The camera's had turned up to witness a shock. This is a new Everton though, the dark days of Shrewsbury are long behind us. A few pundits in the press had predicted Everton would fail last night, whilst a few tipped us for Cup success come May, lets hope the latter are right.

Plymouth predictably came at us from the off. A full house at Home Park, and cup fever was here. Everton weathered the early storm, as Moyesy started his new rotation system by resting Tommy, Tiny, and Davey Weir. New signing Beatts started up front with Benty, and although short of match fitness, he looked strong and eager to please. After the early salvo from Plymouth, Everton opened their account in the sixteenth minute, when Ossie coolly chipped Larrieu in the Plymouth sticks. The goal came after good work from Beatts, after holding the ball up well, and playing it into the path of his new team mate.

It got better two minutes later when Faddy who is having a new lease of life at the moment, found the ball at his feet after a melee in the box. The Scots youngster slotted the ball home to but Everton in the driving seat, and the BBC were furious.

Plymouth threw everything at the Blues, and Dickie was asked to make a fine stop from Hodges. Plymouth did halve the deficit when Icelander Gudjonson fired his effort past Dickie to make it 2-1 after only half an hour. Game on. Beatts keen to please on his Blues debut picked up a yellow after clattering into a Plymouth player, and after was roundly booed by the home fans . Everton went in at the break, with Plymouth gaining the territorial advantage, and Moyesy would be glad to get the boys together to re group.

Half Time: Plymouth 1 EVERTON 2

The expected push by Plymouth did not materialise, as the game became a midfield battle. With only the one goal cushion, Everton certainly could not think the game was won.

Moyesy waited nearly twenty five minutes before bringing on the cavalry. Beatts the new boy made way for Tiny, and ten minutes later Grav came on for Faddy, and it was nice to see Chaddy come on for the always hard working Benty.

It was Chaddy who put the game beyond the Pilgrims reach when he bludgeoned his way through the Plymouth midfield, then the defence to slide the ball past the keeper to send the Blues into the 4th Round draw later on today.

Moyesy can be happy with a job well done. Lesser sides would have come to this tricky tie and failed. Everton did a professional job, and the watching millions may see at last that Everton are a team who are here to stay.

My bluekipper Starman goes to Leon who is maturing as a player every time I watch him. Big Nev does the draw for The FA today, so lets hope it is not Exeter at home, gives us an easy one Nev.

Full Time: Plymouth 1 EVERTON 3

Stats

Report from Home Park

Blue Kipper Star Man

Goal and Starman

 

Goal

 

Goal

Argyle and Cup sweaters
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

It’s that time of year.

I spent the second half of last week raddled with a Machiavellian breed of flu virus that had you thinking it was on its way out – only to reappear with a sweaty club in its maw. It had its compensations, though. One of them was the attendance of fair maidens who tended my every need: soothed brow one minute, kick in the butt next. Another was a chance to catch up on some reading of (marvellously named) Lynne Trusse’s book, “Eats, Shoots & Leaves,” and a continuing reprise of Gore Vidal’s “United States – Essays 1952-1992.” I heartily recommend Trusse for a wonderfully outraged and long overdue comic assault on contemporary punctuation vandals. I have a lot of sympathy for her position even though I think she would do well to remember the adage, “Rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men.” Don’t squirm angrily, dear, MANIPULATE. I gave a copy of the book to Lavo months ago and urged him to read it to rid himself of the punctuation wreckage he does sometimes to our language on this website. See, Lynne, I told you I’d give you a plug. Vidal, of course, is what is left of American belles letters. I dread the day when he is no longer with us since there is no obvious successor. Those who wish to understand – no, REALLY understand, not that Quentin Tarantino/Godfather/Sopranos muck – American culture surely cannot do without his almost extinct combination of gorgeous writing, insight, wicked wit and gravitas: it is all too easy to see why he is hated so much by the American Establishment and its system of dragooned rednecks.

Meanwhile, video technology got back in the footy news again midweek after the referee screwed up and let the Mancs off the hook against Tottenham. TV replays showed the ball over the line by about a metre after the Manc ‘keeper spilled a long lob over his shoulder. The decision was so bad it had you rolling on the floor with laughter, especially because a draw was arguably the best result for us, since simultaneous loss of two points deprived the Mancs of getting even further away and Tottenham from getting even closer in the league table. We were due some luck and a good larf after our “blip.”

In my opinion there are two areas for VT use: goal line decisions and offside, both of which can be next to impossible for officials to judge. The reason is straightforward – your eyes can’t be in two places at the same time. Wire up the referee for near-instant response from the video judges and hey presto! fewer and fewer crap decisions. It could never be perfect but it would still be much better than what we have now. Nor is the technology at all exotique. No sweat, do it now, and the sooner the better. But this being England – where the Euro still hasn’t dropped that a camel is a horse designed by a sleazy privatised right-wing committee – expect the debate to go on anaemically before it fades into the background. Until the next time.

While the International Board is at it they can get rid of the incredibly stupid current interpretation of the offside law. Whoever thought that one up has to be a member of the County Road Ché Guevara Society or the George Bush Library. Which is why we should welcome the Welsh FA suggestion to restrict offside to the penalty area, an experiment – if memory is correct – once carried out in a late 60s pre-season tournament and which was never heard of again. I’d go further, I’d extend the penalty area to both touchlines to make it relatively easier. In which case video technology would DEFINITELY be required since the match officials would need to know three things all at the same time. They are:

(a) When did the last man kick the ball?
(b) Where was the receiving player in relation to defenders when it was kicked?
(c) Where was the receiving player in relation to the penalty line?

This is even more impossible than asking for “just” the first two, as at present, so the technology would be a must. But it has to be said that most officials get it right much more than they get it wrong even now, and that’s some achievement. Needless to say we only eff and blind about the worst ones. Football fans are never satisfied and never will be. But you can’t have everything.

Something with almost everything, no question, is the FA Cup, the world’s oldest and greatest national footy club knockout competition. And I say that despite our wretched record in the competition since we last won it in 1995 at the expense of the Mancs. And I say it especially bearing in mind the Rupert Murdoch-instigated media campaign to belittle the tournament to his corrupt advantage. One of the reasons is its ability to make a monkey out of the self-styled experts – especially when it comes to forecasting “shocks.” You would think even a deadbeat pundit would understand that forecasting a “shock” means, er, it isn’t a shock.

No, the great thing about The Cup is the very PROSPECT of a so-called “small” club meeting a so-called “big” club in a one off game in which anything can happen. If the small club wins, and it isn’t at your expense, and they’ve done it (largely) cleanly, then you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t delighted. Theatre wise, it is the same as a Whitehall Farce in which the leading man’s trousers end up around his ankles to transports of great joy from the punters. Every such match has its Brian Rix and his five minutes of fame. Which is another reason the BBC are to be heartily congratulated on live broadcasts of all those matches in early rounds between clubs such as Grindletonian Northfleet Mechanics Albion and Greyfriars Sixth Form Hot Tea and Crumpets. It helps us properly remember the roots of the game and how much we all still owe to those who lovingly tend them.

But by the time Saturday arrived I couldn’t shake off the flu enough to drive down to the West Country, having already advised Texyla I couldn’t suffer another ten hours of minibus claustrophobia. Moreover, at seven a.m. it was blowing a crosswind gale on the motorways. So I didn’t go. Instead, I watched it live on BBC TV while sniffling into umpteen cups of the latest occult concoction. Not that TV can ever give you the kind of full experience or playing perspective you get by being there, no matter how good the camera work.

First, midday, Sheffield United V Aston Villa, and the kind of undignified exit for the Brummies that is all too similar to our own recent efforts. Feature of the TV broadcast was the kind of unintentionally funny commentary/pundit team that has you on your knees chewing the edge of your rug. Jonathan Pearce was the commentator, much less hysterical these days, with back up from Mark Bright, an ex professional player full of stacatto forensic banality. Jon tried his best to rein Bright in from saying intense, tremulous things like, “……Look! He draws his foot back slowly……it trickles along the ground……the goalkeeper picks it up……he throws it out……” but he failed badly. But if Mark was locquacious up to and including his own vapour point he had absolutely nothing on pundit Dave Bassett up there in the glass box. Words fail me where this lad is concerned. Which is less than you can say for Dave Bassett. Clearly, he hasn’t read Lynn Trusse’s admirable tome. Actually, I doubt if he has ever had time to read ANY tome. Once he starts talking, he doesn’t stop, not even to breathe or blink or think. He’s simply unstoppable. He is the Schlieffen Plan made flesh. Worse, he communicates the same kind of manifestly incomprehensible oral tsunami to his colleagues, who, in this case, happened to be unkempt Peter Schmeichel and someone called Mark Pougatch or something. In fact Schmikes was so affected he talked pure discordant shite most of the time. Pougatch (is that an unfortunate name or what?) on the other hand looked like a startled bank clerk with a pair of style-free 60s glasses identical to the ones Kevin Costner wore in “JFK.” Typically of the BBC, somehow it was all very appropriate for the occasion. Sadly, thousands of empty seats showed why it is necessary to control the all-seeing eye or lose the game’s freshness.

The match itself didn’t have much good football but it did have the freneticism we associate with The Cup. United outran Villa in the first half and failed to score despite the crazy English meteorology of gale force winds, rain, hailstones, and bright sunshine. Right after half time Villa scored an opportunist goal through the middle while United were still congratulating themselves on their earlier efforts. Then Villa’s defence fell asleep eight minutes later when United’s man scored unmarked right edge of the goal area from a free kick arced over from the right corner flag. Ten minutes from time the home team scored two goals in a minute, one of them a kilometre offside and the other through lousy goalkeeping. The failure to give offside was appalling, yet another clear case for the introduction of VT. Over by the dotted line David O’Leary looked like he was trying to hide under the dugout shelter roof, while Neil Warnock did his well-known impression of a bespectacled mad buzzard every time something went wrong (in his opinion). Villa were out. Stupidly, Jonathan Pearce claimed it was this year’s first Cup “shock.” Of course it was nothing of the sort. Anybody who has mildly acquainted himself with recent events at Villa Park will tell you why. But hype is hype and dear Jonathan wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to get the first blow in.

There was hype enough for everyone as the afternoon wore on. Amongst others, out went Manc. City, Crystal Palace and Norwich, while Manc. United could only draw with non-league Exeter. Banana skins and embarrassed faces everywhere. We hoped ours wouldn’t be amongst them.

Early evening brought our game in what looked like relatively kind conditions down at Plymouth. Outside my balcony doors the River Mersey boiled and frothed with fuzzy white tops and the wind pressed heavily. A repeat of those conditions would have evened things up a bit for Plymouth. As it was they were stuck with their playing resources.

In comparison to the Sheffield match we got by far the best TV commentary/pundit deal. John Motson commentated with Mark Lawrenson, while Gary Lineker fronted the glass box in the company of Alan Hansen and Gordon Strachan. Of course the reason for this is they expected a “shock” (see above). Which fortunately for us never even remotely looked like it would transpire. In the end, hard as they fought, Plymouth were little more than enthusiastically agricultural with the odd touch of inspiration. But it was their day and they gave us some nervy moments.

James Beattie made his debut, Tony Hibbert nowhere in sight/Sandro in his place, Nace kept at left back, still Joey-Stubbsy, Tim Cahill and The Gravedigger on the bench so yet more reshuffling to accommodate a different formation, whatever it was. Interestingly, Plymouth had a wide left mid named Capaldi – which has resonance amongst our fair city’s old Little Italy community. Up front in the old centre forward role they had their Brian Rix, a large, tubby yeoman with double chins named Micky Evans. Anyone less like a football athlete you haven’t seen. You just knew he would give us some trouble early on and then fade as gravity reasserted itself over corpulence. So it transpired.

The opening was reasonably end-to-end, and immediately notable for Evans’ inevitable attempts to trample his way through our central defence, usually at the expense of still-rusty Joey. He didn’t get much change but you have to hand it to him, it was a bit like seeing Jake La Motta being outboxed by Sugar Ray. He kept on coming back for more when it was obvious he might make a better darts player with that girth. Obviously someone had noticed Joey unusually being muscled aside by Yakubu during the Portsmouth match and thought Evans could do something similar. Wrong.

After a quarter hour we got an excellent goal right through the middle when Leon played a neat one-two with Beattie outside the D and lifted the ball over their outcoming ‘keeper. A couple of minutes later we got a throw in on our right near their goal line, a long one that got nodded backwards and downwards to Jamie in the thick of it by the penalty spot right side. He killed it well, back to goal, turned one defender as though he wasn’t there and then battled it through two tackles before hitting it home. Say what you like about their defence but Jamie still had to have the skill to hold it plus the determination to get through, and he did it all very well, and almost did it again about fifteen minutes later. We were well in control from the second goal on and looked as though we would increase the lead still more. Then Joey did his finger during a typical tumble with Evans, went off to get it wrapped with his next finger, and was barely back on when he found himself badly placed for a central movement that left Stubbsy exposed on his own and their man belted it home well from the edge of the penalty area. Then Beattie missed a sitter, and it was half time.

Plymouth had their best spell, ten-fifteen minutes of it, midway through the second half. They didn’t create many chances but wasted two real opportunities, one through snatching at a close range right side opening, and the other when poor old Mick Evans simply couldn’t raise a tired right boot quick enough to a penalty area pull-back. With twenty minutes left Moyesy brought on Tim for Beattie and then with ten minutes left brought on Gravesen and Nick Chadwick for Jamie and Marcus, and it was enough to reassert the balance of play. With five minutes left Tim and Nick gave Plymouth a taste of their own medicine, charged down a loose ball in the left of the centre circle and Nick raced away solo and stuck it through their ‘keeper’s legs as he came out. That was it, no way back.

So Plymouth gave a us a good run for their money but simply didn’t have the edge needed to make their phase of good play pay off.

And now I’m going back to bed finally to fight off the flu.

Roll on round four.