Best Everton news of recent years came when David Moyes signed a contract taking him through to 2009. In so far as any football contract is worth more than the paper it is written on this was of course a real boost for us. Which is bad news for the tiny group of misery-arses lurking out there on the fringes. But hey! that’s life. Walk all over them, friends, walk all over them. To coin a phrase, they don’t like it up ‘em. Take the piss out of them and make them feel even more miserable because it’s probably the only “pleasure” they get out of life. Consider it your service to the community. Be altruist and try not to laugh at them too hard.

Other matters called me to arms during the last few weeks, so I missed the matches at Chelsea and Arsenal and saw no images or read any reports. Joining The Bus for the match at Birmingham, I relied on everybody’s assessment thereof.

According to honest accounts both losses led to a tiny flock of assorted loons becoming airborn from the twisted gene pool to squawk their usual hatred against Kevin Campbell, Bill Kenwright, Keith Wyness, Sandro Pistone, Richard Wright, the ticket office and everyone else who works at Goodison Park. As usual, it HAD to be someone’s fault. Chelsea’s squad, Abramovich’s money, the brilliance of Arséne Wenger and his players – none of it had anything to do with losing for the first time in weeks. Meanwhile, Southampton – you know, last season’s Do What They Do To Be Successful, yes, THEM – got slaughtered 5-2 by Watford and some of their own tiny flock of loons went doolallytap and demanded everyone at their club get the sack too. Even an ornithologist couldn’t make it up.

Which is why Thursday night’s visit to a brimming Royal Court to see Brendan O’Carroll in “Good Mourning, Mrs. Browne” was especially to be relished. If anybody has seen anything funnier this year then I have yet to meet them. O’Carroll is a gifted Irish writer and performer with a penchant for taking the piss out of Irish myths, in this case, The Mammy, organised religion of any kind, The Parish Priest, The Wake and homosexuality. Actually, thereby he takes the piss out of all stick-up-their-arse mentalities from everywhere. Next time it – or any of his other work – comes around I urge you to go see it. But don’t take your granny. The language and the verbal attacks are coarse to say the least and some of the one liners are at least a generation old, but there’s enough new stuff in there to keep you gurgling away happily for weeks.

Me, I’m still gurgling happily at the experience of an adored American relative who went into Boots in Church Street and asked a security man where she could find the “pain remedies.” Without batting an eyelid the guy said, “Look, gerl. Just win the lottery and all yer pain’ll go away.” Her headache disappeared instanteously and she came out……………well, gurgling happily, actually. ‘Tis all grist to the mill. Unless you’re an incurable misery arse of course.

On The Bus I was assured we did really well at Chelsea and might even have won it, but were comprehensively run in circles by Arsenal’s young reserves. It wouldn’t be the first time in history it has happened. Once we were on the road Texyla played a DVD of a northern comedian named David Spikey, someone I’ve never heard of, whose best gag was, “This compere on a northern club had a boomerang and he made the mistake of asking the audience if he threw it would it come back? And a hard, uninhibited voice at the back said loudly, ’It will if it ‘its me on the fuckn ‘ead.’ “ His act had as many effs and blinds as O’Carroll’s but he wasn’t a patch on the Irishman.

Once in the pub in Birmingham, Fred recounted how too many Evertonians had levelled racist taunts at Arsenal’s young black players and how it had made him feel ashamed. Fred is absolutely no shrinking violet, well capable of taking care of himself, and a great Evertonian to boot, so he was well worth listening to. You could tell the whole episode had annoyed him no end. So if any of the guilty parties are reading this, take the advice of Brendan O’Carroll and just get the fuck with the misery arses out of our club. None of you are wanted. But that was only a small episode in a short, optimistic session of footy chat. This season nobody expects to lose. It wasn’t as if The Bus regulars – like all Evertonians everywhere – haven’t lived through the bad years. They know their footy, that’s all. They have been there, like most of us. They despise too the self-appointed tin pot alehouse revolutionaries whose only message is who to hate and when to do it, the slapstick Ché Guevaras of County Road. Instead, The Bus was busy chatting about players and teams and how good, bad or indifferent they may or may not be. In other words, what footy fans the world over have done since the inception of the sport. Without them, there’s no game. Each one of them is worth ten thousand racists, “insiders” or misery arses.

A short ride through scruffy Birmingham brought us to the horrible sight of the barbed wire compound that serves as the car park for visiting fans. It is right next to the ground and surrounded – it’s the only appropriate word – by rows of Brummy police in yellow hazard jackets and chin strapped helmets and the stiff facial expression you often see on military men about to go into action. It was sickening. Once through the turnstiles two rows of stewards blocked the way and searched everyone on the way in. Paradoxically, it was at this line I had the only decent experience Birmingham City seemed able to offer. The steward who searched me was pleasant and welcoming enough (John Pilger’s “happy face fascism”?), called me “Sir” without a trace of irony (!), and said, “Enjoy the game.” He seemed to mean it. It was like a palm tree in the middle of the motorway and just as astonishing.

No, midlands football appears to wear not a single smile these days. I have no explanation to offer except maybe the drastic increase in local unemployment during the last ten years. Somehow you don’t feel like you want to go back, ever. Maybe it was because it was the first really cold day of the season. Whatever.

I was pleased to see Marcus Bent in the line up after a niggling injury had threatened. Still no Joey. Not that you could drop either Stubbsy or Davey on their form this season. Lee Carsley was back too, so we had the Twin Slapheads in midfield to cause maximum identity confusion. Nearby, a group of kids sang, “Tommy Grav! Tommy Grav! He’s got no hair……………but we don’t care……………Tommy Tommy Grav!” The teams came out to what Texyla identified as a contrived hand-clapping pop song titled, “The Chimney Stack On Top Of The Roof.” Or something. I was too busy doubled up laughing to get it right. When Mogsy confirmed its authenticity I had to go the lav to relieve meself.

So we kicked off and immediately disappeared from the game for the first quarter of an hour. It wasn’t that Brum were particularly any good, or we were that bad, it was just that they were moving forward while we were, well, doing fuck all, actually. In short order they had two missed chances and Hibbo kicked one off the line. It was unconvincing but it had us on the back foot, not getting much of the ball, and Brum doing next to nothing with it anyway. It was all very scrappy and it stayed that way for two thirds of the match. Even with Carsley back we seemed to leave great swathes of space in centre mid. Our consolation was that we didn’t let one in and Stubbsy and Davey stayed stoic against the aerial threat of the ex-pinky Lumberer Heskey, while Tony Hibbert had yet another storming game at right back. At various points the Brummies tried three different wingers down their left but Hibbo snuffed the lot – Man of The Match by a long way – and still managed a few strong forward runs himself.

As the game wore on we got back into it slightly, and when we did it quickly became obvious Brum didn’t have very much to offer. You couldn’t help feeling that a couple of truly skilful midfielders would have ridden straight over them. Even The Gravedigger at his best would have done it. At one point it took their ‘keeper two grabs to save one of his free kicks. But for his own moody reasons he just wasn’t doing it generally, Tim Cahill was stuttering, and that meant Leon didn’t have the kind of support his role and style of play needs. All that Brum had to offer was the nonstop niggling of Savage and his ability to strike free kicks and corners rather well. Not that I’d have him in my side, Moyesy or no Moyesy. Savage is a grubby shite of the first water.

The pattern continued much the same in the second half. You could tell it was generally mediocre by the number of times the game lapsed into prolonged head tennis duels. At such times veteran fans know nobody has the confidence to bring the ball down and try to use it. But we finally got one with twenty minutes left when a concerted attack led to a panic in the Brum defence and Lee Carsley curled a hard shot right footed over a crowded penalty box toward their top left corner of the goal. For a moment from my angle of sight I thought their ‘keeper had performed a minor miracle and saved it while diving backwards. But he hadn’t. Izzet punched it out while on the line and got sent off. The ‘Digger took the penalty, seemed to me to slightly scuff it, and showed some versatility by sticking it in his low left corner instead of his more usual right. Which promptly changed his whole attitude. Suddenly he was more evident, flicking it, dribbling it, passing accurately. Go figure.

Ten minutes later our best move of the match got Leon clear on our right, sharp angle inside the box and he hit a magnificent shot a few millimetres wide of the ‘keeper’s right hand post half way up. I was right in line with it and can vouch it didn’t swerve at all. Had it swerved inward even a fraction, it was home. Alas. In the closing minutes we tried to play keep ball but kept losing it at crucial moments so they were in it until the final whistle. In fact they should have equalised when their man went galloping through left of the penalty area, had a clear opportunity, and promptly hit someone in row Z instead of burying it. That was it. In the end we deserved it, just.

At the final whistle Texyla said, “That’s the jinx settled.” Puzzled, I asked what jinx? Back came the answer, “That fuckn yeller ball. We lost at Chelsea and Arsenal with it.” Mad superstition knows no bounds in footy. As the away section emptied out it was great to see beaming faces everywhere and confidence high. Amazingly, we are still in third place. Outside, Ian Mac – and if anyone’s earned it, he has – said, “Yer know wha’? If I want cheerin’ up, all I’ve gorra do is go to an Everton away match.” On the Happy Al’s bus, Barry Murray was doing a wonderfully convincing impression of a cheerful yeti flexing his muscles. Songs and smiles everywhere.

Outside, hundreds of police with dog vans and mobile CCTV vans lined the road. I couldn’t wait to leave and get home to the warm hearth. Three more points and third place made it all seem even brighter. Someone pinch me and tell me I’m not dreaming it all.