Closest thing to crazy
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

It was a chore two weeks ago when we played Villa. After a while you get comatose with indifference to Villa fans and their self-pitying stylised hatred for Doug Ellis and, well, almost everything and everybody else, themselves apparently included. Somehow it gets translated into the standard of play. Odd club, too many peculiarly outdated fans. I suspect many of their fans are founder members of the Melledrew Tendency.

So, given too the paucity of our midweek disaster at Burmingham Sittoy and the pathetic ten minutes close-out at Southampton, I wasn’t really looking forward to the Villa game. Beforehand I opined that if we lost we would probably get relegated. The bottom line is I couldn’t see our disinterested players getting off their arses if fortunes took a decisive sway against us. Still can’t, actually. As we all know it has been like that since early season. After the late tragi-comedy at Southampton I even took this onto a local phone-in (yes, yes, I know……………an equally pathetic high-octave gesture of disenfranchised despair) and said too many of our players are “schizophrenic.” You can’t get into much worse moods than a fall into cheap psychobabble.

Pre-Villa match chat in the Street End seats evinced a startling confession from Peter. “I have,” he declared with a mysticism I thought well beyond him, “ ‘ad me feng shui an’ I’m gonna be POSITIVE today about everythin’, even fuckn Gravesen.” Everyone within a five metre diameter stared at him. We knew this laudable intention to be an impossibility since Peter has a theatrical hatred of The Gravedigger like you wouldn’t believe. Or maybe you would if you have a similar infliction.

Sure enough the façade crumbled after The ‘digger’s second bad pass. “I’m bein’ positive you baldy bastard,“ shouted the mystic one, “I positively fuckn ‘ATE yer!” And to be fair, The ‘digger’s first half play was about as awful as any we’ve seen in a blue shirt even by the appalling standards of the last six years or so. Mysticism rapidly gave way to apoplexy. You couldn’t blame Peter. At one point The Gravedigger was spraying passes all over the seats or finding a Villa player with uncanny and unerring accuracy and a determination which rendered my “schizophrenic” label obsolescent. He was single-minded shite personified.

We had a reasonable opening ten minutes before the first half subsided into a fractious and uneven affair roundly crocked by a useless berk of a referee. Apart from that Villa showed tiny glimpses of why they have advanced up the league table. Here and there there were odd reminders of O’Leary’s praiseworthy young Leeds team before sabotage by the Suits. Overall though the teams were pretty much on a par. For us, it was a relief to note we weren’t utter dung. Rooney looked like he was gradually getting back to the things he does best. In the first half the game wasn’t exactly boring or exciting, it was a bit like the sexual activity of a promising gelding – lots of will but ultimately literally fuck all to show for it.

As The Gravedigger’s form got worse so did Peter’s insanity. In the end everyone agreed the Dane was so awful he was bound to score a thirty-metre screamer in the second half. The denouement became so urgent we all gathered in a circle around Peter at half time, Dicky Mint directing everybody to bow their heads in meditation, contact the tips of thumbs and forefingers and go, “Ommmmmmmmm.”

So of course he DOES go and get one. A second, clinching goal. For which he ran maybe, er, thirty metres through the Villa defence after a mad character change had him playing well. Everyone in the area descended on Peter and battered him almost to pulp. “I can take it,” he said, grinning happily at the prospect of three precious points. Off to one side Dicky Mint shouted, “I want this in the fuckn match report! That cunt’s a fuckn hypocrite!” But isn’t everybody when it comes to a footy match and the exceedingly thin line between success and failure? At the end of the game we fully expected Peter to don a saffron full-length shroud and sandals, shave his head, dink tiny cymbals between forefinger and thumb and low moan the immortal mantra, “Hare Krishna.” But all he said with a wide smirk was, “I’m goin’ fer a fuckn pint now.”

The existential question thus becomes: is The Gravedigger’s schizophrenia a natural condition of anyone who plays, administers and watches football? This is a logical follow-on query after witnessing The Melledrew Tendency-like comical paranoia of the Villa fans. Looking at the worst Villa culprits, you couldn’t help a suspicion they could easily be the inside party in a club heist or something like the London Airport Job. Just too, too bizarre.

After which came the Shareholders Association annual dinner right in the middle of a debacle I have described elsewhere, and of which likely there is much more to come. Straightforward questions can have a peculiar affect on the human psyche. Ask The Gravedigger. Actually the dinner went off very well despite the club’s inevitable and deplorable absence. Which means all credit to the inestimable Mark Edwards who worked his knackers off to make it the success it was – professionalism at its best in the most difficult of circumstances. Barry Horne delivered the kind of humorous speech you would never suspect of him, Wimbledon goal aside, and that was succeeded by Brian Viner’s equally light-hearted Evertonian journo effort. But the debacle rumbles on, as do the inevitable financial questions. Que bono? All it requires are straightforward answers to straightforward questions. No big deal. One of the results has been the kind of pseudo macro-politicking we assumed left the scene when Derek Hatton took his suits elsewhere. Watch this space.

Then came Kipper’s house-warming at his new gaff. There was only one pinky there – he readily admitted he hasn’t been to a game in ten years – and we all tried to electrocute him via a game called “Reaction.” I heartily recommend this game to you if you are a drunkard. It consists of a round, ipod-like module circuit-cabled to batteries and two sets of hand grips, one pair to each player. The grips each have a button on top. The ref presses the centre of the module and it flickers a red light. When the light turns green each player tries to be the first to press the hand grip buttons. If you’re too late you get a mild belt off the batteries and you lose, though not fatally. One sure fire winning move is to wear rubber soled shoes. Another way is to do what Lard did, work out the sequences and make sure you have hold of the right hand grips. Lard won while everybody else retired whimpering while nursing tingling hands.

Sadly I had to miss the Blue Kipper Bayern Munich Night because of a last minute business call. Which meant I was roundly berated by Kipper and co., and threatened with all sorts of violent reprisals. But the worst punishment of all was missing the hugely successful night, a success heavily underlined by Kipper’s alcoholically stressed telephone voice at 11.00 a.m the morning after. I couldn’t help chortling at his expense.

With all this light heartedness as background the massacre in Madrid came as a mallet between the eyes. Momentarily panicked I telephoned life long friends in Madrid to see they were okay, which they were. Football assumed its correct perspective. That is, over the horizon and very far away. I hope the murdering culprits burn in a hell of their own creation.

So Saturday rolled around again. An “important” game with Portsmouth loomed. Winter has gone but a few days of ice-cold winds and thin floating slurries of snow preceded the day. By the time of the match it was merely cold and reasonably sunny.

Texyla arrived in Wetherspoons bearing a proud photograph of the new addition on his phone. Anyone who thinks human cloning lies in the future hasn’t seen this photograph. We’re talking COPY here, friends. The new Evertonian is Texyla in miniature. Leslie and the Ulster lads were there, waiting for Mogsy as usual. We eventually dug the latter out by use of that most deadly modern weapon, the mobile phone, and he turned up late with the usual plethora of pathetic excuses. There’s never any point getting mad with him because it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference, Mogsy is a perennial late arse and that’s that.

I don’t know whether I’m getting in to the game too late myself these days but I haven’t seen Moyesy’s little pre-match workouts in recent home games. If they aren’t being done, it can only add fuel to the inevitable rumours of a widening chasm between him and the players. I have no idea if these are true or not. If they are, I’m on Moyesy’s side – clear out the owl arses and have done with it. Given the money they earn the idea that a professional footballer can’t or won’t perform properly because he dislikes the manager is an affront to our common sense. You would assume too their personal and professional pride would help prevent any such. Again if the stories are true, Moyesy’s biggest mistake was being too honest when he allegedly told some of them they wouldn’t be here after season’s end. Another allegation is that the red haired one runs Bellefield like a boot camp. Well, given the attitude of some of the players, if true I don’t blame him in the least. Moyesy showed them what they were really capable of last season. He’s done his bit, now it’s up to the players to show they can perform honestly and to their full capability. There can be only one manager.

The modern squad system (which I despise) dictated an odd formation. The Gravedigger was suspended and thus deprived Peter of his usual target, but conjured Alex Nyarko from gawd knows where at right centre mid. Nace was at left back, Stevie at wide right mid, Toby at left centre mid and The Yin and the Duke to cause mayhem up front. Everyone else, as you were.

Well, the game was a pile of steaming horseshit mixed with stale yak urine. It consisted of two crap teams who gave the ball to each other at one minute intervals, or indulged in pathetic head tennis for long stretches. The only relief came from the immortally nicknamed Zinedane Kilbane, a last quarter hour show from The Duke and some sporadic electrifying pace from substitute Tomasz Radzinski down the right and left wings. Portsmouth’s two centre backs had quite solid games and their fractious substitute had the unfortunate name of Monar, probably a transfer from Melledrew Whiners.

For the first half hour our tactics consisted of, guess what, long hoofs up to the Yin’s head. But he got no change at all from their two centre backs and seemed to be carrying an injury. It was no surprise when he went off after an ineffectual half hour with what looked like a hamstring pull.

After ten minutes of utter shite played out in justified horrified near silence I couldn’t resist the temptation to turn to Peter and say, “You know what this game needs don’t you?” And before he could get out an answer I said, “………Gravesen.” The REALLY funny thing about this is that it has more than a kernel of the truth. Actually, all it demonstrates is how little talent we have in the team.

We all watched, dismayed and depressed by the manure being spread on the pitch by both sides. It was the worst home match since the awful Wolves game. Everyone yearned for half time. It came and went but there was no real change in the pattern of play until the last fifteen minutes when young Rooney suddenly woke up and took full advantage of The Rad’s defence-stretching wing play. The Rad made a ground pass from wide left, parallel with the edge of the penalty box, and it got through to The Duke with his back to the goal slightly left of the D. He turned on it in a flash, went right and hit an unstoppable ground shot home to their ‘keeper’s right. After which he took off on a pitch long celeb all along the front of the Bullens Road stand. For a split second I imagined him splashing through the duck pond in Stanley Park.

You would have thought someone had thrown a light switch on in him. First he got bowled over for what looked like a penalty, and then two identical right-of-the-D moves had him clip two well-aimed devilish little shots just wide of the right post. Then he got clear on the right, closed, went round a defender and hit a shot against the ‘keeper. Poor Pompey couldn’t handle him any more than any other team when he’s in this mood.

So we won, dumped Portsmouth in the bottom three, and moved clear of the relegation swamp ourselves. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Afterwards in Wetherspoons the usual suspects arrived with relieved grins, more gossip and rumours and the kind of footy chat which rightly occupies post-match Saturday evenings. Incredibly, some were even talking about qualifying for European competition. Schizophrenic? Shit, you haven’t heard the half of it……....(14/03/04)

Team News 

* Well in all you eagle eyed readers who have enjoyed pointing out to me, that Tommy Grav is indeed suspended for today's clash. Although I wrote the team news, I firmly point all the blame at Jogger's door . After our fantastic Bayern Munich evening on Thursday, I felt like shite yesterday whilst writing the team news. Believe me it had absolutely nothing to do with the fourteen odd pints I had, but the shittiest kebab I have ever eaten courtesy of our loveable Jogger. I spent most of the day holed up in the bathroom, so apologies to all again. Expect either Nyarko, or Harry Hill to step in for Grav's replacement. (13/02/04)

Moyesy could have a full quota of defenders to pick from, for this weekend's clash against second from bottom Pompey. 'Sandro Pistone has made a remarkable recovery, since limping off early in the Villa match, although David Unsworth may be preferred after stepping into the breach well in the same game. Expect Moyesy to stick with the same midfield, as we go in search of back to back wins for the first time this year. The Rad I suspect will start on the bench, with The Duke, and The Big Man carrying on their fruitful partnership. Dickie Wright should make a welcome return to the bench, after starring in the rezzies midweek defeat.

Moyesy says: "If we win this game obviously we’ll open up a gap between us and Portsmouth who are one of the teams below us, but we could also open up gaps between other teams who are below us. Our confidence was boosted by the win at Aston Villa, our confidence was raised by the performance against Southampton where we should have won. We’re on a mini-run, which hopefully is going to continue into a big run. If we’d have taken the two points at Southampton, I know it’s a big if, we’d be a lot better off. We’d be going into this game hoping to win it but not really needing to look below us but we do have to look below us and that’s the position we’ve got ourselves in. I hope the batteries are recharged after the break. The players have had a rest and hopefully you’ll see the team a little bit fresher, refreshed players and ready to win all these remaining games." (12/03/04)

Everton from: Martyn, Pistone, Hibbert, Stubbs, Yobo, Unsworth, Naysmith, Watson, Gravesen, Linderoth, Carsley, Kilbane, McFadden, Campbell, Rooney, Radzinski, Jeffers, Ferguson, Wright, Nyarko.

Lavington eleven to start: Martyn, Unsworth, Yobo, Stubbs, Hibbert, Watson, Nyarko, Linderoth, Kilbane, Rooney, Ferguson.