Quotes

Arsene Wenger says: "He is the biggest English talent I've seen since I arrived in England. There has certainly not been an under-20 player as good as him since I became a manager here. We were beaten by a special goal from a very special talent - you do not need to be an expert to see that he is a special talent, very special."

Moyesy says: "We have been playing with this conviction and confidence all season and this week I felt the confidence higher around the place than at any time since I've been here. We believed we had a chance to beat Arsenal, we didn't buckle when they scored early on and there was self belief right through the team."

The Rad says: "I have dreamed of scoring a goal like that all my career, and Wayne does it against the champions. It's great for the kid, he's only 16 and scores a goal like that. I'm so happy for him."

Moysey says: "Look at his goal again, look at the boy's touch, when he takes it out of the sky, it wouldn't have been out of place had it been an Arsenal player. It was excellent."

Sting Ray in Witherspoons says: "The bouncers wouldn't let Rooney in here."

"Now, LOOK. He's NOT the messiah"
(wags finger)
"He's a VERY-NAUGHTY-BOY."
(With due thanks and deference to the late, great Graham Chapman.)
Ask Arsenal.
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Three days after the arREY! match at Old Trafford I was back among the Mancs to see Joaquin Cortés strut his arrogant stuff at the MEN Arena. Younger female members of the family squealed happily at the spectacle while I threatened them with instant disinheritance if they didn't behave. But there's little to be done with rampant hormones except prod them with well placed satire and follow it up with sound if stern advice. You have to give them a humorous perspective or they start taking themselves far too seriously at all the wrong times. This is called growing up. Or, as Harry Enfield's Kevin would have it, "So unfairrr."

(NOTE: I wrote the following five paragraphs during the week before the Arsenal match. Fate, as usual, has had the last word.)

Which is what makes the progress of young Wayne Rooney so interesting. You can bet your bottom Euro the boy is full of himself, naturally bubbling with what he knows he is good at and full of egotistical ambition to go with it. Good. What matters now is how it matures - if it does - to meet the outrageous promise. Which is where Moyesy comes into the equation. So far he doesn't appear to have put a foot wrong in their partnership. They look, sound and act really well together, like Cortés and his flamenco ensemble. Rightly the wünderkind is kept away from press conferences and full matches. He isn't quite ready but he probably will be by the end of the season, injuries and other fate notwithstanding.

We will all know the moment when. If you really know and love your footy no expert will be needed, no local media gobshite, no utterly useless unemployable "management consultant." Bill Dean used to tell the story of when he knew Tommy Lawton was ready to take over. They played together in some match or other, perhaps a reserve game, and Lawton smacked one in with the trademark confidence we recognise in Rooney. Dean, ever the gifted pragmatist where footy was concerned, said matter-of-factly, "That's it. He's ready." And so he was. Dean gave way with the grace of all truly great players.

If young Rooney does indeed get to that point you can expect the world and his wife to REALLY come around sniffing like dogs on heat. If he achieves merely half of his apparent potential it will take something special to resist. If he achieves it all, outside interest will reach Canutian proportions. He and his family are only flesh and blood like everyone else.

It would be nice if all the curmudgeons (some of our own fans included) out there accepted the facts of life. Don't make book on it though. One of the facts is that he and his family are bound for siege by all kinds of hangers-on, salesmen, book "writers," phony chauffeurs, phony "friends," media carpet-baggers and Suits. The family will need all the genuine advice and help they can get. Good luck to them.

If you want to see what these hangers-on scum can help do to genuine talent then look no further than the tragic husk of George Best. In a different way and of a different sad order you can see more recent examples in Billy Kenny, Michael Ball and Francis Jeffers, though the latter finally might be about to start learning his trade properly. But there's something about The Duke - I don't know what - that tells me he is made of sterner stuff. We'll see.

In the meantime it would help if a tiny minority of half-arsed fans stopped whingeing on at Moyesy on the subject. Opinions are one thing, corrosive whining quite another. Leave the latter to the untalented dicksplats in the unbought local media, the ones paid to promote phony "controversy." 'Twas ever thus. If The Duke opts to move on you can bet the same people won't have learned the ultimate lesson of, for example, Figo's move from Barça to Real, or Ferdinand's move from the Sheepshaggers to the Mancs. Some people simply don't have any common sense. It's the kind of company you wouldn't wish on next door's mangy cur.

Saturday brought England's only-just deserved win over Slovakia on a suet pudding of a pitch. In the end the pitch did in the Slovaks much more than it did us. By the end it was us doing all the passing, short and long. In the dugout, poor old Sven looked suitably distracted as he waited for to hear the latest song from Al Jolson; why on earth he got involved with a woman whose mouth apparently opens as often as her legs only he can say. As if it matters, except to slimy Oz products like Rupert Murdoch.

Meanwhile, England were overrun in a first half dominated by the ex-Commies and an early goal. Which was very surprising given our midfield of Beckham, Gerrard, Butt and Scholes. We haven't got any much better than that apart from Kieron Dyer and one or two others. Makes you think about the ultimate capacity of our lot, huh? Anyway, it was us who did the overrunning in the second half and in the end we were well worth the win, and it could have been more.

Basically I can't be arsed with all this tactics and formation mumbo jumbo but if we don't solve the left side problem and start playing better short passes then England are going to end up playing like, erm, us, but at international level. The midfield mystifies me. They're all terrific players who, Becks apart, seemingly lose it when they play for Blighty. Sweet mystery of life. By the time Portugal rolls around they should be at their absolute peak. Alternatively, I quite like Portuguese rosé anyway. It's great for quaffing gently with a feta cheese salad. Bliss, whatever happens.

Me, I'm already planning a holiday for the Portuguese Euro with a group of Blue Bellies and pinkies. Rest assured we will educate the latter in the finer aspects of life. We will commence with instructions on how to use a knife and fork, and how to chew gum and walk at the same time. Norwegians will be asked to remove all winter accoutrements and stop reading Ibsen.

Sadly, the match confirmed too how the horrors of racism are not confined to national borders, let alone individual footy grounds. Cole and Heskey were hounded by a tidy number of the crowd every time they went near the ball. It was also sickening confirmation of what black players in England have been saying for some time about playing in Europe. Dutch club PSV have just been fined a derisory £13,000 for their crowd's racist barracking of Arsenal's black magicians. So anyone who gets self-righteous about the dickheads in our own crowd is talking through his/her arse backwards and forwards again, as if we didn't know. It's a universal problem.

There's no question this disgusting muck is on the increase again and it needs tackling on a global basis. Funny, isn't it, how the same pricks who rant on at us about "global free trade" (and put "free" trade in legal place) can't or won't put together a straightforward policy for isolating and dealing with racist shitehawks on, er, a global basis. "Too complicated," is the invariable response.

No it's not.

Assemble an international group of honourable, sensible fans in a room with some specialist lawyers to advise them and I'll bet you your next month's paltry salary they will come out with a set of workable policies. It wouldn't be perfect and it would make mistakes because like all laws it is conceived by human beings. But it would be a badly-needed start. Then again, it would provide a precedent for something the establishment have no wish to see……………………………So it's time for FIFA to start earning all that money we pour into their coffers. That's assuming Blatter can get his nose out of a copy of the Havelange Manual Of Buying And Selling People.

Monday, and it was Keith's Bluewatch presentation time to the great Davey Weir. The assembled company got pissed while I pointed Mogsy and Red Geoff at some reasonably rampant totty within two metres of their body heat. On the dance floor, middle-aged plump women with tattoos raised thick arms to relentlessly cheery dance tunes and quickly dropped them to prevent their ample boobs surging out of overtight, laced-up basque tops. It was all going on. I sat in the corner like Jabber the Hutt. Or was it Blubber The Gutt? Or maybe Glubber The Bat? Who gives a shit when you're enjoying yourself and pissed as a fart. Davey was marvellous and that's all that matters. I can report there were no Guardian readers present.

The day after I humiliated Mogsy at snooker I watched England lose two important Euro points against someone called Macedonia. Depressingly, Motty started his TV chat with, "Of course, Macedonia is where - " and you knew, just KNEW he was going to say "- Alexander the Great was born." And he did. Which is enough to send your contemporary average Greek nationalist into homicidal mode. Motty's good in sheepskin coats, stats and, latterly, screaming ludicrously shrill hyperbole, but he's total shite at history ancient and modern. Look, don't bother mailing me, just go read history with reasonable concentration. Don't ask me for a reading list either. I'm far too busy.

Sadly, our England were total shite too, this time in completely unambiguous fashion. Our midfield was awful again and we let in two loony goals to boot. In the dugout, Sven looked drained by the tiresome Ulrika saga, soft bastard. While I'm searching for excuses and whingeing uncontrollably I want to say unequivocally I hope Alan Smith never again plays for England. Him, Woodgate, Bowyer and Mills. The boy's unjustified arrogance is now beyond toleration or control, as is his bad temper. And another thing, he has an appalling permanent pout and a badly dyed exploding bouffant. It's like watching Riefenstahl play footy while directing a nazi movie. Altogether it was as melancholic as Mick Jagger fending off senile groupies with his zimmer.

There's no alternative. We'll just have to go and beat the Turks or it's back to the drawing board. Fortunately there's four months to get everybody fit. Maybe, too, Sven will have got over Ulrika by then - aaarrgghhh! Sorry, he's already done that.

You're right. That last bit was a dead cheap shot. I'm just trying to divert attention from our awful display.

Meanwhile, talking about absolute plantpots, a so-called former "fan" of ours was describing in a book how he tried destroy everyone's enjoyment at everyone's expense except his. Needless to say, the information clerks (i.e. everyone who works for the press and audio/TV outlets) fed off it like the low life they are, without conscience and without thinking anything other than the grubby process they serve. Apparachiks thy name is media slave. Not much point commenting on the twat, really. He's the kind of oik you want out of your face as soon as he can learn how to get out of bed in the morning. Friends, don't bother with his kind and don't buy his book. They aren't worth a carrot. Love the game. Despatch its enemies to hell. Like the G14 Group, its members and its deeds.

On matchday we assembled in The Pacific on Walton Road, across the street from Wetherspoons. It was like being in an opium den. The windows were shaded so we could see big screen TV, on which the Sheepshaggers and the pinkies were boring us all to death. We ruminated about our game against the Gooners. I figured death by a thousand cuts and three or four goals. At the other end of the scale Texyla said we'd win 3-2 in an error-ridden match. But not before he grassed on Mogsy for going to see the pinkies play some low level ex-Commies in the G14 League. Mogsy moaned, "It was worse than you think. I had to sit through five goals for the pinkies." Just then the pinkies scored against the Sheepshaggers and Kipper said roughly, "Bet yer made up now." This was all wildly unfair but worth it to just to see Mogsy suffer horribly. And, anyway, Kipper was pissed off because his digital camera (a piece of magical, infinitely-variable kit) hadn't charged properly.

We walked up to the ground full of good cheer and lager. It was a glorious Autumn day, bright and slightly chilly. Insulated clothing almost everywhere. A full house. Is there any better feeling in the world, even when you're expecting a sound thrashing out on the park?

I arrived at my seat just as "Z Cars" blared out and the teams came on to the park. Isn't it wonderful how that first crash of drums and cymbals makes the hairs stand up on your neck, even now, even when our fortunes have been so low? Right! If we're gonna lose we're gonna give 'em one hell of a fright first!

Teams, ours the same, theirs - well, it didn't bear thinking about, really. Even their bench scared you shitless if you let it. On my left, Peter said, "Just the day for Rooney to come on and drift one in from forty yards." "Christ, aye," I said fervently, thinking that even if he got on he wasn't going to get a kick against this lot.

The first fifteen minutes more or less confirmed my instincts. They ran rings around us and scored after about seven minutes. A long cross came over from their left into the Park End. It got to the other side of the goal area, where Unsy kindly headed it straight up in the air into the middle, either Joey or Davey did the same, it dropped and then someone hacked it against someone else. Naturally it rebounded straight into the path of Ljundberg, he of the insane bouffant, and he poked it home. Ah SHIT. Elbows on knees, chin in cupped hands, I felt low and glum.

Paddy Vieira was doing his usual casual comedy turn in midfield. You know, shrugging us off like you wave away a pesky fly. Everybody bounced off the brilliant bastard's shoulders like he was made of rubber. For once, Li Tie looked completely out of his depth and did so until he got subbed in the second half. He was probably just overawed. The Gooners kept passing it around in those deadly little triangles of theirs, the ones that draw you in, then get sprung with a couple of longer passes through to Henry to score. You want to strangle the fuckers when they play like that. Except, to be honest, you're usually far too busy admiring them.

But for all that, we never gave up. The shape was still there, the determination still evident, and since I am one of his biggest critics, let me say straight away it was largely due to The Gravedigger, my man of the match by a long chalk. In this match, what he lacked in ability he more than made up for with effort and fighting spirit. He kept driving forward in inspirational fashion. When he plays like this, there can be no criticism.

After twenty odd minutes he started on a diagonal left midfield run into the Street End, fed by The Rad after some tremendous fighting work by the same, sun at his back and the hopes of thousands on his shoulders. Past one man…………past two…………in the D…………ball goes wide right to Slaphead……………a blur of a shot cracked against the near upright and rebounded across the penalty area to just left of the D…………The Rad on it in a heartbeat……………skinned one man……………inside the box, dead centre………………a slapshot………………fucking hell! HE'S SCORED! Pandemonium.

From then on it was a different game. Arsenal still patted it around as you would expect but it was even-stevens all the way. You could see it was getting to them because they began to niggle. Rennie, yet another dreadful ref, let them get away with an awful lot. This included a foul by narky Ashley Cole when he got skinned by The Rad's pace just outside the box, right side angle. Pembo got booked for mouthing off. If Rennie could've heard the language around me he would have had ten thousand names in his book.

Up front once again SuperKev won all those little headers and kept laying it off accurately for The Rad or anyone else who wanted to join in. Kev must be murder to play against when he's in this kind of form. His heading technique is maddening to try to counter. He has this way of stooping slightly and back- or side-heading it. Defenders have to climb all over him to get at the ball. Which invariably means a foul. We get innumerable and invaluable free kicks on the edge of the box because of this. But don't expect the racists to see it that way. Meantime, The Rad has added to his unmatchable pace a willingness to tackle and combine with anyone on the right or the left. Together, they cause enough mayhem to keep the enemy occupied all match.

The more the game went on, the more you began to feel we'd get something out of it. The Gooners kept trying down their left but Moyesy's new combo of Tony and Slaphead is difficult to beat these days. Tony's game gets better because of it. And Lee Carsley is the type of player who doesn't mind taking a back seat as long as things are going well. Tony owes him a lot.

Middle defence is as good as it has been since Dave Watson retired. Joey and Davey were magnificent yet again. The only slight mistake I have seen Joey make was in this match. He went and headed a ball out that was plainly bound for Wrighty's hands. Next to me, Peter said, "What's the Nigerian for 'leave it'?" But this is carping. Joey is an absolute diamond, as strong as an ox, as fast as a jaguar. We must start saving our halfpennies to keep him.

In this game our midfield weaknesses were Li Tie's inexperience and Pembo's (now even more obvious) lack of pace. Thing is, though, Pembo's started cracking over whizz bang corners and free kicks like there's no tomorrow. Alas, he can't get any more pace into his game, whereas it's safe bet Li Tie will be mightily pissed off with himself in this match. Players live for this sort of occasion and when they don't perform it gets to them even more than it gets to us. He's young enough to get mad and get even with fate. It's up to him. Pembo will be good for us as long as the team formation guards against his weaknesses, much as Lee Carsley does with Tony.

In the second half it was even-stevens again. After the subs, Arsenal had two clear cut chances when Wiltord hit the same post as Lee Carsley, and then Henry of all people missed a simple tap-in in the Street End. All the time we were still going forward at them and gradually choking the life out of their oh so talented midfield. After seventy minutes we were all saying nervously, "I'll settle for this." Though I was on my feet shouting like everyone else I have to say my bottle had well and truly flown the coop. I have no idea why. I have been in much, much more tense situations in and out of the game. Maybe it has to do with bio-rhythms. Or it might have been the lager in The Pacific. Anyway.

Arsenal brought The Ears on and he was naturally roundly booed. I couldn't be arsed one way or the other. He made his choice in life and he has to live with it. He isn't one of us anymore. Viciously, a delicious scouse accent called him, "You FA Cup-eared TWAT!" Whereas……………………………

Li Tie got replaced by Toby. Interesting this. It immediately tightened the midfield even more. The little Swede is as tough as old boots and not inclined to lose the slightest tackle. You could see The Gooners midfield wilt a little bit more. Here's one fan who thinks Moyesy gets almost everything right.

Then The Duke came on for The Rad with ten minutes left and thankfully everyone promptly forgot about The Ears. The Duke joined the battle like everyone else. Plainly the boy relishes every second of it. The whole stadium perked up even more. Except for a tiny, still pocket of Gooners in the corner. The noise level went up as the game went into the closing minutes.

Then in the final minute came The Moment. Now we better get this right. We've seen him do it youth matches, in friendlies and in his sub appearances. You know, the twist-and-shoot thingy. You'll find my match reports are replete with mentions of it. But you have to get this one in its true perspective. This was against arguably the best club side in the world on current form. Arsenal are not just good, they are brilliant, and in every position too. And fate and The Duke chose this game to deliver the goods. In the final minute, with a draw in the offing. Words don't do it justice. Funny enough, nor do the pictures. You really did have to be there.

It began with a left midfield tussle on the centre line. The ball took a loose bounce amidst a scrum of players. The Gravedigger got to it first and lobbed a superb first time through pass to The Duke, wide left. He let it come over his head and then killed it stone dead on his instep. It was at his feet, on his right. He was just outside the left angle of the box. Those of us who know his game were already on ours, wings of hope flapping wildly. He turned and took a couple of quick strides, tremendously determined body shape over the ball. We've seen him do it. We knew what he was going to do. He did it, that's all.

The ball flashed and dipped wickedly over the last two metres of its flight. It went in off the underside of the bar in the only place it would work. It was home, and so were we. And so was The Duke.

Goodison Park, this famous and much loved old stadium, went absolutely mad. Everywhere you looked people were dancing and shouting themselves hoarse. Top balcony, bottom balcony, Street End, Park End, Bullens Road. Some were transfixed with sheer emotion. Others old and young were openly weeping. It was crazy. Years of frustration were seemingly swept away by the football actions of a sixteen years old boy. Every now and then life brings forward someone who attracts lightning. It looks like The Duke is one such.

If Bill Dean had been there he would have said matter-of-factly, "That's it. He's ready."

But who knows what fate holds for him? One thing is certain, if his determination and talent has anything to do with it, it will be mostly sporting glory.

At the final whistle, the place in emotional turmoil, "ROOOONNNEEEEYYYYY!" echoing and re-echoing, Francis Jeffers went to The Duke and shook hands before wandering off unnoticed to the away dressing room. It could all have been so different. (20/10/02)

Team News

It seems an age since the last game and I can't wait for this one. On the injury front there is now only Dunc and Juli unavailable for selection. Pisto, Nace, Stubbsey and Stevie Wat are all fit again. With this news and that Hibbo has recovered from his problem I think David Moyes will start with the same 11 as the Man u game.

Whoever plays will need to give it their all against a very strong Arsenal side if we are to get anything from the game. Moyesy and Unsy are giving the Arsenal team much praise but on our day we could be the ones to end their run.

Moyesy said: "I would be surprised if Arsenal went through the entire season without losing a match. It was only a few weeks ago that they found themselves two goals down at West Ham. Hopefully it will be Everton who end that run."

Unsy said: "They are not unbeatable. Don't get me wrong they are a fantastic team and I am sure that myself and the rest of the lads have got full respect for them because they are good players but in no way are we in fear of them. You don't fear another footballing team at this level no way, we will be going out on the park knowing that if we all pull together there is no reason why we can't win the game."

Kipper's eleven to start: Wright, Hibbert, Weir, Yobo, Unsworth, Carsley, Li Tie, Gravesen, Pembridge, Radzinski, Campbell.