COLIN’S FAREWELL TO ARMS
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Colin Harvey’s testimonial day started with a hair-frizzing spectacular thunderstorm at 8.20 a.m.

Sweeping in low from the Irish Sea torrential rain sluiced the streets clean and swept away clinging, oppressive heat and humidity to the accompaniment of a thunder and lightning artillery bombardment, clouds and rain so low and dense the Wirral was obscured for a short while as Mother Nature went about her cyclic meteorological business. Very welcome it was too. It has been too damned hot for too damned long. By ten o’clock the low cloud was gone with the rain but a higher cloud level contained the heat until it started to dry out the ground quickly.

An hour later I was on the phone to Kipper. It was like having a short conversation with a concrete mixer. The Dublin Hall of Fame Do almost reeked its way down the phone line. Four days on and he was STILL pissed as a fart after trying to drink his way through the hangover, daft bugger. We arranged for him to collect me at 12.30 – 12.45. Ish. I suspected the worst and set myself for maximum pisstake. But before anything happened I got a phone call from Son of Wobbly, whose mother works at GP. The kick off was postponed until five o’clock because the Italians’ flight was delayed for unspecified reasons. This suited perfectly for a variety of reasons, not least being yet another opportunity to blame French Air Traffic Control for everything going wrong all over Europe, on and off the ground.

Kipper duly turned up after one o’clock. He bore a close resemblance to a pinky listening to one of Hulot’s fatuous diatribes. That is, complete bewilderment accompanied by a distinctly nauseous feeling. I freely concede I gloated despicably. A week earlier I was slaughtered after calling off a trip to the Preston friendly, after a Kipper soireé at my place ended at three in the morning and I was, er, unwell. Kipper and Lard did their level best to destroy my impregnable self confidence but of course they failed miserably. And so, as usual, what goes around comes around. I got my revenge. All you ever have to do is wait and be patient.

We repaired to The Winslow, not my favourite pub, to meet some fans. The Mancs and the Gooners were on TV as usual. I watched the match while Kipper tried to talk English instead of licorice allsorts. Within sixty seconds Paddy Vieira got carted over the touchline by Phil Neville, who was booked for his trouble. Sixty seconds later Ashley Cole did exactly the same to Phil Neville and also got booked. Oh dear. It was going to be one of those games. Sure enough, it was. Boringly so, in fact. Then the Mancs went and got one from a corner, a real classic sucker punch near post header flicked on backwards by Keane and an unmarked Manc got it home with a close-in downward header, training ground stamped all over it. Wenger looked like he’d swallowed his dentures. Fergie’s rosacea eczema brightened even in the sun.

Lard joined us just as the Gooners got a free kick maybe twenty five metres out, slightly left of centre. He said, “Watch Terry (sic) Henry hit the corner flag with this. He’s shite with free kicks.” The brilliant Frog promptly buried it right footed, fizzing, swerving, dipping, low to the ‘keeper’s right, the work of a master craftsman. No ‘keeper on Earth could have saved it. Lard’s response was predictable. “I could have fucking saved that. That ‘keeper wants shootin’.” He’s a sore loser is Lard. Then Jogger came in with Lisa and Frank. We had a quorum.

All around us stupid rumours festered and spread on the backs of previously lousy results in friendlies, none of which I had seen, none of which bothered me beyond slight irritation. My concern is how we’re going to keep the score down at Highbury. But the Melledrew Tendency don’t need much encouragement to move against your wellies in the swamp. Sure enough, the results have had the daft dopes’ whining long enough to disturb the sewage. If it isn’t Moyesy’s fault, it’s the board, or it’s Kevin Campbell’s, or it’s Scott Gemmill’s or Mark Pembridge’s or the Man Who Does The Marketing or poor old Michael Dunford. And as for that Duncan Ferguson and Nicholas Alexandersson……………………the kind of talk which stinks up the place if you let it. Me, I’d rather spend a week listening even to a loony Texas oil man than listen to worthless male gossiping fishwives. By this time the Winslow atmosphere was unbearably humid and getting worse so we moved on to The Spellow and languished outside with cold drinks and relaxed chat.

Carrying on where we left off at the Fulham away match, Lard and I decided there is definitely such a thing as a Twats Dress Code. We decided a Winter Twat wears shell/track suit and trainers. A Summer Twat wears a scruffy tee-shirt, three-quarters or half-length trousers preferably with little toggles on the end and trainers with no socks. They say things like, “Goinferabevvy,” or “Bein’ out on the lash,” whatever that means. In all cases they have ludicrous greasy spikey hair, projecting fat guts and eat chippy food with a plastic fork inserted into a beige polystyrene foldover container restraining a mound of disgusting, steaming muck. Unfortunately the latter seems to be the only product to come out of Walton these days. Sadly, it was much in evidence, some of it strewn on the pavements to obscure ubiquitous mottled chewing gum and broken beer glasses. Oh well. I closed my eyes and thought of Bologna.

It turned out the Italians were delayed because the original airplane wasn’t available. Lard couldn’t wait and got off as I got my own back for the Preston thingy. We regrouped. I tried to convey what it was like watching a player like Colin Harvey. But it’s a near impossible task. Hopefully, in a few years time you’ll have the same difficulty with The Duke and maybe one or two others. Hope springs eternal.

We split up as kick off neared. Jogger and Lisa went off to do a touchline ceremony and take some photographs and rejoin us later. I went with Kipper and Frank into the Upper Bullens Road Stand. It was a first class spec but a few of the denizens made me appreciate even more how relatively lucky we are in our area of the Lower Street End. All through the game a woman behind us made noises like Foghorn Leghorn. And then complained too many of the kids had, erm, cornet style horns. It was incredible. All through the match I looked longingly at the Street End and my seat. Each to his own of course but I wouldn’t go back to the Upper Bullens unless I was dragged back in handcuffs.

There was a nice little ceremony before the game when both teams lined up and Colin came onto the pitch with his tiny granddaughter. It was a difficult moment to see how much his gait has deteriorated and remember the kind of magic he used to weave as a player. I’m glad nobody was looking at me at the time. We could see Jogger taking photo after photo at the touchline but he wouldn’t answer his moby, fully aware Kipper was up to no good with the calls. We examined the pitch. It had a sort of oddly mottled appearance and even looked a little bit worn in the goalmouths.

We had virtually a full team out minus The Duke. Wrighty in goal, Toby was back at right centre mid with The Gravedigger, SuperKev and The Rad up front. Annoyingly, Sandro was at right back, which isn’t his best position whatever anyone says. Pembo was wide left mid, Stevie wide right mid. The only Italian I recognised was Signori. We attacked the Park End in the first half just as Jogger rejoined us. Before his arse hit the seat he claimed the Bologna strip looked like a packet of Embassy ciggies without the health warning.

We opened well and pressed forward at the usual pre-season semi-leisurely pace. Kev got an instinctive shot off close in after three minutes but it lodged in the ‘keeper’s gut. Nobody on either side looked remotely concerned. Until, that is, after five minutes Campbell got clattered in the centre circle and needed attention. Five minutes later he got put through right side and looking dangerous. Just as he got into the box he was hit from the side by a poorly timed but innocent tackle and went down like a steel beam. You could tell it was bad. He limped off and Nick Chadwick took his place. So much for harmless friendlies. Our best front “holding” player lost. But Nick had his chance to show what he could do.

It quickly became apparent signor Signori’s left foot was something better than excellent. Seemingly without effort the ball went twenty-thirty-forty metres to land right on a team mate’s laces. Wistfully, you wanted him in our side. The opening phase wore off and Bologna got back into it with some useful raids down their, where else, left side. Every now and then the ball looped in towards their big centre forward Cruz but he didn’t have much to offer besides his size. At one point Wrighty had to deal strongly with a one-on-one. Then they got a break down the right and a perfectly delivered cross fell slightly behind an unmarked Signori, right side penalty spot. No sweat, his radar swept around to make sure nobody was near him and he executed the most exquisite overhead left footed hook shot you’ve ever seen – but it went straight at Wrighty.

Gradually the game swung back toward us as Toby and the Gravedigger combined well. Toby won it and gave it short, usually to the ‘digger. Who for once was passing it incisively. I rubbed my eyes. During this spell they really did look the biz. Then you remembered it’s a workout and nothing more and the Italians had just endured a pissy offy trip. At right back Sandro joined in with occasional merry overlaps and pumped over some magnificent crosses. Behind us, Foghorn Leghorn brayed at him to get it accurate. If the thick cow had been able to have a word with owl arse Castellini at centre back he probably would have set her right as to what constitutes accurate crossing of a footy. Said owl arse played superbly all through the match and annoyingly kept getting a foot in just when we looked like we might get through.

After a quarter of an hour Signori sent a free kick swerving wickedly away from Wrighty and just past his left post. Five minutes later we went in front when The Gravedigger kidded their defence and stuck it through for The Rad to bury it. Immediately afterwards Signori did the same kind of free kick and hit the top of the bar. Having got the range I suspected he’d put the next one in if he got a similar chance. But really that was it as far as Bologna were concerned. They didn’t have another shot until ten minutes from the end.

The second goal came just before the half time whistle when The Gravedigger played Sandro through cleverly (again! Shit, this is unprecedented) on the right and a ground cross from the goal line was knocked at close range by Nick. The Italians were all over the place, probably jet lagged.

Davey, The Yin and Li Tie came on at half time and were added to fifteen minutes later by Nic, Osman and Carsley. The Italians did likewise and the game became even more of a non-event thereafter. So we got a third five minutes after half time when we made a break down our right, got to the goal line with the Italians all over the place again, and crossed to the far side. Where waited Pembino. Brilliantly, he brought it down, side stepped three desperate lunging defenders, dummied the ‘keeper and rolled it insolently into the net. Er, no he didn’t. I made that up to see if you were still awake. Actually he hit a half volley from twenty metres, left side, it hit a defender, shot up in the air, could have gone anywhere, but instead looped into the net beyond the hapless goalkeeper.

The remainder of the game became partly interesting because The Yin won the ball in the air every time as usual. Only this time he kept finding Leon Osman as his emergency striking partner. Makes a change from it zooming over everyone else’s head. It nearly brought a goal on at least two occasions, though I can’t see it (surely?) as a serious attempt at provisional play. It was my first glimpse of Osman and he seemed as good as anyone else on the park.

Towards the end Wrighty had two more tests of his shoulder when he had to deal with two more one-on-ones and stood firm on both occasions. Ten minutes from the end young Jock trialist Ian Turner was given his chance and promptly distinguished himself with an excellent save from a very hard hit long shot and then smothered the rebound before their man could swallow it. There isn’t a pick on young Turner but he can kick it a remarkable distance for somebody so slight.

All in all it was what you expect from these matches and no reason to give the result any more serious credence than the annoying series of losses. Moyesy will surely make sure nobody takes the real thing lightly.

But a dose of realism is in order for the Highbury match. Even with a full strength squad we would be hard put to get something from the game. As matters stand, a draw would be a major result for us. A win would be astonishing, especially as you can bet The Gooners are going to be mightily pissed off at last season’s shenanigans plus the Charity Shield loss to The Mancs. But you never know. And, like you, I’ll be there. Can’t wait.

And there’ll never be another Colin Harvey, a truly wonderful player and a great credit to himself, our club, and the sport of football. Thanks for everything. You made it a pleasure.

Quotes

Colin Harvey says: “It was a really good day. It was very emotional. I was very proud, but also very nervous! But I enjoyed it! I was very, very pleased with the reception I got when I came on to the pitch. I’m glad that the fans saw a good game and I’m really glad we won. It was a good competitive game. Hopefully it’s given all the lads plenty of confidence for the game coming up. I never believed for a second that I’d still be involved with Everton forty years on when I made my debut. I was just hoping to have a good career in football, which I did and everything else just fell into place and moved on! It’s gone very, very quickly! I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen in the near future, but I’ll be involved in football one way or another! Whatever I do, I’ll enjoy it!”

Moyesy says: I thought that we were a little bit more like ourselves today. We’re now beginning to realise what we have to do and I thought in the first half we played very well.
I think you probably judge your pre-season after the season has started. At this time we’ve done things as close to what we’ve done last season as possible, it seemed to work ok. We would have liked to win a couple more games, but if we win all of our Premiership games, we would have said that we had a very good pre-season. There is no right or wrong way to pre-season, but certainly winning is better than losing “

Moyesy on Colin Harvey: "He’s someone who I thank for the help he gave me when I came to Everton; especially in the early days. He told me a little bit about the club and the way things work. He sat in the seat which I’m sitting in now, so he knew exactly what to do and obviously he’s had a hand in all the great teams here, which is what I’d like to do.”

Jogger & Lisa says: "Did you see us on the pitch"

On Iain Turner Moyesy says: “We’ve got a lot of hopes for him. I think everyone would see that he’s got the size and the presence. He’s a very calm young man, he just needs a year or two to grow into his body. Sunday was a chance to give him a bit of experience and he made a good save near the end.”

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