If you were there when Sandy Brown sent his flying header in or if you were there when Mick Lyons sent the imperfect back pass or if you were there for the shortest debut in history from Glen Keeley then you will have felt the pain.
This time we thought different, this time we had two weeks prep, this time we had the build up of the £15m derby, this time - we are Toffee's, we know how one another felt this week, we thought the 'what if....', but deep inside we thought, 'WHAT IF....'
Well today was one of those 'WHAT IF...' days.

Moyesy had all that time and teased us about the return of Biffa Beattie. This Moyesy is up for Manager of the Year before today, at this rate he will need some sort of rigged phone vote to get him into the top three! Wrong team, wrong shape, wrong place. In addition, what was the motivation before the game? Just go out there for a fuckin' stroll? This was a 'must win' game for the shite, and we came out like fuckin Larry Grayson, for fucks sake!

We weathered the first 15 mins and whilst Nige looked iffy, the rest were there for the cause. In front of them, bar Carsley & Benty, the rest were poor, no sorry that is not a good description, they were very, very poor, in fact they were nearly shite. In fact, I would have loved to have a one-to-one with Joey Yobo to see if I found myself on the same planet and Kevin Kilbane was not far behind. Is Killa trying to live up to his Sunderland tag of 'Skillban'? The last few weeks he has been fuckin dire and today was no exception.

As I said earlier, Nige looked dodgy and he was to prove right as first the future Chelsea star scored from a side footed free kick and then Nige palmed one onto the bar for budgie-head to nod in and we were two down. The first came from play on the wide right where I am sure, Killa was like a fuckin West Indian grounds man, I've never seen anyone more casual, go on then cross the fucker, I won't tackle you! The second came from a long shot which big Nige would have usually tipped over, this time he tried to save and instead pushed it onto the bar and said similar to Killa, 'Go on son, you have it'!

In the last minute of the first half we got a free kick. Now I've said this before & I'll say it again, a free kick that goes 'close' may as well go over the roof of the fuckin stands because a free kick on target can be fumbled by the keeper. Needless to say, the result was just as usual and we went in at half time with the embarrassing stat of one shot, yes just one shot, by Lee Carsley but boy was it close! Fuck Off, it may as well have been put into Stanley Park.

Half-Time: redshite 2, EVERTON 0

For the first time in ages I felt like walking out in disgust, instead I went downstairs and did something I had wanted to do for ever, had a crap in Analfield! God, that felt better and hopefully the second half would too. Well it did, Biffa Beattie came on to live up to Moyesy's statement that we all know, 'he owes us', Ossy had a shot blocked early on and this was progress as we had only had Harry Hill's hign'n'wide free kick in the first half. Also the shite had made three subs before the break so if we could just get at them then we might have a chance almost went the other way, Stubbsy slipped an 'EM'Baros was through only for Hibbo to make a last ditch, top drawer, tackle and save the day.

Big Dunc came on for Benty and he did really well, it was unfortunate for Benty though as he had been chasing a lost cause. The later substitution of Watto for Pisto was thoroughly warranted as Pisto was having a 'mare and Moyesy was proving a point. The two main incidents in the second half were firstly the sending off of MBaros, he did the usual redshite derby tackle and was rightly red-carded, he went right over the ball on Stubbsy & was luckily not to break his leg. The ref did well to pull out his red card so quickly before Davy Weir got stuck into the vermin.

Secondly was our goal, Big Dunc won a header on the edge of the box and it fell perfectly for Timmy who drove it low and hard to Dudek's left and just as when he tried to commit suicide the bus went under him, then so did the ball on this occasion& we celebrated. I'd have bet me house on us getting another against the shite, because they were now quaking and big Dunc was on fire but it was not to be.

The big worry now is - have the wheel's come off? Two weeks break since our last defeat, all fit bar McFadden, yet another defeat, now lost four out of the last five and the rejuvenated WBA next! Those points in hand are disappearing quicker than a Northern Ireland bank note!
Blue Kipper Star Man today? Well I'll tell you who it wasn't, Killa, Pisto or Big Nige! Hibbo, Stubbsy and Weir did well, as did Big Dunc when he came on but the Star Man, fuck me - how can you have a Star Man after a derby defeat? - was Timmy the Blue Kangaroo, fresh from winning this week's award for Top Player in Oceania, he worked his socks off and scored yet another goal.

So it's a wait for a fortnight when we have to listen to 'haven't they done well to be in 4th place after being tipped for relegation' etc. Fuck the talk boys, the Baggies is now OUR 'must win' game.

Full-Time: redshite 2, EVERTON 1

Blue Kipper
Star Man

Tim Cahill

Almost upon Saint Plastic’s Day
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Having missed the first derby game, a win, I didn’t want to miss this one. Which found me in The Crown – these days an ageing if listed pub dump – on Lime Street a few hours before the game swapping footy chat with the ESCWARA crew fresh off the train. But everyone’s nerves were akimbo and forecasts as wild as a 2-0 loss and a 3-1 win abounded. I tried to stay out of it until I couldn’t avoid the inevitable and forecast a 1-0 win for Us. Of course forecasting is a crazy task but even worse when it comes to a derby game.

Apart from footy chat we diverted into Mogsy’s new-found domestic bliss and the christening a few weeks ago of Texyla’s and Diane’s brand new Evertonian, Declan. Along the way we tried to dodge past Texyla’s confrontation with one of our former Great Players at Villa Park when said player, four rows behind, unreasonably told everyone to sit down as they cavorted after our second goal. Needless to say the response almost burned off the recipient’s ears. Quite right too. I didn’t mention it at the time so tempers could cool and Texyla could recover the beany hat he threw in totally justified reaction. Fortunately I managed to get him back into his seat muttering furiously before matters got silly. I have no idea if he recovered the hat. The former Great Player looked totally pissed out of his brains, and he has given me many wonderful memories, so it was a matter of live and let live. Isn’t footy just marvellous?

Eventually we tumbled into a cab and made our way to analfield, that peculiar venue of odd people who can hardly speak English, fresh off the plane from Oslo or gawd knows where-else, and whose vocal encouragement is limited to a song which reminds me of an ad for cigarettes yonks ago, the strap line of which was, “You’re never alone with a Strand.” In the end the cigarette was withdrawn because nobody wanted to buy a cigarette which might, according to the psychologists, identify them as being on their own. Which might also explain the paranoia currently besieging analfield as they trail us in fifth place with Gerrard plainly on his way to Chelsea at season end. Something has to plug the funding gap for the new stadium. Not only that, they don’t roar any more, they sort of yowl. Walt Whitmore could have made something more of this after his poetic invention of the word “yawp.”

Moyesy stuck with the usual line up, as he should. You can’t have it two ways – talk of consistency and building confidence and then wheedle on about interchangeable squad numbers. Anyway, we don’t have much choice, particularly in midfield. They on the other hand had the usual bunch of overpriced and undertalented foreigners who, if they don’t get into the Champions’ League this season, might show precisely how much weight their disproportionate wages ratio/revenues will truly drag them down.

All of that said, for the first half hour we simply didn’t show up. In my view the reason was fairly straightforward: Joey’s no midfielder, and Tim and Leon are too lightweight-similar. The result was a completely lopsided look that couldn’t be corrected by Lee Carsley and Kevin Kilbane. We have a real problem now The Gravedigger is at Real Madrid. Meanwhile, Sandro had one of his Meditterranean laconic days and got caught in possession far too much. Nevertheless, the pinkies didn’t create much direct threat despite all their pressure. Just when it looked like we had weathered the expected initial onslaught they scored two goals, one from a free kick (which someone leaped out of the way of) and the other from an oop-and-under which Nigel would normally have dealt with easily but only palmed onto the bar before it was headed home with the defence looking on with mild interest. Still, the score was right. We could have no complaint.

If we were to get back into the game we needed a quick second half goal. For a few minutes we looked determined. Then the pinkies got a breakaway only for the Czech Baros to make a hash of it, something he repeated a couple of times afterwards before rightly getting sent off for an appalling foul on Stubbsy. After which we sent on three subs, The Big Yin, Beattie and (who he?) Stevie Watson. Tim got one back with ten minutes left with a superb angled right side edge of box shot which easily deleted their Polish keeper at the near post. The pinky fans appear to hate their ‘keeper as much as any of their other players at the moment and here they plainly found another justification. Another player they have been all too ready to hate in recent years, Carragher, performed really well for them in the closing minutes as we pressed forward and their fans yowled – it’s the only word – for the final whistle.

But in the end the score was right. We simply don’t have enough in midfield and that might prove the difference in the race for fourth spot. Not that the pinkies are any great shakes. You can see why Gerrard wants away. In the overall balance he was the real difference between the two sides.

Now that you ask, Saint Plastic’s Day is the new name for Saint Patrick’s Day, the previous Thursday. You know, the one where you get all kinds of divvies claiming they’re a quarter or a half or three quarters “Oirish” (said loons always say it like that. In similar vein they say “Shoite” for “Shite.”) while at the same time avoiding, or not knowing, what the other portion is also supposed to be. It’s the sort of genetic tragi-comedy the nazis were particularly adept and equally distraught with. Usually – and I’m just spitballing here you understand – most of them wouldn’t know a shamrock if they fell over it, let alone know anything of Irish history or the language. And another thing: that song they sing before Irish rugby games is beginning to sound like a green version of the Horst Wessel Song written by the Christian Brothers. As you will gather, I am wholeheartedly in favour of brushing Plastic Paddies into a field, planting them, and analysing the resulting growth for potatoes or carrots. As we all know the latter are worthless too. Which is a pity because Ireland and the REAL Irish (that is, if the notion has escaped you, anyone actually born in that gorgeous country) have contributed much to civilisation, whereas Plastic Paddies do little but promote their own inadequacy and a stereotype the more reactionary of Anglo Saxons can’t wait to savage – when they can’t frame and then lock up the authentic Celts. Saint Paddy’s Day used to be a great celebration even for aetheists like me. These days it is mostly an empty charade performed by joyless drunken loons getting pie-eyed on black frothy sump oil and subjecting the rest of us to their halitosis, body odour, lousy looks and grossly limited intelligence.

There. Now we can look forward to the away match at West Brom.