Ten long years, and not a better time for a victory over United. Everton were awesome, eleven heroes out there, and not one can be accused of shirking their responsibilities on the night. Everton started like a house on fire. Like the Derby back in December, Everton went for the jugular from the off. Moyesy stuck with the 4-4-2, which served him so well against Crystal Palace, so that meant Big Dunc was on again from the start. Love him or loathe him, his scoring record against United is fantastic, and Moyesy must have sensed he would let the United defence know they had been in a game. Stevey Watto, Mr. Adaptable, slotted in at left back in the absence of Pisto and Nace, no probs he only had Ronaldo to keep quiet. Apart from that Everton had their usual suspects out on the pitch.

The game was played at a frantic pace, and the crowd were playing their part, to keep the tempo of the match up. Roy Keane felt the presence of Tiny Tim wherever he turned, as the Aussie did not give the United talisman time to settle. Keane and United were rattled, as Everton relentless running surprised them. So often in the past United have come to Goodison and dictated the game from start to finish, but Moyesy had done his homework, no one was going to out psyche this Everton side tonight. United did go close through ex Everton hero Rooney, but Nige in the Blues net was equal to the task, as he palmed Shrek's drive away. Rooney wanted it, but United didn't fancy it, as Everton kept on pressing. We should have took the lead through Tiny, after his overhead kick was cleared off the line by Brown, after a great spell of Everton pressure. Ferguson was making Ferdinand earn all of his astronomical wages, as he led him a merry dance, winning everything in the air.

Some meaty challenges were flying in, Rooney got a bloodied nose, Arteta got an early booking, for persistent nibbles at United ankles. Cahill's battle with Keane was a joy to watch. Tiny Tim has definitely arrived in the Premiership, stifling one of the best midfielder's this League has seen for many a year. Keane was rattled, constantly whining to the referee about Cahill's approach, I bet Alfe Inge Haaland was at home pissing himself.

The half ended, and Everton left to a standing ovation. Our only worry was could we keep that level of play up. Game on.

Half Time: EVERTON 0 Man Ure 0

As we took our seats for the second half, Kipper assured me the points were in the bag. This was a half of football that epitomised being an Evertonian to me. Passion and pride were all there in abundance, but at times watching the match from behind my programme. Following the Blues is one long roller coaster ride, and I hate fuckin' fairgrounds. United could and should have took the lead straight from the off. Rooney played a delightful ball through to Paul Scholes whose drive was stopped by Nige again, how important this save turned out to be. The game went from one end to the other, and the tempo was still high. After a delightful string of passes from the Blues broke down, Everton were awarded a free kick out wide on the left. The box was a mass of players, as Mikky Arteta delivered a pin point free kick into the danger zone. Big Dunc flew threw the air to guide his header past Howard, and into the Street End net. The noise was deafening, I hugged Kipper, like a bird I was having a first date with, as we fell two rows in front of us to celebrate the lead. (Hope you all followed our first goal tip, as a few bob was pocketed aswell).

United came straight back at us, Scholes firing over, and Horses Head going close. United made a substitution, and whilst it was going on, Scouser hater Gary Chuckle lost the plot and kicked the ball into the kids section of the crowd. Referee Dowd who was stood about two feet away instantly went for his red card, and off he went. Debate will no doubt rage over this incident, people saying the barracking players receive is unfair, maybe they have a point. Lets remember though it was Gary Chuckle himself said many years ago that he HATED Scousers, so if the reception he got was not to welcoming, maybe he should find a mirror, look in it, and ask himself why.

Moyesy shuffled his troops around a bit near the end. Ossie came on for Benty, and a few minutes later Big Dunc left the pitch to a standing ovation after running himself into the floor for the cause. Biffa entered the fray, and added a fresh if gangly pair of legs to the running of the line.

Three minutes went up on the board, United pushed, Everton defended soundly. With the clock ticking down, Everton broke to a chorus of whistles from the crowd. Killa skipped past Scholes, who threw a foot out and kicked the Irishman. The ginger midfielder did not wait, he ran down the tunnel before the referee had a chance to pull another red from his top pocket. That was it, the ref blew, the crowd went ecstatic, but my thoughts once again went to every kopites living room in Scandinavia and Eastern Europe. All the empty Carlsberg cans getting chucked at the TV screens, as the game they thought we would lose, we won, and in some style aswell.

My bluekipper Starman I would love to give to everyone, but a certain six foot four four inched Scotsman rolled back the years, to put in one of his best ever performances in a Blue shirt. Young Wayne kissed the United badge to rile the Park End, but when Big Dunc kisses the Everton badge, we as one all know he means it. Roll on Saturday.

Full Time: EVERTON 1 Man Ure 0

Big Dunc - Legend

Benty Beats Duck Face

Lavo Reports from Goodison Park

Blue Kipper Star Man

Man Mountain

Superb

Superb

Vital Stops

Quality

Solid

Solid

Running

For your delirious delectation*
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

*For Mark and Steve H – and Leonard Sachs

As usual there were all kinds of media shenanigans in advance of Wednesday’s home game against Manchester United.

Rio Ferdinand’s agent asked for £120,000 per week for his client at precisely the moment said player was dining out publicly with Chelsea CEO, Peter Kenyon. Innocently, of course. Yeah, right. At the same time Ruud Van Nistlerooy’s agent hawked HIS client around Europe for a figure not inadjacent to £14 millions. Wayne Rooney was quoted as saying fans didn’t understand why players had to move on at the very moment he threatened to sue former ally The Sun newspaper for making allegations of violence by him on his girl friend. Meanwhile, the Manc club, winners of trophies galore in the Brave New Era, huge stadium with capacity gates, giant revenues, loads of star players, buyers of Wayne Rooney, “well run” etc. etc., ad nauseum, apparently discovered none of this is sufficient. To paraphrase Tom Wolfe’s brilliant satire “Bonfire of the Vanities”…………THEY STILL AREN’T EARNING ENOUGH. They’re so well run in fact they have just announced a massive season ticket price hike for two reasons, (a) to plug a gap in revenues (!) causing a halving of rates of profit (!) and (b) to ward off a club buy-out from the Yank, Malcolm Glazer. And this in addition to the announcement weeks ago that they would have to sell before they could buy players again, and the stadium capacity is to be increased to 75,000. None of it was difficult to forecast. I did as much after they bought Rooney while some birdbrains wittered the price was too low. Just how much would have been enough? The reality, like it or not, is that the arse inevitably has fallen out of the transfer market. So the madness continues, including weird self-delusion and chauvinist paranoia amongst some fans who have fallen for all the spivvery. Friends it will all end in tears even allowing for the Mancs’ resounding FA Cup semi-final win over The Skunks last Sunday.

That win was enough for most of us to figure we weren’t going to get much out of the game. Normally that would have included me. But for some strange reason I felt good about it. In the pub beforehand I said I thought we would win 1-0 and said I had no reason for it except, well, “a good feeling.” Quite rightly it drew strange looks from more than a few veteran fans. Mark said this explained everything, including his own mystification when he encountered some long words in your correspondent’s internet efforts. He figured I was a relative of the master of ceremonies who used to front the Victorian simulation of the defunct TV favourite, “The Good Old Days.” When asked for an example, he ventured, “Categorically.” Fuelled by alcohol, several others followed, among them “stagecoach” and “marmalade.” Gawd knows what he would make of “defunct” but I’m sure he will correct me about it after another six pints or so on Saturday.

The match itself provided one of those nights we haven’t seen in years. As I write, even twenty-four hours later, I can still feel the excitement that filled the Old Lady to the brim. It was one of the clearest demonstrations you will ever get that so-called “atmosphere” is only worth it when it is spontaneous and unorchestrated. The fans were magnificent and almost swamped the away team with vocal support as unceasing as the team’s efforts out on the pitch. At times like this, nothing to lose, the game produces its most enduring spectacles. It felt and was irresistible. The Mancs’ better passing and combination play was simply swept aside for most of the game. We were well worth the win.

Funnily enough, as we walked to the ground with but minutes to spare you could scarcely hear anything from outside. The streets were relatively empty. Then we got inside and it was like stepping into a pressure cooker. The air fairly crackled in anticipation, everyone on their feet, singing everywhere, what seemed like the entire ground willing the team on. Over in the corner the Mancs were there in numbers but you just couldn’t hear them, not even that Essex chartered accountant who gets them all to sing those unintentionally comic songs.

We had Stevie at left back, Joey-Davey (I groaned but I couldn’t have been more wrong) at centre back, a midfield of Marcus-Tim-Slaphead-Mikky-Killa. And The Big Yin up front on his own. Nige in goal, Hibbo at right back. They went at it from the off and had a corner within minutes. You kept praying they could keep it up. A few minutes later Rooney got in a long shot that concentrated Nige’s mind wonderfully well.

Midfield became an intense and determined battleground with no quarter asked or given by either side. Mikky and Scholes both got booked as the Mancs discovered how good the little Spaniard can be. The ball zipped around from man to man and anyone caught in possession quickly ended up dumped on his backside, our centre midfield three dealing as mercilessly as theirs, and that’s saying something. Leave them to play and you get passed and tackled to death. After half an hour we had the first clear chance when Tim tried and overhead kick, beat their ‘keeper and Rio the restauranter cleared off the line with the Park End in uproar. By that time The Yin had gradually gained virtual dominance of every aerial challenge but the knock-ons, as usual, went nowhere. We had a couple of half chances and then Nige stopped well from Ronaldo. But the point was, the Mancs couldn’t really mount much of a direct threat despite clearly better individual technique. You could tell they were getting a torrid time by the way Keane hectored the referee and Alex Ferguson was out at the dotted line chewing furiously while his facial rosacea eczema almost glowed with frustration. Moyesy was out there too – the past and the future?

When the half time whistle went the only question in our mind was whether we could keep up the pace. It had been phenomenal even by first class footy standards.

Within minutes of the restart Rooney chipped a glorious pass from his favourite left side location and got Scholes clear. You could almost hear a massive intake of breath from the crowd before Nige got his foot in the way and cleared. Nerves screaming, you wondered if this was the turnaround in the Mancs’ favour. Which feeling advanced when The Yin, having probably his best ever game in a Royal Blue shirt, got booked after downing Scholes in a midfield tussle. Go on, read that again. It’s true, you know. Then ten minutes into the half we got one in the Street End.

Ronaldo – hooted throughout and deserving every foghorn jeer he got, the cheating if erratically brilliant bastard – tried some of his circus tricks in his own half on our left, lost the ball, fouled and gave away a free kick. Mikky took it and swerved it in and down wickedly, one of those that had the Street End fans on their feet in slomo, heads turning with the flight of the ball. It arrived just below chest height right in the centre of the edge of the goal area. Whence came The Yin stooping and butting it down to his right and in. Behind him flapped a thoroughly demoralised Rio. The ground went mad in scenes reminiscent of Rooney’s famous goal against Arsenal. But nobody was thinking about that any more in the wake of this one. (He’s gone, one of them, not One of Us. I just wish the fans would stop hounding him. There’s no need. Leave the lad alone. He made his choice, now he has to live with it.)

From then on you kept looking at the clock. Christ, is that ONLY TWO MINUTES GONE BY? Half chances came and went for them, usually falling to Rooney. One of them ballooned metres wide from his favourite left side, another one from centre outside the D and swerving and dipping every bit as wickedly as Mikky’s free kick. Nige dropped onto it like a brick and brought a roar from the crowd as loud as any of the night. At that moment the fans had one of those moments of communal recognition that maybe we were going to win this after all.

All that was left was for Ronaldo The Clown to make one of his famously comic fallovers in the box and appeal for a penalty, which wasn’t given but which should have got a yellow card. Then the Mancs finally went to bits and had both Gary I Hate Scousers Neville and (of all people) Paul Scholes sent off. Neville went for the kind of thing you see eight years old kids do in the schoolyard when they want their ball back. Scholesy went for trying to neuter Killa without anaesthetic after being slalomed by same for the second time in as many minutes. The crowd were agog with Pay Back Time. The third biggest roar of the night went up when sub Beattie chased back and won the ball off Keane while dumping him on his now-ageing backside in the centre circle.

At the final whistle the Old Lady rocked with songs and noise to the echo. Behind us, a fifteen years old girl had her scarf to her mouth, eyes brimming with whatever she experienced. I think we all know how she felt. At such times it is the greatest game in the world.

Outside I hurried with Steve to the pub. After a bit of excited chat he said, “I think that was exhilirating. You can put that in your report if you want.”

So I have.