KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVENS DOOR
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

“A boy’s will is the wind’s willAnd the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
“My Lost Youth” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1858).

“I’m mad about the boy Simply maaad about the boy.”
Popular song by Noel Coward (1932).

You’re not going to believe this but I swear it’s true.

After a couple of drinky-poos in Wetherspoons after the Blackburn game I was hastily ensconced in a taxi heading for home. The driver turned out to be a pinky, and one of the rare ones, one with a brain, common sense and the ability to speak clearly in English………………well, alright, scouse. Being a sucker for a good conversation I quickly engaged in an exchange of opinions. After talking great players – all real fans talk about great players abilities, not formations or cheap gossip, and absolutely none of us believes anything the lying gobshites say in the newspapers or the mags – chat diverted on to our local fans.

Quite without prompting or provocation he launched an amazing attack on the pinkies’ followers. Actually he only confirmed our perfectly justified tribal base instincts that, honourable exceptions apart, the vast majority of pinkies aren’t up to scratch when it comes to a balanced view, and that most of them are moaning bastards with no sense of real loyalty. To us, Graeme Sou(r)ness is a typical pinky. All us Blue Bellies are of course well aware we are the most knowledgeable, loyal and articulate fans in the world. I mean, it goes without saying, la, like, duzn’t it. But those pinkies…………………well, der norra full shillin’ an’ never ‘ave been, ‘ave dee? No class, like. And here was one of them saying just that! Of course I gave him a large tip.

So who was the sucker? I was in the shower before I realised what had just happened. I have to admit I almost fell over laughing with admiration. Of course that doesn’t make him not a cunt, if you see what I mean. To hell with “objectivity,” the visceral enemy of determined bias. Nobody with any common sense likes Ayn Rand. Either take sides or fuck off to a seminary somewhere in the Caucasians or join New Labour or get an MBA at night school or go sweep out dog kennels.

Pre-derby match is like that. When it comes to psychological warfare those right wing Lahndan-based PR boys are just a bunch of ex-public school floppy-wrist Suits in the Young Boy Network, no talent and absolutely no idea of the subtleties of human behaviour. They can’t hold a candle to us scousers. Give me a Blue Bellies-pinkies conflict any day. It brings out the best and worst in us. Everybody engages in the kind of instinctive psyops which makes the CIA and MI6 look like the bungling nazis they are. The cab driver ran rings around me and I walked straight into the maypole. I smiled ruefully, happy in the knowledge that I’d more than get my own back during the following week. Which of course I did, and in spades.

See, I just got the first blow in. I spelled “pinkies” with a small “p.” Have you any idea how disrespect for their plc (you didn’t know this, but it stands for “pinkies limited company”) drives those sour churls straight up the nearest wall, across the ceiling, down the opposite wall and off again on another circuit?

And pomposity, especially footy-pomposity, is the easiest balloon in the world to prick. Hence the label. It makes them sound so much more, well, you know, gauche. In fact they got so far up themselves a brilliant new proper noun entered the propaganda lexicon…………Analfield. It’s amazing how something so childish should work it up them so easily, if you’ll pardon the pun. Apparently the term “pinkies” also emasculates them with a rusty bread knife. Next time you use either of these words in front of one of them, watch for a nervous tic around their mouth and eyes. Speaks volumes it does. Suddenly, all the Rick Parry “professionalism” is seen for the unspeakable barrow-boy shite it is.

Their problem, see, is far too many of them came to believe their own publicity. They became a humourless G14 Group Brand. By definition, brands are manufactured for selling. Furthermore, too many of them allowed blind hatred (and sadly it IS blind and it IS hatred) of Fellow G14er Manchester United to obscure a love of footy. So have the Mancs, in knee jerk reaction, but that’s another and much longer story.

The real point is not that we are so much better as fans but just how and why too many pinkies lost the plot. Anfield plc has become a flag-waving, shirt wearing soap-opera of self-deception, a sort of downmarket muted Nuremberg rally. And paradoxical as it might sound, the flukey treble made it even worse for them. A pink friend of mine tells me the main stand is now nicknamed the Moan Stand. Having witnessed their behaviour at the Newcastle match early in the season I can confirm just how accurate it is. All of which makes it much easier to take the piss out of them, especially while the Mancs have been doing well. It’s impossible to have sympathy for anybody who invests so much in G14 commercial frigidity and then supplements it with overt hatred. Such arseheads are well beyond the pale.

And another thing. Whatever anyone says, these are THE matches on Merseyside. Pinkies who say anything else are being even more transparently deceptive, self or otherwise, and therefore far more vulnerable to mass piss-taking. When the media do it, as usual, they have an agenda unrelated to the truth. These matches matter more than any other. Always have, always will. They are the very heart and soul of The Beautiful Game. Genuine pinkies know this full well. The rest – quasi pinkies, and gawd knows there’s LOADS of THEM – don’t matter. Nor do Murdoch Sky TV employees.

Win, and you’re in Blue Heaven listening to some whining pink claim, “They were both shite,” while you drive him up the wall for the umpteenth time with a maddening grin and venomous digs at his squirming discomfort. Lose, and you might as well be in Milton’s Hell, a Yates Wine Lodge, Southport or Heswall at any time, or face down in a Mersey rip-tide racing out into the Irish Sea. Draws are meaningless unless you’ve managed to pull back a hefty deficit. If you understand none of this then frankly you’re in the wrong sport. More than that, you’re in the wrong city.

A word now about the present state of relations between the fans. By and large, they are disgraceful. And if that disgusting, squeaky-voiced bastard Emlyn Hughes is at the twenty-five years root of it then there can be no question our own fans have repaid with stupid interest since. Ridiculous vendettas are like that. Which is why Hughes’s club should have made more immediate public effort to clear the air. Instead they have compounded matters by loony decisions like that which locks in Blues fans at Anfield after derby games. The fans have always freely mixed without that kind of nonsense. Why it should be introduced now is a mystery only the pink admin can answer. Sometimes you get the feeling their wickedly incompetent management wants to throw petrol on a smouldering fire.

Despite the myth, relations always were fraught. That’s the whole point of derby matches everywhere. But when Hughes confirmed his reputation as an empty headed drunken jerk with no class he also pushed our rivalry over a cliff. It became a matter of national shame that he did the same thing during his shameful sort sojourn as England’s captain. The fact that his club made no real effort to restore the situation only compounded raw feelings. Sensible united action by both clubs might have saved the day. Instead, matters were allowed to fester. The rest is history, a worsening downward spiral. Needless to say the metro media gleefully seized on it and made matters worse.

Only the fans can restore relations to their previous level. As I said, they were never ideal but they were at least acceptable. There are encouraging signs but a great deal more needs to be done. If the fans leave it to Parry’s, Murdoch’s and the Daily Mail’s info clerks then they shouldn’t be surprised at what they get.

Of course it’s completely impossible to “enjoy” the game anyway because you are far too busy trying to quench the tension burning a hole through your intestines. That has never changed. If We cross the half way line you feel yourself soar into the stratosphere on wings of hope. If it’s them, the Analfield city-second-club-no-marks, you want to don a steel helmet and make a bayonet charge to turn back the barbarian infidels. It could be worse. It could be a real fire fight. But this isn’t much different. You still feel your life’s on the line. If you don’t, there’s no blood in your veins. If you want more than two a season then there’s no brain in your head. The match is what you want………………but the sooner it’s over the fucking better one way or the other. In a word, crazy. A goal either way is like Krakatoa going off in your head.

This kind of schizophrenia is never better exampled than how I got my ticket. Actually it was two, in the International Suite, meal and all the rest thrown in, generously given to me by a friend and devoted pinky who travels three thousand miles one way when he watches them. Also courtesy of Jack earlier in the season I had watched in amazement as pinkies exited en masse immediately after they let in two late goals and only drew with The Skunks in a terrific match. There were still five minutes left and either side could have won it. I opined then that the pinkies were good enough to win the title, but those fans……………..sheesh. I was told to stop smirking. I wasn’t. Honest.

Since then their wheels have come off in spectacular style and gone bouncing downhill to the music of unrestrained savage glee from GP. But based on that match I was baffled by their fall. Still am in fact. Even short TV extracts showed them peppering the opposition with shots which just kept missing goal or hitting defenders at the last moment. As Jack gave me the tickets over an agreeable lunch in The Living Room I assured him it really couldn’t go on. The pinks were going to batter some hapless opponent. I just hoped it wasn’t us. Naturally he said he hoped It Fucking Was And If It Is Don’t Come Crying To Me You Blue And White Twat. Well that’s alright, then. Situation abnormal, as usual. Of course, yes, I told him Go Fuck Yourself. We both grinned at the absurdity.

The media, ratings-stupid to a man/woman/Graham Norton, would never understand since they’re far too busy with their phoney “controversies.” You’re entitled to ask why these charlies are eager to operate their whiz-bang software graphics and In Your Face Nothingness while so many of our species are threatened with something much more important.

As the week wore on the largely meaningless propaganda battle swayed back and forth. Euphoric Blue Bellies suddenly came to realise we might be without a quarter of our usual team. The optimism faded to apprehension, then resurged with the notion of a determined rampant Duke. And of course untalented opportunist local “writers” had been making the most of The Duke in magazines and newspapers. How sad, how predictable.

Apparently the boy had been telling everyone close that he had every intention of doing the pinkies over in their own backyard. Uh oh, I thought, this is an optimism too far. You just can’t predict like that in a derby game. Fate has an awkward way of bringing you up short. Anyway, I hate being favourite against the pinkies. I am as haunted by unexpected derby reversals as the pinks are. Then they went and beat Villa with a flukey last minute winner during the week. Our beloved city was upside down in anticipation of the match. Betting odds showed them, not Us, as favourites.

Emlyn Hughes might be long gone but the present incumbents are not much different. No class. If there’s one thing the pinks have never had, it’s class. They’re just flag-waving, shirt-wearing G14 consumer units part-owned by Granada and ordered into serried, mosaic rows by the balding Suit Rick Parry, one of the main culprits in the so-called “Premier League,” a scab cartel of the worst type.

The more Pinnochio Thompson shot his mouth off the better I felt. It meant the tension was getting to him. Who?llier doesn’t matter of course. He’s an ex-teacher who has never played first class footy. Fact, he lies through his teeth and blames everyone else when things go wrong. If it isn’t Deadneck, it’s Gerrard, or Owen, or (in a previous life) Ginola. But he’s “good” with the media and France had done rather well in rapidly fading years, which is probably why Suit Parry/David Moores/Granada/G14 plc has employed him. But that’s their problem.

On Friday I met with Kipper and Sower to plan a propaganda coup to be executed at the match. Because it was childishly funny we giggled like schoolboys. If it came off the way we wanted it would stick in everyone’s mind for ages. Which of course is the whole point. It’s a safe bet some pinkies on the other side of town were planning the same sort of thing. Timing is everything. The question was who would get the first blow in at exactly the right time. Kipper had already delivered the full depth and width of the shaft at work by saying casually, “Well, it IS your cup final isn’t it,” to any pink who gobbed off about the match. You have to see the way Kipper grins when he says something like this. He’s got a smile like a razor blade.

Match day, we assembled in the city-centre Wetherspoons. Moby calls whizzed back and forth through the stratosphere. The usual suspects assembled. We unfurled the propaganda ploy, one banner carrying the bleak message “KOP MY ARSE. THIS IS ANALFIELD,” and another reading “YOU HAVE JUST BEEN ROONEYED!” Blue Bellies, local winos and casual visitors approved with Crimbo chortles. Scattered pinkies lurked sullenly in the background, beaks stuck in their pints of bitter. Sower arrived with a forecast that we’d win 4-0. Texyla and Mogsy thought we’d lose. Jeff proudly wore a footy shirt with “Redundant 33” on the back. I didn’t have a clue which way the game would go but suspected we’d lose. I thought the game potentially was full of goals.

Outside, our beloved city was full of determined shoppers performing their seasonal commercial duty to keep the Suits in profits. My reverie on this point was brought to a rude halt when Jeff got right in my face and snarled, “Yeh, well, YOU’RE a fuckn Suit aren’tcha, goin’ in one of their executive suites for a nosh ‘n’ all.” I was nonplussed for all of a microsecond before once again instructing him that being a Suit is a state of mind and attitude, not one of apparel or location. The story will run and run.

Then Sower and I fell into a taxi to Analfield. As we got out, and I again swear this is true, a pink in a footy shirt with “Carlsberg” written all over his tits spoke to the driver in, wait for it, a cockney accent and asked if it was for hire. Sower stared at him long and hard before I dragged him to safety in the middle of Oakfield Road traffic. As we crossed the yard outside the MacDonalds Superstore, so help me yet another cockney in the same outfit told his mates, “I’m goin’ the souvenir shop inni?” Sower gritted his teeth and muttered, “Fuckn Cajuns.” I had my work cut out not to bust a gut laughing.

We turned right at the Harvey Nicholls Underwear sponsored outside lav and presented ourselves at reception in the Jeffrey Archer Is Innocent stand. Sharply suited, thick necked, shaved head bouncers with earrings eyed my colours suspiciously. Sower’s blue jeans and check shirt stood out like a fox in a chicken coop. We made our way to the International Suite. Turned out St. John was a greeter. Even Suit Parry made a short appearance. It looks as though he’s lost even more of that hilarious, thinning wiry hair. More and more he looks like a mobile used Brillo pad. I am delighted to report he also looked extremely worried. Suddenly my feelings lightened and were reinforced when it turned out our table of eight was occupied solely by Evertonians.

Irresistibly on blob, Sower collared St. John and forced him to listen tight-faced to some virulently anti-pink jokes. The he followed up with, “Ey Ian! Yer know that first match of yours against Us, the one where yer scored three but we still won 4-3, yeh, that one. Well, is it true Labby stepped in with the ref and stopped you becoming the first player to get sent off in a derby match?” The jock’s faced tightened even more. He looked like he was being skull-dragged over a bed of broken glass. “Is tha’ wha’ Brian told yer, is it?” he ground out. I suspect he’s had more enjoyable conversations in his bathroom mirror. By this time I was almost on the floor on my back kicking my heels in the air. “No,” said Sower, “but I’ve heard it from some other pinky ex-players.” He hasn’t of course, but it was fucking brilliant derby match propaganda. At this point I had to exit to the toilets where I could piss meself without embarrassing anyone. When I came back, St. John was at another table looking as though he badly wanted to be elsewhere. Glasses of champagne clinked happily over our table. Pinkies glared at raucous Blue laughter. Has to be said though, the facilities, food and service were second to none. Thanks, Jack, you’re a diamond. Well, maybe second only to Sower’s artful bating of St. John.

Our seats turned out to be right next to an away section packed with noisy Blue Bellies. Vicious expletives sizzled back and forth like howitzer rounds. To my amazement Sower was as good as his word. I shit you not, he said absolutely nothing all through the match. Anybody who knows him will recognise this as the equivalent of a Marcel Marceau speaking role. This was especially true because around us sat some pinks who were at least as bad as the loonies of ours who sang “murderers” and the pinkies who poisoned the air every time The Duke went near the ball. You had to hear the latter to believe them.

There’s nothing new about it of course but it does no credit to either set of supporters. It’s at least as bad as illiterate berks who use puerile Yank PR terms like “moral high ground.” Derby day humour’s fine, even the occasional vicious kind, but the other kind of muck does nobody any good. Sometimes the line gets blurred but we all know instinctively where the limits are. Earlier in the day somebody apparently threw paint over Bill Dean’s statue. Once that kind of thing starts there’s no telling where it stops. As I said earlier, the clubs should make a joint announcement at times like this and cut out the roots before it becomes something a good deal worse. There’s too much to lose for all of us.

When the teams were announced Pembo was in for Li Tie, Sandro at left back, Tony – surprisingly – at right back, and The Duke was benched. On the whole I thought this a good move. Then again I find it increasingly difficult to disagree with anything Moyesy says and/or does. His expression seems to get clearer and more determined with every match. He looks and sounds transparently honest and unlikely to suffer fools or tabloid midgets easily. For instance, you couldn’t imagine him even remotely employing the disgusting little meff who sold a pinkies story to Murdoch’s rags for £2,000 while working at Analfield. And since I know the background to that nasty little event I’ll make sure Moyesy gets the facts if needs be. We don’t want our promising new regime threatened with that kind of treacherous hanger-on. I suspect Moyesy, rightly, chooses his friends and helpers carefully.

Out on the pitch we lined up while the pinks gathered in a Yank grid-iron huddle. You know, the one where they look like they’re hatching an egg. To me it is all as mortifyingly funny as this contrived psychobabble crap about “bonding.” Moyesy’s idea of “bonding” is to be out there with them on the pitch putting them through their pre-match paces in public. Guess which is preferable.

After all the anticipation, the match was a scrappy, mediocre let-down. It wasn’t an outright stinker…………just, well, not up to much. Being biased, I naturally think that if anyone was going to win it should have been Us. We had three clear opportunities in the first half, all missed, had a blatant penalty denied, and The Duke hit the bar in the second half. Our best spells were just before half time and just before the end. The pinkies best spell was just after they subbed two particularly useless players Diaio (?) and Traoare (?) with someone called Smicer and the unhappy, lumbering Heskey. This unsettled our left side midfield for about ten minutes before they got to grips with it, then Smicer disappeared. The pinks had one opportunity all match and it fell to Heskey who promptly fell over while heading it wide.

Frankly I was shocked by how far the pinkies have fallen since I saw them against The Skunks. They were truly awful. Had we had our full complement I am convinced we would have taken them to the cleaners and back again and then hung them out to dry. But thankfully that’s their problem. Next to me, a pink muttered all match, “I fuckn ‘ate that Carragher, ‘e’s fuckn useless,” and then did the same thing when Heskey came on. I can’t imagine why, since both of them were no better or worse than the rest of their detritus.

Sadly, our midfield was fitful and not very constructive. We won most of the tackles there but didn’t move it around incisively enough. The Gravedigger was at his most maddening, good one minute, dilatory the next. Carsley, Pembo and Nace all worked hard, certainly a good dealer harder than their opponents. A little more guile probably would have been enough to turn the situation over.

At the back, Wrighty was faultless when required. He caught all the crosses and was strong when Riise had their only shot on target, and that in the first five minutes. Tony didn’t put a foot wrong until his injury got the better of him and Moyesy replaced him with Stevie in the send half. Sandro at left back was easily the man of the match, pure class, everything that’s good in Italian football………he won’t thank me for this but he reminded me of the great Paolo Maldini. Davey and Stubbsy at centre backs weren’t far behind. I confess I feared they would be our weak spot, not because they wouldn’t be up for it, but simply due to lack of pace. I was completely wrong.

Up front there was an interesting duel between SuperKev and The Rad for Us, and Hyppia and Henchoz for them. With a bit more support from midfield We might have won that battle. As it was, they won it by a tiny margin but not before they were kept fully and nervously occupied most of the afternoon. As usual The Rad missed a couple he should have buried.

The Duke came on just after the second half started with pinkies around me spitting sheer fear between invective. Interestingly, it didn’t bother the boy in the least. After about five minutes, and right in front of us, he got a break down our wide left and the pink ‘keeper came charging out to try and flatten him. Rooney didn’t even blink, let alone back out of the clash. It was the pinky who got helped away gasping for air and clutching his chest. Me and Sower grinned happily. So did The Duke. You have to say the pinky had it coming. He tried to intimidate the boy and buggered himself instead. The summary justice of fate.

A few minutes later the wünderkind tried an outrageous back-flick-through-his-legs-and-turn but it didn’t come off. If it had, it would have completely undone the pink defence. Losing it might have affected a lesser player. But with Wayne Rooney, if you lose one you’re just as likely to win the next three. His self confidence is absolutely indomitable. Nothing bothers him except getting the next action right, an excellent formula for getting on with your life. Leave whining half-measures and sneaking around to the Melledrew Tendency. And it is this which, believe me, was driving the pinkies around us completely nuts.

He got an inevitable scoring opportunity later on. It was in his favourite position, slightly left of centre, just outside the box and closing, the opposition in sheer funk. As he shot, Henchoz got in a magnificent tackle to save the day. Even then The Duke got off his shot but it took a bounce, shot up in the air and hit the top of the bar with the pinkies all over the place.

As the match went into its final phase, relatively, We got more into the game, mostly down our right for some reason. Midfield had been an untidy battleground all match. Which is probably why ineffective Gerrard launched a frustrated and dreadful two footed tackle straight into Nace’s thigh. Later, Popeye The Gaul said he “didn’t see it.” Very strange, that, since it happened within seven metres of the dugout and from my position I could see it easily from a half a footy pitch further away than even Popeye. Or maybe the ceaseless bating of Pinnochio had distracted their bench. Whatever.

Neither side was able to launch a genuine full blooded assault in the closing minutes so the final whistle was a relief for everyone. Nobody wanted to lose to a last minute breakaway.

Sower went back to the International Suite to bate more pinks while I waited for the crowds to clear. Away on my left The Bus held up the banner reading “KOP MY ARSE. THIS IS ANALFIELD.” Texyla grinned broadly as he held it up for departing, baleful pinkies. As I joined the crowds leaving, a hapless pink with a florid face stood at the exit and muttered, “Fuckn Blueshite bastards.” I grinned and stared at him. He looked at his shoes.

I think you can safely say we won all the propaganda battles this time.

Go, Duke. Mistral at your back, the sun on your face……………ride like the wind. We’re on our way at last.

With Joey & Unsey suspended, & The Hibbert & Pembo very doubtful, there will be changes in the team. Our information is that neither of the injured duo will make it, so Stevie Watson & Sandro Pisto will come in & fill the full back spots, while Davie Weir will come in to play in the heart of the defence.

Tony Hibbert has had 9 stitches in his thigh. The gash was very deep, & it may need a skin graft. Physio Baz Rathbone says: "Hibbo has a very nasty cut on his thigh. He’s doing ok, but he’s still a doubt for the derby.”

On Mark Pembridge, Baz says: “Mark is making decent progress, but he is still in a little bit of discomfort, so we’ll have to monitor his fitness ahead of Sunday,”

With 3 players out the back 4 missing from last weeks team you would worry, but Wato & Pisto have been waiting patiently for a game, & now get their chance. What a game to start your 1st full league game of the season. With Moyesy keeping players in the side who do well, this is a great opportunity for them. Davie Weir is a man I would want in my team to play against the shite any day.

The key is if we score first, we'll go on to win, as the pinky fans will be on their players backs, & we'll go from strength to strength. The Duke to score twice. Come on you Blues!

Look out for a couple of Blue Kipper Banners in The Away end.

Jogger's eleven to start: Wright, Watson, Weir, Stubbs, Pistone, Carsley, Li Tie, Gravesen, Naysmith, Rooney, Campbell.