis player, with all the fascinated horror you associate with viewing an upright swelled King Cobra gyrating within a lunge of your genitalia. Soton's main shopping street is like that.

The only gesture to contemporary architecture I saw is the new footy stadium. Alas, it is a limp wristed gesture, nothing more than the usual economic envelope dictated by tight purse strings. Inevitably this means some airhead book-keeper gets to dictate how it looks. Friends, never be surprised when the result is the kind of architecture you are faced with every day. If you spend all day staring at your navel don't be startled when you trip over. Creative imagination requires something of a free spirit. All our cities begin to look the same precisely because that's what the system dictates. Canary Wharf is the new Ministry of Truth.

We had argued about the new stadium's name. So let me put the matter to rest. My ticket reads:

" VAT No.330 1812 08
The Friends Provident St. Mary's Stadium."

One fucking mouthful that. It's the system again, see.

But there's a surprisingly good feel to the place. Maybe it's just the relief of escape from the claustrophobia of the old Dell. Whatever, the ground was quite full and reasonably noisy without excessive fanatics. Once again our away support was huge. It was a mild sunny day. A faint but invigorating smell of freshly mown grass tickled your nasal sensors. It was good to be there on a beautiful Spring day.

The teams were announced. Paul kept his place because Simo crocked himself in the reserves. Conflict is not good for Paul's serenity. My guess is he attains serenity by allowing our defence to do all the worrying, including the tiresome business of recovering the ball from the back of our net. But, cheap shot, let that pass. Midfield, the Gravedigger, Lee Carsley, Beloved Lard Arse and Gemmo. Up front SuperKev, and a full debut for Nick. On the bench we had The Rad, Pembo, Toby, Andy Pettinger and…………The Dook. I tell you, the boy Rooney is sixteen going on thirty. He just has that kind of look. He knows it too.

Davey was captain. Sorry about this but Davey Weir is not a captain. He is the head prefect of a school for the daughters of rich, romantic poets. He will not be a captain as long as he harbours an anal canal, if you see what I mean. But Moyesy knows a good deal better than I do. In fact I am beginning to make the uncomfortable assumption that he's on his way to becoming that most tiresome of phenomena, A Football Icon. Everyone loves him, and hugely. The honeymoon continues.

If he does nothing else he has attained near-immortality by having the pinkies spitting Exeter coach tickets at The People's Club slogan. Seeing them so wound up remains one of the sights of the new century. This is going to run and run. And all you have to do is casually insert the slogan into a sentence and accompany it with a sweet innocent smile. Within ten seconds they're crawling up the nearest vertical surface and clawing at the ceiling. Do it TWICE in a sentence and you have to have a paramedic in attendance to mop the foam from around said pinky mouths. Ask Ron.

The match spectacle had all the clean-edged colour richness of a Stanley Kubrick movie. Soton looked like bifurcated deck chairs. We looked imperious in our Royal Blue. How could we lose? I certainly didn't expect to because I'm stuck in a sort of Draw Syndrome Mentality at the moment. When dragged from a determined effort to drink Sarfampton arid, to a man the rest of The Bus predicted a win.

So the game got going and wended its way. The pattern was consistent throughout. For us this is a novelty bordering on a Pauline conversion. At one point (and I counted them) we actually strung eight consecutive passes together. I almost got stretchered out with shock. The midfield was much more solid with The Twin Slapheads restored. The logical conclusion was Gemmo didn't have to try and fail to do everything himself. Which in turn meant there were no scapegoats available because SuperKev also had a good game. It also suited us because the game was one-paced. In truth, Southampton weren't very good and to my memory didn't have a shot on target all game. Well, that's their problem.

A lot of attention got focused on Nick's debut. No goals this time but plenty of effort and attempts to help the flow of the game, such as it was. You can see him really trying to learn with each match. At one point he got free in the box and was bowled over for what looked like a clear penalty.

Amongst footy fans there is always a wayward hope that miscarriages of justice may be redressed if you howl at the ref long enough. Of course this is complete self-deception. I have never yet seen a ref change his mind. I didn't join in this time either but I did eff and blind at the roof like most everyone else. Once again it was a maddeningly duff call from the ref and linesmen. I have no idea why the Suits have adopted the term "assistant referees" for the latter: Sounds like a local government personnel post, Junior Officer, grade 9.

Meantime, Nick did well without being spectacular. If he makes the grade I figure he will be very similar to Graeme Sharp. So after half an hour the injury demon raised its head and he got stretchered off after going over on his ankle. On such things do entire sports careers turn.

The Rad came on. Recently there has been some attempt by the scapegoatists (hmmmm, think I'll use that one again) to have a go at him. Actually, fans who criticise him are talking through their arse. At his best, The Rad has a forensic verve missing in all the other strikers put together. All except The Dook, that is………………..

In midfield The Gravedigger would not spring to mind if you were compiling a list of people suffering from excessive humility. You know, fist waving shite 'n' all. However, you have to be fair. This was another disciplined performance. His tackling was sensible, his passing almost always accurate. Same with Lee Carsley, for whom I have not yet concocted a nickname. It wouldn't do to go overboard though. Soton were almost anonymous in the same area of the pitch. In fact apart from one rush on goal we were in no real danger anywhere.

No real surprise when we got one five minutes before half time. A move down our right ended up with the ball on the centre edge of their penalty area after a poor clearance. SuperKev, slightly left, laid off a superbly weighted pass right into the path of Stevie and he didn't even have to break stride to hook it left footed over their 'keeper. Gawd knows where he came from. For a moment I thought it was The Rad.

In the second half we had just a little more of the play than they did. Even when Soton got the ball they had as much clue what to do with it as we did six weeks ago. A few more chances came our way, a long range Rad shot which was well saved, an Unsy free kick and a damned near thing from SuperKev when he burst through and almost robbed one courtesy of their dozy defence. It would have been no more than Kev deserved for a good display.

In patches the game was an obscenity, like one of those harps in Hieronymus Bosch which have human beings threaded in the strings. But given our situation I am not one to complain. We have seen the situation reversed too many times during the last couple of years. I can't recall anyone showing us any sympathy at the time. That's life.

Interestingly, Moyesy had The Dook and Pembo out a couple of times warming up when someone went down. You kept hoping The Prodigy would get a few minutes turf time but it turned out not to be. Still, you could see him eyeing our fans as he jogged up and down. You get the impression of a junior radar operator who knows he could run the whole shebang if given the chance. We'll see.

Every now and then Gordon Strachan would be out at the dotted line hamming it up like Larry Olivier. But people who tell you Olivier over-acted are telling you about themselves. He was just over-alive. He isn't NOW of course but that's not the point. It's the precedent that counts. And that's the school Gordo comes from, poor bastard. Fuck all you can do when you're stuck with his kind of metabolism. You just enjoy the best of it and hope we all come out smiling.

In this case it was us who came out smiling, and deservedly so too. Goddamn if we haven't waited long enough for the tide to turn.

After the game, back to the hotel, a shower and back out for a night on the town, including, erm, another Walkabout bar. The Bus divided its forces and melted into a city centre seemingly composed almost entirely of celebrating Blue Bellies. There was much raucous meading and noshing and cries of, "More wine, wench!" until about three in the morning. It was satisfactorily disgraceful.

Bring on Blackburn. We owe them one for that ridiculous loss at Ewood. But they'll be up for it a good deal more than Saints were.

And as for The Gunners………………………………………………..

Quotes

Stevie Watson says: "I thought I was still playing up front. I just followed my pass, and Kev played in a good ball and I just had to scoop it over him.

Moyesy says: "It was a tough game and maybe not as exciting as the other ones we have been involved in. As far as I know that makes us safe. We want to finish as high up the league as we can and if we win next two games we can get that Intertoto place".

Jogger: Wake up Sausage we've scored.

Kipper: Leave him alone, he's a fuckin' nuisance when he's pissed!

Lard: Listen who's talkin'!!

Everton from: Gerrard, Watson, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Alexandersson, Gemmill, Gravesen, Unsworth, Radzinski, Simonsen, Blomqvist, Linderoth, Chadwick, Campbell, Clarke, Carsley, Pembridge, Moore, Rooney, Pettinger.

Moysey says: “It’s all part of his development. We’re taking him down with us for a bit of experience.” Fantastic news. Lets hope we see him playing for the 1st team before the seasons out. (19/04/02)

Simmo could be out of the squad for Saturday, as he hurt his back in a reserve match tonight. Good news is that midfielders, Lee Carsley & Pembo had good run outs. Pembo even scored with his right foot. Neville Southall is being thought of as a replacement for the bench.
Lee says: “I’m hoping I’ll be involved at some point. I put myself in the picture last night, (reserve match at Man U) my fitness is good and I feel strong.” (18/04/02)

Ferguson is out for the rest of the season through suspention. Lets hope he is on the bench cheering the troops on, & not on his jollys. It looks like a straight choice between Chaddy, & Super for that spot, unless he picks both, & puts the Rad on the bench.

Lee Carsley will be in the squad, providing he comes through tonights resrve game at United unscathed.

Moyesy says: “Lee looks as though he is going to be O.K for the weekend and he may get a run-out for the reserves. ” (18/03/02)