Rain dance
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

I’ve found it hard getting too bothered about footy this season. Events outside the game have reduced it to its proper place in my interests, which was relatively low anyway. All of which is ironic considering the wonderful and surprising season Moyesy and the club gave us last season. But as the first kick off loomed I could feel the old excitement returning little by little. By the time Saturday arrived I was as fired up as the next man.

Midweek, along with Kipper, I bade a final farewell to Colin Harvey at the Winslow on Thursday night. It was one of those intimate little footy dos you would rather have than all the formal dinners put together, a real fans’ evening. Colin was as quiet voiced as ever. It made you wonder how such a natural gentleman ever made such a huge mark on the game. If it’s a public performance only then it’s a very good one.

Public performances are the raison d’etre for the comedian Mickey Finn, one of the funniest men you’ll ever see, and an Evertonian into the bargain. Sadly, the week also saw the death of his best hoppo, fellow comedian and Evertonian Jackie Hamilton. One adolescent heckler in the audience was dealt with summarily when Mickey asked him if he had his hair cut by the city council. There was no heckling after that, only uproarious laughter. Which increased when Mickey recounted the tale of the Scouser wandering through the wreckage of Basra smoking a ciggy. He encountered an American infantry patrol armed to the teeth with justified paranoia, M16s, flak jackets, desert camouflage and nazi helmets with a minimike and a camera stuck on the top. He gave them the traditional Scouse greeting, “Orlright der, la.” The leading Yank looked him up and down, took the safety catch off his weapon, and said suspiciously, “Where are you from, buddy?” And the reply was, “Kirkby,” and the Yank pressed on to his doom with, “What state’s that in?” And the Scouser said, “The same fuckn state as this place.”

If you’re a non-Scouser we bequeath you that gag along with all the other self-depreciations we composed first. It is a sign of healthy people and their culture but you probably wouldn’t understand that in your haste to reuse it.

Saturday arrived, and a 6.10 a.m. phone call to Kipper found him, Chris and Salty (don’t ask – it’s a long story) still in bed. Which was a fraught situation since the taxi was due at mine in five minutes and they were only ten minutes away in Allerton. Radio Five said scattered showers were due in the sarf east. Like all sensible Englishmen I have a mistrust of weather so I took a lightweight shower jacket folded and tied around my waist. It was a fateful decision. The taxi driver was a non-footy gloom merchant suffused with disappointment in life, miserable gett. I ignored him and stared out of the window until he became a background noise melting into the sound of the engine. It was slightly warm and overcast, beautifully temperate. It was great to be alive, taxi driver or no taxi driver.

When we arrived at Kipper’s, Chris and Salty were still hastily dragging on their kecks while I berated them from the bottom of the stairs and Kipper even more hastily assembled some eats in the kitchen. The things we do for our harmless obsession. Everyone piled into the taxi bleary-eyed. Kipper said, “What’s that around your waist?” and I said, “It’s a shower jacket. The radio said scattered showers around Lahndan.” “Soft bastard,” he sniffed, “the sun’ll be crackin’ the flags. You off your cake or wha’?” I flattened him with a few expletives and we set off for The Bus meeting point while Misery Arse bleated on unheeded from the driver’s seat.

Having a reasonable understanding of human nature I had built in a time-cushion. We were among the early arrivals. People arrived in dribs and drabs, some new faces, but mostly veterans. We boarded and occupied our usual seats. The journey was uneventful except for Kipper explaining to the world and his wife that This Soft Bastard Next To Me’s Brought An Anorak Against The Rain. Infuriated, I bet him there would be at least a few spots of rain. To which he said that he would, yes, you’ve guessed it, Show his Arse To The Bus On The Return Journey If It Rains. I was momentarily nonplussed. I wanted to win the bet but didn’t want to view Kipper’s nether regions. But a bet’s a bet. It was struck.

The Bus was as full of footy optimism as ever. My opinion was anything less than a two goal defeat would be a moral victory. Everybody else thought we’d get at least a draw. It was useless drawing to their attention the sheer quality everywhere in the Arsenal team versus our midfield. Still, it was the start of the season. Anything could happen, you hoped fervently.

Half way down the motorway Kipper said, “The sun’s blinding me, draw the blinds. Not a cloud in the sky.” He was beginning to grin maddeningly. “You watch,” I said, goaded beyond endurance, “it’s gonna piss down, and when it does your arse is fucked.” The grin broadened even more maddeningly. I tried to doze off but I kept seeing the grin and gave up.

We got dropped off at Finsbury Park tube station while Texyla unsteadily dispensed his after match reassembly instructions through a hangover from the previous evening. A walk of a few minutes took us to the World’s End pub, wherein there were many Blue Bellies, including Ticket Bastard. He was “dressed” in a black singlet, baggy khaki shorts, black socks and trainers. Outraged, and continuing a theme, I asked, “Why are you dressed like a Summer Twat?” He was unfazed. “You can’t talk to me like that, I’m on The Executive.” Office has plainly affected his normal dress sense. That and the lager. I purchased a jug of the disgusting muck and we retreated to a corner of the bar to watch Pompey V Villa on the box. It was all hurry-scurry and not much skill. Bored, we started people watching and scanning for Summer Twats. We weren’t disappointed.

I decided, not for the first time, England has surrendered its individual and collective pride to something John Lennon once described during his very first visit to the USA in the early sixties. As he travelled into New York he noted the number of people in Bermuda shorts, floral shirts and ugly footwear. He thought, “What an ugly race,” and made the mistake of recording his opinion. Which random thought (and aetheism) eventually found its way into his FBI file via the organised xenophobic insanity and corruption of J. Edgar Hoover. He was immediately tagged a communist and extremist. Oh well. We can’t patronise the Yanks over this since we have plenty of loony Hoovers of our own. One of them is a local MP.

We were ruminating further on match and weather prospects when Mark and the beautiful Anna came bursting through the door large as life and twice as bright. Before I could say anything, he shouted, “Look! I’M A SUMMER TWAT!!” and pointed at his three quarter length khaki kecks with tie ups and bare feet in trainers. Then he said, “I’m goinferrabevvy” before disappearing into the heaving mob at the bar. Glumly I decided I had created a monster beyond parody. The Squire showed up briefly and so did ct looking as usual as though he’d been run over by a rusty combined harvester. Beer flowed, loud footy chat ensued. Fred showed up dressed like a Summer Twat in a footy shirt and we exchanged lively insults. The season was well and truly underway.

On TV Teddy Sheringham scored from a rebound for Pompey in a sharp attack through the middle, then ex-pinky Berger scored a wonderfully instinctive second in a close penalty area dribble before a useless looking Villa got a penalty. It was an exciting game for Pompey fans but there wasn’t much in it for neutrals. We burst out yawning before we started to appraise the local women, or at least those passing by. Beauty, shapely bare waists and long legs were everywhere. One gorgeous, voluptuous black woman went by in a spray-on single piece sky blue cat suit. Kipper was so struck he went outside for a second look. If you think this is male chauvinism you haven’t got any blood in your veins.

As we walked down to the ground I decided this isn’t the Me Generation, or even Generation X. It’s the HeHe! Generation with glassy eyes, slurred voice, greasy spiked hair, empty heads, permanent hangovers and the collective intellectual abilities of an ant colony built with credit cards. If you shook them by the shoulders all you’d get is a sickly grin and a request for the location of the nearest cash machine. I say stick ‘em on an island with doctor Moreau and all the rest of the Summer Twats.

Gosh, that feels better.

Inside Highbury Kipper chortled, “Clear sky, no clouds.” I glowered at him just as the teams came out. I’m not one to argue with Moyesy but I wouldn’t have Sandro at right back, he’d be at left back with Tony Hibbert at right back. Davey would partner Joey at centre back. You couldn’t really argue with the rest. Nick Chadwick had his chance up front with The Rad. The midfield was Stevie-Gravedigger-Toby-Pembo. I didn’t bother checking Arsenal’s midfield beyond Paddy Vieira. What was the point? At the level of class we were, well, outclassed, and then some.

All of which just goes to show you how much shite this forecasting business is. For the first half hour we bossed the game, especially in midfield. Toby and The Gravedigger virtually blotted out Paddy and co. Of course it was inane to think it would last the whole match but it was a great sight while it lasted. Vieira got more irritated by the second and started fouling. You could tell they were in trouble because Cole got nastier the more the flow went against them. He should be dropped from the England squad until he gets that nonsense out of his system. On the other hand The Gravedigger was an absolute (relative) paragon of playing virtue. He won the ball and played it around and showed some really good close control. He and Toby were in command despite occasional Gooner thrusts down our left. Pembo and Unsy were plainly seen as our weaknesses but you have to say their defensive work was sterling during this spell. Pembo even took time off to get forward and have our first shot from 25 metres after five minutes. Everything looked possible.

For example on ten minutes The Rad broke through on the goal line on the right and smacked it across the box. Nick Chadwick should have scored from close in. Instead his sidefooted shot hit their keeper on an extended boot and came clear. I thought if we could hammer their new keeper more his nerve would snap. Sadly, we never really created enough trouble in the penalty area. Nick chased around a lot without making The Rad’s life any easier, let alone help him out. He’ll need to do more if he wants to stay in the side.

When Henry hit a swerving free kick a gnat’s arse over the bar The Gravedigger promptly tried a long range shot which almost decapitated someone in row Z behind the goal.

The game’s central moment came after half an hour. The Gravedigger continued his form with a superb dribble dead centre of the D, left a man looking dopey, swerved around Campbell and then got tripped by the same with a clear run on goal. Had he gone through and scored there was no player on the pitch more deserving. For Campbell it was a red card, no sweat. Loonies in the home crowd thought otherwise. As the departed Campbell was taking his shower we shaped to take the free kick. With a little ingenuity it was a certain goal. Alas, as we know all too well, ingenuity is not our long suit in this kind of situation. Arsenal defended it properly, Stubbsy relied on sheer power and the shot eventually rebounded away harmlessly off a man in the wall who didn’t shrink from facing the shot. Actually, it was dead on target because I was right in line with it. Had it got past the defender it would have taken the ‘keeper with it, most of the Arsenal fans too.

After which, Henry made the mistake of trying to dribble through the middle against Joey who immediately and imperiously took the ball off him as cleanly as you like and cleared. Joey was absolutely magnificent all through the game, easily our best player and man of the match by a long way. Henry got no change out of him all afternoon and ended up as niggly as Vieira and co were in the opening phase.

Five minutes later Stubbsy compounded the situation on a ground where he always plays like his legs are tied together with fly paper. Arsenal got a man clear on the right side and closing into the box. Stubbsy came across just as the attacker tried to lift the ball over him. As the ball came up, he raised his arm and blocked it with his elbow. Penalty, no question, though Mogsy went off his tree at the decision. So did other Evertonians, probably through the sheer caprice of fate. After all, here we were, well on top and them down to ten men, and it looking like game shot. It can be a cruel game. But what followed was a disgrace to the game and shows just how fine is the current balance of behaviour.

Henry hit the penalty home and promptly ran over to the Everton section sans shirt to taunt the away fans. That was his only purpose, whatever anyone says. If he doesn’t get at least fined for it, the FA are their usual corrupt selves. The reaction from some fans at the front was even worse. They immediately bombarded the stupid gett with anything they could lay their hands on. I can’t say I felt sorry for Henry. Given his behaviour it’s hard to avoid wishing he got hit by at least a soggy sausage roll. If the fans had limited themselves to shouting mere insults it would have passed off with nothing more. In the end the offending fans were every bit as bad as Henry. As it was he got roundly and rightly booed every time he went near the ball afterwards. Worse, he fell to the ground in Drama Queen style at every opportunity. He lost a lot of friends and admirers amongst Everton supporters afterwards, me included. You couldn’t help feeling he behaved like he did because Joey played him out of it. The only vavavoom was Joey’s. Which means m. Henry will get barracked to the echo when he comes to Goodison. And he will deserve it.

And really that was it so far as we were concerned. Incredibly, we never got into the game against their ten men afterwards. As so often the case in these circumstances, the ten men lifted themselves. In the end their superior class told and they were running rings around us for long spells. It showed once again that we more than most teams really must score when we are in the ascendancy. We simply don’t have an extra gear in midfield, where it matters most. Arsenal do, and it showed. At times it was almost embarrassing.

Still, for the remainder of the half we lived in hope. Arsenal brought Keown on in place of Wiltord. One less in attack. But the game settled down to a midfield tussle and we lost it there decisively if gradually. Our midfield simply collapsed. Moyesy sent on The Duke in place of Toby after ten minutes to try and force the pace but a minute later that went out the window when Arsenal got a second after Wright made two stupendous saves from close in shots and Pires couldn’t miss on the edge of the goal area. They also hit the bar with a magnificent free kick and Wrighty made yet another great save from a point blank effort. We could easily have let in another two or three. It was encouraging though to hear the loonies amongst opposition fans barracking The Duke because they were shit scared of him. He was ineffectual in this match apart from one free kick, so just think what he’ll be like when he gets back to match fitness…………………

After twenty minutes of the second half Moyesy had had enough and took off Unsy and Pembo and replaced them with Nace and Li Tie. It made not much difference until the last five minutes when Li Tie helped the ball through the middle to Nace and he got it clear left side penalty area to The Rad and he smacked it home to set up a nervy closing session. We got a series of corners. From one of these Joey had a clear header but got under it and it bulleted half way up the lower stand. Mark my words, he’ll get a couple from these situations this season. I haven’t seen a centre back head so powerfully for a long time.

It was irritating to lose to ten men even of their quality. Which just goes to show how much the side have advanced. There was a time when we wouldn’t even have contemplated a surprise result against them. Now we expect to give them a lot of trouble at the least. Not that Moyesy will ever settle for that. I expect some midfield arses to get a sound kicking this week at Bellefield.

As we boarded the coach Kipper leered, “Doesn’t look like rain does it?” But I was ready for him and said, “What’s that spattering against the pavement then?” For a second he believed me.

Quotes

Sausage says: "These pies are shite."

Jogger says : "So is Gilberto!"

Moyesy says: “I was disappointed with our play after the sending-off. We looked better when it was eleven against eleven and it was a game that we should have got something from. We lost our concentration and we relaxed a little bit. Against Arsenal you just can’t do that. They’re such a good side that you have to keep at them. I’d rather have had the goal than the red card because we didn’t score from the free-kick. I thought it was a sending-off, as I did when Li Tie went. In the second half we didn’t do enough and for the first thirty minutes of the second half we were poor and by the time we got the goal back it was too late to do any real damage.

Off The Ball

* The main talking point at Half - time was the antics of Terry Henry after he scored the penalty. Instead of running to his own fans, he ran towards us. Then he stopped about 3 foot away from the front row, & just stood there with his arms outstretched like a quilt. Some fans reacted by throwing things at him. Although you can't condone what the fans did, you can understand. Henry goaded the fans, when there was no need. He should have run towards the arsenal fans. Top class footballer, & now a Tosser.

Team News            Last Season's Game

First game of the season. It's here. You've only got to get over one more night of yer tart saying 'Why are you walking around like a caged lion', & it will be morning. Crack of dawn against the arse. Gnarrff, gnaarrff!

Great news The Duke traveled down today. Moyesy will decide tomorrow if he'll put him on the bench. If not Leon Osman, may get 20minutes to see if he can transfer his reserve goals into Premiership ones. One thing is certain is The Rad & Chad will start, unless Moyesy is acting the proverbial & throws The Duke in.

The World Class, Joey Yobo will be joined by Stubbsey, with Davie Weir on the bench. The midfield saga - a message board debate to love or hate. (Bo) has brought no new faces. Gemmill is injured & is now mysteriously joined by Harry Hill, & Saint Nic, who looked fit enough last Sunday, but no. Both have sore knees. It looks like The Gravedigger & Toby will be given the nod. Steve Watson, bluekipper.com Star Man 2002/2004, looks set to start on the right, & lets hope he continues to score from midfield.

The left midfield position is between Pembo, & Nace. The full backs should be The Hibbert, & Pisto, but Unsey played last week. So trust Moyesy. One thing is certain at Highbury tomorrow, the Everton boys will be there.

Moyesy says : “He has done a bit of training this week and he is close but he hasn’t had any match practice. I think he played one pre-season match against Crewe and 15 minutes against Glasgow Rangers, so he has played no football really. It would be unfair to ask him to come in and though he will travel with us I am still not sure if he will be on the bench.(15/08/03)

Everton from: Wright, Hibbert, Stubbs, Yobo, Weir, Unsworth, Radzinski, Pembridge, Watson, Li Tie, Naysmith, Gravesen, Rooney, Osman, Chadwick, Linderoth, Simonsen, Gerrard.

Sausage's eleven to start: Wright, Hibbert, Yobo, Stubbs, Pistone, Watson, Linderoth, Gravesen, Pembridge, Chadwick, Radzinski.