After Wednesday night's, how can I put it, shambles, Moyesy must have been right into the boys for no repeat at the Reebok. Thankfully work commitments made me unable to travel with Jogger to the Smoke, and if I did, I do not know what state I would be in now. After watching it on the box, it has put me back at least three months with my Counselling. With the help and support of my fellow kipper's, I was on the right track to a near as normal life that a schizophrenic can have, until Wednesday that was. The players owed me, the players owed thousand's of Blues who were embarrassed, neigh disgusted after another capitulation in the Smoke.

OK, OK, a bit melodramatic I know. Champions League qualification was assured, but as Blues we set standards and Wednesday was far below them, so hopefully the short trip to notloB, will make it all alright. Tiny Tim was like a dose of prozac, as it took only ten minutes of the match to put a smile back on my face. After a mix up in the home team's defence, Tiny acrobatically guided the ball into the net, aka Dennis Tueart. Killa went close moments later, and Everton were rampant, Faddy added to the un ease in the Bolton defence. They had their moments, Tiny again Everton's saviour, heading one off Dickie's line.

As the half went on, Bolton settled into a decent rhythm, and put the Blues on the back foot. Dickie was called into action on more than one occasion, most notably denying Stelios Gia, Gian, Gianna, you know that Greek fella', with a save of the highest quality. The half was to end with a note of controversy though, as Bruno N' Gotty, like his namesake Frank clobbered Tiny to earn himself a straight maroon card. Cahill was no saint in the whole episode, as it was he who started the fracas with the push on the huge Bolton defender. Tiny ended up with his customary yellow, and after that a hard afternoon from the woollies in the Bolton end.

The half ended, Blues one up, against ten men, I may at this rate cancel my anger management session on Tuesday week. Come on you Blues.

Half Time: Bolton 0 EVERTON 1

From the off in the second period, Bolton were up for it, Everton were not. Thoughts of Florida, The Caribbean and Skegness must have been floating through the players minds. After a hard, hard season, with a wafer thin squad, you can't really blame them, but this is Bolton, one of those team's of late, that I love to hate. Every game against the Trotters brings up some controversy, talking points, and this half was to be no different.

After fifteen minutes, Everton found themselves two one down, and it was not against the run of play. With ten men, Bolton pushed on at the Blues, wanting to give their fans a Summer present of a performance. Goals from Jaidi (the funny looking one from Star Wars), and Davies, gave Bolton the upper hand. Dickie might have a look at himself for the Jaida goal, after he was out jumped by the Bolton defender. The goals came for them, but thankfully it sparked Everton back into action, and their lead was short lived. Within minutes Harry Hill had pulled the Blues equal, with his first goal since the winner against the shite back in December. The follically challenged midfielder fired in a rocket shot, after the Big Man failed to control the ball in the box.

The game now had a cup tie atmosphere to it, and it was real end to end stuff, played in really hot temperatures. Our joy again was short lived as Stelios what his name gave Bolton back the lead, firing home from close range, after Dickie failed to hold a header.

Moyesy made substitutions. Tiny left the pitch before Bolton took the lead, replaced by Leon. Stubbsey came on for a very under par Mikky Arteta, and Record Breaker James Vaughan came on for Hibbo, as Moyesy went looking for the equaliser. Harry Hill worryingly left the pitch, then when pitch side needed the aid of a stretcher, so now for the last five minutes it was ten against ten.

The clock ticked down, four minutes went up, Everton pushed to no avail. Neale Barry blew his whistle, and brought an end to a fantastic Everton season. In the scheme of things, we will probably forget about our last two defeats. My bluekipper Starman goes to Joey Yobo, for well I don't know really, he just had a steady game, as there were no superstars out there today.

Remember twelve months ago, after losing I think our last five games, we had a Summer of Boardroom discontent, and lost our most valuable asset to Man ure. It is a Summer we all wanted to forget. Well remember this Summer, as you relax in the garden with a nice bottle of white, can of lager, or whatever takes your fancy, watching England batter the Aussie's into submission. August will be here soon, and instead of the normal visit of a foreign team in a meaningless pre season friendly, the next foreign side to play on the hallowed turf of Goodison will stand between us and at least £10m big ones. Everton are back, Everton are back 'ello, 'ello.

Full Time: Bolton 3 EVERTON 2

Tiny Opens The Scoring

Hibbo Goes in On Gary Speed

Lavo Reports From The Reebok

Blue Kipper Star Man

Joey

 

 

 

 

Another For Tiny

 

 

 

One For Harry

 

 

 

 

Sore Back This Week

 

 

 

 

Eight days in May*
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

*Paraphrased, taken from the title of a 1962 novel by American writers Fletcher Knebel and Charles Bailey. (The number of days has been changed to protect the sensitivities of readers following the Arsenal result). Nothing whatever to do with footy but well worth reading in view of events since. Produced as a film in 1963, and especially ironic in view of November 22nd 1963 in Dallas.

Crunch Time, three games in just over a week to close out the season. Home versus Newcastle, away versus Arsenal and Bolton.

Crunch Time 1, the home game versus Newcastle. Win it, and we would be almost home and dry in fourth place and therefore in next season’s UEFA Champions League qualifiers. The mere thought was dizzying when placed next to our pre-season anticipation we might get relegated. Which means there’s a lesson in there somewhere for those with common sense and reasonable perspective.

I can safely say my prematch thoughts probably weren’t very different from yours. Had we even approached the form of the first half of the season we would have secured fourth place in a canter weeks previously, but, alas, we faltered and looked as though we simply ran out of oomph. There was no certainty of a win against The Skunks even though they long ago imploded through major internal problems. (Just goes to show………new stadium………increased dosh………expensive players………there are no guarantees in the game anymore than any other form of competitive life.) Last season we didn’t deliver as expected. This season we did, as unexpected. It has been a rocky and interesting road, ultimately a relatively successful one, and certainly hugely satisfying to everyone with the best interests of the club at heart. Give credit where it is due to the players, to David Moyes/Alan Irvine and their backroom staff, and to the board excluding Paul and Anita Gregg and their comically stupid PR “campaign.” Altogether it has been the most unlikely and delightful footy story in years. And it is Ours, tiny number of spivs and nutters also excluded. As always the vast majority of our fans have been totally remarkable in their humour, loyalty and patience – So take a bow, you lot. You earned it.

The game was a mirror image of the season. First half poor verging on awful, second period mostly one-way traffic, the sum total leaving you with acute footy schizophrenia. The only first half pass we made with reasonable accuracy came minutes before half time when Mikky took a free kick wide left in the Park End, sent in one of his whizz bangs and Davey got on the end of it unmarked at the far post and leaned on it head-first in almost casual fashion. Hey presto, one up, and The Skunks feeling justifiably pissed off at the caprice of fate. Tough luck, Toonies, you shouldn’t join up if you can’t take a joke. At half time Chris got his own back for my “beany hat drugs dealer” dig a few weeks ago. I wore shades against the bright sunshine and he wasn’t going to let it pass without, “Fuckn drugs-dealer shades, them. Shoulda gone to Spec Savers.” Apart from Davey’s goal it was the only light relief we got amidst the tension.

The second half was much better even if mostly uneven until one of theirs got sent off for Big Girl’s Blouse Behaviour when he pushed Tim instead of waiting to flatfoot him later the way most pros do. No sooner was he in the bath than we got our second. Mikky again, mid centre left, twenty metres out, and a mishit shot/ground pass(?) ended up at Tim’s feet just inside the box, dead centre and clear, and he clipped it in high for a settler. Afterwards, a lap of honour – a few honourable Geordies stayed behind to applaud too – in front of a still-packed crowd finished our season at home and everyone set off home happy if slightly disbelieving. Results came through, Bolton drew and were out of the fourth place contest. Grins were broader by the second.

Then to the new venue for The Blue Kipper Lounge at the ticket-only End Of Season Bash "Upstairs @ Crofts" in City Road. Lessons were learned and applied from the first attempt at this sort of thing. No question, the result is a Very Big Roaring Success. The room is larger and more regular in shape, bar service much better, the place cleaner and the PA a lot clearer. Everyone loved it, all of it coinciding with a marvellous season. Songs and dancing everywhere, tomfoolery on the stage (actually two storage pallets balanced precariously one on the other and in clear breach of Health and Safety legislation but who gives a fuck?) and even acceptable food if you were quick enough. The place rocked. Give it a try next season.

On Sunday the pinkies lost at Arsenal and fourth place was sealed. Our cup runneth over. Our Boys ended up in town and celebrated not wisely but too well until 5.30 a.m. on Monday morning. Bad athletic practice, though since we were all doing the same thing it’s a bit difficult to blame them. The price was duly paid in spades on Wednesday. Tsk tsk, that Baby Blue club will have to be put off limits.

Monday, to The Tent for the 1985 Team Reunion Dinner, which couldn’t have been timed better. Once again the place heaved as a big screen showed scenes of that team’s greatest triumphs and middle-aged men got all misty eyed and convivial to the point of oblivion. Even the food tasted like someone had watched meticulously over its preparation. Next to me Tommy and Marguerite from Cork demonstrated an international loyalty to the cause that beggars full description. They were even married at Saint Anthony’s (yes, yes, I know cognoscenti Scousers call it Snanee’s) church on Scotty Road and held their reception at the Old Lady. Top that, Blue Bellies. On stage Keith Wyness greeted everyone in four European languages and triggered it all off all over again. Former great players swapped memories and skylark insults that harked back to the now funny Scarisbrick Hotel Incident in the eighties though at the time there were more than mere bruised egos. The whole sense of occasion and being was in total reverse to the gloom a year ago.

And so to Crunch Time 2, away at Arsenal where we found ourselves in a pub called the Drayton Park opposite the skeleton of the Gooners’ new stadium, which at present is a soaring mélange of metal frames and insitu and pre-cast concrete just along the road in the scruffy yellow brick dormitory area of Highbury. Not much to see at present but it has all the early signs of an impressive modern stadium though it would have been nice to view some original structural engineering concepts instead of a mass of welded tubular steel trusses and bracing. Sadly, good design costs money and football stadia are strictly utilitarian buildings unless society dictates otherwise. As always the finished article will be quite different and probably a fine stadium too, much, much better than their present abode. But it might as well be on the moon for all the partying Evertonians in the pub were concerned. Lots of singing, ripoff priced alcohol and stiff faced bizzies filtered through the glare of low early evening sunshine. The smell of stalls-produced burgers and onions glued everything. Outside, crowds of adolescents frothed cans of lager and sprayed each other in what is called in rugby union circles “high spirits” but which in footy tabloidism is labelled “hooliganism.” Inside, middle-aged men with huge beer bellies, contrived angst, raised voices and drinks-fuelled laughter tried to recapture something of their vanished youth. At the bar a grinning Evertonian was trying to pay in Euros.

From there to the ground and, as usual, a full and raucous away section. Then we kicked off and………and………and………er………well………you know………it was as embarrassing as it it gets. (Just goes to show………er…………new stadium………increased dosh………expensive players………there are no guarantees in the game anymore than any other form of competitive life. Something like that.) Funny enough we could have scored through Mikky in the opening minutes. But then………oh well. The only thing left to do was engage the cockneys in banter. After the sixth went in some nearby Evertonians started singing, “Next goal the winner” and when the seventh went in didn’t miss a beat with, “Next goal STILL the winner.” When the massacre ebbed away a crackpot in the unsubdued away crowd yelled, “Dis is all Kenwright’s fault, dis is.” Or it might have been Ian Ross’s fault. Or Keith Wyness’s fault. Or Alan Irvine’s fault. Or the lady in the ticket office’s fault. Or the local chippy’s fault. You can never be sure. It might have been the barman’s fault at Baby Blue. After the final whistle the players came over and threw their shirts to the fans instead of throwing themselves on their swords as they should have done. If some of them were trying to make a negative point you can be sure it is absolutely nothing to the point Moyesy’s about to make, contracts-wise. Calvinists never forget, not even after a Sunday night/Monday morning session on the haha sherbert. As we filtered out, mostly with a shrug and a rueful smile, I got a text from Roy in Leicester Square along the lines of, “Went after the fifth. If they can’t be bothered, neither can I.” Sound common sense in that but he was staying overnight and we had a long, long journey home.

On The Bus on the way back Texyla snoozed off full of cold. About an hour from home he suddenly sat up and said sniffing, “Christ, I just had a dream we got snotted seven nil.” A kind soul said, “We drew one one. Go back to sleep.” So he did, smiling. It was way, way beyond pain.

Thursday and Friday the distant Yank Malcolm Glazer took over the Mancs despite organised death threats, burning of season ticket renewal forms and miscellaneous anarchist rumblings. Sadly, the only rightful complaint the distraught fans can have is that he has bought the situation on the backs of potential huge debts, which may or may not aggregate depending on playing fortunes and dividends. Otherwise they were wasting their time, as I long ago forecast. Community spirit and morals don’t come into it because the system doesn’t recognise them. Last time, right-wing extremist Rupert Murdoch was defeated because it was plainly a monopolist situation open to legal challenge. This time an American merely bought out two Irishmen and some other profiteering shares sellers, which is not illegal. Ergo, change the system or come to terms with a simple fact: ALL CLUBS ARE FOR SALE, no exceptions. Unless the money source or the buyer can be shown to be illegal there simply isn’t much anybody can do except withdraw their paying patronage, which of course defeats the object of supporting a footy club. Therein lies the inevitable dichotomy.

Arguing about “accounts,” “revenue streams” and “inward investment” (let alone falling for the one-dimensional card trick of minority shares ownership and its chicane spivvery) is important at day-to-day micro financial level only. But it will change nothing except the level of self-delusion that veils the modern game and dupes les sans cullotte. Until the fans, players and administrators have proportionate shares in ownership and administration of THE ENTIRE GAME we will get more and more of the same overt or concealed financial manipulation, more and more Suits, loonies and barrow boys and more tiresome “controversies” to feed a media too afraid or too bought-and-paid-for to deal with core issues. Which is why individual fans trusts in the Premiership simply wouldn’t work long term – they would be annihilated in direct competition with interconnected business interests. All that said, one wishes the properly dissident and organised Mancs every success, though I daresay the same feelings filled the Light Brigade as they trotted off into the Russian guns. I hope the result isn’t similar though I fear the worst.

Crunch Time 3 rolled up, the final game of the season on Sunday at notloB, burgeoning but failed challengers for fourth place. You wondered if Our Boys’ collective hangover still clouded blood and brain. Well, it did, but not nearly so badly as midweek. For a start we scored two goals away from home. Yes, I know this is clutching at straws but what do you expect in the circumstances – Thierry Henry? Alas, we still have a long way to go before we get to that level.

Prior to the athletics we were hunkered down in the homely, clean and friendly surroundings of Horwich RMI Social Club. We were thankfully free from goggle eyed chauvinism and its attendant codswallop. Various boys and girls already wore Champions League tee shirts, which left you fervently hoping for their sake that we draw someone more exotic than Shamrock Rovers even if it does threaten our longevity in the tournament. Most were philosophical if a bit irritated by the Arsenal rout. So it would have been nice to finish on a winning note.

To the match, where Tim got one after ten minutes with an overhead kick while notloB’s defence got their knickers in a twist. A minute later their ‘keeper made an outstanding save from Killa, then another from Jamie Mac a few minutes later. Then the Wools kept lobbing up high balls and piling bodies into the box (what was that you said about good football, Sam?) in response. They got nowhere, got frustrated, and then had a man sent off for another useless fracas with Tim. Or was it…………..?

Second half, eight minutes in and the ten men equalised when Wrighty got nowhere near a left wing free kick cross and it was headed home from close range. Ten minutes on and they went in front with a scruffy deflected goal with poor old Wrighty blamelessly on the wrong foot. Two minutes further and Lee Carsley smacked one in from close range to square it. Which was great, except three minutes later and Wrighty spilled a close range shot and it was stuck away for what proved to be the winner. Gosh, it was all going on. Unfortunately we didn’t get it on accurately enough even after substitutions and a late, awkward assault on the home goal. So our season ended with a 3-2 defeat to opponents you felt we would easily have had the measure of during the first half of the season. Not that it mattered that much except to your competitive instincts.

And so to Europe.

And so my friends we come to the end of my regular weekly match reports. After three and a bit years it is time for another fan to pick up the wordage and massage it into new vigour in a new era. I will produce occasional bits and pieces (especially if the behind-the-scenes Power Game needlessly starts to get out of hand again) plus accounts of our Euro jaunts however long or short they may be. As someone said, it would just be our luck to get drawn against Total Network Solutions or Shetland Islands Sheepshaggers and go out in the first round. As regulars know, I don’t share that kind of Scandinavian dark pessimism because it reminds me too much of Ingmar fucking Bergman or Leonard bleeding Cohen, but you know why it is said. The last decade has plainly left its mark.

All in all, though, we are Evertonians still. That is one good fact. Hold it close when the whiners kick off with their inevitable self-glorifying dirge. And though I disagree with the bit about deity I suggest the following is well worth remembering:

“There are three things that are real:
God, human folly and laughter.
The first two are beyond our comprehension
So we must do what we can with the third.”
THE RAMAYANA.

Good luck to you and yours for all future seasons.

This was the last 'Match Report' M.B.E. will do. He will still do the odd article for the site. Cheers Mickey! It's been a pleasure.