Mickey Blue Eyes gives his in depth view on the games, the players, the management, the good, the bad, & the ugly, pimples and all. We suggest you take your time reading this. You have to it's long! Either print it out, & wait till your boss is at one of those 3 hour meetings. Better still take it on holiday with you & read it on the beach. As there won't be too much to report about Everton in those rehashed papers abroad.

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Review of 2001-2002:
A personal odyssey through the season's events.
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

CAVEAT.
You have to say something like this at the beginning of a season review: It is all about opinions. If you don't say it some tiresome bastard's going to bore you shitless by going off on one because you hold different views to his. Usually it is a tiresome one you've heard before.

These are my opinions. You like them? Good, that's gratifying. Thank you. You don't like them? Tough, go write your own if you have the ability.

In other words it is a version of free speech and personal experience. That's the beauty of the internet. If you want standard pap, go read the Echo or the Sun or the Opta Stats or one of those websites with all the vitality of a cowpat in January.

When you write this kind of piece the only thing which matters is your own opinion. For instance if you're invited to dinner with Hanan Ashrawi, Frank Lloyd Wright, Billy Connolly or Fidel Castro it doesn't make much sense to write about their lowly dog minder. You write accordingly.

This is alternative. Take it or leave it. And if you're leaving, I'll say thank you and goodbye now. Close the door behind you and try not to slam it.

PROLOGUE.
"Every man should be allowed to love two cities - his own and San Francisco."
Gene Fowler.

It all depends on what footy means to you.

If you're an obsessive chauvinist this piece won't be for you. On the other hand it might just pass your muster if footy is a good and interesting hobby and you don't take it or your footy opinions too seriously. But of course you can't avoid football spilling over into other parts of your life. Nobody survives in compartments, not unless they live in the boondocks or have trouble with reality or have only a computer for a friend.

The season just passed was an important one for me because of spill-over. A couple of years ago I returned to resettle in England after years of flying around the planet from a Middle East base. I realised it was time to go when I woke up one morning in a hotel room in San Diego and for a moment didn't know where I was. The inside of one hotel room or one airplane is much like another even when you go first class. You can also get bored with extreme heat, palm trees, sunshine and so-called "luxury-living." Glad I did it, glad it's over.

It was the best decision I ever made though it caused vigorous family discussion into many late hours. I had my fill of living near that odd phenomenon, the expat mindset. As just one example, if you haven't experienced expat "compound-living" in the eastern province of Saudi Arabia you haven't any idea of how off-the-wall some people can behave. In that case, too many of them ended up with a Compound Mentality for life or, worse, bought their own private garbage dump (aka "me own business") in the middle of nowhere when they got home. Then they wonder why they can't settle. There are many other variants in many other countries. Under-developed Eastern Province Saudi Arabia was merely the worst and fortunately the shortest experience of the lot. Too many paranoid odd-bods, weirdos and loonies amongst the expats there. Fortunately there are many other much better places in the Middle East and I was equally fortunate to experience most of them.

But most expat communities are similar in certain ways. Usually everyone is on the run one way or another………………escape from boredom or perceived lack of opportunity, impecuniary or failed relationships. Nationality doesn't matter. I exclude from this people who are unemployable worthless malcontents or loyalty-free dwarfs since this usually means completely selfish. Usually it means they hate themselves and their roots too. It is sensible to dismiss willful ignorance. At the same time worthwhile personalities always stand out and I was lucky enough to become firm friends with a lot of individuals of many different nationalities, religions and (so-called) races. For all that, once you are an expat you are ALWAYS an expat, even if you take up so-called citizenship in another country. You are always an outsider.

When I decided to leave I was fortunate enough to have two main alternatives on offer: The USA and Australia. In the end we decided to return to our roots in our home city. Gene Fowler was absolutely right. But sometimes it can be difficult to define why you love a place. After all, in theory it is just an area of land and some buildings no matter how good or bad they look. And during my time away our home city had endured the kind of economic fall common to most old industrial cities across the western world. Anybody who has seen an outstanding American movie called "Roger And Me" could not fail to draw comparison between Liverpool and Flint, Michigan, once an epicentre of the American motor industry.

On top of that our city had to endure unprecedented political and propaganda assaults from the English establishment, largely because it would not go quietly to its designated fate. I get into a white fury merely thinking about the sheer cold bloodedness of what was done, how it was done, why it was done and who did it. Over time I lost count of the number of occasions I had to correct some half-witted or uninformed metro Suit comment on some airplane en route to god-knows-where. Since I am pretty good with our beloved language it didn't constitute a strain. It just got tedious, like taking the piss out of the pinkies or dealing with one of those empty-headed "I hate scousers" prats.

In due course virtually all of provincial Britain shared the same problems even though briefly and initially it could afford to jeer at Liverpool's so-called "image." One by one the centres of reaction fell to a similar manipulated fate, even parts of south-eastern England and our unloved capital. If you had common sense you knew they would but it didn't make it any easier.

But of course a city is - cliché coming up - more than that. It is people too. Family and friends, human warmth, an argot you know. And if you are lucky a community and cultural feel too. For me, our city has all those things and more, no matter how much regeneration is required and how long it will take. I couldn't stand the idea of suburban living anymore than I could the idea of living in the back of beyond. In reality it was no contest. Probably I was always going to come home. As I said, I'm glad I did. I wouldn't swap it for all the air miles I have in hand or all the "exotic" destinations or all the "important" people I had to meet or all the "financial security" I have. I think it was George Melly who said, "This city has you for life." How true. But once you have achieved the things you set out to do you can turn to the things which really matter.

None of this means everything is hunky-dory here in Blighty. Oh no. We are regenerating from a very low base on Merseyside. There is a long way to go, much physical and social dereliction to clear. Likely our city will never again be the economic centre it once was. There are inherent, deep-rooted English cultural and political problems too and much of the xenophobia you expect (but not accept) in an island people. Some of these problems will never be solved. Then again, the same observations apply to greater or lesser extent in virtually all the other countries I have visited. Relocation might change your immediate circumstances but it doesn't wipe out your memory banks or your personal culture.

This being the city it is, football as a hobby plays its part even though it is quite subservient to important issues. It is a hobby, nothing more. Reality checks are in order. Football is no place for messiahs or führers. And hobbies should be as useful as they are relaxing. So this season I set out to travel to as many away matches as I could. In the end I went to every away league match. It was part of the final settling-in method. It worked better than I could have hoped. It has played a small but significant part in helping me rediscover England and its people.

The diversity remains remarkable, the experience well worth the effort once you deal summarily with absurd regional chauvinism and the remnants of petty English snobbery. For all their many faults I love my country and my city as much as ever. I have never understood, though I have tried, any of those strange mindsets who take out their disappointment with life on their own roots. Perhaps they simply need someone to blame for their own human failings, or poisoned jeering is a substitute for genuine humour.

Like all human endeavours the experience has been funny, infuriating, boring, instructive, exhilarating, exciting, awful, and even tragic. I wouldn't change a thing. How appropriate it should all come together on the eve of one hundred years of first class football for our club. Nil Satis Nisi Optimum, indeed.

But as an Evertonian you already knew that.

HIGHLIGHT OF THE SEASON.

No question about this one. It wasn't out on the pitch.

Kipper prevailed on me to accompany him to the end of season "do" held by the Northern Irish Blues in the Elm Tree on decayed, litter strewn Wezzy Road. The place was heaving and full of disgraceful singing, laughter and debauchery. I tell you, those Irish ought to be locked up for enjoying themselves so freely. No wonder they scare the living shits out of suburban England and Ivy League America.

I was busily engaged in conversation with Mogsy when Kipper dragged me off to meet one of the Irish lads. After intros, I was the subject of one of those Irish Looks.

"You are Mickey Blue Eyes?" said the Look, not without an air of surprised menace.

"Yes, that's me," I said cheerfully getting ready to sign my umpteenth autograph of the evening. Gosh but it's fun being popular.

"Tell me," said the Look, searching for suitable words, nerve twitching under his right eye, "are you a……are you a……A COMMUNIST!?"

In a flash of alcohol I recalled all the reliable accounts of McCarthyism I ever read. I thought of mad J. Edgar Hoover and of the drunk he primed, Joe McCarthy himself, all the way through to the remnants of fascist Europe. I recalled English history from the first revolution and civil war. I recalled the Reality Checks inserted in my match reports. The mischievous demons of John Barleycorn, Nye Bevan, E. P. Thompson, A. J. P. Taylor and Gore Vidal awoke on my left shoulder and waved belligerent tridents. I wondered what the Look thought of The People's Club tag-line.

It was all I could do to refrain from saying with feeling, "Yes! Shoot the Windsors without trial I say! But not before raping all the horsey women……………the prince Michael chinless men too if they get in the way! Loot the Treasury! Assassinate all The Suits! Then put the so-called home counties to the sword! Send the Civil Service to Cuba for re-education! Demolish Buckingham fucking Palace, Canary Wharf and Whitehall! Imprison the media lackeys! Castrate Berlusconi and Murdoch in tandem with a rusty bread knife!"

Sadly the golden opportunity passed by like The Rad's incredible miss against notloB in the Street End. Fraternal greetings were in order and that's what took precedence.

But for one absolutely glorious shining moment the small crowded world of the Elm Tree lit up with the prospect of proletarian freedom. So I bought him a pint of Guinness instead and swapped footy yarns, comrades all. The revolution would have to wait until there was no alternative.

THE BUS.

Out of choice I spent away matches in the company of The Bus. There is no more dedicated group of Evertonians anywhere. Most of the regulars aren't even scousers. Since my return I noticed for the first time how many of our fans live outside the city. This shouldn't have been a surprise given the huge fall in the city's population, but it was. Times have changed.

The company has been quite different from family and friends, professional and otherwise. And it more than confirmed the common sense ethos that the only thing which matters is what is inside a man, not location, not profession, not money and, not, gawd help Old England and its loopy paranoias, the accent a man uses when he speaks. It takes all kinds and the greater the variety, the better. Except of course amongst the English lower middle classes, too many of whom have the kind of loyalty and human warmth you can only relate to a dingo with a stick up its arse. Some things never change. Only the English could inflict world culture with the Woolton semi-detached house.

The Bus was organised by Texyla because he got genuine pleasure therefrom. He compiled the travelling lists, hired the vehicles and decided the hospitality venues. All of this suited me down to the ground since I do enough decision-making every day and can't be arsed doing it in my leisure time, so I was quite happy to go with the flow. Being an open-minded man it took Texyla some time to assert himself over those of dickhead inclination. Fortunately The Bus doesn't have too many of those and it was usually confined to moments of mood, usually fuelled by too much moonshine. We only had a few instances of King of The Kids, pissheads and racism. Texyla did real well all season and usually ushered the regulars into some sort of acceptable consensual behaviour. We owed him a lot.

Put any group of humans together for any length of time and you are bound to identify traits you like, dislike or ignore. Put them in a confined space and they might even begin to develop an intensity sometimes called misprision. The Bus is no exception. A lot of the time your sides ached with laughter. On other occasions you couldn't avoid shaking your head quietly at how low people can sink. The human conundrum in microcosm, the passing parade in all its glory and inglory.

Occasionally we had long distance visitors. The most memorable by a long chalk was gentleman Cactus Jack, all the way from California in the depths of an English Winter. During his visit he didn't even see us score a goal home or away. I can remember a freezing cold visit to Sunderland and yet another loss. It had been snowing, raining and halestoning. Occasionally it was even foggy. I was wrapped in a deeply comfortable insulated winter jacket with warm hood. CJ wore a relatively thin jacket, turned-up collar, cloth cap and an expression you associate with a dying yeti. Tiny icicles hung from his eyebrows and eyelashes and radiated multi-coloured light rays. All of which moved me to say, "Fuckn long way from Half Moon Bay now ey, CJ?" The responding visage was world-weary rueful. These are the only appropriate words for a former expat who once worked in the old Soviet Union and knows the full value of free movement and true friendship.

Occasionally we were joined too by the Brummy Blues as we collected them en route to appropriate matches. Amazing lads and lasses all of them, and every bit as dedicated to the cause as any other Evertonians, Royal Blue to the marrow, salt of the earth.

Amongst the regulars you couldn't ignore Kyle. You couldn't miss him. He is larger than life. He says "mate" a lot. He is mad about footy, any footy. How you define "mad" depends on your view of the world. Kyle has two nippers, one named Everton and the other Trafford. Kyle's lady is a Man Yoo fan. There are times when words are superfluous, including when you hear Kyle's version of, "There's only one F in Falkirk."

Then there were the immortal Gerrard brothers, Steve and Paul, and their great friend Geoff. The first two got some initial stick for obvious reasons but proved more than capable of giving it back in spades. As for Geoff, mark my words, his name is on an MI5 computer somewhere. Quite soon he'll be denounced as Red Geoff in the Daily Telegraph, the Sun, the Daily Mail and the Daily Express. I can pay him no higher compliment than to say he will thoroughly deserve it.

I will remember Jimmy too, especially for a remarkable fused moment of physical science and geometry at Southampton. Everybody except he was on The Bus ready for the return journey. Suddenly, somebody said, "Fuckn 'ELL! Look at Jimmy at the top of the street!" All eyes turned and duly focused. There he was, legs like those wobbly sticks used by stage acts to hold up a battery of spinning plates. He took one further stride and, I shit you not, pitched forward body straight and unbending from the ankles up and hit the pavement beak first. Nobody moved, horror struck. It looked like a heart attack. Then he got up and zigzagged toward The Bus in a passable imitation of a top form Ronaldo running at some hapless defence. He clambered aboard, not a mark on him, and glared at the staring faces. "Why," he asked angrily, "are you fuckn lot NOT SINGIN'!?"

And that's typical of the reason I stayed with The Bus.

THE MATCHES.

We were top of the table after three games. Nobody expected it to last of course but it was a nice feeling. What's seldom's wonderful. Of course it was helped by the opening three opponents, none of whom were any great shakes. We played competently, nothing more. Then we went and lost three in a row. Reality replaced euphoria in its usual way and we gradually slipped down the table. Later, it was aided by a maddening habit of throwing away points we should never have leaked.

It was during the third loss at Blackburn that Smiffy finally lost the fans. It was a particularly ludicrous result aided by baffling substitution. We should have won by two or three goals. The fans had had enough and there surely wasn't a sensible soul who could blame them. His future was in the balance.

West Ham were the next opponents. If we lost , Smiffy was gone. So we went and won 5-0 to a team which rolled over and died and let in three goals you won't see in your local Sunday League in December. A mediocre draw at Ipswich, which we should have won, brought us to a home game with Aston Villa and probably our best and most satisfying all-round display of the season in a 3-2 win. Villa were at the top of the table at the time and playing reasonably well. From that moment they started to slip and very nearly got drawn into the relegation zone before John Gregory left.

Then we went four games without a win. Really this finally established our pattern of play for the season. There couldn't be much doubt that we were in for yet another torrid season after this run, not even allowing for an absolutely ridiculous result against The Skunks at GP………..a match we lost 3-1 after completely dominating and which featured a wonderful knock out punch by Paul on Abel to let in the first goal. We dropped points at notloB and Leicester and gained one at home to Chelsea, before winning at home to Southampton. But the same old same old had leaked through again. It looked as ominous as ever, as pissy-offy as usual.

Then our League world collapsed catastrophically and got relieved only by a good Cup run. It took us to January 12th to beat the Mackems by a single goal at home and then we went through to March 16th before we got our next win against Fulham at home. By then Smiffy had been replaced by David Moyes. From his appointment we won four, drew one and lost four. Goals for 18, goals against 22. The world turned upside down. Buster Keaton had gone, only to be replaced by Morecambe and Wise.

The Cup run raised fond but desperate hopes for a while. But wins against Stoke, Leyton Orient and Crewe were only papering over the cracks………………………which became a major structural failure against The Smoggies in the sixth round. Three goals just before half time finally dispelled any self deception and quickly had Smiffy heading off clutching his P45 and a hefty compensation pay-off.

Our league form was mostly wretched and left us with the memory of only a handful of good overall performances and little else. The most annoying aspect was a repeat from the previous season, the feeling that we could play better if the players had properly applied themselves. When they did, we gave even the good teams a reasonable run for their money. A clear example was the home match against the Mancs when they needed a couple of world class goals to beat us in the later stages of the game. Almost always we faded badly in the last half hour and heads would go down. At least they did until Moyesy arrived with his tourniquet.

Of the matches I saw, we were only outplayed from start to finish in the game at Old Trafford. The only match I missed all season was the home game against the pinkies but friends tell me that performance came a pretty close second.

We can clutch at straws purely on the basis of how the team played for half the matches after Moyesy took over. For the other half we were every bit as bad as we were before he came through the door. He can't say he hasn't seen all sides of our team and individual play.

The game which sticks out in my memory is the 4-3 win at Derby. I reckon this is the game which condemned Derby to relegation because they seemed to slide vertically thereafter. It was different at the time though. Gregory had arrived and given them some hope and some improved results and they expected to win. Well, we bladdered them and should have won it by more. Under Moyesy, goals have been de rigeur at both ends, not grudgingly given away or won. The sight was positively intoxicating. The game was also memorable for The Goal of The Season from Stroupar an absolutely superb volley from the edge of the penalty area. Volleys either scream in or startle a passing constable in the street outside.

Probably the game which dispelled any possible lack of knowledge in Moyesy arrived when we collapsed in the last half hour of the game with the Skunks up in Scapa Flow and lost 6-2. For (once again) an hour we played well and competed. Then the arse fell out of our kecks after The Gravedigger missed a chance to make it 3-2 for us.

The worst game of all? Oh lor, perm any three from twenty. But in the end I reckon The Smoggies Cup match won despite severe competition from West Ham (away), Leicester (away), Charlton (home), Ipswich (home) and Blackburn (home).

Team formations definitely became more attack-minded under Moyesy. Which inevitably meant any defensive frailities got more exposed and therefore some individuals were shown to be lacking. It was a seminal moment.

THE PLAYERS.

Honourable exceptions aside, the players were mostly a disgrace to themselves, the club and most of all to the fans. Too many of them had attitude and efforts which were desultory, half-hearted and well short of what they were paid for. In due course the worst culprits will find this is intolerable for a young and hungry manager like Moyesy. So be it. If they don't shape up, ship them out. We must give Moyesy the same kind of patient support we gave to Walter Smith.

English fans can forgive anything except lack of effort. Too often too many looked like they were just going through the motions. At times it could almost be toe-curling watching them.

For the second season running we had an unacceptable injury list. I don't accept this was coincidence or bad luck. The reasons are quantifiable, capable of analysis and subject to correction. I am willing to bet Moyesy won't have the same depth of problems, especially with the younger players.

Our best and most consistent player by a country mile was Davey Weir. The best naturally gifted player was Sandro Pistone.

For a short time Simo looked like the answer to our glaring goalkeeper problem. Sadly, he was the first to run foul of Moyesy in public and was promptly replaced by Paul. Who then committed the worst piece of goalkeeping I have ever seen in the home debacle against Blackburn. Rightly, a question mark hangs over Simo but none at all over Paul, who should do one as soon as he can. A signing is likely.

Under Smiffy the defensive back line changed with such bewildering regularity it was difficult to get focused, so make due allowance for the following opinions. I am convinced Tony Hibbert is our best right back despite some wobbly moments before injury. Stevie is awful when defending. Our two best centre back pairings were Davey-Abel and Davey-Clarkey until the peroxide one got spectacularly laid out by Paul. Stubbsy's lack of pace and quick thought means Clarkey, definitely one for the future, is likely to replace him if circumstances don't change. Our best left back, and the best ball player at the club by a country mile, is Sandro.…………..when he can be arsed. It has to be said though that Unsy is a man inspired playing under Moyesy. Against Arsenal he was the best player on the park; some of his first touches were nothing less than magnificent, and that's saying something given the abilities in the Gooner set up.

Same applies to midfield really. The signings of Gazza and Daveed didn't work though both did show maddening glimpses of once what was. Nic has had an appalling season and I say this as an admirer of what abilities he HAS shown. The Gravedigger had a couple of good short spells. Thankfully, the arrival of Moyesy put a stop to the fist-waving shite but it wasn't enough to instill consistent discipline in him. On balance, the signing of Lee Carsley turned out to be a surprising if mild success, or at least it is when he doesn't attempt anything beyond his limits. Toby is a youngster with promise who seems a bit bemused by the pace of English footy. Hopefully he can adjust and then put his tremendously hard tackling to good purpose. Gemmo is another limited lad who has played staccato for most of the time. He can't compensate when the team is playing badly and that makes him look worse than he is. Pembo has been out injured too much to make any sort of sensible comment. Unsy isn't a left sided midfield player and should only play there in an emergency. But wherever he plays he won't let us down through lack of effort.

Up front has been mostly a disaster area, as the scoring records show. It hurts me to say it (if only because it means I let in the cowardly twats who use the word "lazy" as a code word for "nigger") but SuperKev looks like he can't hack it any more at top level. The knee injury has done for him in the way I feared when I first saw him on crutches. I thought he'd never kick a ball again. In fact his come back has been a quite remarkable demonstration of personal courage. He certainly has more guts in his big toe than the racist cunts who get on his back. The Big Yin has been himself. That is, virtually invisible through injury for most of the season. Which is some feat given his size. Maybe the blood diagnosis he had will finally release his accepted if unused abilities. The Rad too had his share of injuries after top level owl arses found out he had pace enough to burn them off in groups of three. He missed a hatful of chances, which paradoxically bodes well for the future if he stays………………next season he won't miss so many. He'll bury them. If he was in a better side he'd have bagged more than fifteen and might well have avoided injury. The arrival of Nick Chadwick was encouraging too. Still raw and with an awful lot to learn he still managed to knock in a few goals with limited opportunity.

Overall, we have about ten players who are thirty years of age or older. This gives you the measure of the problems facing David Moyes. With less than ten million in the kitty he's in no position to go out and buy ready made replacements. In turn this means he has to make do with what he has and try to get some young, lean and hungry players in from lower down the league. It's a daunting prospect. If it comes off he will probably write himself into Everton footy folklore. More likely next season will offer not much more beyond midtable.

THE MANAGER(S).

Nobody could complain when Walter Smith finally got sacked. I have dealt with the issue in more detail in my separate Requiem for Walter. He had the time, reasonable money and reasonable but not gifted players. He failed, but so what? It was a sporting failure, that's all. The end was not unexpected and it certainly wasn't a personal tragedy. Any prideful blood he let was more than mopped up by the compensation money.

We owed him a lot for standing firm at a difficult time, when he was double-crossed by Peter Johnson's sale of The Big Yin literally behind his back. Because of it the fans were patient and generally supportive and so were the board. Eventually he failed. He had to go. Really he should have gone earlier and I suspect he knows it too. But there was absolutely no other sensible decision after the ludicrous Cup debacle at Middlesbrough. There were no valid excuses left after three and a half years of frequently bewildering management methods.

So in comes David Moyes with The People's Club tag-line and the New Manager Affect. The combination of circumstances probably saved us from relegation. The tag-line continues to provide long term sandpaper for rubbing the corporate logo pinkies raw……………… of course it is complete nonsense but it has proved impossible to resist because (incredibly) the pink divvies have risen to the bait in shoals. It's like shooting fish in a PLC barrel. There are always humorous compensations in life.

Much more important has been Moyesy's affect on team performances. You can't help wondering though what would have happened had we lost to Fulham in his first match. Instead, Beloved Lard Arse scored that magnificent goal within thirty seconds and we were off and running. The impetus was enough to carry us clear. Whether he and the team can keep it up is quite another matter. After the novelty of a new persona has faded you have to replace it with a rebuilding effort and that takes yet more time.

His arrival resulted in nine league matches with a total of forty goals. He has apparently galvanised the club behind the scenes. To be honest it wouldn't have taken much to replace the "disappointing" mantra we heard too often from Walter. Almost anything with a bit of enthusiasm was likely to draw use of the dread noun "charisma" from dumbed-down Generation Xers with the contemplative abilities of a gnu, or a media with the talent of a worm. But the good start is undeniable and surely to be welcomed with enthusiasm.

I only hope we don't end up with the kind of managerial personality cult which exists at other, lesser clubs. We have luckily avoided that fate even during Howard Kendall's marvellous era. Let's leave the messiahs and führers to their Nuremberg rallies and party members. There's a difference between admiring great individual abilities and losing a sense of human proportion.

THE FUTURE.

So where to now? Well, unexpected and miracles apart, and you can never completely discount them, it is likely to be not very far and not very fast. Playing wise, I expect Moysey to achieve a more enthusiastic style of play which will probably be quite vulnerable in the short term. We may yet have more playing disasters before it begins to look promising. Nobody can reasonably expect rebuilding to take anything less than about three years. That is the time given to Walter and he never really looked like advancing us one iota, one short spell excepted. It is the least we can give to Moyesy, total disaster notwithstanding.

Instinctively I think we are in for an exciting, edgy time with loads of goals, hopefully in decreasing numbers at our end. Younger players will come in because they HAVE to come in. Team fitness will get better. Europe qualification is probably out of the question but mid-table is not and nor is a good cup run. Short-term, I would settle for the latter and I believe most of our fans would too so long as they can see some hope. Long-term, we expect a good deal more and that's the way it should be. Sports glory is the aim so long as it is kept in its place. Remember it took the Mancs twenty six years to win the championship. Everything comes in cycles.

I haven't seen much at all of our reserves or younger teams. The Youth Cup team looks as though it has some promising ones for the future, particularly The Dook himself, Wayne Rooney. If he keeps his head and develops as hoped the boy has a wonderful future. Let's hope he has more common sense than unlamented Francis Jeffers or Michael Ball. In his own way he certainly has more innate talent. Colin Harvey says he hasn't seen a more complete player at his age, and Colin NEVER goes overboard about ANY player. By and large the club handles young players well, despite the uninformed shite flying around, and despite the lack of good facilities. The latter is likely to be corrected very shortly with the new Academy probably to be built in Childwall Valley.

Kings Dock is now about 70% likely to happen. All the indications are excellent. The detailed planning application goes in this Autumn, probably in October, and construction is slated to start in Spring next year. At present, the plan is to play our first match there in 2006, but conceivably this could still be advanced to halfway through 2005-2006 if the club is so minded. The sooner we are in, the better for our club, our city, our region and our combined futures. It will be one completed link in a chain of requirements. Once that happens, regeneration will REALLY be under way. And the perennial moaners who dog our club can go fuck themselves to oblivion.

All told, I think we can feel much better about our fortunes and our future. David Moyes is young, hungry and WANTS it. And that's not a bad place to start.

But then as an Evertonian you already knew that.

Nil Satis Nisi Optimum. (14/05/02)

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