Everton:
Martyn, Pistone, Stubbs, Yobo, Naysmith, Watson, Gravesen
,
Linderoth, McFadden,
Rooney,
Ferguson
.
Bench:
Radzinski
(McFadden 46), Campbell (Rooney 89), Wright, Unsworth, Nyarko.
Referee: B. Knight (Tosser)
Firstly
my apologies to you all, for the lateness of this match report. Admittedly
there are a few contributing factors, which are Stella, Jamesons Whisky,
and this awful concoction of gin, vodka and some other shit. After
hot footing it away from Leicester yesterday evening, it was off to
Sausages for a belated St. Patrick's celebration, and hence my weary
head did not leave the pillow, till very late on Sunday afternoon,
then it has took me several hours to even contemplate entering the
human race again. So that has cleared that up I hope, so, ah yes the
match, I knew I sat down at my computer for some reason.
You
knew with the terrible weather yesterday, that this was not going
to be about great football, but more of survival, in the face of the
elements. The weather was a huge factor in the way the game panned
out, and at the off Everton had the better of the early exchanges.
'Sandro Pistone had the first real effort, when he forced a fine flying
save out of Mike's lad, Ian Walker in the Foxes sticks. The Duke who
is in a rich vein of scoring form of late, went close himself, after
some good work from the Big Man.
Leicester
did have a few decent attempts themselves, when prodigal's son Paul
Dickov, who got some unmerciful stick of us all, watched his fierce
effort fly past Nige's post, and out for a goal kick. His German team
mate, Steffan Fraud, who we will talk about later,
was also unlucky to see his close effort go the same way as Dickov's.
Bent did have an effort ruled out, when he was adjudged to have impeded
Nige, and with the weather having the biggest say on the afternoon,
that was about that. Faddy returning in place of Zinedine, who was
unavailable for personal reasons, was the first to feel the wrath
of the man in black, when he went into the book on twenty minutes.
The main talking point though, occurred with seven minutes remaining
on the clock, before the half was out. Ferguson who had received a
yellow, for a small altercation with full back Nicos Dabizas, and
a mouthful of venom aimed at referee Knight, got entangled again this
time with Fraud. He is a horrible German twat, who if I remember rightly,
wound his now club Leicester up, whilst playing for Spurs many years
ago in a League Cup Final. To me the challenge was one of them, depending
on the day, some refs would over look, and some little Hitler's would
book you for, but to me it certainly was not a stone wall booking.
Referee Knight took great pleasure in thrusting the yellow, and then
red cards in front of the Scotsman's face, sending him off for a very
early bath indeed. This is when the fun began, as Ferguson, who had
every right to be a little pissed off, grabbed the German tosser around
the throat, to let the fraudster know his true feelings towards him.
After the scuffle, Ferguson then got involved with a section of the
crowd, as they berated him for his actions. No doubt the Big Man will
be in trouble with the powers that be, but surely them same powers
should have a word or two with referee Knight's, outrageous booking
that started the whole sorry chain of events.
Half
Time: Leicester 0, Everton 0
Moyesy's
half time chit chat must have been one of survival, after the red
card at the end of the first half. Surprisingly he took off, Jamie
Mac, and into the fray came The Rad, to help Rooney out with his work
load. A point now, would be a fantastic result, as Leicester sensed
three for themselves, and set about Everton to achieve their aim.
The wind seemed to be getting even stronger, and the Everton's cautions
came thick and fast, with Tommy Grav, The Rad and The Duke also entering
the referee's notebook.
Leicester
threw cross after cross into the Everton box, but Stubbsy and especially
Joey Yobo, handled everything that came their way. Everton did seem
to be coping with everything Leicester could throw at them, all huff
and puff, not really anything to threatening, and with just over fifteen
left on the clock, Everton took the lead thanks to Rooney.
Some
great work by half time sub, Radzinski, who controlled the ball and
pulled it back into the path of Rooney. Heath the Leicester defender
was tied up in knots, as The Duke slammed the ball home past Walker.
Everton were one up, and Leicester did not know how to handle the
pace of our two front men, and with five left on the clock, the little
Canadian should have made it two, after some great work by Tommy Grav.
Our
second away win on the season was seconds away, and as expected Leicester
pressed and pressed looking for a share of the spoils. Scimeca with
literally seconds left, let one fly, and Nige pulled off a superb
shot to deny him. From the ensuing corner, by Guppy, which eluded
everyone, Marcus Bent popped up from nowhere to send his header into
the back of the Blues net.
You just could not believe it, twice in as many away games, we have
had maximum points took off us, with the last touches of the game.
A top ten berth would be ours now, but in the circumstances most of
us there were happy to accept a draw after the handbags incident in
the first half that led to us being reduced to ten men. My bluekipper.com
starman was not a very hard decision, as with Evertons defence being
under the cosh for most of the second half, Joey Yobo stood up to
be counted. Roll on Boro next week, and lets not forget that is now
four unbeaten, with a points total of eight out of a possible twelve,
and even United would settle for that at the minute.
Full
Time: Leicester 1, Everton 1
Braunstone
Cowboys
By
Mickey Blue Eyes
Long
ago I decided to go to Leicester because I wanted to see their new
flat-pack IKEA stadium. If we are to end up in one of these things
– as is now a near certainty after the loss of Kings Dock – then we
might as well get used to how they look and feel. City are a modest
club with modest pretensions, in actual fact the heart and soul of
professional sport. Without them there can be none of the self-delusion
of the so-called “big clubs” and their more tiresome fans, some of
ours included. Somehow, self-described bewildered manager Mickey Adams
seems entirely right for them.
It
has been impossible to avoid the Leicester City Scandal. Every time
you turned on a TV, or radio or leafed quickly through one of our
disgusting newspapers, there it was. You would have thought the Leicester
players had invented carnality. Our tacky media continue to make the
most of this unhappy nonsense, though I daresay the alleged victims
would have other words for it. Needless to say the tasteless jokes
were out on your moby almost before the Spanish Bizzies had dried
the ink on their indictments. You’ve heard them all by now so I won’t
repeat them. They are of course funny in a head-shaking pantomime
sort of way, or the comic sadness you feel when you see a gifted movie
actor like Mickey Rourke throw his natural talents into the open sewer
of a rigged wrestling bout. But there was nothing “funny” to the victims.
Somewhat
appropriately earlier in the same week both Leeds and Wimbledon announced
a sort of advance in their respective struggles against bankruptcy.
In Leeds case this involved an offer of 20p in the pound to their
creditors, all £100 millions worth of them, and in Wimbledon’s
a certain relocation of the club to somewhere called Milton Keynes.
All of which goes to show just why “entrepreneurs” and “businessmen”
– you know, the sort of hoodlums who own and ripoff/”skim” Las Vegas
or who do the same with a PFI scheme in Blighty – shouldn’t be allowed
within a thousand kilometres of your footy club, but alas they are
everywhere. Also, Rio Ferdinand’s eight-month suspension was confirmed
by an appeals court.
Friends,
these are dark days indeed for our beloved game. We are beset by spivs
on and off the field, in and out of the boardrooms, and by glory hunters
attached to the whole crumbling façade. People can be bought
for the price of a pint of beer or a match ticket or even the interest
rates in a credit licence, self-styled “insiders” sell cheap gossip
to a dishonourable media for Monopoly money, and liars and cheats
abound at almost every level. In short it is a perfect reflection
of the kind of anti-society and culture deliberately created throughout
the last generation. The symbiosis is virtually complete. Free-thinking
and a healthy conscience are out. Gordon Gekko is the new role model
promoted by Gordon Brown and his chums in government. How else do
you explain Brown’s glee when he announced the budgetary destruction
of yet another 40,000 lives to the backdrop of a fatuously grinning
front bench and complete lack of protest from “the opposition”?
I
suggest you do your OWN research, ask your OWN questions, after reasonable
thought arrive at your OWN conclusions. Be beholden to nobody for
any reason. More than anything that’s what the spivs are scared of
because it leads logically to organised direct action, as it did when
the Independent Manchester United Supporters Association successfully
resisted the Murdoch takeover of their club. And that fear especially
applies to present football club owners with no interest in the game
except asset-stripping or profit-leeching in associated activities.
All of it of course is cloaked in the catch-all terms “business” and
“economic efficiency,” sometimes, incredibly, in the name of altruism.
Actually it is nothing of the sort. It is gangsterism and nobody should
be afraid to give it its correct name. See the movie “Wall Street.”
Small
wonder this eventually leaks through to the behaviour of some players
and some fans. At which point even reasonable honour and intelligence
fly out of the window. The media of course are beyond the pale and
almost incapable of recall, their only interest being that of a leech
with a taste for gossip-blood. Apparently media employees,like some
fans, have the memory of a goldfish except when it suits their owners
and their policies. Needless to say three Leicester players accused
of rape suits them perfectly. It was a completely tawdry background
to our match. And of course it WOULD be us who played them in their
first home game since the whole sorry mess occurred. Well, them and
Les Ferdinand.
So
The Bus set off for the Braunstone Working Mens Association and Club
(CIU affiliated) after Texyla booked us in. It was a beautifully mild
day on Merseyside when we left at 9.45 a.m. but by the time we arrived
in the characterless East Midlands a cold gusting wind buffeted the
coach mercilessly. As we got in the vicinity the Leicester Bizzies
pulled The Bus over and ordered Alan the driver to join an escorted
convoy to the ground. Of course it was useless arguing. So bang went
any idea of a relaxing and harmless drink at a venue previously used
without any problems. Moreover, the leather clad police got on board,
all four of them, to check tickets were in place and nobody was smuggling
bootleg liquor into the temperance zone. The fact that the local police
were polite, courteous and friendly (quite unlike the snarling nazi
animals which make up the various north-east gendarmerie/CRS) didn’t
lessen the ruination of the trip any. Quite soon it won’t be worth
bothering with any venue outside a home fixture. I have already crossed
the north-east off my list of away grounds to visit. Now it is joined
by, of all places, dreary old Leicester. It simply isn’t worth the
hassle, not for ninety minutes of mere footy.
Everybody
needs to take a good long look at themselves and that right quick.
Government (local and national), media, police, administrators, players
and fans all have their parts to play. And it really does need to
be said good and loud that none of the current legislation would be
in place if the past behaviour of too many fans hadn’t made it necessary.
There are plenty of people in authority, public or private, who like
nothing better than to show how much they can control people even
when they are at play. Present circumstances fall right into their
hands. Only organised pressure from the fans can change things.
As
we were turned away from the club a waiting Squire looked on forlornly.
Texyla had his ticket. Eventually they met up outside the ground and
The Squire’s very welcome company was next to me. He had journeyed
up from Beckenham on a National Express bus (£9 return) just
to see a fixture between two mediocre sides in the relegation zone.
When you considered this and looked at our away following, all 3,000-odd
of them, you couldn’t help wishing someone, ANYONE, would draw the
obvious conclusion that this kind of togetherness is worth more than
all the leather clad policemen in England. And try to restore a better
sense of co-operation instead of confrontation. As the kick off neared
a platoon of kitted out riot police appeared to complete the whole
horrible experience.
Given
Leicester’s modesty, the stadium is eons better than anything Filbert
Street had to offer. Those who talk about the so-called “character”
of old stadia ought to be directed to sensible consideration of what
once was and place it in the right context. The fact is, most of them
were and are shit holes of the worst type. What they had was the history
of the club woven into them through experience. And that can never
be replicated until new stadia are witness to new sporting glories
of their own. Which takes time. These are straightforward common sense
observations frequently lost in a melee of sickly and useless nostalgia,
usually accompanied by the halitosis of too much alcohol. Tomorrow
belongs to our children and we should try to ensure their places of
play are safe and attractive.
All
of that said, the Walkers Stadium suffers from the repetition all
modern stadia suffer from, even Old Trafford. But this is not new.
Example, the original Goodison Park had an exterior of nothing but
featureless repetitive brickwork built high until it was covered by
equally featureless grey coloured steel sheeting tacked on to sheeting
rails fixed to the old structure. With a paramount requirement for
clear views there is little architectural opportunity on the inside,
then or now. Most of what there is is limited to the design of the
roof and the main administrative block, or the choice of site. When
Shakespeare scripted “………that castle hath a pleasant seat………” in “Macbeth”
he knew precisely whereof he spake. Leicester’s new ground is right
next to an electrical way station important to the national grid.
Therefore it hath not a pleasant seat. Nor does it have much to commend
its exterior, anymore than featureless repetitive brickwork built
high. It’s exterior consists of the now-usual roof suspended from
modular tubular trusses, a structural grid of fair faced concrete
columns, pre-cast concrete terracing, and ground level concrete blockwork
boxes for circulation and other sales facilities. Single storey glazed
front corporate boxes are located right at the back of all the seats
and immediately below the roof. I understand the main administrative
block has a quite mediocre interior with substandard banquet and suites
facilities. Spectators sit in a single tier continuous bowl. Essentially
that’s it. No big deal, could have been a lot better with more money
(where was a club the size of Leicester going to GET the money?) but
many times better than what they had.
Since
the roof extends virtually to the touchlines and the goal lines it
guarantees an already high wind velocity accelerates over its edge,
whips back toward the top of the seating and then accelerates down
again. The net affect, as at Bolton’s new stadium, is to experience
the discomfort of a cold wind from BEHIND you. At the new Stade de
France this has been hugely alleviated by not completely enclosing
the stadium behind the topmost row of seats. This helps prevent further
eddying and also improves circulation of air vital to the condition
of the playing area.
So
there we were, frozen to hell, wind whirling everywhere, Sandro at
right back in place of a staccato Tony, and Jamie Mac at wide left
mid and Toby and a restored Gravedigger in centre mid. They had the
unfortunately-named scandal-ridden Dickov back and one Les Ferdinand
up front. To a man, we said Give Them A Goal Start So Les Can Get
The Fuck.
Given
the conditions it would be churlish to criticise the general level
of play. It was difficult to control the ball in the first place and
well nigh impossible to predict with any accuracy where a pass would
end up once the wind caught it. In the first half Leicester had the
gale more or less behind them and simply hung the ball into the penalty
area whenever they had the opportunity. This caused a lot of uncertainty
and led to a disallowed “goal.” The moment Dickov hit a shot wide
massed Evertonians started singing, “You couldn’t score in La Manga.”
This was disgraceful and must be condemned out of hand. Shit, but
it was funny. Some of the other stuff was less so.
Meanwhile,
Stevie was doing well down the right but poor old Jamie was having
an horrendous match on our left. He couldn’t do a thing right and
it left Nace wide open to contend with continuous raids down our left
side. Most of our first half troubles came from that quarter. Nace
did well but it was only a matter of time before Jamie was taken off
before something went drastically wrong. Doubtless Moyesy wanted to
see if he could play himself back into it. Sadly, even when he was
left in his favourite position one-on-one he had the ball taken off
him all too easily. It must be a very chastening experience for a
lad with so much ego as part of his temperament. I’m not yet ready
to abandon hope in him though he really will have to address himself
to the massive differences between the English and Scottish games.
In
midfield The Gravedigger and Toby performed well against a mediocre
midfield. Joey and Stubbsy were absolute rocks at the centre of defence
and gave nothing away. This continued most of the afternoon until
Les Ferdinand was taken off, thus signalling we had a chance to trump
fate for once.
Up
front The Big Yin engaged in his usual tussles with their defence.
He wasn’t helped by a referee who wasn’t ready to make allowances
for the gale whenever he jumped to head a ball and it hung maddeningly
for a split second while players rose and fell. Both sides were guilty
of pushing, shoving and elbowing. Unfortunately – and not for the
first time – The Yin found himself targeted by a ref who wasn’t ready
to deal equitably with equally guilty parties. Ridden with guilt was
one Stefan Freund, a Reinhard Heydrich lookalike who niggled at Ferguson
all afternoon. After half an hour of like-on-like The Yin rightly
got booked and then sent off for precisely the same kind of offence
he was subject to, but for which yet another completely useless referee
did next to nothing. Before he went off he had a minor kerfuffle with
the Aryan. As Mogsy said, if he was going off he might as well have
had the satisfaction of breaking the bastard’s jaw bone. In the circumstances
it would have been understandable if not acceptable. Sometimes even
us democrats wish for summary justice.
This
episode promptly riled The Duke into taking on their entire right
side in one of his Raging Bull dribbles and he got right through the
lot of them and into the penalty area before he screwed it just wide
of the left post. It was another wonderful run which signalled he’s
almost back to his best. You still have to pinch yourself that he’s
only eighteen. In this writer’s opinion we haven’t had this combination
of utterly ruthless determination and talent since Alan Ball wore
the Royal Blue shirt. Thing is, incredible as it sounds, Rooney potentially
is a better player. With better players around him at Euro 04 the
prospect is that he will cause the entire planet to sit up and take
notice. That’s if there’s anyone left who hasn’t heard of him.
At
half time the inevitable happened and Jamie got substituted by The
Rad. Within minutes The Duke tried a shot over a vulnerable Ian Walker
from the half way line but the wind quickly caught and killed it.
The youngster looked enraged by the sending off of his near neighbour,
which is good. What is NOT good is the thought of The Yin as role
model, not good at all. Nevertheless, Rooney threw himself at their
defence every opportunity he got. With Radzinski on their defence
got as stretched as did Pompey’s last week. It isn’t at all unusual
these days to see ten men do better than eleven and this game was
no exception. There must be a lesson in there somewhere.
Therefore
there was no real surprise when we went ahead with fifteen minutes
left. It was virtually identical to last weeks goal against Portsmouth:
a move down the left to Tomasz, a ground cross to The Duke in the
middle, a drop of his left shoulder to off balance their centre back,
and a swivel and turn to batter home a right foot shot. This one went
through their ‘keeper’s legs.
A
few minutes later The ‘digger went charging through the middle like
he did against Villa, got bowled over, the ball broke loose to Rooney
and he slid it left to The Rad with a one-on-one with the ‘keeper.
He missed. Of course. But we were on top of the game and justifiably
so.
As
time began to eke out Leicester got more into it and got a series
of corners which were sensibly defended even with the wind causing
havoc. In the last minute we conceded another corner and Moyesy substituted
The Duke with SuperKev. The Squire said, “Fuckn daft move, that. Just
disrupts concentration at an important moment.” Eventually the ball
got booted up into our right side penalty area for the umpteenth time,
hung in the air and got headed home with a despairing lunge. We had
lost another two invaluable points in circumstances to piss off a
saint.
As
we filtered out annoyed there came an announcement of the death of
an Evertonian on his way to the match. Football and its spivs once
again assumed its proper place in our consciousness.
When
The Bus arrive back on Merseyside I was enticed to a Chinese restaurant
at the behest of Mogsy and co. The company was first rate, the conversation
frequently hilarious. Mogsy bet Adrian twenty five pounds Leeds would
get relegated and there were four witnesses to ensure he can’t wheedle
his way out of this one. He also denied responsibility for the Braunstone
debacle after Texyla and Rob made it clear that had he been on time
we would have arrived earlier and thus avoided the Leicester Gestapo.
Unfortunately the restaurant was in Runcorn.
Do
not go to Runcorn. Ever.
Next
Saturday Kipper tells me there will be an opening of the Blue Kipper
Lounge at the Grand National pub on Wezzie Road. I have no idea if
it will be a success or not. I urge you to give it a try. I can promise
it will be better than Runcorn.
