Have Yourself a Merry Little Blue Crimbo
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

Before LAST season I wrote this about Wayne Rooney:

“For a start we can dismiss the media to the periphery, honourable exceptions apart. For most of the media are a collection of dimwits with no interest in betterment of the game or honest commentary. For them the only thing which matters is their phoney "career" based on lies, manufactured rumour, half-truths and vicarious jeering. Our game survives in spite of them, not because of them. We don't need them or their opinions. We never have. It follows that anything the vast majority of them have to say about Wayne Rooney isn't worth a fart in a force 8 gale. Football really is the People's Game, whatever the present temporary state of ownership, whatever the conscienceless media say. But it would be wise to prepare yourself for continuous gossip.
Then we can get our own house in order. Whatever the temptation to claim otherwise, Wayne Rooney is not a messiah because in football there is no such thing. I hope our club never ever falls to the level of other clubs who have peddled this muck about a player or a manager. It is a game, not a religion. Any other approach leads to disaster. Anybody who places a ridiculous weight of expectation on the boy's shoulders should expect no mercy from the rest of us if he eventually falls to the caprice of fate………Wayne Rooney is a potential sports hero, not a life hero. There is no need to make of him what he is not.”

And I wrote this about Moyesy before THIS season:

“Right now, relieved Evertonians everywhere trust Moyes as much as he will ever be trusted anywhere. The initial motives for this aren’t too difficult to gauge. Firstly, he has delivered results and improvements with virtually the same players Walter Smith couldn’t motivate. Secondly, he has a much more open and approachable personality and he doesn’t bullshit. At this stage of his career it is difficult to imagine him uttering the kind of embarrassing self-justifying nonsense for which one m. Houllier has become laughably infamous. One can only hope it stays that way.
A long term question is how he will cope with genuine adversity when it arrives, as it does to all human beings. At such times the Melledrew Tendency will surge up out of the sewers and out of the woodwork. They always do. Also, it never fails to have me shaking my head when the fickle amongst us gush with praise one week and then spit venom the next. Such is life. I hope David Moyes is ready for it when it happens, and ignores the kind of loonies this throws up. Luck arrives in cycles and is permanent to nobody.
…………We owe a huge debt to David Moyes and his talents, and those of Alan Irvine. We live in interesting times and they are responsible.
Bring it on, Moyesy, bring it on.”

How prescient. Not. It isn’t the greatest intellectual exercise to predict how the sports media or our own tiny minority of whiners will behave. They’re shite, and they know they are.

So our present spell of poor playing fortunes has indeed brought the gobaloons and opportunists out of their primeval slurry once more. Here they come again, braying like donkeys from bedlam. The media, too many bribed by agents and/or a cheap boost to their “career,” as usual wittering on about the “advisability” of a move for the young player. Anybody want to bet on the possibility of some of them on a “bonus” for an “article” which helps create a climate which helps persuade the lad to move? The rest, pathetic gossip-mongers included, more or less do the same thing to David Moyes, complete with a list of managerial “defects.” Any remaining enjoyment you feel for the game is in constant danger of sabotage by these birdbrains. Altogether, a bunch of total arseheads who thoroughly deserve each other and all the calculated insults you and I can throw at them. NEVER give any of them the benefit of the doubt. Always attack them with as much force as you can muster. Come the revolution, we will give them all a fair trial and shoot them in the morning.

One can never tell, but I predict The Duke and Moyesy will come through the present situation and be all the better for it. At which point you can safely bet the media and Melledrew Tendency will turn their loony attentions elsewhere. Gobshites are like that, the kind whose company you don’t want but who somehow you occasionally find at your elbow tugging at your sleeve. They must be brushed off like dandruff.

In a slightly lighter vein, no sooner had Jonny Wilkinson’s trusty right boot delivered the rugby World Cup to Blighty than I decided to exercise the most wicked schadenfreude of all on Oz friends who cling to the arse hole of the planet Down Under. I didn’t phone them to gloat. General McArthur had this technique off to a tee in the Pacific Theatre of the Second World War when he left thousands of battle-hungry Nips (it’s squaddy-abbreviated from “Nippon,” so the crestfallen dunderheads amongst you can put away your PC self-righteousness) starving on various armed-to-the-teeth islands while the war was won elsewhere. I adopted the same strategy with the Plastic Paddies, who – you better believe it – were eating their own anuses after England’s wonderful victory over the Ozzies in their very own antipodean dunny. There’s more than a whiff of comical racism about the Plastic Paddies, which is why they are well worth taking the piss out of. At all times of course the Ozzies must be shat on from a low level bomber.

It was right and proper we had a player named Will Greenwood. Even Jonny’s name sounds like a Second World War fighter ace. By comparison the Ozzies had people named Elton Flatley and George Gregan, both of whom looked like lifers on day release. Yes, it was a sweet, sweet victory over the convicts. And yes, in due course I DID work it up the Ozzies and the Plastic Paddies. But in my own good time and in my own good way. Even though I don’t much like rugby for its inherent brutality I still cherish the sight of an England player careering into an Ozzie on the touchline and carrying him clean through ad hoardings for disgusting muck the Ozzies call beer. Unfortunately it wasn’t Rupert Murdoch or any of his gangster offspring.

Actually, you wanted the entire England team to go charging up the stands and straight into the press box housing the Oz section and to batter the living bejaysus out of the dingo-shagging nomarks. It’s the only thing they understand, you know. In fact the charge could just as well have continued into the English corps as well, and for roughly the same reason.

Apart from that I have had to endure a bad dose of flu which prevented me from attending games and filing various reports. I am now hale and hearty. Which makes the usual gobaloons fair game yet again. But I do not recommend listening to radio reports of poor play by EFC while you are raddled with flu viruses. I am still trying to reassemble the radio bits.

Friends, we are in unexpected perilous times. Like most long-term fans I suspected this lay ahead after a few games displayed the kind of players’ form and attitude we all thought in the past. For whatever reason – and you can take your pick of any one of ten rumours – we are playing undoubted shite yet again. At least we were up to the Portsmouth away game. There’s no question in my mind it is the approach of the players which mostly has us bogged down. Last season Moyesy showed them what they were capable of when they had the right attitude. And of course once they cross the white line their attitude governs all, Moyesy mistakes or no Moyesy mistakes. The sooner we are rid of those with the wrong attitude the better. Shape up or ship out. Or, in the parlance, play or fuck off. Given the money they earn, if they can’t get their heads straight for a couple of hours each week then maybe we should find some who can. Absolutely, I am on Moyesy’s side. And I suspect the vast majority of our fans are too.

Then again, like almost everyone else, we can’t spend money we don’t have. We are already up to our knackers in debt. Do the maths and avoid whining like the Melledrew Tendency. You’ll find your life is much more enjoyable.

Midweek before the game I attended Roy’s Do amidst a plethora of such dos, all of which generate an uncomprehending alcohol haze. Somehow, Roy’s devoted Evertonia has the kind of connections some fans would die for. The top table was replete with ex players and ex manager, all of whom had a whale of a time, even joining in with an unrestrained singalong. I can report “L’il Ol’ Wine Drinker Me” took a LOT of hammer. Thanks, Roy. You’re a star. Which is what I saw plenty of as I exited into the cold night air. It’s Christmas, you know, that sort of thang.

Match eve, Rio Ferdinand got an eight months ban for “forgetting” to take a drugs test. Apparently it all hinged on whether you believed his “forgetfulness.” Nobody I know believes him, me included. Which means the eight months is about two hundred percent less than he would have got had he been subject to athletics discipline in the matter. Instead of accepting the assessment for the leniency it is, Manchester United immediately denounced it and said they would appeal, maybe even take it to court. Given this and other cases, footballers and club owners/administrators better read the signs that people like me who pay their wages are increasingly sick of their lackadaisical approach to the privileges we heap on them. I don’t resent the money they get or their lifestyles. But I do very much resent it when too many of them appear to think they are above reproach or have little regard for the fans. If we get much more of this kind of thing a lot of us are going to say goodbye and leave them to it. At the top level a lot of players, managers, coaches, CEOs and journos earn more in a week than your average fan gets in two years. If their behaviour becomes openly contemptuous of the norms the rest of us accept as read then they can’t complain if we exercise our ultimate option and stop paying them. At which point it would be interesting to see how they cope with the kind of life everybody else leads. Armageddon is so close you can smell the gunpowder.

Blue Kipper held its annual Toffeemen’s Day Out on the day of the Leicester home game. This is a crazed bunfight which starts with lunch and beverages in the Blue Anchor in Aintree, coach to the match, and then night-long celebs afterwards. Yes, it is a demanding day. But not as demanding as the call on everyone’s loyalty and patience caused by recent plummeting form from our beloved Blue Bellies. Not that it affected the usual astonishing optimism and high comedy. Guests of honour were Jamie from Chicago (whose bar won Soccer Pub of The Year in the USA) and Martin (incorrigible rugby fan from Gloucester). Lavo regaled us with one of his famous couplet poems before withstanding some fearsome stick for showing a video whose first three excerpts were of famous games we lost. The insults almost set the wallpaper on fire. After being filled with Flo’s famous food and starter pints we ventured out into the incessant rain and cold – why is it ALWAYS like this when we play Leicester? – onto a small coach and the ten minutes journey to The Old Lady.

It was an unfortunate match for my first game in weeks. Leicester isn’t the first name you think of when you want excitement. I still giggle over John’s words that Leicester is Stoke without soot. It’s an outrageous generalisation of course but you know what he means. You can’t help hoping their new ground helps them overcome the dour view in due course.

By the time of the kick off the rain was sheeting down in gusts illuminated by the floodlights. Notably, The Duke and The Big Yin were both on the bench and Unsy paired with Stubbsy at centre back, Sandro at right back and Nace at left back. The front two were SuperKev and The Rad. It was a midfield of Faddy-Gravesen-Carsley-Kilbane. Of course no sooner was Kev back last week than we picked up our first away win. No coincidence that. Les Ferdinand was in their line up. Ah SHIT, you thought. Let’s start 1-0 down and then Les can fuck off immediately. Anything so we could avoid the sight of him once again doing us over.

Given the weather conditions the opening pattern of play was acceptable if slightly tacky. Once again the opposition managed to avoid slipping over while we maddeningly lost our footing. Still, the ball moved around much better than my last game, at least for the first fifteen minutes or so. After which play deteriorated to former melancholic levels. Leicester are a big, spoiling side, who have replaced the flakey shithouse Savage with, er, a flakey little shithouse named McKinlay or something. The referee lost command early on and never managed to reassert himself fully. Hence the ensuing pattern of niggling fouls by both sides. It was a staccato, scrambling sort of game until the substitutions were made.

The opening bout was virtually all in their half and we missed a couple of chances without looking really convincing or commanding. After half an hour Sandro fell heavily and got replaced by Tony. At this rate we might as well have a permanent hospital room created at GP for our classy Italian. No sooner had the change taken place than we got in front fittingly with a tacky goal. A move down the right ended up on the right edge of their goal area in a huddle of hurrying bodies and the ball shot of the ruck and into the back of the net. Apparently Carsley claimed it but somebody else says it was an own goal by Howey. Who gives a shit. We were in front.

Five minutes later The Rad had yet another one-on-one. Enough said.

Leicester were hardly in it. Which meant they were bound to get an equaliser. A minute before half time the thicko ref gave a free kick for fuck knows what and then pushed it forward nine metres when somebody told him what a daft twat he was. It was on the edge of the box, left side. Les shaped to take it. Glumly, I thought, “He looks in superb athletic shape.” You knew, just KNEW what was going to happen. Sure enough he bulleted an absolutely magnificent shot straight into Nige’s top left corner. Everybody more or less said, “Right, Les, NOW you can fuck off. Please.” There’s no point hating him, you know. He’s only going to do it again if his thirty-seven years old legs can get him to another game against us.

Half time, Peter Junior said, mortified at the score line, “If I was Moyesy I’d be crucifying them in there and telling them to get off their arses and do some damage.” Unknown to me, at the other end of the ground Lavo and some others had decided enough was enough, no more torture, and got off to an ale house. You couldn’t blame them, really. Conditions were very difficult but human nature can only stand so much aesthetic torture. The rest of us were frozen like rabbits in the headlights.

The second half had barely started when SuperKev hit the bar with a close-in back header with two or three of the opposition clinging to his shirt. It was good to see him looking fitter than for a long time and able to turn much faster. Maybe he has finally rid himself of the worst of the cruciate ligament damage. But of course the real damage is done now and can’t be completely eradicated.

After ten minutes Leicester went in front with a breakaway after our midfield went AWOL right across the park and left the defence exposed in familiar ludicrous fashion. Their man couldn’t miss with a simple low header at the right post. Nicely, though, we didn’t fold and came back at them with ten minutes of sustained if yet again unconvincing pressure, tremendous Kilbane dribble and shot notwithstanding. Most of it was instigated by The Duke, on as sub for Faddy two minutes after their goal.

This part of his learning curve has greatly benefited his all round game. He now makes space much better, holds it up well and delivers his passes with improved timing. He switched really well with The Rad wide right. And it was this which brought the equaliser ten minutes after he came on. The two of them interchanged beautifully on the right edge of the penalty area before The Rad rolled it into his path just right of the D and he belted a shot so hard you could feel its intensity. At which he took off on a celeb which took him all the way to the dugout with half the team trying to catch him. His face was an absolute picture of pugnacious determination. Once this gets translated into experience he’s going to…………………well, do you really need me to tell you? After his goal he had poor Leicester spinning in circles on our right. They just couldn’t contain him.

With fifteen minutes left Moyesy put The Big Yin on for SuperKev. Immediately Leicester’s defence looked panicky. You could just imagine their thought patterns. First, Rooney, now this. It paid off instantly. Unsy got in one of his famous long, curling crosses from left of the centre circle to the right edge of the D. Where stood The Yin with, I kid you not, four Leicester defenders hanging on to his shoulders, his shirt and his shorts. It was high comedy at its finest. The Yin scarcely jumped. With four panicking opposition falling over themselves he nodded it sideways to The Rad and he clipped it in on the volley from just left of the penalty spot, half way to the goal area. I was helpless with laughter and ecstatic that Moyesy’s tactics had worked so quickly. So was everyone else.

In the remaining period Leicester had more of the play but managed only one shot, a tremendous swerving missile through the drenching rain, which Nige saved brilliantly.

All in all, a good win in terrible conditions. Nothing to write home about as a spectacle, exciting in patches, good comeback and another step in the continuing development of Wayne Rooney and David Moyes.

Afterwards, my first and last visit to Rooney’s Bar on Wezzy Road to meet up with the usual suspects. Then home to get showered and changed and out again to The Blue, Rawhide Comedy Club, wherein dwelt the very same suspects. We prodded the MC sufficiently for him to start to engage before he backed off in well-judged avoidance. Even with the mike we almost turned him over, comedy-wise. My advice to you is to avoid The Blue like the plague. The formerly, er, blue sign has been replaced with, guess what, red shite. (Jogger has a new phrase: “Never trust a pinky until they’re three days dead”!) Friends, boycott the dump until they see sense and restore our glorious Royal Blue. Fuck ‘em. Keep your money in your pocket where they’re concerned. Their prices are pure thievery anyway.

Next up, the Mancs away. Gulp.

Apart from that, enjoy Crimbo and avoid flu viruses.

Team News 

It looks like The Duke will start in midfield as Steve Watson will definitely not recover in time after hobbling out of the action after 24 minutes of last week's away victory at Pompey. Despite intensive treatment on his injured thigh, the game has come around a bit to early for Everton's top scorer this season. Also Scot Gemmill, after a run out for the rezzy's in the week will probably be added to the squad.

 Moyesy says: "I don’t think Steve will be available, so apart from that I think that’s it. There’ll be no other players who played last week who will miss out." (20/12/03)

A big day on Saturday. The bluekipper.com team are out on their Christmas knees up, and the blukipper.com message board lads & lasses are celebrating Christmas & a few Birthdays, so 3 points will make the ale taste that much nicer this weekend. As for the team selection, as much as Unsey has played well in the last few games, Joey Yobo should come back into the side if he's fit. Joey has been our most consistent player this season & deserves to go straight back in. Tony Hibbert is fit again, but Pisto should keep his place. Jimmy Mac may replace Killa. The Duke will have to stay on the bench until he is summoned to score the winner with 30minutes to go.

Everton from: Martyn, Pistone, Hibbert, Stubbs, Yobo, Unsworth, Naysmith, Watson, Gravesen, Linderoth, Carsley, Li Tie, Kilbane, McFadden, Campbell, Rooney, Radzinski, Jeffers, Clarke, Turner.

Lavington Spa's eleven to start: Martyn, Pistone, Yobo, Stubbs, Naysmith, Watson, Gravesen, Carsley, McFadden, Campbell, Radzinski.