Everton 2 v 0 Southampton                         Sun. 2nd Dec 2001

Att: 28,138

Report from last season's game

Everton: Simonsen, Pistone, Stubbs, Weir, Naysmith, Alexandersson (Gascoigne 46), Gravesen, Gemmill, Unsworth (Pembridge 46), Radzinski, Watson.
Subs : Gerrard, Moore, Xavier.

Scorers:Radzinski (49m), Pembridge (86m)

Its hard to describe what happened in the first half so I'm not going to. The only thing that needs to be said is that we were crap and we had to improve dramatically in the second half to get anything out of the game.

Half Time 0 - 0

Walter done what most of us wanted, he brought on Gazza for Niclas. He also brought on Pembo in place of Unsey. Everton started the 2nd half with some fire in their bellies and within 5 minutes went ahead with a great goal from the Rad. Pembo hit Wato with a great ball who in turn put the Rad clear with a brill pass. The Rad showed his speed and finished calmly past Jones

Gazza nearly made it two when he made one of his trademark runs but was denied by a great save from Jones. I don't think anyone would have caught Gazza if it had gone in.

Gazza was having a ball and he should have had a pen when his heels were clipped in the box, but Winter didn't give it, the Prick.

The Toffeemen were playing some really good stuff but needed another goal. We nearly got it when the Rad turned well but again Jones made a great save.

The next 10 minutes were all centered around Mad Dog, who had been pushed to the wide right in place of Niclas. He really should have scored when Scot played him in, his weak chip was headed off the line. When Wato put him clear two minutes later he blasted it miles off target.

From villan to hero Mad Dog somehow stops a header from a corner off the line.

Everton made the game safe on 86 minutes when Pembo turned in a great cross from Tommy Grav after he was put clear by Stevie Watson. Relief all round.

The transformation in the second half was incredible. Walter must have thrown more than just a few tea cups against the wall.

Davy Weir, who didn't put a foot or a head wrong, gets my vote for the Blue Kipper star man.

Quotes

Sausage at Half-Time: I'm going to the Blue House.

Sausage at Full-Time: I'm glad I didn't

My Mum at Half-Time: We're a bunch of Jessies

My Mum at Full-Time: Isn't Gazza gorgeous!!!

Davy Weir : Gazza brings the place alive, he can always do that for us.He gives everyone a lift, the whole place, and you can feel the buzz around the whole stadium when he comes on. He still has the ability to do that.

Gazza: It wasn't nice in the dressing room at half-time. The boss went absolutely ballistic, and we knew we could do better than that.

But the boss got the lads geed up and I was able to come on and play my part.

"We needed to get among them. They had had far too much time in that first period.

"Then it was a great finish by Tomasz Radzinski and a fine finish at the end from Mark Pembridge.

"I was just pleased we got the points. I enjoyed a few runs, I was so high up the pitch I could easily have got a nose bleed."

Nottin' for Soton
by
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Difficult to forget that last season's away defeat versus this lot was the nadir of an awful lot of nadir, in fact the worst nadir of all. But the post-match thingies got so riotously funny The Bus decided to make a weekend of it when it rolls around this season. This time it will be played in that triumph of sponsored "creative" imagination of language, the St. Mary's Friends Provident Society Stadium. Or is it the Friends Society of St. Mary's Stadium. Or mayhap the Stadium of St. Mary's Friends Society. Whatever, it just goes to show the Suits shouldn't be allowed anywhere near anything where footy's concerned. But they are. And sadly for our game they control everything…………for the time being. It won't last for ever though; it only seems like it.

Interesting to note how some people say how intimate The Dell was and how intimidating it was to play there. Which just goes to show you how much bollocks some people, almost always journo leeches, can talk. Intimate, yes, and welcoming in the old fashioned way. But intimidating? Er, no, not ever. How come they ended up struggling every season? In many ways we will miss the old place since it had a definite feel of the roots of the game, something the new stadium will take a long time to acquire, if ever. The moving finger writes and then does one. C'est la guerre.

Much the same thing faces us when we move to the Kings Dock. Rightly, Goodison will be awash in tearful nostalgia when the inevitable happens. But it is the only sensible thing now we have finally rid ourselves of the evolved horror of standing terraces. Or at least, the kind of behaviour they encouraged and, worse, the inevitable kind of authoritarian tooled-up police response it drew. Nobody ever got poor by overestimating Plod's inability to "think" beyond the end of a billy club or a video camera. So our move is inevitable, and for all the right reasons. There's still a rocky ride ahead but nothing well-intentioned and well-organised Evertonians can't cope with. It is now a distant, contemptible memory that the unbought Echo and Post described our bid as last in line behind all the others. Nice to think too that whoever wrote that is now eating vinegar flavoured shite with the Melledrew Tendency. What bliss, whatever the eventual outcome. Just goes to show, sourness will never take the place of constructive optimism or action.

Optimism wasn't what Bally had in mind when he got subbed during a Rangers-Celtic match last week………and then promptly bawled his raddled, self-pitying head off at the Rangers' Cheesehead manager………and then promptly and rightly got fined £10K and a likely departure to an English subs bench. All this on the heels of slithering agent Trevor Steven's encouragement of publication of a puff-piece interview in the Guardian. Funny? I laughed me socks down. There's less to Bally than meets the eye, and even less about the worms who manipulate him and rip him off.

Smiffy was right about Bally after all and so were those fans who figure he has an attitood problem. Which is yet another one in the eye for the Melledrew Tendency and all the usual bollocks they came out with at the time Ball bounced away. Doubtless the same people will be writing to Reidy at Sunderland (now Gavin McCann wants away on the trail blazed by The Don) telling him how he couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. I love it when events inexorably and inevitably deliver the shaft to the Tendency.

Meanwhile, wet-eyed Keegan fined Richard Dunne for missing training too many times. And The Ears is still laid up through injury. Whether Smiffy goes or stays, he was absolutely bang on about those three. We are better off without them, though I still wish all of them a good future for their own sakes. But before that happens they need to take a good long look at themselves and act on what they see. It is obvious enough to those who wish to look.

All three could do a lot worse than take a careful look at how Matt Le Tissier stood by the Saints throughout his erratic but frequently brilliant career, and they by him, all for reasonable mutual reward. He might be over the hill now but when he was on eccentric blob there weren't many better sights in the game. On many occasions he was the only thing between Saints and relegation. That famous goal in their 6-2 win over the Mancs was one of the most skilful I have ever seen anywhere in the world. If a Brazilian had scored it we would never have heard the end of it from media divvies bent on a cheap hype. He was one of those players who made you wistful for an era when footy mattered much more than the Suits and all their corrupt corporate sponsor/media muck and some thick Generation Xer muttering "revenue streams, revenue streams" like a dull-eyed tribal mantra.

The well-meaning if half-arsed organisation which partly helped that era was put under further threat during the week when a group of Jock Suits tried to instigate the so-called "Phoenix League." Henceforth this will be called the Fish Head League since it stinks to high heaven and doesn't have any feelings for anything. Anything, that is, except as a vehicle for Rangers and Celtic to worm their way into English footy and its money. It is a disgusting and monstrous idea which betrays the Scottish fans and their game. I hope it sinks with as much trace as the equally hideous Atlantic League. Then, guess who came slithering onto Radio Five to support the idea? Oh aye yeh, well scrubbed but-still-stinking Trevor Steven, complete with a phony part-Jock accent. Every time I see and hear him these days I feel the urge for an immediate hot shower. I hope he drowns in a sea of Fish Head Leagues and corruption. To hell with Rangers and Celtic, they aren't wanted in England. They can keep their mediaeval religious shite to themselves. We have enough problems of our own without making it worse.

By contrast, a much better non-footy sight was the near simultaneous fall of all the leaves in England all at once. After many years in the hottest climate in the world it is one of the reasons I came home to settle down. You can still see and feel the earth breath and the seasons change, albeit through an oxygen mask. Wonderful, tempered delight.

Meanwhile, bombs exploded and right-wing crazies became the usual jeer-leaders of the human catastrophe in Afghanistan and Palestine. Well, they have to have something to replace the integral international monolithic atheistic godless ruthless communist conspiracy, the one bent on forcing honest yeomen to get up at dawn and walk to work for the state as non-church goers, abortionists, fluoride dispensers and at the NHS. For the time being Islam fills the bill. Next time it will be someone/thing else. Paranoia has a gargantuan appetite. The American Right is a good deal stupider than our own gang of ranting righties, which is why our home-grown brand is even more long term dangerous. So Afghanistan now slides day-by-day into the realm of unfeeling managed news event, ever so gradually getting closer to the sports news at the back of the book. Orwell lives………as people in the East die and are turned into TV spectacle. Osama bin Laden is Goldstein. The tragic irony, oh the tragic irony. But who is The Manchurian Candidate?

For a day or two managed news and sports were disrupted due to the death of George Harrison in LA. Like an older John Lennon, he would have found it ironic to say the least. All four members of the quartet own a large part of my youth and I wouldn't have it any other way. I doubt if there will be a repeat any time soon, not now popular music is controlled and run like Rollerball and the Xers haven't a clue how to do it differently. Pity. Hare krishna, George, and thanks for the wonderful memories. They help generate warmth during winter. I hope Sid Snot and The Heswall Turd Burglars will never be allowed to clean your sandals.

Suit Xers had their compensation and field day with the announcement of yet more club accounts during the week. Me, I am a footy fan and accounts mostly bore me as shitless as an abacus or a suburban house. You just can't take the piss out of a Suit Xer because most of the sour getts have never smiled, let alone laughed, in their miserable lives. It is a safe bet they are in work before everybody else, stay long after everyone has gone except the boss, and then get pissed to "relieve the stress." They've been looking up their own arse so long they've got used to the smell. For them, a movie like "Wall Street" is a cultural enemy, or as understandable as Swahili. Oliver Stone, count me on your side.

Then on match eve came the World Cup Draw from Korea, the biggest managed sports news event of all. So far FIFA have managed to avoid adding a sponsor's name to it, though it may only be a matter of time before a Suit like Crozier hits on the "idea" of "increased revenue streams" by selling the name, thereby cutting away yet more innocent and harmless roots of the game. Interesting thought: Even FIFA have not endorsed shirt sponsorship while clubs have. Ever wondered why?

But they did produce a manifestly incomprehensible draw method as funny as any one of the immortal TV electoral aids (remember the "swingometer"?) of the late and much missed Bob McKenzie. A Frog Suit Host with a microphone growing out of his ear (hysterically, a la Clouseau, he insisted on referring to Ireland as "the repurbleek") dashed across a wide stage, side to side, collecting bits of paper from bemused looking other Suits who had picked them inside threaded coloured plastic balls from inside clear plastic bowls numbered as "pots." Across the world footy fans must've been rolling on the floor with laughter. Bespectacled Anastacia performed during the interval, surrounded by multi-national Xers spinning in ever decreasingly desperate circles as they tried to scratch each others crotch. For some reason, Anastacia's hipster brown leather trousers had a different coloured crotch; maybe it was to help her in an emergency. Then came the inevitable man-woman hosts (the woman in national costume, the man in a Suit), real celebrations of orthdontistry, sickly self-conscious grins at each other, to remind us in mid-Pacific accents that it was all about "lurv" and "innernational unnerstanding." Aaaarrrgghhh, it was all so gross it was as positively immortal as any EuroVison Song Contest you could name.

Meanwhile, England drew Argentina, Sweden and Nigeria in their group. If we can come out of that little lot then we stand a good chance of doing well. You have to meet these teams sooner or later so there's no point moaning about bad luck when you get them all at the same time. In any case you can only measure your progress by how you perform against the better teams. Nope, let's get on with it and beat the shit out of the lot of 'em. Let the chips fall where they may. Nothing would give me greater delight than for England to do well. That said, I can do without the Little Englanders as easily as I can shut out the phony English "Celts." Whatever.

Match time neared with the sun going down in a cold, pale blue sky nicely scarred by clouds in varying colours. I drove as quickly as I could manage and finally got to meet The Squire ten minutes late and five minutes before the kick off. Ticket and money exchanged and then into me beloved Lower Street End, wherein dwelled the usual suspects not exactly overflowing with excited anticipation but there nevertheless. The gate was as fucked as you would expect due to TV yet again screwing up The Beautiful Game to suit their ad revenue streams. See, two can play this kind of game.

No change in our team from the Leicester match. Really, this told us almost all we needed to know. Except there was nothing new about it. We feared the worst and weren't disappointed.

And so the game appeared something like Leicester away (part 3) for most of the first half. Relatively speaking, Saints knocked it around well while we played like a bunch of no-marks. Gemmo and The Gravedigger were awful in centre midfield while Nic and Gary were equally anonymous wide right and left. We couldn't string more than two passes together, more or less decided it was a waste of time trying to hold the ball and so kept giving it to them generously at every available opportunity. Southampton looked like they might score any time they attacked, which was a good deal more than we did. It was too bad for decent English but just right to fill the air with the kind of curses which would incinerate your granny's hearing aid. It also helped clear my chest but that's another story.

The only two good things to come out of it was the heading practice frequently required of Davey-Stubbsy. But no sooner had they cleared than it came straight back at them. The other good thing was two really good instinctive saves made by Simmo. Otherwise, it was so bad it was ludicrous. Half time couldn't come soon enough.

Dickheads who say the fans don't encourage the team enough should be forced to watch tapes of the Leicester game and this first half non-stop for at least a year. Shouting up an entry gets you nowhere. It was a dreadful performance which the fans rightly booed for a few seconds at the half time whistle. By which time the sun had long set and it was damned cold. You moaned inwardly and wondered why you hadn't stayed tucked up warm and safe in bed. Then you remembered some fans like The Squire had driven five hours to get here and watch this excreta. You have to get things in perspective.

As the half drew to a close I said to The Squire, "You'll know we're in deep cack if and when The Gravedigger is sent wide right."

The second half started with Nic and Unsy off, Gazza and Pembo on, Sandro at right back, Gary at left back, Gazza anywhere he wanted, Pembo left side and ,um, The Gravedigger wide right. I stared at the roof. Rock bottom, I thought, fu-cki-ng rock fu-cki-ng bottom.

So naturally we go and get one within minutes of the restart and an absolute cracker completely at odds with the game. The ball was on its way out of play deep in our half, left side. Pembo raced after it, locked on the touchline by a Saints player. As he went for the ball, and I promise you no shit here, someone on our row shouted, "Go on Pelé!" At which he hit this tremendous left footed aerial ball toward the centre circle, where Stevie knocked it through and onward to the left. From where came The Rad like shit off a shovel chased by a loose posse of hapless Saints, closed sharp left inside the box and despatched a smart ground shot inside the keeper's left post. It was brilliant, easily the best move of the game and quite out of character with anything that went before or which followed. No wonder The Rad almost ended up in the lovin' arms of The Street End.

A few words here about The Rad. He is a gem. In a better team he would get a lot more goals. Unfortunately everyone keeps shunting it up to him as though he were SuperKev or The Yin, which he patently isn't. If he gets the ball at his feet and in full stride no bastard will get near him. Do it in the box via short passes and he will be devastating. Yet one more reason why we miss SuperKev, since they seem to play better than when The Yin is in place. Then again, who CAN play with The Yin?

The goal did us the world of good and we at last began to string good moves together. A second seemed only a matter of time. But the chances came and went with hysterical regularity. The worst culprit was The Gravedigger who had three clear cut openings and fucked up the lot of them, all of them closing in from the right. He missed a fourth when he went barreling through the middle and mishit what looked like an easy chance.

As usual, it all stemmed from midfield where Pembo restored a reasonably accurate work ethic and Gazza started to indulge his penchant for dribbling and jinking. I doubt if it would be enough to turn over one of the leading teams but it certainly destroyed Saints. Apart from a goal line clearance by the Gravedigger they never got back into the game. Being us, though, you suspected the worst every time they crossed the half way line. As we all know, the story of our season has been an inability to kill off teams when we have had them on the ropes. This game was almost no exception.

We missed another chance when Gazza dribbled in from the right and kept going through a couple of half-arsed tackles, got to close range and their keeper made a tremendous save and beat it out. Gazza also got downed for a clear penalty but we had yet another lousy ref and it wasn't given.

As the game drew to a close Saints got back into it a little more. Small alarm bells went off when they brought on Kevin Davies as sub, though he made no impression at all. It didn't matter. Fortune hasn't exactly been our closest ally these last few seasons, especially THIS season. There was every reason to think we would let one through.

Relief all round, then, when we got the clincher with a few minutes left. A move down our right ended up with The Gravedigger wide and with a little more room than usual. So he banged over a good ball to the left which cleared some pathetic Saints defenders marking nobody in particular and Pembo ran onto it and got enough outstretched studs on it to bowl it inside the same left post.

In the end it was a well deserved win which really should have been five or half a dozen. The thing is of course we won't get these sorts of chances against the top teams and that is where we are still way short, though we might just surprise one or two on the right day. But the erratic form, the formations, continue to baffle even though this win took us back into the top half. If only, if ONLY, we had taken the many points denied by Lady Luck we would be in an incredible third place or, even more crazy, higher.

Me, I am going to see if I can solve a Rubik Cube. It still puzzles me as much as watching me beloved Blue Bellies.