Quotes
Moyesy
says: “I can’t remember the last time I was in a game like
that,” he said. “I’m so excited with the way it’s ended up, because
we deserved it. There’s no question about that. I was thinking: ‘Here
we go again - it’s not going to be our day.’ The boys kept going and
they were great. I don’t know how many opportunities they created,
but we got our rewards. It looked as if we’d had a fortnight’s break
in the first half and it took us 45 minutes to get up to the speed
we wanted to be at. We had to raise our game in the second half and
create a bit more atmosphere in ourselves to make things happen. I
felt the only way to do that was to make changes - Brian had been
well shackled by the Southampton defenders. Niemi was outstanding
today and I think he has been for Southampton all season. But we’re
in the top six for another week and I just want to be saying that
in another three months time.”
Jogger
says: "Fuckin' 'ell, Tommy. Can't you score?"
The
Rad says: “It’s a great feeling to score the winner in the
last minute. When I scored against Man City, it was good, but today
we got all three points, so that makes it even better. At the beginning
of the second half, the whole team was playing brilliantly. I missed
a couple of chances and I thought ‘It’s going to be one of those days.’
But I’m glad to say I was wrong! It was my first headed goal of the
season and I really had to jump with my lack of height. But all credit
to Wayne, it was an excellent cross and all I had to do was direct
it towards the goal."
TWO
WEEKS IS A LONG TIME IN HOLISTICS
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.
Two
weeks without a match is two weeks too long. If you’re not careful
you can fall prey to all kinds of coots and their nearest relatives
in the food chain, Ozzies.
It
even drives you to read some of the useless sales junk which infests
your snail mail box every morning. Well, it’s a good deal more interesting
than the claptrap on internet footy forums – you know, the ones where
(info hungry/homesick expats apart) odd bods and weirdos gather to
back slap each other, yawp and generally try to dominate anyone else
new and hapless enough to post similar detritus. Either way, you’d
get more sense out of the nearest Chihuahua, which itself is a cross
between a moth and a rat. Mostly, you’d have better footy chat with
the nearest wall. Too many forum contributions resemble a perfect
bowel movement while astride a high-horse permanently tethered. This
guarantees the rider will slide off in uncomfortable and odoriferous
ignominy. Footy forums have their uses, especially if your only cerebral
possessions are the creativity, concentration and mindset of a gnat.
Their most valuable use is a research tool for staff psychologists
at Broadmoor. Odd and weird to say the least. But I digress.
Hence
one morning over breakfast I found myself bleary and blinking risibly
at a cheap mail order catalogue from a mail shot. A Yank-owned spiv
company based in Harrington Dock sends this stuff out every now and
then in the hope that somebody will be dope enough to buy something
therefrom. At one point I almost inhaled an entire plate of bacon
and eggs as I surveyed the sheer tackiness of a Yank-organised sales
drive. You just can’t parody this anglicised mutation of Elmer Gantry,
the mafia, Milton Friedman, Gerry Adams and Ronald MacDonald.
The
first one is, try not to gag, an Erectionator Kit. Yes, it allegedly
does what it says on the tin, gives you an erection on demand via
a mechanical system. No, I’m not kidding. But wait. The devil’s in
the detail.
The
kit consists of a small, black carry-bag containing a 175mm long x
30mm diameter cylindrical vacuum pump in rigid clear perspex, small
expansion valve, four “comfort rings,” a tube of lubricant, and illustrated
instructions. The ad text panel says, “NOW available without prescription.”
It costs £99.99 plus post and packing. But before you rush out
and order one I have to warn you it looks like it might well get in
the way at crucial or urgent temps d’amour. The mind boggles at what
the instructions might say. I mean, at what point do you put it ON,
at what point do you take it OFF? And while all this is going on,
what the fuck do you say to the lady impatiently manicuring her finger
nails while cross legged in the sack?
Then
there’s a Leg Wallet to “Hide cash and credit cards out of sight –
valuables safely hide under your trouser leg. One size fits all.”
That last sentence is crucial. It doesn’t say if you have to remove
it while using the Erectionator. Best consult the inventors before
combining the two. They might not be compatible.
If
either of those two stunners isn’t for you, then you’ll have to breeze
quickly past a Six Tone Whistling Kettle and The Amazing Forever Flashlight
before you get to the Long Handled Shoe Horn. You can’t miss it though
because it’s just below the absolutely indispensable Singing Lips
Radio. You might even splutter as helplessly as I did over the shoe
horn, 350mm long, shaped like a baseball bat and designed so’s “No
more backache, bending or sitting down to put your shoes on………should
last you a lifetime.” The ad photo shows a geezer in flared kecks
and platform shoes twisting sideways and bending backwards and downwards
to insert the thing into the heel of his shoe. I promise you I have
not concocted any of this.
Friends,
this is a SERIOUS Yank sales pitch. You know what they’re like while
they’re trying to sell you snake oil, Have A Nice Day cutey-kitsch,
their New Order (©Adolf Hitler circa 1941. See “The Rise And
Fall Of The Third Reich,” chapter 27, by William L. Shirer), control
of oil supplies for their own use, and to exercise power by blitzkrieg
of innocent Iraqi civilians. Not that the Texas Family Bush or Poodle
Blair could give a cluster bomb what you and your family think, just
so long as you don’t DO anything to stop them. Strange, isn’t it,
how they can find instant billions for a war but won’t inject enough
into, say, decent healthcare and education systems. Any day now the
miserable bastards will privatise destitution.
Put
the former with the latter and you don’t know whether to laugh or
cry. Especially when the Yank and Brit establishments try to feed
everyone war, credit cards, drugs, unemployment and mail order catalogues.
Tell me again, Winston, who are we at war with this time, EastAsia
or EurAsia?
Actually,
you are far better getting outraged and angry enough to research some
facts and act accordingly. You could do worse than start here:
http://arizona.indymedia.org/news/2003/01/6726.php
Or
read lots of Noam Chomsky and Peter Dale Scott. But that’s up to you.
It’s your life to win or lose. Good luck in your choice.
And
talking of a small self-appointed group of economic thugs, the G14
Group Scab Cowboy Cartel has tried its hand for the umpteenth time
with something called The Golden Cup. Yes, I know it sounds like yet
another doomed experimental product of Cadburys but in fact it was
another tiresome attempt to promote G14’s hoodlum objective. Anybody
who has been paying attention will know by now that is control of
a sort of European footy protection racket. I don’t know the details
of the so-called cup except that it looks partly like just another
vehicle to get Celtic and Rangers out of the Jock league and into
another set-up. Me, I just wish the other Jock clubs would hurry their
embryo scheme to resign from their “premiership” and re-form by excluding
the Old Firm and leave both of those disgusting religious loony clubs
in the middle of the North Sea. Moreover, we should have a similar
scheme in place in England ready to jettison the English members of
G14 at a suitable moment, and then revert to a single domestic league
with multiple divisions. To hell with G14, its members and owners,
and the English “premiership” for that matter. UEFA are increasingly
and encouragingly self confident in this matter and have told them
to do one with their Golden Cup. Which is nice. Nice too to see UEFA
have eliminated one of the money-grubbing group stages in next season’s
European Cup. Anything which screws and annoys G14 has my total support.
In
the meantime, by way of cleansing innocence, adolescent Wayne Rooney
got his first international start for England against the Ozzies.
Excellent he was too. No Erectionator required there. In fact the
Ozzies, true to their sports form and inferiority complex, kept trying
to make sure he wasn’t on his feet at all. To his eternal credit he
not only stayed, erm, up, as it were, he also played some telling
passes and had a handy part in England’s goal. What he needs now is
a full game amongst prime players, not mediocre dingbats like the
Ozzies. This is a boy who won’t be fazed by anything or anyone. Footy
greatness beckons. I hope he heeds the call and ignores the assorted
drunks and ne’er do wells looking for a piece of his financial hide
or a place in the reflected glow.
Predictable
Oz friends were in immediate telephone contact to gloat over the adverse
result. Quite rightly they didn’t forget or forgive how I shoved it
to them when our rugby union team did them over in the World Cup and
recently again at Twickenham. So I expected nothing less. Where Ozzies
and similar loons are concerned, never complain, never explain, just
stick it to ‘em. (I couldn’t really give a hoot about the maul that
is rugby of course but I know how much wrestling-on-wheels looms large
in what passes for antipodean “life.” And while I’m at it again, have
you SEEN that Ozzie Rules cockamaimy, the one refereed by men in knee
length white laboratory coats, pressed kecks and white trilbys, directing
traffic behind the “goals”?) But I was ready for them. I repeat, there’s
absolutely no point being ordinarily sensitive or courteous where
Ozzies are concerned. They’ll just take you for a schmuck if you are
reasonable. So I took huge satisfaction in telling them to take their
pet kangaroo into the nearest Oz convict museum and re-enact what
their forebears used to do in similar circumstances. Wonderfully,
this produced even more squeals of nationalist pain. I closed by assuring
said marsupial-violators that one day The Duke would set the record
straight, as he surely will. What goes around comes around. All you
have to do is exercise patience.
Speaking
of which, I am delighted to report Kipper received a flood of (oh
alright, one or two) emails concerning my self-satisfying and utterly
vindictive rant against the dingoheads. As usual, the mails appear
to be about 50-50 for and against. Some of them even managed to see
the point, which is heartening. The others, loony and misspelled as
ever, had their heads firmly faced toward, if not actually UP, their
nationalist sphincter. That said, I agree with those who considered
it unfair. In fact it was worse than that, it was a dreadfully biased
diatribe in very poor taste, very like anti-English self-righteous
coprolite from the usual suspects. Now you know how my fellow Englishmen
feel when an Ozzie with a two millimetres deep forehead takes off
about “whingeing Poms,” or a shillelaghed Plastic Paddy or frenzied
kilted Jock froths on about almost anything that happened between
1200 and 1900. I am sure you will go out of your way to correct the
next mad Ozzie arsehole(s) you hear repeat all that crap. I know I
can rely on you. Thank you for your support. For the others: TOUGH………I
have only this choice, stark message – Fuck off, Bruce, take the other
loonies with you, and make sure Sheila the kangaroo braces herself
before your next connubial session. Never ever give them an even break,
except in the legs and arms. Barry Humphries got it dead right with
Sir Les Patterson and Dame Edna. And he’s an Ozzie. As Humphries once
said, it keeps the pot melting. Whatever.
An
equal strain of comedy apparently erupted in the Manc dressing room
after they were dumped out of the FA Cup by Arsenal. Allegedly, Fergy,
wild-eyed with understandable pique, kicked a loose boot in a fit
of unjoie de vivre and it flew up and grazed Becks over his left eye.
I thought this funny for all of five minutes but typically the national
media had it splashed for days in an effort by empty heads to fill
empty heads. Thus demonstrating perfectly why everybody else knows
the average media hack is a product of breeding the physique of Toulouse
Lautrec with the intellect of a duck. Arsenal, of course, were brilliant
while United stuttered. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Gunners
won our League Championship, the FA Cup and the European Cup simultaneously.
But it’s in our interests Chelsea knock them out in the next round
if only to keep the Bates Motel preoccupied with the FA Cup instead
of a high place in the league table. No point getting sentimental
over this, not in the present climate of rat eat rat and all that
extreme right-wing “free market” claptrap.
Then
Arsenal go and draw with Ajax at Highbury in what’s normally labelled
“a tepid affair.” Actually, the match was absolute boring shite, the
sort of garbage which has devalued the European Cup since the G14
hoods got the group stages introduced. Which is another reason the
cartelised bastards should be eliminated with a chain saw and then
melted down with a flame thrower, then fed to the pigs. To my surprise,
Ajax were quicker and sharper than the Gunners and might well have
won it, whereas Arsenal patted it around like your average European
domestic league match – the kind of stuff which would have us yawning
and out of the stadium in a flash if it became standard here. There’s
no denying the better skills of the average European player (mostly
because the pace of their game is a lot slower) but I’ve seen enough
European domestic league footy in the flesh to know it just isn’t
the kind of spectacle we want in this country (possibly excluding
La Liga). Hence my surprise. Arsenal have managed to combine the strengths
of both and looked a sure thing for this match. They’ll probably turn
the Cheeseheads over in the return.
Next
day, the Mancs beat The Old Lady in yet another Euro yawn. Of much
greater importance was the news that Port Vale fans have gained control
of their club after it went into liquidation. The odds are stacked
hugely against them of course but it will be well worthwhile keeping
an eye on them to see if they do succeed. Anything which helps to
replace the current rotten to the core footy administration will have
my support. Of course the banks (you know, the “financial experts”
who get us into a recession every few years, create unemployment as
policy and still give billions to right-wing propagandists like Rupert
Murdoch to lose – funny, but Murdoch’s an Ozzie/born again Yank too…………………)
are hardly likely to give them much support, not if it looks as though
this idea of community action is going to work. Everyone might just
extrapolate the idea into other areas of life too…………………So good luck
to the Vale fans. I hope they can learn from the achievements of the
Charlton supporters.
Then
Auxerre lost to the usual boring defensive display from the pinkies.
But at least the game had the merit of some excitement from the French,
thus demonstrating the superiority of a knock-out format in these
competitions. It’s a pity, though, the UEFA Cup has become a loser’s
plate competition for G14 clubs who couldn’t hack it in the Chumps
League. Which is another G14 arrangement UEFA need to get rid of.
A
word or two here about European football in general and our hopes
in particular. Firstly, it is a minor miracle that we’re even thinking
about the prospect. Secondly, given our small squad, it would be even
more astonishing if we made substantial progress in any Euro competition.
Moyesy has made incredible improvements but sustained European footy
next season is probably well beyond us. Not that I would turn down
the opportunity. Thirdly, the sooner the European Cup reverts to a
total knock-out formula the better. I don’t think there’s much doubt
the league format is a lot harder to win. But it is equally much less
of an exciting spectacle, more of a money-number crunching exercise
thanks to G14 and their Chumps League. Anything G14 touches turns
to instant shit. Fourthly, if we DO get in we don’t want the kind
of thug minority who followed us for our pre-season friendlies, who
spoiled it for the great majority, and who smeared the name of our
country, our city and our club, the result of which was a police assault
on masses of innocent fans. So if you know any of these scum, tell
the authorities and have their passports confiscated. The legislation
is in place. All it requires is enough fans to care enough for their
club and their game to want to protect it. Then we could actually
enjoy European football experience again instead of worrying about
our fans’ reputation.
Match
day finally arrived with a mid-day kick off to suit TV. It would piss
you off even if you were a saint. Since none of us are, almost everybody
is thoroughly pissed off at the unevenness of it all. We badly need
to restore the format of a maximum number of games played on Saturday,
all of them kicking off at the same time. Next time the TV deal comes
up TELL the media bastards that if they want our game this is the
way it will be. They need us, we don’t need them. Now the internet
is here the days of mainstream media are numbered.
It
was bright and sunny day without the recent bitter cold. Ideal playing
conditions. But the stupidly early kick off time had completely disrupted
everyone’s routine and it showed. I just about struggled through the
traffic to meet John, Graeme and Neil on the corner of The Street.
Inside, the sun angled straight into our eyes in the Street End. Everyone
shielded their eyes like a captain looking for landfall.
The
guy who does the prematch stuff, the one we all want dead because
of that defunct deathless charade titled Who Wants To Be An Evertonian?,
introduced a troupe of dancing girls similar to Yank cheer leaders.
They were dead fit but need to rehearse a bit more; sometimes the
line was as straight as Terry Venables’ financial dealings. It was
a nice change though. I took a quick straw poll around me along the
lines of, “Would yer?” Dicky Mint said, “I would if I was confident
I could last more than five minutes. I have enough trouble on me own.”
Peter was unimpressed. “Look,” he said tersely, “I get into enough
problems with women at home.” The again, everyone was sort of terse,
quiet and unshaven because of the stupid kick off time. It played
havoc with biorhythms. The travelling Southampton fans had my full
sympathy. Gawd knows what time they were out of bed for this one.
Our
team was unchanged again.
Well,
it was an absolutely awful first half, especially from us. Nobody
played well and poor old Scott Gemmill had the worst game of the lot.
Our brightest spark was Li Tie, who got in some solid tackles and
did some neat distribution in spasms. But when our midfield plays
like this we know we’re in for a torrid and irritating time. Sure
enough, Southampton just kept playing it straight through the middle
while Gemmo, Nace and Stevie faffed around doing not very much at
all. And then Davey-Stubbsy decide this is their match for an off
day too. We had scares at the rate of one every seven to ten minutes
while we kept failing to get the ball through to The Rad and Macca.
Only The Rad looked likely but his final ball was complete shite whenever
he got clear.
It’s
easy to see how Southampton have done relatively well this season.
They’re a big, strong side who pack the midfield and play it simply.
I wasn’t really surprised when they took the lead through a combination
of all the above. A long ball down their right got through to Beattie,
our defence left it to each other or stopped, and all he had to do
was get it over Wrighty as he rushed out. Oh well.
Given
our progress this season we all knew there would be an assault into
The Street End in the second half after Moyesy did his usual crockery
demolition job.
Even
so, it took the substitutions to finally turn the tables. Before that,
Wrighty had to make two stupendous world class saves to keep us in
the game. One of them was an amazing stop from a close-in volley,
save of the season if you ask me. Then The Rad skinned their defence
on our left and was one-on-one with the keeper. Naturally he missed.
The Mystery of The Rad’s Misses continues. At times like that you
want to throttle him. I have no explanation for them, nor has anyone
else.
We
were playing much better if unconvincingly when the subs were made
with about half an hour left. SuperKev, The Gravedigger and The Duke
came on for Macca, Li Tie and Nace. At which, Southampton were almost
swept off the park in a tidal wave of attacks. Their ‘keeper made
a series of tremendous saves from headers, shots and ricochets, while
they still managed the odd breakaway raid. On a couple of occasions
they had a wide man free but failed to see him at the crucial moment.
Still, their attacks through the middle weren’t happening thanks to
The Gravedigger, and their defence had its hands full with SuperKev’s
dinking little back headers, The Rad’s blistering pace, and, of course,
The Duke.
It’s
almost comical the way Rooney gets the ball and there’s instant panic
amongst seasoned owl arse pros. At one point he got the ball ten metres
out, left side D, and started on one of his runs. He was instantly
surrounded by five players all trying to get the ball off him. But
he just kept going through the tackles and refused to fall over. You
watch the boy with your jaw permanently on your chest. He causes havoc
wherever he goes, right wing, left wing, centre. It makes no difference
to him. And he couldn’t give a flying fuck who he’s playing against.
As
time wore on you began to feel it was going to be One Of Those Days,
that it wasn’t going to happen. Naturally Elleray denied a couple
of quite valid penalty claims. I was gloomy. Any points dropped would
probably have seen the end of any hopes for European footy next season.
Funnily
enough, the equaliser arrived just as it looked as though the all
out assault was beginning to peter out with about five minutes left.
The Duke was fed wide left and with just enough room to turn and get
his cross over. It was an absolute beaut. And there was The Rad, slipped
in between their centre backs, and handily placed to butt it past
the ‘keeper’s right hand. Game on, even now.
So
Southampton went on the attack in the last minute and got a corner
which they naturally took their time over and then completely messed
up. Wrighty booted it out and it eventually found its way to The Gravedigger
just outside the box, slightly right side, their defence back peddling.
As the inevitable tackle came in, he knocked it wide right to The
Rad, covered by a defender, maybe ten metres out from goal and at
an acute angle. He took one stride and blistered a shot beyond the
defender and incredibly between the ‘keeper and the left hand post.
The ground went mad. Moyesy came charging onto the pitch and joined
in the bedlam. On my right, John, normally as sedate as they come,
was yelling incoherently. Maybe I couldn’t understand him because
I was on Dicky Mint’s shoulders. At least I think it was Dicky Mint.
There
was hardly time to kick off before the whistle went.
I
joined Kipper and co. in Wetherspoons after the match. The place was
bouncing and packed to the rafters with wildly celebrating Blue Bellies.
Some whippersnapper denizens of the Street End came over, grinned,
and said, “Don’t you recognise us? We sit in the Street End near you
and had a shouting match with you about Gravesen last season.” I couldn’t
remember the details but it wouldn’t surprise me. But last season
is now so far away it might as well be in the nineteenth century.
Who’d
have thought it?
And
the day rounded off nicely with the wonderful, joyous news that English
rugby had beaten the Welsh nazis at the Millenium. That proud white
shirt has never been worn with such distinction, the rose never glowed
so brightly. Then the news that we had also beaten Pakistan in the
Cricket World Cup. Well done, England. I LOVE it when we stick it
to the opposition.
Team
News
Everton's
4000th game, & you'll be lucky to get a pint before we kick off.
With a near full squad to pick from, I think Moyesy will stick to
the same team, but bring back Watson in place of Gemmill, who is just
not good enough. Gravesen will go back into the middle, with Wato
on the right. This will leave us with Joey Yobo, Super & The Duke
on the bench. Happy Days. Don't forget the early kick-off.
Moyesy
says: “Only in emergencies do teams need to rush players
back after injury,” he said. “We can take our time and make sure that
any players returning from injuries are properly ready to play in
the Premiership.” (20/02/03)
Sausage's
eleven to start: Wright, Pistone, Weir, Stubbs, Unsworth, Watson,
Li Tie, Gravesen, Naysmith, Radzinski, McBride.
