Everton:
Martyn,
Hibbert, Pistone, Stubbs, Naysmith, Gravesen
,
Nyarko, Rooney, Kilbane, Ferguson, Radzinski.
Subs
: Simonsen, Jeffers (for The Rad 73), Clarke,
Carsley (for Nyarko 59), Watson (for Wayne 78)
Bench:
Referee: Stevie Wonder Bennett
How
much do you hate the shite? They are fuckin top aren't they? They
haven't got a fuckin clue when you are takin the piss out of them
have they? You know why? Because they are all dicks, remember when
they bought the left back from West Ham? They even wore 'DICKS' on
the back of their shirts!!!!!!!
Now I have to own up, yes, like you, as you might of guessed, I hate
the shite too, but I fuckin hate going to analfield, why? Because
of that sick feeling, deep down in your belly - you know the one -
when you have a bad Saturday night, Moyesy talks about 'that Saturday
Night feeling' well the good ones are great but the bad ones can be
even worse! A Derby day to me means don't get beat!
Now no one has forgotten the drubbing at Goodison earlier this year,
well no Blue has, but the redshite might of because they have been
down the pan ever since and have been the butt of music hall jokes
ever since! You know the ones? Wife hoovering, bumps into telly with
hoover and Heskey falls down. Signing of Cisse is of because Foullier
was at medical and Cisse was circumcised, Foullier says ' we only
sign complete pricks here' etc. So the meesage was DO NOT LOSE!
So we went in this boozer, The Manure Arms, before the game - stank
of shite, sat down, fuckin turds everywhere you looked it was a crap
ale'ouse but we sat down and discussed the plan, first the team then
the redshite windups - they are fuckin great, they fall for them every
time! So, the team talk centre around would Rhino make it, No &
was Duncan racist, NO! Fuckin Boa Morte is a joke, what a pity Davey
Weir wasn't playing last week! Pisto was centre half, Nace was in
at left back, the Invisble Man partnered Tommy in the middle so The
Duke stayed out wide right whilst The Rad & Dunc went up front.
Now it's the Derby and everyone expects it the be frantic, it was
no let down. End to end stuff but the first half centred around two
penalty decisions, did Duncan push Poo No.5? No, and was the Rad trpped
by Crap No.4, YES! Anyway, neither were given so if any scum bring
it up, just slap them down
We looked well solid in defence, they were screamin as usual but we
were calm and Nige was at his best, at this rate he could be going
to nightschool to learn Portugeeeeezz, he saved brilliantly from ze
germun turd, from the scouse leg breakin skiddy & when faced by
the little shit, he forced him to put it wide. You know the welshman
Poowen was in our pub last night, he told this stunning bird at the
bar that he was going to take her home and roger her all around the
bedroom until the sun came up, she said, 'excuse me, you're being
a little forward aren't you?!' Bu-bum!
So it was even Trevor Steven, Tommy & The Rad could have put us
in front but the luck of the stench lasted, just before half time
Crapagher took over the mantle from Stenchoz & Hanshit when he
punched the ball away inside the area but the screaming scull, Steve
Bellend waved the claims away. The half finished with Poodek palming
away a Stubbsy header, so basically we twatted them in the first half,
but the scarf-on-wrist multiple badge-wearing Cornwallians would tell
you otherwise - fuck 'em!
HALFTIME 0-0
At halftime we offered silage and offal at the refreshments bar, 'refreshments'!
You'd need a fuckin month's detox after being in analfield, but the
cajun's just love it - it's easy to hols a cup of scalding hot liquid
diarrhoea when you have six fingers!
The second half was much the same, we twatted them.
Firstly Wayne nearly wrote the headlines again, he was really up for
this one, he is like you would imagine yourself to be if you ever
had a chance of playing in a Derby, wants to score the winner &
wants to cripple the cunts. He should have put us in frount but went
for power and blasted over the bar.
It wasn't all all one way, the badge kissing - ear holding skidmark
sent one well wide of Nige's post don't tell anyone but it fuckin
whistled past by inches, then le Poo completely missed a cross from
Cherpoo when it was easier to score. Wait until the phone in on Monday!
Then again, as Foullier says, real supporters dont go on phone-ins,
that because they cant get Century, City or Mersyside in Kent!
Stubbsy blasted a tremendous free kick which Poodek saved, you know
I'm sure he will add to his tally of two goals in 80+ games soon -
I was a fiver at 33-1 every week thinking the same thing!
The shite huffed and puffed, as you do when you are sat there trying
to get a big one out, but they are as they are, dripping, foul, smelly,
disgusting, revolting, reviled, obnoxious, SHITE, even Harry Poowell
- who said he was going to take his frustration out on us - couldn't
get past big Nige, don't worry Harry, son, we feel for you - stuck
with the redshite, going nowhere but earning £60k a week and
ripping them off - keep bleeding them dry son!
The hero of the day was Tony Hibbert who somehow headed one off the
line in the very last minute, Bennett blew the whistle and the redshite
booed (or was it pooed, as 4th spot got even further away).
We got what we wanted, we came with half a team, got a point and the
redshite were back to normal, whinging about not challenging for the
title. What they need is a sugar daddy like the gangster at Chelski,
they should contact a relative of a very rich family, the man who
inveted the bog - Thomas Crapper - he would suit them down to the
ground!!
A result.
Blue Kipper Star Man was not as Jogger suggested (he has to get completely
ars'oled before he goes into analfield) who said, Joey Yobo! It was
a close thing between big Nige who had a blinder and Tony Hibbert
who had Poowell in his pocket, forced the auzy shit to change wings,
showed what a Derby meant to a Scouser & had a last ditch header
off the line.
Bring on The Mancs!
FULL
TIME 0-0
The
analfield suckatorium is ‘avin’ a laff
By
Mickey Blue Eyes
I
was not looking forward to the derby game. Glumly I contemplated the
fact they had three or four locals playing and we had, I thought,
just two. One of ours is a kid (though legally a man) of eighteen
still learning and presently adolescent wobbly and the other is slow
enough to miss the last bus. To wit, The Duke and Stubbsy respectively.
Statistics like that MATTER in derby matches. Moreover this season
we have played like we have both legs through one leg of our shorts.
Accordingly I expected us to lose by two or three. Every Blue Belly
I mentioned this to howled me down. Funny thing, the pinkies I know
were far from optimistic themselves. No, there’s no question derbies
do your ‘ed in.
Nevertheless,
I did my duty and took the piss out of every pinkie (not too difficult
since they are in such demoralised disarray it’s like peeling a dead
shrimp) I encountered. This must be so. As Jogger says relentlessly,
“Never trust a pinkie until they’re three days dead.” It’s the only
thing they understand you know. Like you, I regard most pinkies as
the equivalent of Marty Feldman without the wit or the good looks.
They must be roundly chastised. It helps too if you can speak Norwegian
or ancient Cornish and know the price of a tram ticket in Oslo or
the story of Lorna Doone. Keith calls them christmas trees after their
penchant to dress up in a manner you couldn’t invent even if you were
baron Frankenstein. There, that satisfied all my worst instincts.
Match
eve, Scott Parker finally did one from the Addicks and joined the
rest of the bench warmers at the Russian Restaurant. Great pity this,
and, I hope, not the huge misjudgement I think it is. Scott’s a great
player still in the making and he’s the type of lad who needs to play
all the time, not as a sub. He would have been far better joining
us for a guaranteed place. Then again, we’re skint and couldn’t afford
to pay his fuel bill never mind his wages or his transfer fee. Meantime,
Moyesy made vague noises about Nick Butt maybe/maybe not joining us
in (perhaps) the summer. Don’t you just LOATHE the way the off-field
game is these days?
Pre-match
we were due to assemble in Wetherspoons city centre branch after the
Squire and cockney toffee dropped their hugely expensive limousine
next to my own sparkling luxury coupe at home. As driver from Lahndan,
ct was first out of the car with Squire lingering in the passenger
seat. Forgetting his disposition I said loudly, “C’mon you fat cunt,
gerrouta the car.” A much disgruntled travel-weary voice said irritably,
“You’ll fuckin’ regret that, you.” I forgot he had a pulled-out back.
But it was nothing a suitable injection of alcohol anaesthetic couldn’t
put right and so it turned out. Nevertheless the sufferer’s face occasionally
creased with pain – and it wasn’t only the thought of the derby match.
Once on licensed premises there seemingly wasn’t a Blue Belly who
thought we were going to get the pasting I figured. Oh well, you could
hope.
In
short order Squire explained his brand new get-rich-quick scheme for
establishment of a chain of “suckatoria” in seedy areas (that is,
almost all of it) of Lahndan. He’s a changed man since moving to the
bucolic suburban horrors of semi-detached lower middle class Beckenham
on the Penge (PENGE!) border. Cockney toffee looked on with a distinct
air of disapproval. All atruism and even social democracy has bolted
the stable and been replaced by Daily Mail/Daily Telegraph barrow-boy
money-magazine loopiness. And that was after he acquired the haircut
like a burst couch set in epoxy resin. It’s a ruthless looking combination.
Anyway, for confidential reasons (you know, like Blair’s and Bush’s
lies or manifesto promises) I can’t divulge full details of the schema,
but I can say it involves short term lease/rent of retail premises,
whores, room separators with small holes, and fellacio. Contact him
directly please. My in box is full.
Taxi
to analfield in a slight rain and overcast skies. Inside, ct said
he thought the place had an air of sadness. Actually it has, plus
an air of unreality and edgy anger amongst their fans. We looked for
the Houllier Out! banners but even the pinkies had the common sense
not to display them in this match of all matches. All of this and
the weather made the christmas trees look a bit bedraggled. Our fans
had nothing to lose and bated them relentlessly. All it drew was a
set of cold, expressionless, apparently unfeeling stares. Only a few
of them had the animated spirit to have a go back. I can’t say I was
too bothered about it. As we all know, these matches walk a very fine
line.
A
couple of surprises in our line up. First, The Big Yin playing at
all. Second, Sandro at centre back. Regulars will recall I long ago
said Sandro’s best position by several kilometres is at left back.
And Moyesy had him at never-seen-before CENTRE back! Jesus. I feared
the worst. I also felt a bit of a twinge with Alex Nyarko in from
the off. I wondered if he had the necessary mental strength for a
derby game. Then again we had three – not two – locals in Tony, Stubbsy
and The Duke. And The Yin relishes these games and scares the pinkies
shitless. All in all, I finally felt a cautious note of optimism just
before the kick off.
It
turned out to be a frenetic game of end-to-end stuff in which the
enemy created more chances and dominated the last ten-fifteen minutes.
Apart from that, Our Boys gave a pretty good account of themselves
and shirked nothing. Early on, the pinkies’ resident big-nosed Kraut
(what is it about analfield and huge nasal orifices?) had a tremendous
long-range left-foot volley kept out confidently at full length by
Nige, and then The Gravedigger dribbled almost all the way through
and had HIS shot saved equally well by Dudczech (he’s a POLE, geddit?).
The pattern was set for most of the match. By half time The Yin had
missed an easy header and Stubbsy had an absolute thunderbolt of a
butt clawed away, while Nige knocked another one of theirs onto the
post and made a couple of good saves.
Playing
wide right, The Duke was plainly up for it in a big way and plagued
their left side defence for most of the half. It stretched them enough
to prevent them playing keep-ball. On one occasion he kidded two of
them in a superb close dribble only for the move to break down.
By
half time we were feeling much better about the game and even entertained
the possibility of a win. They had better individual technique but
outside their locals they plainly weren’t relishing the battle. Midfield
we were hampered by the Gravedigger’s baffling inconsistency – quite
brilliant one moment, total shite the next – and the form of the opposing
Miss Piggy, Gerrard. Once again it is easy to see why the pinkies
might well miss out on fourth place to The Skunks. Too many of them
seem sulky or full of self-pity, playing wise. For us, I was surprised
and absolutely delighted with Sandro’s display. His positional play
and sheer class helped stop them developing anything of any worth
through the centre. They were forced wide for long spells and couldn’t
do anything there at all. Most of their threats came from sudden long
passes. Team-wise, nobody let us down. Everyone was committed. Moyesy
got it spot on once again.
There
were the usual fractious incidents and talking points, penalty claims
at both ends (all valid it seemed to me) and bodies thudding to the
ground at regular intervals. It was quite like old times. Every time
their wide right peroxide narcissist got the ball a man behind me
shouted, “Fuck off Marilyn Monroe!”
The
second half was about even until the last quarter of the game when
the balance turned the pinkies’ way and it looked as though we would
leak one at any moment. But in fact they never looked as though they
had the guile or the strength to take advantage of more possession.
At one point, once again The Duke kidded two of theirs on a right-side
angled run toward the centre of the D. With the goal gaping, the ball
bobbled a fraction ahead of him and as he made contact it hit the
top of his toe and zoomed just over. He was already tiring by then
and eventually came off plainly exhausted after running himself into
the ground. In this case I suspect it was mental exhaustion, something
he’ll have to conquer quickly as part of better concentration. Younger
players often think physical commitment will always carry the day,
whereas often it is also necessary to let the ball do the work. Wayne’s
no different. He’ll have to learn.
Off-field,
the bating continued. Our lot taunted them with:
“Champions
League?
Yerravin’ a laff!”
and
“Fuck
off
Back to
Nor-way!”
to
samba songs.
There
was no response. Perhaps reality is beginning to dawn for them. Not
that any of us give a shit one way or the other. They brought it on
themselves. Cockney toffee may well be right about the “sadness” bit,
but there’s also an unredeeming air of unreality about the place.
Oh well.
At
the final whistle we repaired to Wetherspoons Walton Road for a glass
of beer and to await traffic clearance to get a taxi. Sadly, Wetherspoons
contained twenty nazi cunts giving vent to loud mouthed racism, allegedly
Evertonians. We walked out and en route informed the delightful manageress
(who keeps a good clean pub) why we were exiting with beer unfinished.
I hope she did something about it.
Then
a taxi to the Left Bank restaurant in Penny Lane. A nice establishment
wherein served excellent food and plonk. Only ct didn’t drink because
he was driving back to Lahndan. All told, a successful day and evening,
much better than most of us figured during the week.
I
just hope we can keep it up at Fulham in the Cup replay. (01/02/04)
