WSAG E022

WHEN SKIES ARE GREY

ISSUE #E022

e022

When Skies are Grey The Evertonian Fanzine since 1988 Contact us at whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com

To hell with Liverpool and Rangers too, we’ll throw them all in the Mersey

Let's get stuck into these.

Come on Everton, these are shite.

Welcome to our Summer Special.

This is, by far the biggest WSAG there's ever been. 120 odd pages. I've lost count to be honest.

Laugh along with the Loveable Reds.

Some things old, some things new.

We've been planning this - in one form or another - since we first when digital and hopefully we've done it justice.

There's some great pieces in here and it's been a joy to put together.

Now, don't panic. Due to the ridiculously early start to the season, WSAG will not be able to be out for the first game.

Graham's on holiday. Thought he'd planned it properly but he didn't check.

Therefore E023 will out in time for second home game against Manchester City on 23 August.

We welcome contributions from everyone. WSAG has always been an open forum for Evertonians to talk about our club.

It's what we do.

Thanks to everyone who has helped in any way, shape or form.

Get involved. Just get in touch. It's as simple as that.

And while this is our summer special the players are back in pre-season training and before you know it, everything will kick off again.

You are WSAG.

Without us.

Up the Toffees Graham & Phil

LOVING THE ALIEN Reading this august tome over the last 25 years, I have read pieces from contributors who have been proud that they came from an all Evertonian family and that they can trace their Blue ancestral line for generations. In fact didn’t our beloved Editor write something along these lines many moons ago, also casting aspersions on Blue/Red mixed marriages before he met the girl of his dreams who supported ahem, yes you guessed it?! I’ve often wondered reading these pieces what being in such homogenous Evertonian families must be like as in mine on both side of the maternal and paternal family trees I have loads of very close relatives who are all fanatical reds.

On my Dad’s side it is pretty much half and half with his Dad (my Grandad) having been a blue and his Mum a red so whilst his twin brother who he is still dead close to at the age of 73 has always been a red (as is his sister sort of,) his younger brother followed him and his Dad into being a lifelong Evertonian. Now my Uncle Kevin would point to 5 European Cups and loads of league championships as proof that he was right in his choice to follow the maternal rather than the paternal line but whilst he revelled in Liverpool triumphs with mates in the 60’s, 70’s and early 80’s my Dad can point to being in Rotterdam watching Everton win the Cup Winners Cup sat next to his dad, his brother and his son and I know that means a lot.

Over the years as my generation of the family have grown up, we have by and large apart from the inevitable ‘banter’ (God I hate that word but you know what I mean) managed to not got too vitriolic as we didn’t see each other that often so were desperate to enjoy being together rather than arguing about football.

On the few occasions in recent years however when my red cousins at family get togethers resort to their ‘five fingers’ gesture, me and a Blue cousin of mine always end up mimicking them and taking the piss. It’s what we do.

On my Mum’s side however it was a bit different.

She came from a Liverpool supporting family with my Grandad a fanatical red after his Dad took him to Anfield from Bootle as a kid. He had two daughters and no sons so whilst my Mum took no interest in football at all, he raised my Auntie, a self-admitted tom-boy as a Liverpool fan and used to take her on the Anny Road from an early age. Then my Mum met my Dad, they got married and I was born and my poor Grandad had to face up to the fact that his

daughter had married into the other side and even worse she started going to watch Everton in 1970/71 just before I came into the world. Then of course I became a fanatical Evertonian as well, his other LFC mad daughter married my Uncle Dave who was blue through and through and the poor fella was surrounded by people he loved who supported the auld enemy.

Growing up in Netherton down the road from my Grandparents was paradise for me as a kid.

They were brilliant grandparents and I know everyone says that but being an only grandchild meant I got all of their attention and I had a ball growing up and seeing regularly two lovely people who devoted so much time to me. My Grandma, who would take my side on anything and was never really into football converted (there’s a joke here) to Everton just for me when I was a kid but despite all of these traitors in his midst my Grandad never ever had any bitterness or seemingly never attempted to take advantage of his close relationship with me and convert me to LFC such was his nature and soul. He knew I was my Dad’s son and I was an Evertonian. For life.

My Grandad was someone who I idolised as a kid and to paraphrase Don McLean was along with my Dad and my Father-In-Law one of the ‘three men I admired the most.’ Whilst my Grandma was more extroverted and an amazing story teller, my Grandad was quieter but he still taught me loads about life and I loved hearing about when he played for Bootle Boys, when he was in the Navy during the War and had to swim for his life after his ship was torpedoed, the stories he told me when he worked at Bootle Town Hall later in his life and even when he had retired from there being on the door at Trials Nightclub in town (even refusing David Johnson entry cos he thought he was a Blue which he wasn’t.) We got on so well and were so close and yet when it came to football there was one huge divide. He loved LFC so much and they consumed so much of his thoughts and of course he would talk about them to me and he would refer to Everton as a ‘crowd of crabs’ and occasionally rib me when we weren’t doing well but some of the things he did for me concerning Everton, despite him being a Red, were the true measure of the man.

Like the time he took me to Bellefield one preseason and ensured that I got autographs of all the players as they came out after training. And Howard Kendall. And Elton Welsby….! Or the times he took me to Goodison when he had previously joked he would rather be seen dead

than set foot inside the Old Lady but he did, for his grandson.

Even mid-week league cup matches. Or the Everton kits he bought me, or the Football Echos he saved for me when we had moved away from Merseyside, all illustrating how lucky I was to have him as my Grandad.

And I tried to reciprocate his generosity when it came to Liverpool FC, I really did. Particularly before I became a teenager I would talk with him about them and on two occasions in May 1981 (in a guest house in Colwyn Bay) and May 1984 I sat with him, just the two of us and we watched Liverpool win the European Cup. It was fascinating but hilarious watching LFC with my Grandad as he seemed to spend the whole time shouting at the tele about how bad they were….’Dalglish you are so slow,’ ‘Neal you are useless,’ ‘Lee, you turn slower than milk,’ – this sort of thing. The team during the match were inevitably referred to as ‘crabs’ or ‘bums’ and his frustration increased as the matches remained goalless.

He resembled a man in intense constant pain and misery and I wondered why he subjected himself to such an ordeal. It also made the younger me a, worry about his blood pressure as he had had three heart operations before he was 60 and b, hope that Liverpool triumphed for my Grandad’s sake….Of course in both matches when Alan Kennedy won them the Cup his demeanour changed immediately and he sat and praised the team, saying how brilliant they were all along and how they were the Kings of Europe. I remember in 1984 almost being open mouthed at his volte face and despite being 13, pointed this out to him but he just smiled at me and winked.

He never changed and I suppose I’m glad he didn’t as it was funny.

dry. This was illustrated earlier in the year when we had celebrated his 75th Birthday with a lovely family meal at Don Luigi’s in Formby which was the last time he was healthy enough to enjoy such an event. The next lunchtime I was offered the chance to go round to my Auntie’s with him to watch Liverpool play Man U in the FA Cup but declined. Liverpool were leading 1-0 until the final seconds before Yorke and Solskjaer won in Fergie Time to leave him and my Auntie devastated. I turned up just as the winner went in….Did I offer my sincere family support and words of comfort? Did I say ‘never mind you have still got seventh place to look forward to?’

What do you think??! Is right. I took the piss royally…..

And even once he had died in hospital in Fazakerley to our immense sorrow and regret (within 24 hours of the death of my other Grandad who was an Evertonian) at his funeral there was still one remaining barrier between us when the curtains at Thornton Crem started to go back and that was of course, that song….I was sitting there as the service concluded, in tears, being comforted by my wife, remembering what a wonderful, kind and generous human being Charlie ‘Mick’ Connor was and thinking of all the amazing times I’d shared with my wonderful Grandad when I heard Gerry Marsden come on over the speakers with three words, ‘When you walk...’ And in the midst of my strong grief at losing one of my heroes and despite the tears and grieving all around me, all I could think to myself as the curtains went back and I said goodbye to my beloved Grandad for ever, was…….’Oh no, not that fuckin’ song…….’

Kieron

As I got older, my dislike of all things red got stronger and inevitably I became more hostile towards them. My Grandad and I never fell out however, how could I fall out with such a great fella no matter who he supported? He died in May 1999 aged 75 which given his history of heart trouble (he used to joke that he should have been on the staff at Sefton General and Broadgreen Hospitals so often was he there) was quite a feat and he naturally was disgusted at LFC’s fall from the top in the 90’s and Manchester United’s rise in their place and a little bit of me wondered if Man Utd’s European Champions League/Treble win finished him off as he left this Mortal Coil five days after their triumph in Barcelona.

Despite his obvious discomfort at this, being an Evertonian who had suffered so much at the hands of his beloved Liverpool, my sympathy well had run

Do you think these lot know I used to be an Evertonian?

#wsagdiary Phil Redmond, picks up his regular WSAG diary again.

Starting...

June 04 After a week sunning itself on the beach, this column is back and fully refreshed and theres been plenty going on in its absence.

Arsenal won the cup and FIFA is apparently bent, (no shit) and at Goodison there’s been movement already.

Christian Atsu who had an underwhelming year on loan from Chelsea last time out, has gone to newly promoted Bournemouth on a similar deal.

The young Ghanian winger undoubtedly has pace to burn but is shockingly light weight and at times looked like an 11 year old in an end of term game against the teachers when faced with some of the grocks that litter the premier league.

I doubt he’ll be missed. Our Belgian pair Kevin Mirallas and Romelu Lukaku have again been waxing lyrical about their

ambition in the local press. Our media immediately sell them to “bigger” clubs, and life goes on.

As I write this, strong rumours are emanating that Tom Cleverley has agreed a five year deal with the Blues after an up and down season on loan at Villa. I’ll speak more about this one if and when it actually happens but if he does sign it might be helpful if some of the shitehawks who are already moaning give him a chance when the season actually starts.

Finally was the sad news of the death of late 70’s/ early 80’s hero Andy King, who’s funeral takes place today.

To be honest Andy’s death has had far more effect on me than the deaths of Alan Ball and Brian Labone in recent years, mainly because they were a bit before my time.

When the young home counties attacking midfielder (he wasn’t a cockney) arrived from Luton, young Blues were crying out for a hero. Gary Jones was on his way out, Big Bob had missed most of the disastrous 75-76 season with poor form and injury and gates had slumped to a post war low. In came this cocky feather cutted teenager who looked like a member of

Flintlock, with a load of goals and no little skill.

Over the next few years, he was the undisputed hero of many young Blues. Bob Latchford scored the goals and Mick Lyons spilled blue blood for the cause and we also admired the class of Martin Dobson even if he did look like your dad. Andy, however was our king. He scored derby winners and point savers and butted Emlyn Hughes.

He was who we looked up to.

It’s well documented that Andy liked a bevvie and had problems with the horses and indeed Gordon Lee bombed him out as a result.

During a two year absence at QPR and West Brom he was quoted as saying he’d crawl over broken glass to get back to Everton and we were all overjoyed in the summer of 1982 when Howard Kendall swapped him for Peter Eastoe.

Indeed in 1982-83, he was on fire until he was crocked by a horror tackle by some Sunderland no mark in the March. He was never the same player after that.

Since retiring King had a career in the lower divisions. He was manager at Mansfield for a bit and coached and scouted elsewhere.

Apparently he still gambled and certainly looked like he still bevvied.

He’d had a previous heart attack before he was taken last week at the criminally young age of 58.

RIP.

June 05 Hundreds of Blues, many of a certain age, lined the streets outside Goodison and St Luke's for Andy King’s funeral

yesterday. The funeral was attended by many of his team mates from the 70’s and early 80’s and was a fitting send off for an Everton legend.

Later on, Everton announce the first signing of the summer and it’s free agent Tom Cleverley fresh from his season long loan at Villa.

Looking at Villa fans forums there’s plenty saying good riddance but the majority seem to think he’s been one of their better players and that it’ll cost decent money to replace him.

It appears that Cleverley was, like most of his team mates, poor during the latter days of Paul Lambert’s reign but improved immeasurably when Tim Sherwood took over as Villa boss.

Cleverley seems very much a confidence player and it’ll be our job as fans to give him our backing.

I think a lot of people might be pleasantly surprised by this one.

Hopefully there’ll be a few more to follow.

June 06 One person who was conspicuous by his absence from yesterday's funeral was Bill Kenwright. Normally Bill would be all over something like this as he clearly has a huge affinity with all of the ex players.

Hopefully the growing rumours about the chairman's health are just that, rumours.

ticket sales for next season are very close to last season’s figure.

June 07

Incredibly almost 27000 tickets have been sold for next season already, which I find astonishing.

The Blue Union seem to be active again, after a three year absence. Maybe if they hadn’t scaled down their operations when things seemed to be looking up for the club and didn’t constantly talk down to people, they might be taken a bit more seriously. There’s certainly nothing wrong with fans holding the clubs hierarchy to account.

What people object to is being called an ostrich and being guilty of accepting mediocrity when they don’t agree with the BU dogma.

What they have done recently is hold the Echo to account for their concentration on the other shower over the past couple of years. For that they should be applauded.

In other news, Kevin Mirallas is apparently interesting Monaco. I for one, wouldn’t be surprised to see the departure of the Belgian striker this summer. He would be a massive loss.

June 08 Everton announce that season

In other news, Everton set some club record or other by having five players represented in yesterday’s snooze fest between Ireland and England. Jagielka and Barkley came on for England, whilst Coleman, McCarthy and McGeady turned out for the greens.

June 09 The big story today comes with twitter rumours that James McCarthy has put in a transfer request. The club quickly deny this, but it’s clear that there’s something going on.

There’s been rumours for months, no doubt emanating from McCarthy’s agent that he was given verbal assurances by Martinez that McCarthy would get a new offer after his first successful season at Goodison.

No offer has ever been forthcoming, hence the disquiet.

Everton need to sort this out quickly, because McCarthy is one of the most important players in the squad.

Let’s hope he can sort himself out.

June 11 The silly season is well underway. The Mirror have got onto the McCarthy story (again) whilst Roma are apparently keen on Lukaku.

Meanwhile rumours persist that Gerard Deulofeu is on his way back to Everton. We’ll see.

June 10 In common with all Premiership clubs, Everton issue their retained players list.

From the senior squad, there are no surprises, with Atsu, Lennon and Henen back at their parent clubs and Distin and Alcaraz released.

Sylvain Distin will be fondly remembered as one of David Moyes best signings.

Signed in the aftermath of Joleon Lescott’s messy departure to City (on the day my son was born), Distin was the perfect replacement.

Fast, powerful and built like a brick shithouse.

The big Frenchman was the model of consistency for 6 years before his well publicised wobble and fall out with Martinez last Autumn.

Sadly, it would appear the old father time has caught up with Distin. Some fans will no doubt never forgive him for his horrible error in the 2012 semi, but I will always have a soft spot for a proper Everton centre half.

Antolin Alcaraz, meanwhile, won’t be missed by too many.

Already some fans are including him in all time worst Xl’s which to be fair is a bit harsh. Alcaraz, will always be tainted by some for his past association with Martinez and more to the point Wigan.

In truth, much of his time at Goodison was spent on the treatment table, whilst his sporadic first team performances went from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Against lower division and out of form teams, the big Paraguayan gave a passable impression of Franco Baresi.

Two games against QPR in the FA cup and Newcastle last season, immediately spring to mind.

Unfortunately against anyone decent he looked like me. Who could forget him floundering all over the place as Sturridge and Suarez made merry in the Anfield derby of 2014 and that’s before you mention Kiev.

From the younger players the biggest casualties were John Lundstram and the much vaunted George Green.

Lundstram has been on loan to half of the bottom two divisions over the past couple of years and a free doesn’t come as much of a surprise, whilst something's clearly gone wrong with George Green.

When George was signed from Bradford, a few years ago, he was hailed as the future of British football, however a lot can go wrong in your late teens.

Rumours suggest a poor attitude and other more serious issues.

June 12 Some sad news today as fans website Bluekipper announces its closing after 15 years. To be honest Kipper wasn’t somewhere I frequented and I must admit I didn’t get a lot of the content.

However it was clearly very popular with a great many Blues and the lads who run it are lovely fellas. Proper Evertonians.

June 13 Its McCarthy and Coleman v Naismith in the big Scotland v Ireland clash. The jock with the social conscience will probably be the happier as Scotland pinch a 1-1 draw at Croke park.

Neither of them will qualify anyway.

June 14 None of the Everton players feature in England’s 3-2 win in Slovenia.

Apparently this doesn’t stop some Villa fan on Talksport blaming Jagielka for the first goal and he’s not corrected by the clueless host. You get the media you deserve.

Hopefully he can turn his career and if the rumours are correct, his life around at Boundary Park.

In other media shite, this week Stones is off to United, McCarthy still wants out, whilst we’re signing Deulofeu, Podolski and that Egyptian winger from Hull.

More shite as we have it.

June 20 Today was the launch of the new kit and by most accounts it seemed to go off a bit smoother than last year.

June 15 The rumours about the return of Gerard Deulofeu appear to be gaining momentum with the Spanish press reporting that he will be signing for approx £6 million Euros.

Barca are supposedly insisting on a buy back clause. I’ll believe it when it happens.

June 16 Well it looks like this Deulofeu thing is happening with just about every news agency reporting that we’ve agreed a £2.3 million deal with Barca that’s expected to go through in the next few days.

Apparently there were some issues around sizing but at least they had plenty of stock (well our 2 got sorted anyway).

Apparently the first 200 visitors to Everton 1 got a free breakfast as well.

Romelu Lukaku heading to Man United.

June 19

Really the club never gets the recognition it deserves for these type of gestures. Well done to all concerned.

Phil Jagielka has signed a one year contract extension which will keep him at Goodison until 2018.

June 21

Monaco are rumoured to be stepping up their interest in Kevin Mirallas who would be a huge miss if he left.

The skipper has player for Everton dodgy spell early looked like he was to his best as progressed.

June 17

In other news, freed starlet, George Green has signed for Oldham.

Apparently both have got real problems in meeting the home grown player criteria put in place

by UEFA, so you can see why they’d both be interested in the best young centre back in the Premiership. If he does go it’ll be for a lot of money.

If it does come off it will be a remarkable piece of business.

In other news,

The fixtures are released for next season and the Blues start with a tricky one against newly promoted Watford at Goodison.

In truth, the first couple of months look pretty daunting with us facing all the top teams, seemingly one after the other.

been a top and after a last season getting back the season

A few of the Sundays have got John Stones on his way to Chelsea or Man City.

The other big news today centres around the growing rumours that Luke Garbutt is set to sign a new 5 year contract with the blues before being loaned out for the season to a premier league team., possibly Bournemouth.

The Goodison derby meanwhile, is scheduled for my 50th birthday. Ace. Let's hope they fuckin move it.

The Echo, as with the ongoing Deulofeu story have gone big without any direct quotes which suggests they are getting the nod from inside the club.

June 18

If it comes off, this is again, excellent news.

John Stones will miss the first two of the England under 21’s games in the Euros after being concussed in training. Today’s spurious transfer link see’s

The diary continues on page

My Little Lad Said My little lad said "Everton" for the first time today.

I think it might be my age or perhaps the lack of football but for a moment I wondered whether it was right to force this onto him, but then I pondered how I would feel if he'd said "Liverpool".

Actually I'd have been more worried if he'd actually said, "Looprevil" because it's a poorly publicised fact that all first born reds speak backwards until the age of three.

It stems from a meeting held in early '66.

The scene: A sinister looking office block on the crossroads of the Road to Hell.

Receptionist: Mr Shankly, Beelzebub, The Dark Lord and King of all Evil will see you now, please come this way Beelzebub: Alright Bill, what can I do you for?

Shanks: Now listen here, son, I want to strike a deal with you son. I want you to ensure that we win a load of pots and goblets and trophies and shiny things over the next 50 years, son, and in particular we do it in a dead spawny manner. You know, dodgy decisions, improbable comebacks, balls that don't cross the line, defenders who can use their hands, that sort of thing, son.

Beelzebub: (adopts faux-cockney accent) ... *sharp intake of breath* ... It'll cost you guv.

What you offering?

Shanks: Well, son, I'll offer you all the first-born reds as hideous creatures of evil and wrongdoing for the next fifty years, son.

Beelzebub: And ugly too, don't forget they must be ugly. Anything else?

Shanks: Ok son, I'll chuck in Tarby, Cilia, Chris De Burgh, that Irish dick off Radio One and that other blert off Radio One too, that Spoony knobhead.

Beelzebub: *reaches for phone* ....Is God there? .... Alright big man, I've got Shanks here and he wants to do a deal. ..he says I can have all the ugly red first-born and Tarby and all that

lot if you let them win a few things ..ok.. right..I see... hold on a sec.... *covers phone and turns to Shanks*... he'll agree but only if Everton win a few things now and again ...*back on phone* Ok big man it's a deal. Are you still alright for golf next Wednesday? Nice one. Say hello to Jesus for me. See ya.

Shanks: Thanks for sorting that out son. I'll be back in to pick up that Emlyn Hughes I ordered.

By the way, I saw that Ramsey one going out the back earlier, what was that all about, son?

Beelzebub: Well they're going to win the World Cup but they can't win anything again for at least 50 years. See you then .... (Shanks gets up and leaves, door closes). *makes coffee bean shaking gesture at door* So getting back to me and Junior, I guess the next step is to start planning when he goes to his first game. I asked my dad when he knew it was right for me to go and he announced to all and sundry that it was when I could go to the toilet on my own. "But Dad, I didn't go to my first game until I was twelve." "Exactly".

I was actually five and my first game was against Middlesborough. We won 2-0. Latchford and Lyons, I think. Or possibly Dobson.

Everyone else in my year was a Red then. My mum thought it was only fair that he took me to Anfield as well just in case I didn't want to get left out. For the sake of marital harmony I went the season after to Liverpool v Grimsby in the cup. They won 5-0. I was more bothered about what was happening across the park. Everton 4 Aldershot O. Get in.

But is it right to subject him to it? Don't answer that. Don't even think about it.

Maybe it's the heat or the mindless trips to B+Q or just generally the modern state of football but I've been thinking a bit too much about why I go to the match during this summer. Don't look at me like that. I'm not thinking of jacking it in, I'm just interested in why I do it.

I'm sure if some clever psychologist got into the head of your average football supporter they'd be able to establish some theories about how it's a surrogate mother to us all or a replacement breast.

They might be onto something because I've seen some right tits play for Everton over the years.

But I'm not sure the reasons are quite so deep.

So why do I go?

It's not necessarily the winning or losing. And it doesn't have to be seeing us in big matches, although there's no doubt that some of my best days have been games like the Spurs Semi or the QPR game in '85, or Watford cup final.

In fact we're in a major drought at the moment of big games. If you look at all the current 92 clubs over the last 10 years, every single team bar 2 has at some point played in an important match Cup Finals or Semis (if you include the Leyland Daf or whatever it's called), Play Offs, Promotion winning games, that sort of thing. And the 2 left out? Us and Coventry.

Coincidentally our most 'important' game in the last 10 years was against them but I'm not including that because it was hardly great cause for celebration.

And it's certainly not down to any empathy or attachment I have with the modern footballer.

Practically all of them are money-orientated, clueless, disloyal, spoilt knobheads and if you kid yourself otherwise then you're a fool. Steven Gerrard was quoted as saying that prior to finally agreeing to sign his new contract that he "wouldn't want anybody else to have to go through what I've had to".

What's that Stevie? The trauma attached to trying to decide whether to earn £100,000 or £120,000 per week or whether to wear a blue shirt or red shirt to work?

And what else is he going to do on a Saturday lunchtime, afternoon, early evening, Sunday lunchtime, afternoon, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday evenings that's better?

Exactly.

So when his bladders under control it'll be "One Adult and One Junior, please."

Exactly.

Forza Everton Slim Sheedy

Oh you poor lamb. The day after he said this, 4 lads blew themselves up in London, killing and injuring a lot of people.

Hello, Stevie. This is the real world. It's over here.

So what can I offer the boy?

Well first and foremost it's a good day out. If I know I'm going to the match I look forward to it and, hell, I even get a bit excited. I'm 32. And there are not many other things that still do that to me. And it's not just the actual match; it's the beforehand and the aftermath. You know the sketch. Except you probably don't because you'll all do your own thing except for the bit where we watch the match together. Apart from those that can't get there on time, can't control their bladders, need the toilet for other activities or have seen enough already and are up and down like yo-yos all match. And always sit on my row. "'Scuse me mate, 'scuse me, sorry mate, cheers, 'scuse me, can I just squeeze past"

We love this fella. We want to take him home to meet our mum

SAY NO TO MERE GREEN Now listen here, you young fellows I really must take the custodians of this fine establishment we call Everton Football Club to task.

Please accept my apologies in advance if I appear impertinent but it really won't do anymore and something must change.

For some, discontentment with the affairs of the club has been simmering for a long time. Regular watchers will immediately recall the ridiculous shambles of a meeting in 1888 when the churchies complained again about club business being conducted on licensed premises and in a blatant attack voted not to spend money on the upkeep of the ground until a leasehold was secured.

Houlding stood firm and won the day but the churchies merely licked their wounds and vowed to battle on another day. Hence, this current rent dispute comes as no surprise.

It seems to me there's too much penny-pinching going on. There's more money in the game than ever and I've some sympathetic with the muchmaligned Mr Houlding. He has the right to ask for a fair rent for the super stadium he has built us from nothing. Yet the Organist and his choir of dissenters on the committee will not open the purse strings.

Instead, they are now proposing the drastic step of moving from our home at Anfield.

All over a couple of pounds. You really have to despair about the committee members at this club.

Every genuine supporters of this now great association football club must oppose the move away from our spiritual home.

If I may be so bold, could I through the pages of your journal present the following arguments which I believe show beyond a reasonable doubt that any move away from Anfield would ring the

death knell for our club.

First, I must raise issue with the proposed site of the new ground - Mere Green - where is it? Mr Mahon may claim that its "only a short walk from Anfield Road" but it's another world away. The site itself, though once a thriving nursery is now a virtual wasteland. And I'm convinced that the cost of transforming this howling desert into a place fit for Everton Football Club is surely many times the amount Mr Houlding seeks in rent.

That being so, it would appear to any gentleman of means and manners that proposing such a scheme is nonsensical.

Secondly, once the site is found, another issue becomes immediately apparent. The site is outside the city boundary of Liverpool.

I've always prided myself that despite our humble Methodist beginnings at St Domingo Church we have grown within a relatively short span of years into a club capable of representing the entire city.

In fact, sir, not only capable, we do represent the entire City of Liverpool as its only premier association football club. It therefore seems to me, absolutely preposterous to, at the time the game of association football is growing immeasurably to move away from the very place our supporters reside.

Granted there are some who claim that the good people of Walton-on-the-Hill are Liverpudlians, but the fact remains that the town, though in many ways is dependent on the Borough Council, it sits outside the city walls.

I am firm on the matter, moving outside the City of Liverpool would be a disaster for Everton. Any move to Walton-on-the-Hill or Wavertree or Fazakerley for that matter must not be considered for a single moment by the custodians of the Club.

Take the club out of tile City of Liverpool and it will be the end of us, Everton Football Club must always primarily be the team of the good people of Everton for our spiritual home remains in the streets of Robson and Havelock, in the terraces of the old St Domingo House Estate and that will never change. Please heed my warning, a move to Walton will leave our central supporters feeling abandoned.

Thirdly, I must also raise objections to the manner in which the churchies have presented their proposals for a new ground. To date, Mr Mahon has only produced an ink drawing in the Liverpool Football Echo entitled ''The New Everton Football Ground, Goodison Road". If Mr Mahon believes supporters will be persuaded to invest in a brighter tomorrow by a mere sketch then he has made a fatal error.

Anfield has quickly become a fine football stadium. For Everton to move away from what it has built is madness.

It also must to be said, sadly, that the design of the ground as shown in the Liverpool Football Echo hardly inspires the soul. The stands appear small and inferior to those already built at Anfield.

Maybe Mr Clayton proposes to house a number of his livestock there, I for one would not be surprised. Certainly, you won't find an Everton gentleman there.

The drawings show only a solitary boy on the terraces. That, I'm afraid might be the long and short of it as the vast crowds of gentlemen currently watching the club in comfortable surrounding at Anfield melt away when faced with buildings only fit for animals at Goodison Road.

Fourthly, another matter which, although trivial in some respects, must not be overlooked by the committee members is the matchday habits of Evertonians.

We are creatures of habit. We like of routines.

Woe-be-tide the man who suggests that change for change sake.

Hitherto we have attending football matches at Anfield for a good many years and our routine has become established. There's no shame in admitting that we are men of the world; lusty fellows who like to partake a beverage or two before standing out in the cold watching our heroes in blue and white stripes.

Thankfully, Anfield Road is blessed with a veritable oasis of fine hostelries - none finer than Mr Houlding's own Sandon Hotel.

Frankly, myself and my Everton loving companions find it unthinkable to go and watch our team without first sampling the delights of Mr Houlding best bitter.

It is with a heavy heart that I must report that Goodison Road, on the other hand. is at the edge of civilisation. There a few public houses on County Road but none where an Anfield gentleman would feel his pocket would remain unpicked by the unwashed rascals you invariably find up there. They would pilfer your stockings from inside your footwear.

In short, our entire Evertonian way of life is under threat. It won't do.

Faced with changes of such magnitude, you can rest assured that my companions and I to a man state clearly that we will not get two trams to the other side of Stanley Park. We would rather start watching a new football team.

Put simply, if Mr Mahon thinks he is going to move Everton Football Club to a cow shed situated in a little village outside of the city he is mistaken.

Verily, I call on all committee members to cease this nonsense immediately. For those who persist, I call for them to resign their posts.

Mr Mahon, Mr Clayton and Dr Baxter I implore you to tread carefully. You have been entrusted with the stewardship of our football club. We, the supporters, have placed our faith in you.

Consider how your actions will be viewed in a hundred years time. Do you wish for history to remember you as the gentlemen whose actions brought about the destruction of Everton Football Club. I beseech you to think again. Please settle your differences with Mr Houlding.

Dr James Merryfield

But the wine and the song, like the seasons...

N.B. Dear casual kopite reader: this article contains several, non-gratuitous, contextual, relevant references, directly and indirectly to Heysel. Read on or do one.

You're not going?

To that?

The 20th anniversary "celebration" of the 86 Cup Final? Thought not. Of course, it is for charity and I'm delighted Mrs Dalglish is progressing well in the aftermath of her treatment for breast cancer and I heartily applaud initiatives like the "Marina Dalglish Appeal" for, as doubtless loads of WSAG readers will testify to, cancer doesn't distinguish between kopite and Evertonian, and the end-goal of the campaign is to build a chemo and research centre in north Liverpool for the benefit of us all should we ever need it. And I commend the family Dalglish for using their profile and the clever initiative behind the arrangement of a 20th year re-enactment, at Anfield, of the 86 Wembley "fun" final.

Hope it's a great success.

Except I won't be going. But I will support it, via direct debit or whatever, but it's your party, so enjoy it - I just pity the poor Blues who "have" to go 'arr come on Jimmy the kids'll love it" and especially the lads who'll play in Blue.

So why do I hope most Evertonians give it the widest berth since Kenneth Williams tiptoed round Hatty Jacques after a jalfrezi? lzzit cos we lost? Izzit cos I'm still hating every mention of that awful afternoon - well week, actually - and dread the thought of anything other than that day being regarded in future as my worst Everton moment.

Well yeh. Partly. But much more. Because, and I've no hesitation saying this, it's impossible now, as a Blue, to partake in that type of cross park caper and anyone who thinks it is must be a fool or a kopite.

Things have changed. Immeasurably. Us and them just ain't the same "us and them" as in 86.

And while I hope things continue, edgily, on an upward curve since the lowest point of cordiality on record (so far), namely the "McCallister derby" of 2001, I'm not gonna help things improve further by waving a blue and red scarf to commemorate 86, however good the cause.

Call me bitter. Smart, that. Coz I am. But not for the reason - dear casual kopite reader (still with us?) that you think.

No, I'm bitter about the history lesson I'm about to deliver, especially as: 1) we all know that we've "got no history" as you told us at the Goodison derbies of 2001-03; and 2) you're obviously keen on "history lessons" as your banner draped over the Bullens in 02 testified to, replete with reminders about 84, 86 and 89 written in that unique poetry (sic) you have.

When I first wrote this piece, immediately after the McCallister derby, it ended up 23,000 words (kid you not) and I decided it was too long for WSAG, even serialised.

I then attempted to edit it (own to about 17,000 words.

Then I stiffed it. Because I realised it lived somewhere between a book and a WSAG piece and was no use as either. But there was simply no way that I could leave any bits out.

It was the sum of its parts. So having performed my own therapy in writing it, I let it gather dust.

team to win a Mersey derby at Wembley?" (oh yes we were!).

Until I heard about this recreation of the 86 Cup Final caper. Could I, possibly, boil it all down?

No, it's a significant game because it's the only "biggee" we actually won.

Well here goes. having taken about 400 words already!

Yep, let's run through that list of major derbies again must we? - for the record.

There's no doubt that there ever was a "friendly derby". Despite the fact that there were always fisties if you wanted. The tag ''friendly derby" didn't just exist in media minds. It was real.

1950 1971 1977 1977 1984 1984 1984 1986 1986 1989

Fittingly, you only have to see the footage before the teams emerge at the 86 Cup Final to see so.

It's the only bit I've retained on VHS. The whistle goes and then, suitably, a Hancock episode appears. But if you watch that footage now like I did yesterday - then I've no doubt that, even those who were there, will be gob-agape at just how much the blue and red love-in was in full swing and how things have changed in 19 years.

For a full fifteen minutes the footage shows "Merseyside" singin in full gusto and, save the actual Blue and red designated ends (but even these were well mixed), the rest of Wembley has literally got a purply cast because it's Blue by red, by Blue by red.

And it was pretty much the same three years later. In fact it was pretty much the same three months later at the Charity Shield. Much like at the previous "Grobbelaar" shield in 84, and at the Milk Final in 84 and indeed at Maine Road in the replay (gosh - mixed specials chuggin past Patricroft!). In fact it was so at the two Maine Road semis in 77. And indeed at Old Trafford in 71 and, by accounts, the semi in 1950.

That aforementioned "Grobbelaar" shield reference though is the most significant in the above litany, not merely for being the game that stumps kopites when asked "who was the first

FA Semi 0.1 FA Semi 1.2 FA Semi (1) 2.2 (ahem) FA Semi (R) 0.3 Milk Cup Final (1) 0.0 Milk Final (R) 0.1 CS 1.0 FA Final 1.3 CS 1.1 FA Final 2.3.

So that's PLD 10, W 1, D3, L6, F-8, A-16.

Cups lost 3.

No progress in any semi.

Just 1.5 Charity Shields to boast about.

Woeful.

By all accounts, though, there was hardly a sniff of trouble at any of those games.

Strange that.

Considerin we're all bitter Blues and it's our fault we've "wrecked" the "friendly derby". Well, if in fact we have wrecked it, which we haven't, then it's probably fair to ask who created it in the first place? Oh, yeh, forgot, it must have been the kop-funsters - yawn - couldn't possibly have been us.

Those games from 86 onwards, though, are like a sore thumb. I mean, consider the mindset of Blues going into that Lineker final. Long-term

Each time we came through.

And the videos prove it.

Then we were tested again three years later.

Yeh, somewhat different circumstances, but they were up for that final as much as us by the time it came. But in any case, we'd risen our Blue heads high with our response to Hillsborough and they rightly acknowledged it at the "berrlers down" Goodlson league derby in late April. But we'd been tested again and once more we proved our honour. memories from 1950, recent-term memories from 71 through to 77 and 84, scores to settle all over the show.

And then there was that little thing called Heysel a year - YEP ONLY A YEAR - beforehand. And of course, the previous Saturday we'd only gone and surrendered the League to them.

Recipe for a kick-off, wouldn't you say?

Especially in the hoolie-fest 80s. But there we were, one year on from Heysel, and one week on from watching them clinch the league, and just two years since losing the 84 Milk Cup Final and, and, and, and...and whaddya know, there we were snuggling up to them.

Not only that, and very few recall it, the first post-Heysel derby was actually in August 85, three months afterwards, for Phil Neal's testimonial (we won 3.2 and it was a full on final pre-season game) and there wasn't an ounce of argy-bargy in The Arkles.

Not only that, there we all were (except Peter Reid) the day after the Wembley 1986 pain having to endure a nightmare of a joint bus tour as they paraded both trophies.

Any major grief? Hmmm.

How bizarre then, in our Heysel-tinted bitter Blue glasses we didn't spark. All the above is in our locker. All badges of dignity. all unwanted of course, but that's not the point.

We've been tested.

Tested. Tested time and agaln (and then sorely tried.

Yet we're now "Bitter Blues", Eh? How so? Well this is the bit where it takes 23,000 words to dissect. So rest assured I won't - but every nuance Is recorded for history and posterity because we all know how our loveable Stalinesque revisionist friends like to rewrite history.

Save to say that the "friendly derby" limped til about 93.

But way before then the Heysel denials were in full force and the arrogance along the lines of "so it was our fault you signed Neil McDonald was it?" really began to ungraciously emerge.

And the airbrushing started. And of course they waltzed back into Europe ahead of the rest of us in that utterly divine right way of theirs, and there was never any attempt to have an annual silence at the pit for Heysel at the last Anfield game of the season (they explained this on a technicality because with the anniversary being 29th May it's too late for the domestic season).

And whilst all this was going on, their glory days started to wane and, oh dear, what came over the hill? Why, Manchester United!

But of course while Captain Marvel started liftin pots down the Lanes, kopites were busy building coffins to carry down Scotty to celebrate us going down in 94; those, that is, that weren't congaing around Villa Park. Ho-hum.

But of course they all "supported" us in 95 against the Mancs. But then got the biggest shock of their arrogant lives in 96 when we cheered Eric to the rafters. So then we became "Old Trafford West".

And it all got messy.

And so, it just reached a point sometime around the millennium, hastened by the likes of Fowler's snortin, Barmby's move, and Houllier's well-aimed "mon dieu what have I said now" frequent comments.

And the average Blue, like a dog that's been hit and hit and hit with a stick in the grid. finally just snapped and told its so-called "master" where to get off.

As much as I've got time for Shankly, can you ever, ever imagine an Everton manager comin out with his "two teams - reserves" ditty and his "bottom of the garden - curtains" belly laugh and it going down as loveable folklore?

Whaat?

Let alone our captain coming out with the diatribe that Spewes did at St George's in 77!

But there's so much more isn't there? And it all just got to a point where we realised that the joke had been on us all along, the friendly derby was actually all one way, it was all on their terms.

Once the Mancs came onto the scene in the early 90s and Liverpool's star plummeted they could only lash out one way - at us.

So we'd retort with a laugh about what was going on down Matt Busby Way and then it would get really nasty.

No, sorry, We don't need you and doubtless you've never needed us.

Fair dos.

I'm happy now just to co-exist.

But I don't do the mixin bit, the alehouse or office banter, anymore. And if that makes me bitter, well "whatever", cos I don't give a toss and more importantly I know the truth.

Yeh, the friendly derby was real. Once. And we were its main architects. Fact.

We've been tested time and again and came through it all with flying colours. They haven't been tested once and I'd wager things wouldn't have been so "friendly" if they'd have experienced the truly woeful major derby record that we sadly racked-up and if we'd have edged them to the League and Cup within the space of seven days then I'd have liked to see how many of them would have turned out for a trouble-free 86 bus tour.

But then, we'd already seen their true colours with Dalglish's post match comments a day earlier. Coming just two years after Kendall's post-Watford final "Merseypride" calls for Liverpool to do the bizz against Roma the following week, when he even had a "hard lines" thought for Tranmere who'd been gubbed by Hull the previous night in the Northern Section final of the Associate Members Final, before travelling back with Paisley and the Cup to Broad Green, the loveable "King Kenny" showed his true grace.

Asked if he had any sympathy for us, he deadpanned "well, they'd have none for us".

Check the footage.

Now he wants us to pitch up at Anfield in our Lineker bibs (did we really start selling these as retro gear a year or so back?) to sway along to the memory of Wembley 86.

Nah, do one Kenny lad. I know my history. Oh, by the way, the cheque's in the post, keep up the good work, more power to you.

Greg Murphy

NEIGHBOURS (Us and Them) Round about February time, I made one of those throwaway comments that those of a somewhat gabby disposition, like my good self, are oft heard to utter.

Now being from the North, yet living in the Southeast (near Cambridge to be precise, just to the west of six toe country), I sometimes feel my work colleagues have yet to fully grasp the 'tongue in cheek' quality of northwestspeak.

The true ramifications of the comment made, will become apparent at the end of this article, when I imagine there will be readers of this nodding sagely, thinking that they too were guilty of similar such sentiments (nice bit of alliteration there don't you think).

Likewise, I am sure the same readers will be able to relate to the preamble to the revelation of said comment that now follows.

The 25th May was a evening, and I thought forthcoming footballing, that would be Liverpool Milan.

very warm, summery this bade well for the televisual spectacular, getting snotted by AC

So, being the bitter blue I am, I headed down to my local, in the knowledge that it would be full of southern accented redshites, and let's be frank, the opportunity to see their crumpled faces, and the tears, was too good to be missed by just sitting at home.

They had dusted down their replica kits, or even bought new ones especially for the occasion, and I was sure that their faces would make for amusing viewing as the goals flew in. I had also made it known to most people in the pub, my opinion that under Houllier they bought French 'merde', whilst under Benitez they would simply buy Spanish whatever the word for shit is.

Benitez had gone some way to filling that prophecy, and it was with great confidence that I took my seat.

And so the scene was set. Within fifty-two seconds I was laughing like someone who has a very special reason to laugh. Maldini had ghosted past his markers and slotted in number one.

"Come on you Reds" they shouted, "Come on you Reds... and Blacks" I responded, all the time with a shit eating grin on my face.

This could however have just been a flash in the pan, a case of the teams settling in before the usual boring pattern of a final takes hold.

However the next forty minutes only demonstrated that the team playing against the Milanese were the fifth best team in England, as time and again they were carved to pieces by AC's superior passing and movement.

When Crespo pounced in for number two, I was thinking that this Liverpool team was quite possibly the worst team I had ever seen compete in a European Cup Final! Champions League, whatever the fuck it is these days. I would have fancied Total Network Solutions to play better than the Wimbledon like hoofing Liverpool were guilty of. I was absolutely revelling in it.

When the glorious pass from Kaka was swept home for number three by Crespo once more, I could contain my mirth no more. I burst out from the side and stood in front of the big screen laughing for all I was worth, The threatening and contorted faces of the RS was a particularly beautiful site.

For the intervening fifteen minutes, I made a point of going up to every single Rednose I knew and asking them to "talk me through the half".

Normally I have to retort to "do you even know how to get to Anfield?" for an easy wind up, but this was so much sweeter.

And so after fifteen minutes of the kind of joy only sex is meant to engender, I settled back for what I expected to be the highest defeat of any team in the European Cup Final. But then they are not called the Dark side for nothing... I began to discover that the more shit-faced I got, the more THEY came back into the game. I should have stopped drinking when "Stevie" as they all call him In that almost homoerotic fashion, pulled one back. But even at 3-1 they were still playing percentage football... you know the sort.... kick it and hope It goes somewhere good.

enticing hint of an epilogue. The following day I arrived in work to much merriment.

"Yes the fuckers won, so what, big fucking deal".

It was at this juncture that I was taken back to the throwaway comment I had made. "Do you remember", piped a Chelsea fan, "what you said when all the talk was of Everton failing to make the Champions League if Liverpool actually won it?"

"So what? Uefa have said we are deffo in.

Arsed" "No, do you remember WHAT YOU SAID, bearing in mind it was before Liverpool played Juventus and Chelsea ...?", slowly, a feeling of impending dread enveloped me, as a dawning realisation started to focus into view. I knew it was not good, whatever I had said.

"Errrr....not really no... " "You said, in front of at least seven witnesses, that you would eat your own shit in a bap if Liverpool won the Champions League."

Two minutes later Smicer got another for them, and even though befugged by a Guinness haze, my face must have registered some concern, because I was pounced on by virtually the whole pub.

By the time Alonso got the third I was beginning to hatch plans to get out of the pub without anyone noticing.

However being in a minority of one, in a pub of about 150 people wanting the RS to win, this was going to be difficult. For the time being I would have to stay, get absolutely pissed and hope the pain would subside.

Full time was my hope. Surely Milan would get off their arses, get their act into gear, come out and finish this useless fucking second-rate spawn of the devil team off?

Liverpool once more resorted to the long ball again whilst Milan looked as though they may click once more. However when Shevchenko somehow contrived to hit it at that jammy beaut in goal, not once, but twice, the writing was on the wall. Fucking penalties, blah de blah, cunts jumped me, blah de blah, haven't been back since.

But this is not the end of the story, if you remember there was a prologue, with the

Bad enough you might think readers, but that was not all I said... "You then went one step further and said that you would eat your dog's shit in a bap if Liverpool won the Champion's League". This bombshell, on top of the hangover that had meant I slept outside my front door the previous night because I couldn't find my key and my wife had taken the batteries out of the doorbell was too much to bear. I spoke of flippancy, of being outrageous for the sake of it, of it being a joke but the fact of the matter was, I had considered it the safest of bets.

All they saw in front of them was a shithouse with the integrity of Wayne Rooney, Barmby, McMahon et al. Now these fuckers were expecting me to honour it! I used to be viewed as someone admired for moral fortitude and my leftwing leanings. I am now seen as someone who fails to honour his bets.

I fucking hate Liverpool FC and all it stands for, and I am fervent in my belief that the team that won on 25th May 2005, is without doubt, the worst team ever to have won the European Cup. Let Moyes' Boys put it right for me. Let's knock those red turds out of the competition this year.

Now where did I put those bread rolls.

Syd Barrett, Cambridge

FIGHT or FLIGHT "I explained with some embarrassment that the work had been dismantled because I'd thought there was no further use for it" - Michael Nyman.

"Why doncha?" asked the school-friend (a Nogsy kopite) I'd met through Friends Reunited.

Catching-up, in The Midland boozer in 2002, 18 years after he boarded the 61 outside what became Curtis Warren's gaff (for a while anyhow) whilst I headed-off down Blackmoor Drive with notions of ditching my ornate Cardy Allen blazer for Ihe lasl time 10 perchance an underage Greyhound bevvy, it dawned on me that my (re)acquaintance was pleasantly surprised by me.

He didn't say so, but it was obvious that since he'd gone to London, virtually straight after school, he'd had little interaction, beyond his family, with his native folk.

He'd fallen for the whole London thing from his first 'mind the gap' and he loved it so much that he declared it his "spiritual home".

He'd obviously stayed a kopile but apart from attending a few home games each year, each time catching the limey-taxi-Kemlyn-taxi-limey direct-return express that so many of them do, his view of his "real home" was still crystallised in an amber strata formed way back when Everton were about to explode.

He couldn't really articulate as to why he was pleasantly surprised with me, and I sensed the genuine spirit of what he was trying to say, knowing instinctively that he wasn't deliberately patronising me, but it roughly translated as "it's great you can string a few words together, can use e-mail. aren't on drugs, and appear culturally well-versed, but obviously not as much as me. and in fact you seem switched on enough to - I quote - "cope in London".

Gee ta.

"Why doncha?"

I rattled off the litany: now aged 35, got a home. a missus, Everton, me ma, allrightish career, and general contentment. Maybe 15 years ago but it's too late now.

"In any case," I said, "two things. First, "I've not spent 35 years finding my around this city, from Speke to Crosby, from the Pier Head to Kirkby to finally know where everything is only to suddenly transport my Monopoly iron to London.

"Secondly, I've not somehow negotiated the crapness of Liverpool in the 70s, 80s and (let's face it) 90s only to suddenly shoot now things are turnin."

I've earned this, I told him. We all have, those who, whether by design, accident, indolence or inertia, have stuck around in Liverpool.

Whilst I'm still not sure what "this" is about new Liverpool, or whether I like all of it (I mean, drinkin coffee outside where Jack Sharp's used to be - have a word!) you've got to admit, especially if you're circa 40 that it's now a better place. Yes it is, and you know it, so just admit it you contrary sod and get yer seven-notes Macedonian lager down yer miserable arse neck!

The Capital of Culture is well deserved in my view. Don't ask me why or how. Or what culture is (my eyes glaze). It just is. And whilst I'm scousely cautious like many, I'm pro the whole 2008 thing.

Which is why I sweatily grasped Kevin Sampson's edgily prosed "Liverpool - European Capital of Culture, 2008 Highlights" uber-brochure that accompanied November's announcement about "what's happening".

Before reading it, I knew the potential kop-bias that Sampson might flavour it with but I was broadly impressed that the decision makers gave the job to someone of his calibre.

Anyway. I thought, this brochure is for and about the whole city. My home.

Everton's home.

And generally speaking it touched the right notes.

But, of course, my Everton radar was switched to the full. It only took until Pg 3 to bleep.

Under the heading "A Flavour of Scouse", accompanying some quality Sampsonian copy. the designers (Finch, if you're interested) composed a collage of 1. the Beatles; 2 radios; 3. a ship, the river and Mersey skyline; 4. Cilla; 5. an Eric's flyer announcing Joy Division, Cabaret Voltaire and Stiff Little Fingers; and 6. you've guessed it a crowd of kopites of late 90s mingage.

Like countless other examples down the years (that "Museum of Liverpool Life" poster dominated by Emlyn, anyone?) it just made me yawn at the predictable bias.

Yeah, yeah, (dear casual kopite reader) I'm a real world Evertonian and I don't need a lesson in all things LFC as to why it gets profiled the way it does. But at the same time, this is an official Capital of Culture document which is basically telling one half of the city's sporting audience - whose only crime is to be the 4th most successful English team of all time but unfortunately have to exist next door to the satanically-backed trophy machine that is LFC that they don't count, at best, or at worst, aren't really a part of the city's heritage.

Furthermore. if this is "A Flavour of Scouse". then Evertonians clearly aren't part of the mix.

Stick us in Leeds, Newcastle, Nottingham, Bristol, Sheffield, et al and they'd shout about us from the rooftops.

But anyway, eyebrows raised. I quietly skipped to the next page. accepting that it "was ever thus" and wondered again for the millionth time as to why it's simply beyond their understanding as to why loathe them so much and why, in their words, we're perceived as bitter. Like derrrr.

So I flicks to the next page and I discover "token land". The Finch collage features a black cab (hey?), Mr Conteh, Mr peel, a copy of the front of the Echo with Gerrard holding "it" up, the Superlambanana and, tucked in the corner, the ubiquitous Dixie Dean statue with a Blue scarf tied around (which had obviously just been

Any chance of photo-shopping this door red, lads? bought by the photo-shoot art director because "we need to depict Everton and if he hasn't got a scarf no-one will know who it is"路 - betcha).

So at least we featured. And I could be churlish and muse as to what exactly the designers would have chosen to "depict Everton had we not commissioned the Dixie statue, which is now becoming the default club image for clueless meedja types?

Or I could be really generous and say that the montage was actually seeking a pictorial parity because the designers really knew that it's generally put around that John Conteh's a Blue (I've never really established this) and so they've got a famous Evertonian and a famous kopite.

Yeah. right. But it was also easy to spot that, rather than just churn out any old Peel photo they'd diligently searched for a particular one of him, quite young, wearing an old late 60s LFC big-badge "tee".

So it's only Pg 4 of the brochure trumpeting MY CITY, the city that Everton were FIRST in, and already this official showcase publication is smelling very, very kopite.

And any doubts that I was just being paranoid were finally dispelled when I read the end of Sampson's opener (still on "A Flavour of Scouse").

I quote: "So it's only right that, above all else in an impressive roll-call of qualities that helped land Liverpool the accolade of "European Capital of Culture 2008, was the appetite of locals to bring it home and make it work.

"Just like their football team in Istanbul, the Scousers really wanted It - and they're nobodies fools"

Their team? And they wonder why we're "bitter"?

So, anyway, moving on, the next few. pretty vibrant, pages (remember. this is a publlcation, which, if it wasn't for the fact that I'm a Blue, I'd be really impressed with and does the job nicely in a less-is-more way) are ships, more river.

Bleasdale, McGough, Bluecoat, FACT, St George's etc. And Sampson's text is spot on. As indeed it is as the brochure meanders on through the Biennial, the theatres and all that fringey stuff.

And as you'd expect, when the narrative reaches the "Royalty of Pop" section, he gets it spot on (McCulloch, of course, gets the big splash photo which wasn't surprising on two fronts: firstly because Sampson had already gratuitously name checked Villiers Terrace and secondly it's obvious that Mac can liven a page up far more than Heidi Range in her glitter-skimps or a saxed-up Abi Harding could, especially as he's soooo now).

And anyway, even I know I'm just paranoid here and that it's just a coincidence that Ian "I'm off ter see arry and the lads" McCulloch is a kopite.

Yeah, about as coincidental as the next, on the face of it, highly promising section, "The Pulse of the City", which namechecks the likes of Adidas Nastase, Lois and Jesus jeans.

But this ain't no casual, nostalgic, The End style trip for the luxurious sake of it. Oh no. Because it's as contrived a piece of kopite spew I've ever read.

support. Following the country's most successful team all over Europe in the late 70s picking up (sic) knitwear in Italy, sportswear in Germany and Switzerland, tennis shirts in France and the skinniest Lois and Jesus jeans in Spain, Liverpool's young dandies fashioned a look that seduced the UK, then the world."

Oh where, oh where, to start?

Well apart from the head-shaking kopite arrogance of it all, was that a little piece of subconscious edlting I spotted? Referring only to travelling around Europe in the late 70s? Early to mid 80s not something to dwell on, hey?

Yeah, that's right (dear casual kopite reader), this is the bit where Heysel crops up.

Unashamedly. Because I've not yet joined that band of self-silencing Evertonian volunteers who've done as much to create a taboo out of discussing Heysel as John Smith ever could. As long as it's in context, I'll never shy from discussing the events of that night (and yeah, I've read Scally, so I know the full drill) and its consequences and I never will. Not until I sense a proper alehouse acceptance from our brethren that the way they've sought to gloss over it all these last 20 years has been nothing short of putrid.

And the following Heysel reference is well in context. Why? Because the brochure makes it so, due to the glaring revisionism it seeks to portray.

And I quote: "All those bands with skinny jeans and flicky fringes; all those south London girls in training shoes and hoodies; all the office kids who blow their wages at Paul Smith and Nigel Hall and spend a fortune on e-bay tracking down rare Adidas Nastase sneakers (sic) - all of that has its roots in Liverpool's young, streetwise, travelling

I've referred to their unique backdoor PR talents before on WSAG pages as being positively Stalinesque, But believe me, even Uncle Joe would doff his furry concerning the last page of Sampson's editorial. And, if ever proof were needed that part of their shameless attempt to airbrush Heysel has been to grotesquely weave Hillsborough into a now distorted mix, then this is it.

But before we reach all that, there's still a few brochure pages to review and naturally there's a definitive section on sport.

Well whaddya know, under the heading "A Winning Spirit there's another montage featuring three photo windows: the Everton, the Tranmere and the LFC one.

Which is the biggest, kids?

Yesss, that's right, Hamble it's the Liverpool one, the bus-top tour one with Riissse and Steviegee

holding "it" aloft.

Combined the Tranmere ones the LFC window have fish supper

Everton and could fit into and you'd still room.

Curiously, the Everton image features one beaming Andy Johnson.

And given the sunshine bouncing off his pate as he's grabbed in celebration

by Lescott and Osman, it's a fair bet I know which game this was taken at. But guess which photo It's not? That's right, Little Ted, it ain't the "three fingers and a big fat 0 one" is it?

Beneath this page of lipservce imagery lies another Sampson tract but it's only 10 lines In depth. so surely he can't do any more damage...

Ooooh, there he goes again, forgetting it's meant to be an impartial review. Yep, he balances out some names when he trots out Shankly and Catterick, Latchford and Rush, Dixie and Liddell, and even "the-fat-lad-who's-dead-to-us" and Fowler.

But then the posturing is over and, having given the Evertonians "their bit", Sampson cranks it up, I quote "Among a treasury of sporting moments for Liverpool, the image of Steven Gerrard lifting the European Cup in Istanbul, encapsulates the city in its essence. Etched into his face are passion, euphoria and the realisation of a dream. These core qualities translate to sport at every level In Liverpool, qualities evident In the ultimate delivery of the dream or Liverpool becoming European Capital of Culture 2008."

Now allrlght, as I've alluded to earlier, I'm not blind to what we've got on our doorstep and I'm all too painfully aware that to an extent this city must do what this city must do when maxing Itself, And in the same way that I wouldn't expect them not to trumpet The Beatles, I naturally wouldn't expect them to give LFC the swerve "just in case we upset Evertonians".

But this is a 36-page showcase brochure and it's not until the penultimate page that the word "Everton" appears.

In fact, in the whole publication the word "Everton" only appears once, and that's in the same token passing reference that Tranmere

Fashion crazy kopites gets a check (oh, sorry, it's two if you include the photo credit to the club on the inside back).

So in terms of namechecks we're on a par with Pete Wylie and Melvyn Bragg and lagging behind the Adelphi, Gustav Klimt and, unfathomably, even "the fat-lad-who's-dead-to-us" who, the brochure seems keen to put forward as one of the city's still favourite sons (and, of course, Colleen and Curran also get checked).

So, obviously. being a founder member of the Football League, a club that's spent more time in the top night than any other, a club that's currently enjoying 53 seasons of continuous top flight togger, the 4th most successful in England, gets you on a par with Tranmere and some "wags".

And they wonder why we're bitter?

Now, that last page, the ultimate in revisionism, a history re-written and presented before the world, Sampson points to sport's "intersection with the arts" and states: "There will be a specially commissioned performance by the contemporary classical composer Michael Nyman that explores the intense pleasure and the excruciating pain of the European football culture.

The performance includes images of the greatest moments of European football (*) selected by fans across Europe. It will explore the incredible highs and terrible lows of Liverpool's (sic) journey. The piece will include music that Nyman wrote as a memorial to Hillsborough and those who can't celebrate 2008 with us, but who will be in our hearts forever."

performance on 15 June 1985. All other attempts to mount performances have failed through halfheartedness or, in the case of a concert suggested by the Bluecoat Arts Centre in Liverpool to 'commemorate' (Nyman's emphasis) the 3rd anniversary of the event, through its inappropriateness."

It would seem, then, that Nyman did indeed write Memorial for Heysel. So surely, the producers of Liverpool's leading cultural showcase brochure must be talking about a different Nyman piece when they mention the composition he'd written for Hillsborough?

Because they obviously wouldn't try to pass it off that he'd written a piece to commemorate Hillsborough when, in actual fact, it had been written for Heysel. I mean surely Heysel wouldn't be glossed over, would it?

Apart from five more lines - about the '"wags" that's the end of the brochure.

So, that piece Nyman wrote for Hillsborough?

They couldn't, perhaps, be mistaking it for the piece, called Memorial, that he wrote for Heysel?

I'll let the Guardian (April 3, 2005) take it up: "One low-key response (to Heysel) from high culture was 'Memorial' by Michael Nyman. This elegiac piece was performed once only, in a warehouse in Rouen, days after the disaster. It was described in the Guardian by Waldemar Januszczak as 'a small piece of atonement'. "It resurfaced as part of the soundtrack to the Peter Greenaway film The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover but has been forgotten or ignored by those who were at Heysel.

"Appropriately, Nyman's work, intended as a homage to the dead, has indeed had a greater impact in Europe, where one Italian critic described it as an 'inexpressibly sad and epic funeral march'."

Indeed, I quote Nyman's original sleeve notes for the piece, remarking on how he'd developed what was actually a pre-Heysel abstract into a fully formed, ready to perform, composition within a fortnight of the tragedy: "Memorial received only that single, highly charged,

Nyman's sleeve notes again: "I heard the news in the late afternoon of 15 April 1989 of the 95 (sic) Liverpool fans who had been crushed to death at Sheffield Wednesday's Hillsborough ground during the FA Cup semi final with Nottingham Forest. A few days later Jayne Casey from The Bluecoat Centre in Liverpool rang to ask me to perform the complete Memorial in Liverpool. I explained with some embarrassment that the work had been dismantled because I'd thought there was no further use for it."

What Nyman says next is telling. For he adds nothing, that's the end of the sleevenotes. He leaves that last sentence clanging. Make your own mind up as to what he's so eloquently not saying.

So let's get this right. Nyman wrote a piece for Heysel. Nobody wanted to know it. Within three years someone In this city deemed any public airing of it to be "inappropriate". So Nyman dismantles it. Then he's asked to perform it for Hillsborough, which he does.

So history is then re-written to record that his Memorial originated for Hillsborough. Heysel, hey, never heard of it? And then, 21 years later, in a brochure to celebrate its European profile, Liverpool's darkest hour is easily glossed over and, not for the last time, at the expense of this city's most tragic hour.

And somewhere in that whole mix, LFC has been spun around as a beacon of metropolitan pride and dignity and you can't help getting the feeling that the prevailing flip-side view is that people just wish the perceived embarrassment and nuisance that is Everton FC would just go away.

And I really start to think that the Park End fella at the McAllister derby in 2001 had it totally

Extinguish the flame.

Change the LFC badge.

Except, I don't want LFC, or this city, my home, to ever "move on" from Hillsborough.

That flame should burn eternally, so that no-one ever forgets what a vile afternoon that was in Sheffield.

spot-on when he finally cracked and shouted "what about Heysel?"

For in that whole Nyman Memorial shameless revisionism you've got 21 years of Heysel glossovers in microcosmic form.

The piece now stands as an apt musical metaphor for the most grotesque and sustained act of sinister PR this city has ever witnessed.

And this is the bit that really angers me. Because while I can see that in parading this city's positives you wouldn't exactly want to draw explicit attention to one of its darkest times, I equally, then, can't understand how Hillsborough features in the emotional narrative. For surely if you're going to mention one, later, tragedy you're morally bound to mention the other, earlier, one, especially in the context of a musical piece which was actually written for the first event and has since been co-opted for the second?

I mean, isn't that an open and shut case? Have I missed something? Evidently I have.

Because obviously this city, via the Finch/Sampson brochure, couldn't be signalling, implicitly, to the rest of Europe that we remember Hillsborough but not Heysel?

For I'm one of those Blues who knows the true Hillsborough story, who has read and re-read Phil Scraton's book (which, pathetically, even manages to have a dig at Everton along the way, but hey) and laments how so many people still perpetuate a one-eyed view that ultimately our red brethren were to blame. But it annoys me that I can't properly think about or reflect on Hillsborough because there's a nasty taste in my mouth about the Heysel gloss-over. And then it transpires that I'm "bitter"?

So, having digested the city's flagship brochure and received all of its explicit and implicit signals, what am I forced, as an Evertonian, to conclude?

Well just that, at best, we'll be tolerated. We can be a bit-part of it all. but as long as we sit quietly in the corner, do as we're told and only speak when we're spoken to. The city plans to start the celebrations with a public Nativity and, in relative terms, Everton's role in the whole 2008 parade is akin to the kid who gets cast as the donkey or the tree (no prizes for guessing who baby Jesus is).

So how, then, do I feel? Well, a self-respecting part of me thinks, "right sod yer" if we're not wanted here - and we're obviously not - we'll go somewhere where we are wanted.

So in that respect I can see more than see a case for us to give it the big "Hello Kirkby".

Soul searching, seemingly, over. Well, when did it start, Rick?

But I'm firmly against it and that's not just because of my GFE past and all the "sentimental, traditionalist, luddite" toss that disparagingly gets levelled at me. I've given Kirkby a lot of thought. A helluva lot. But I simply can't escape the conclusion that it would represent madness and, as well as playing straight into "their" hands, it would be the most short-sighted geographical, sporting and marketing move we could ever make.

So, obviously, by the same token, we'll have to "move on" from Hillsborough soon, certainly by the time the 20th anniversary comes along.

Yeah, it's only three miles down the road and all that (but that's three miles from Goodison, not the Pier Head). But that misses the point. And

Is this what Rick Parry meant when LFC drew Juventus in the Champions League 20 years after Heysel and he shifted uncomfortably on the spot before a barrage of TV cameras to declare that "it's time to move on - it's 20 years ago"?

the point is that we've held our own in this city through so many dark times, both sporting and non.

We've survived in this city, despite the odds, in a way that teams in Bristol, Leeds, Newcastle, Nottingham, Sheffield and yes, even Birmingham could only dream of.

And possibly we don't realise how much death defying oxygen we've been unknowingly given simply because of the very fact we're just a few footpaths and boating lake away from that behemoth over the other side of the park. The old despite or in-spite of argument. Even if we move elsewhere in the city, we might only then realise how much of an invisible driving force our proximity to them has been down the years (that's not to mention the bear-pit, square ground, close to players, atmosphere we can occasionally produce at Goodison when we need to, which I'm convinced has helped keep us up and, indeed, secured a Champions League qualifying slot these last 10 years). But we'll certainly realise a strange "absent", "can't put your finger on it" factor if we move to Kirkby.

But these, I suppose, are ultimately all abstract and certainty subjective personal arguments against a move out of the city.

What is fact, though, is that Everton, after holding their own in the city that we belonged to first, and having endured all the crap, are now seriously considering leaving it just when things are on the up.

Madness. Like it would have been madness for me to listen to my London tempting mate and finally quit the city just as a better day lay around the corner.

Part of me thinks that only Everton could practise such myopia-dressed-as-foresight and, lured by Tesco, casinos and bowling alleys, sacrifice our rightful place in a city that's finally about to achieve its European and world potential.

Because that's what I believe is happening to this city.

And another part of me thinks, "well we're clearly not wanted". But the biggest part of me thinks, "no, stand, fight, stay strong and defiant."

This is our city. We need to be visible and prominent within it. not without it (and yes, as much as I know that Kirkby is spiritually part of

Liverpool, it does matter that it's outside the city boundaries, just does).

Dare I say it, we even need to reclaim the Liver Bird, of which, aptly, there are two. I'm not joking! Put it this way, when I learned of that lame April Fools gag the club played on us the other year (sheesh, that's respect, hey) about the Liver Bird hologram effect on our shirt. I thought "well I've heard dafter ideas".

No, make no mistake about it. Everton are faced with a fight or flight choice here. There are plenty of people who will simply rejoice if Everton finally exit the City of Liverpool. It's what they've been angling at for years. And without actually coming out and saying so, it would seem that by some magic form of thought-transference the club and plenty of fans have now bought into it.

The "why don't you do one?" sub-text is weaved right throughout that brochure which reluctantly has to tolerate the existence of Everton on its pages.

So let's not give them what they want. And instead of working in spite of the prejudice against us, fuelled by negativity, we should strive purposefully and positively in this city of OURS to reach a day when the question for brochure writers and designers is not "where shall we put the token Everton reference?" but "how many pages to give to Everton?"

GREG MURPHY

RED AND WHITE SHITE Greg Murphy's excellent piece in the last issue (Ed - also reprinted in this issue - see pxx) outlined perfectly the frustration I feel about how Liverpudlian's try to grasp everything special about our city, for themselves.

For those who didn't see it, Greg wrote about the brochure written by Kevin Sampson about the forthcoming City of Culture. Apart from rewriting history about a piece of music written about the Heysel disaster and trying to pass it off as a Hillsborough tribute, Sampson also afforded Everton the same amount of coverage as Tranmere Rovers and for this pile of shite he was presumably paid a large sum of money from the various out of town luvvies who've been shipped in to tell us how to celebrate our own culture.

In terms of the City of Culture and the City's heritage, it's inevitable, that Liverpool's international success will attract a lot of attention from outside the area. Indeed I've heard it said many a time that to people from overseas, Liverpool is famous for The Beatles and Liverpool FC. Whether we like it or not, this is probably true to a large extent, but the fact is, the City of Culture is about the inhabitants of our city and at least half of those people, fuckin hate Liverpool FC. It's probably more accurate that as time goes on, the club that carries the City's name are becoming less relevant to the populace.

Of course when Liverpool play the pubs are packed solid with people who have probably forgotten where Anfield is, but it'd be interesting to know exactly how many scousers actually go to watch Liverpool.

Next time Liverpool are at home, spend a morning in town, you could be in Trondheim or Limerick.

Check out the amount of coaches parked near the ground. Laugh at the pop idol haircuts, earrings and accents, they're fuck all to do with the city of Liverpool.

As the saying goes, "you can't get the tlckets".

Why do you think them plums have set up that hilarious Reclaim the Kop campaign?

It also makes me laugh how to the public at large, the Liverpool/Man United game is now apparently more important than the derby.

Read any newspaper, magazine or TV feature on the wooly derby and you'll see comparisons between the two cities ( which is again rather ironic when you consider that well over half of the regular supporters of each team lives nowhere near their respective cities) and pricks waxing lyrical about the "traditional rivalry between the two cities which apparently goes back to the opening of the Manchester ship canal.

Again absolute nonsense from the Joe Stalin school of rewritten history.

To be fair the mancs have always been a bit scouse-obsessed but Liverpool only ever hate anyone who dares to win a few trophies.

Remember how they were with Forest in the late 70's and indeed how they are now with Chelsea.

Never forget how they were on the night of May 18th 1985 when Norman Whiteside's goal denied us the treble. The traditional "hatred of Man Utd" was conspicuous by its absence that night.

The main crux of this piece though, is how in recent years, the likes of Sampson and his red mates have also laid claim to the origins of our cities real influence on High Street fashion which came from the socalled Scally era of the late 70's.

Their argument, which has now become accepted conventional wisdom spread by the various fashion and hooligan books of the past few years, is that Liverpool fans started the trend by stealing expensive sportswear on their trips around Europe, when their team was lifting the

continents various silverware.

pieces

of

A nice theory but unfortunately not one that stands up to scrutiny particularly well.

Let's go back to the beginning and the origins of this particular phenomenon.

Its indisputable that Liverpool was the epicentre of a look that revolutionised the high street and while there may well have been Essex soul boys in 1975 with wedges and small groups of "grafters" in North Manchester in "Perry's and Harrington's in '78, it was on the Anfield Road and Stanley Park End terraces that the "football look- was nurtured.

Aldo leads the way in the fashion stakes. He's one cool motherfucker

Most people agree that the 77-78 season was pivotal with Peter Hooton in the book "Casuals" noting the lads with wedges, snorkels and Samba populating clubs like Checkmate and at Anfield and wait for it. ... GOODISON! At this point I can almost hear the likes of that Nicky Alit saying "Yeah well we brought it all back from Europe", again this doesn't stand up.

Look at any photos from that "glorious night in Rome" in 1977 and along with the chequered red and white flags all you'll see is denim and hair.

Liverpool's European Cup run the following season took them first to East Germany and Portugal neither or which would've seen many or indeed any travelling reds.

Let's face it if only 14 were up for West Ham they wouldn't have had many for Benfica would they?

Borrussia Monchengladbach in the semis saw a sizable reds following and reports of some pilfering but Everton had already been there the previous summer for a pre-season game, so who knows.

The following two seasons, taking us up to the 1980s saw both Merseyside teams in Europe and neither lasted long.

Everton's trips look them to Ireland, Czechoslovakia and Holland, whilst the travelling Road End dandies sampled the exotic shopping boulevards of Nottingham and the unreachable iron curtain wastelands of Georgia and Dynamo Tbilisi.

Not many pairs of Trimm Trab came back from those trips.

Indeed Dave Hewitson's excellent book "The Liverpool Boys are in Town", whilst suffering from the usual red tinted bias got it right with a photo caption of a load of young reds in Stuttgart in 1980. The caption reads "The liberation of Adidas from Germany begins".

The fact is that Liverpool's Euro triumphs of the 80's led to many young wags returning home with new wardrobes of exotic hard to source continental labels, but Everton's scals had their pre-season jaunts and by 1981 even the Mancs were at it.

The original look of 77路78 was readily available in Liverpool, even if you did have to hunt it out.

Snorkels and Samba were available in the big department stores and even myself as a 13 year old clueless second year had got on board by Easter 79 with a flick and a pair of straights.

At Christmas even the fatties in school were wearing Slazengers.

By 1980 it was a city wide thing, whether it was Hunter leathers, Kios or birds in pedal pushers and Kickers, it was something that had long outgrown the match.

The people of Liverpool whether red or blue were responsible for a fashion revolution who's influence still lasts today and no amount of Cockney, Manc or indeed Kopite revisionism will alter the facts.

Stan Getz

Reclaim the Kop Charter 1. We are only the custodians. The Kop is a spirit. Like whisky or gin.

But not a lager. Or a bitter. It's an attitude.

Possibly a bad one. But not "bad" as in the Michael Jackson "I'm Bad" meaning "I'm good" sense. It's the heart and pancreas of Liverpool FC. And it's spleen. And rectum. No one owns It. Well technically that's not true. And at the moment you have to be careful you don't bang your head on the big "FOR SALE" sign outside. And it might soon be re-named "The Jumeirah Beach hotel and Leisure Complex Stand".

2. There is no other Kop. Except for Sheffield Wednesday, Preston, Chesterfield, The Asda Kop at Tranmere, Plymouth, Colchester, Leeds, Preston, Blackpool, Wrexham, Sheffield United, Notts County and the Kop de Bolougne at the Pare de Princes. But still the Kop is a one-off.

It's unique and special. A bit like that kid at school with the Goldfish bowl glasses, speech impediment and smell of wee. It's the cradle of terrace culture (Hi-tee and Gola trainees), humour (eh lad, I've just pissed in your pocket, hehehe), songs (like that time we sang "You're arms have fallen off due to gangrene" by The Velvet Underground, to Gary Sprake).

We're the original 12th Man. Or 11th if that fuckin' Garcia is playing.

As Liverpudlians, Midlanders, Norwegians, Devonians, Yorkshiremen, East Anglians and Cockneys, we should never follow the rest of the country. Not that there's much left.

Whether that takes the form of crap chants, overhead clapping or bad hats, we won't do it. Instead we'll wave our flags, make our banners with stuff like "A cup of tea for our lions, and then on our bikes in the morning", wear our badge covered waistcoats, take a picture with our camera phones, wear our shirts over our jumpers and sing great songs like that La Bamba one. Oh and if anyone tries to disagree with you about anything just pull a funny face (not hard admittedly) and wave your five fingers about.

3. Some bollocks about us being proud of the team and them being proud of us and we'll support them ever more. Like we're the first people to ever think of that.

4. It's the law of nature that fans have favourites. Let's leave all that negative stuff behind and clap and cheer our heroes.

Unless that fuckin' Garcia's playing. Or that lanky twat Crouch. Or Pennant. Waste of fuckin' money, him.

5. Let's get into the ground earlier to wave our flags and stuff rather than have a pint and that. It's about letting the other team know where they are.

"Excuse me, mate, is this the Deva Stadium?"

"No lad, it's anfield."

"Oh shit, wrong ground".

6. That Kelvin Mackenzie is a twat. Don't buy The Sun, or listen to Talksport, or watch/listen to BBC. Or buy The News of The World.

Except for when Stevie G's book is serialised though.

Well he was practically skint when he signed the contract

so you can't blame him, can you?

7. It is our custom and privilege to welcome supporters from far and wide. Apart from them Mancs. Or the fuckin' bluenoses. And the cockney twats.

However If you're some small club that we draw in the cup and you bring 3000 for "your big day out" and we stuff you 4-0, then we'll give you a patronising round of applause at the end.

8. We always applaud the other team's goalie. How clever are we? Like there's probably no other set of supporters in the world who've every done that before.

Are your toes fully curled yet?

9. "LFC Supporters all over the world" - go on make your own punch line up.

However we'll also make some jibe about us being "truly the club of the people" because that People's Club thing has really got under our skin. To the extent where we'll phone the phone-ins and go "THE PEOPLE'S CLUB, WHATSTHATALLABOUT EH, CAN'T FILL THEIR GROUND CAN THEY, EH'EH?

WHATSTHATALLABOUT?" and then wipe the spittle off our chins.

10. When you walk through a storm, you get wet.

Half Man Half Lescott

First they came for the Scandinavians and I did not speak out because I was not a Scandinavian.

Then thev came lor the Irish and I did not speak out because I was not Irish.

Then they came for the woolies and I did not speak out because I was not a wooly.

Then they came for the ex Tranmeresupporting authors and I did not speak out because I was not an ex Tranmere-supporting author Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

Apologies to Pastp10 Pastor Martin Niemoller

april 15th, 1989 The following piece first appeared on whenskiesaregrey.com on the anniversary of Hillsborough. We make no apologies for reprinting it in the magazine. (And again some 11 years later.)

The date that stands out not only in Scousers' minds, but more importantly football fans minds, as the darkest day in sporting history in this country.

The day that 96, yes, read that again and think about the number, 96, lives were lost for the sake of watching a game of footy.

That stadium was a disaster waiting to happen.

In 1977 Everton played their first replay against Villa in the league cup final there, us kids were removed from the terracing and placed pitchside to protect us.

We also had the short bamboo poles out of our 'Wembley 77' banners confiscated.

The FA Cup semi-final of 1981 saw huge problems in the Leppings Lane with Spurs v Wolves and there numerous injuries due to crushing.

Only a few years later in 1988 In the FA Cup 3rd round Everton played at Hillsborough in the January. I remember going into that self same tunnel and having to turn back halfway along it due to the sheer weight of numbers it carried and the tightness of it.

It was much more preferable for myself and my friends to go and stand in the right hand open roofed corner in 90 minutes of drizzle than go in there.

This should have been a grim taste of things to come, but once again, the football supporter was treated like an animal and any complaints (of which I know there were many) were shrugged away.

The day itself I was at Villa Park with my mates to witness the longest ever goal to enter a net.

Pat Nevin's winner seemed to take about ten minutes to go in.

One of my males, Peter, was a Red but he preferred the craic with us, his mates. He used to come the aways with us an awful lot so he ended up jibbing a ticket for the game and going to Birmingham with the lads.

He says it was a decision which may or may not have saved his life, but he's never gone a day without thinking in some kind of guilty way that he should've been there in Sheffield.

The biggest memory I have of the actual Villa Park semi was the scoreboard in the right hand corner of the Witton Lane End as you looked from the Holt End, it read: "Liverpool v Nott's Forest, game abandoned due to crowd trouble."

And that was it, no more, no less. I don't know if making it a bit more informative would have helped or not but I do know that a lot of frustration went the celebrating Blues way that day, and to Tony Cottee in particular.

Something that was realised was a genuine misunderstanding of information available that afternoon after the game.

One of the biggest memories in the minds of outsiders to the city was the way the Kop was bedecked in tributes and flowers. It truly was a sight to see and I must admit to queuing up for a pair of hours with my young nephew to take a bimble onto the pitch to think a few thoughts.

This was perhaps the greatest

coming together of football supporters witnessed in England, especially with the disaster happening in the very violent times of the eighties.

My own personal issues lie with the reporting of this whole sad affair though. And yes I'll be the first to admit that The Sun and The Daily Star were an absolute disgrace in the way that it was reported (I won't mention the stories out of respect for the families), but for me it was the fact that cameramen from all the press actually sat there taking photos of children being crushed against fences for the sake of a newspaper sale!

I will never forgive the cunts of the British press for standing there for the first (crucial) 5 minutes of the disaster and not helping one sodding bit the poor folk being crushed. Shame on each and every one of the fucking scumbags, and I mean that.

For those interested, the twat who authorised the TRUTH' headlines was a man named Kelvin Mackenzie, he was the Ed' of The Sun and he went against the wishes of everyone at that paper and printed those stories (Yes, even the odious Piers Morgan). Mackenzie now runs 'Talksport' on the radio. Like I said, for those interested he's the cunt you ought to haunt From here to eternity, I know I will.

The ages of those killed is also tragic in itself.

Especially the younger people who naturally went

to, and still go to, the front of a football stadium: they were crushed first.

I know I'm the biggest pisstaker of all Liverpool FC stand for but In the name of god, we must be able to send our children to a game of football and hope they come home that same day. I have in-laws who are Reds and I wouldn't wish something like that on anyone.

The gallant grace that has pervaded in the likes of Trevor Hicks, who lost two daughters that day, and the Hillsborough Support Group, is a testament to what can be achieved through dignified, proper support and we, as Blues, and more importantly, football fans and human beings, will be there, standing alongside them, to the end. Of that I fucking well know.

If this sounds wishy washy in the clear light of day to you lot then I apologise, but I'm writing this from the heart, at 3 o'clock in the morning, after a small bev'.

"Justice for the 96."

Blue Vein Havana Ed. This was printed in the mag in 2004 and I believe it's a fair indication of the support given by Evertonians including WSAG during the Justice Campaign.

A little bitter this...

We've reprinted a couple of pieces already in this issue from Greg. Both kinda lead up to this, a massive, brilliant dissection of the term 'Bitter Blue'. We printed it in WSAG140, published in May 2008. Given the limitations of the old paper edition it was crammed in using text so small it hurt your eyes. Even then it was nine pages. We always knew that we would, one day, reprint it in our digital issues. That time is now and we hope we've done it justice.

We make no apologies for the length of this article. It is essential reading for all Evertonians.

In fact, if Everton history ever became a subject you could study to degree level, this is the seminal text.

There is a second part to this which we've also reprinted starting on pXXX. Finally, unfortunately some of the links no longer work.

Call me naive but might the “fury cross the Mersey” fallout (give us strength) ultimately be positive?

Because there was no way they were getting away with another one-sided episode painting us black and them virgin white.

Not that I’m saying Benitez’s latest post-derby myopia was a price worth paying (let’s face it, if he hadn’t whined then the media wouldn’t have salivated and there would have been no reason for EFC to issue a justified counter-attack and probably a few blokes with season-tickets at the front of the Kemlyn wouldn’t now be facing a ban - I presume).

Naturally they’ll claim they only got nasty towards Neville, Carsley, Yakubu and Lescott because we’ve admittedly been downright crass towards Gerrard for a while (despite the likes of WSAG repeatedly calling for it to be knocked on the head; it was only borderline amusing once the first time - and hasn’t raised a titter for 18 months).

No, we could well have done without the FSW pulling the pin from yet another grenade but seeing he did, well, maybe the spill-over might ironically help calm things, insofar as it’s definitely given us Blues a platform to expose a few home truths about cross-park relations.

You could go round all day debating the pingpong history of derby “banter”, though. But how many reds would accept that it all started when Shankly arrived almost 50 years ago?

The kopites haven’t liked the food-for-thought, of course.

Tough.

I’m not aware of anything other than sporting rivalry between both sides prior to December 1959 and there’s well enough evidence to show that many fans of either persuasion, despite firmly declared allegiances, would nevertheless pitch up at Anfield one week and Goodison the next: just to catch a match and probably a few ales.

Such custom was definitely still in place in December 1959 when he arrived and although there’s anecdotal evidence suggesting it was still in practice in the mid 60s, the truth was that it was already on the wane and all but dead by 1970.

Something changed, then, in the 60s. Wonder what?

could draw a bigger crowd than Everton can on a Saturday afternoon.”

- In at 4 there’s “Don’t Worry, Alan, at least you’ll play near to a great team,” said to Alan Ball after he snubbed Anfield for Goodison.

- Static at 3 it’s the famous: “If Everton were playing at the bottom of my garden I’d draw the curtains.”

- Up at 2 is the rectum wiping: “Give them these when they arrive, they’ll need them,” as he hands toilet rolls to the doorman ahead of an Everton visit to Anfield.

In the interests of fairness, I suppose Blues should examine whether Catterick was to blame for ruining the cordiality.

- And eternally unmoveable at Number 1 it’s the legendary: “There are two great teams in this city - Liverpool and Liverpool Reserves.”

On the basis that you can’t prove a negative it’s hard to say he wasn’t even a teeny bit culpable.

You could go on.

But given that he was infamously paro about courting media attention around Goodison, including his eventual banning of cameras in all but the rarest circumstances (and he especially gave Match of the Day short shrift when that started in August 1964 - which is why we’re so short of golden footage from that era) then it’s fair to say the clip-vowelled “Herry” was hardly a savvy media cat.

Indeed Brian Labone, who had the utmost respect for him, was never slow to point out how conservative (probably politically too) Catterick actually was and once quipped “we were lucky if he spoke to us never mind the press.”

The exact opposite was true for them, of course, and it was no coincidence that MOTD made Anfield its very first port-of-call right at the start of the 64-65 season.

Understanding the 60s media revolution far better than Sgt Major Catterick, Shankly became its whore, with the express intention of spreading kopitery as far and wide as possible and the fact it all chimed in with The Beatles et al was just a happy coincidence...or probably indicative of the depth of their Faustian pact.

A by product was the birth of that endless list of mirth known as “Shanklyisms”.

Cue Alan Freeman music: - At 5 it’s a barely believable classic from Dixie Dean’s funeral: “I know this is a sad occasion but I think that Dixie would be amazed to know that even in death he

And of course kopites do, even keeping books of these quotes by their bedsides in Chairman Mao worshipping style.

Try as I might, though, I’ve never found a little book of “Catterickisms” about Liverpool.

In short, then, the “banter” started over there.

And such was the don’t-rock-the-boat mentality in Tarby’s joke-a-minute 1960s Liverpool, that we had no choice but to “see the funny side” and enjoy the “gag”.

Before long, though, it had become the accepted order of things for Everton to be the butt of the joke regardless even of whether we’d win the League or the Cup. Catterick just didn’t hit back.

Not once.

Not his style.

Again, not our style.

Never has been.

Which speaks volumes. Yet somehow, somewhere along the way we ended up being “bitter” and they crafted some lofty self-anointing “Liverpool Way”.

Says it all. Cunt.

Whilst that’s laudable, it has to be conceded that he unwittingly helped foster the “one way only” banter mentality of your average kopite (which is precisely why they were completely fazed by a certain José Mourinho who was/is the closest I’ve ever witnessed to being Shankly reincarnate).

Okay, as much as Shankly’s über-toss can be filed under “harmless crap” there was equally no doubting it was the thin-end-of-the-wedge in terms of cross-park relations and there was always the danger that someone less articulate would misinterpret the acquiescence of the Evertonian collective and crassly skew the script.

Enter Emlyn Spughes with his infamously ironic: “Liverpool are magic, Everton are Tragic” nonsense in 1977 (and they go on about us being preoccupied with them even when we win...bleedin ell they were parading their first Yawnapean Cup when he puked this belter up).

I say it was an ironic quote for the obvious reasons, because, a little like Shankly’s “football is more important than life and death” quip, the line about Everton actually being the “tragic” ones hasn’t been lost on new generations of kopites and surely both of these misjudged Shanks-n-Spughes witticisms must make every last one of them squirm badly in their seats (there are even kopite attempts at academic essays out there now in the reflective postHillsborough era examining what Shankly “really meant”).

But them’s the stakes you play with when you have a big gob.

However, regardless of the impossible-to-predict, wincing ironies that lay in wait to make them consider how injudicious Shankly and Spughes were, I’m struggling to find equally infamous quotes directed towards Anfield from either an Everton manager or captain.

As far as I’m aware they just don’t exist.

Even more incredibly, in the aftermath of that Emlyn Spughes 1977 quote, for which he actually had to pen an apology in the first Everton home programme of the 1977-78 season (Notts Forest), we actually then had some of the “friendliest” derbies on record and just about the bitterest things we would ever trot out were “where’s your famous kop?” taunts and a deliberately juvenile straight from the playground attempt at post-irony (which was the point) “Kenny Dalglish is a Homosexual”. He isn’t.

Other than them hitting back with “Bobby Latchford walks on water - Bobby Latchford proves that shit floats”, it was all very, very tame fayre, certainly by today’s standards, despite some isolated fisties here and there and really it was no surprise that we ended up with the two so-called “Merseypride” Wembley derbies of 1984 (sic) not forgetting those rib-tickling episodes we witnessed during intervening years such as the two Court Jester dressed Blues who invaded the Goodison pitch to present Grobelaar with a clown’s nose in 1982. Edgy stuff.

In my view, as a 17-year-old in 1984, I judged the cross-park love-in to be the result of one thing only: Evertonians rolling with the punches.

If I’m being honest, it all used to make me puke.

It never sat comfortably with me but you just had to go with the flow. I was staring to question how deferent we had to be, though. Not that I wanted animosity either.

and indeed the ensuing years prior to Hillsborough was exemplary.

Indisputable, irrefutable, provable fact.

It goes without saying, of course, that our response to Hillsborough was equally stain free and indeed it says much that the very first game both Liverpool players and fans felt comfortable enough to re-emerge into following the 18-day mourning period they endured, whilst funeral after funeral took place across the city, was actually a Merseyside derby, at Goodison no less (!) a ground which was suddenly shorn of its “safety” barriers...and the “thank you, Everton” banner that the kopites draped over the Park End said it all.

Despite all that, though, despite how we’d participated in the two “friendly” derbies at Wembley in 1986 (just one year after Heysel, they should think on that) and even endured the “friendly” double bus tour around the city as they paraded the league and the cup behind us whilst we led the way down Queens Drive with, er, zip, it wasn’t too long after Hillsborough that things started to turn.

I used to wonder why the generations of Blues above me had been so accommodating to them and most often the answer I’d get back was “we’ll have our day again.”

And sure enough, “our day” duly came.

And quickly went.

Yep, here’s the bit about Heysel. Y’know, that thing, that event which, according to kopites, has been used and abused by Bitter Blues and is the sole reason, bar none, why we no longer have a friendly derby.

Utter bollocks.

I won’t list all the 17 derbies between Heysel in May 1985 and the “Hillsborough” Cup Final of May 1989 but there is indisputable proof that the events in Brussels most definitely DID NOT immediately prompt the death of the friendly derby.

For anyone who’s interested here’s a link http://tiny.cc/PostHeyselDerbyTruth to a meaty post I made to the blog of the Echo’s LFC reporter, Tony Barrett (who was solely responsible for bravely making the call for Z Cars to be played at Anfield last August in the wake of Rhys Jones’ murder) which should go a long way to nailing the unhistorical myths surrounding Everton’s response to Heysel.

The behaviour of Everton FC - and Evertonians in general - in the immediate aftermath of Heysel

And this was the bit which finally did it for the likes of me, then in my early 20s, and pretty much most Blues around that age and younger.

Many older Blues - but not all - were still clinging to the “all mates together” version of cross park relations but there was definitely an undercurrent that started to change things circa 1991/92.

And much of it was to do with two things: 1) a re-evaluation of Heysel; and 2) the emergence of Manchester United in the image of Alex Ferguson who not only had the cheek to be Scottish but was threatening to “do a Shankly” at Old Trafford.

New Year’s Day 1990, about 3am, was the first time I clocked that not only was it now taboo to even talk about Heysel but more sinisterly that the twin tragedies in Brussels and Sheffield were starting to morph into one in the red mindset.

A little like a previous Blue generation had accepted that, by 1975, the long-term promise of the 1970 championship side wasn’t gonna be fulfilled, so prompting the big “where did it all go wrong?” debate (the rough answer was the sale of Alan Ball), Evertonians circa 1990 were finally starting to accept that the remaining champions of 1987 (Neville, Ratcliffe, Sharp, Sheedy etc.) weren't gonna spearhead a new revival.

And so started a similar inquest to the one we had undertaken around 1975 as I used to sit in cars going to away games listening to the dads’ lament about Kenyon, Lawson and Lyons.

It was as natural as day following night that we had a similar inquest circa 1990. Why wouldn’t we?

It was as natural as kopites gathering together now to discuss why they’ll endure at least a 19-year wait for the fabled “No 19” to arrive.

Except, for some reason, the presumed powers that be in our city (i.e. kopites) weren’t happy with us having that debate back then.

Because part of it certainly not all and most definitely not the part about us signing Neil McDonald or Ian Wilson and failing to secure Peter Beardsley when we were the reigning champions - centred on Heysel.

“Oh here we go, fuckin Heysel again is it?” was the general refrain from reds in earshot. There was almost a police state ban on even discussing Heysel. This was just five years afterwards.

Ludicrously, you weren’t even allowed to point out that the ban had just as much an effect on them (and let’s face it, notwithstanding the imperious form of THAT Milan side in the same period, there’s no way their Barnes-BeardsleyAldridge-McMahon side wouldn’t have at least pushed them hard and in all honesty would probably have won at least one European Cup circa 1990, most likely in 1991...does anyone remember how bad that Red Star v Marseille final was that year?).

And that’s what irked many a Blue.

The ban about talking about “the ban”.

The total, off-limits nature of discussing Heysel.

Like I said earlier, I was already starting to tire of the one-way-only, red-dictatorship of this city by 1984 (it was such an accepted “natural order

of things” mentality that eventually saw Tommy Smith arrive at the Footy Echo as the resident answerer of readers’ letters - both red and blue and this went on for years and was just taken for granted!). Consider the outcry now if Prentice even dares to comment on Liverpool!

Like most Blues I held my peace and kept my counsel during all the post-Heysel years, particularly in respect of the fact that 39 people had died and frankly what had “happened” to Everton paled beside that.

But, in my view, many kopites traded on the fact that during the “banned” years they really, really didn’t get too much grief from clubs like Everton, Man United, Arsenal and even the likes of Oxford, Wimbledon and Coventry.

The reason they didn’t was that generally people were too mindful of scoring points over 39 corpses.

But by 1991 I’d really had my fill and regardless of how benign the older guard of Blues in the generations above me had been in accepting the post-Shankly “new order”, I certainly wasn’t about to doff my cap to my perceived masters any longer.

As long as it was in context, I’d talk about Heysel. I’d talk about Hillsborough too in order to correct any beauts, particularly from outside the city (e.g. Brian Clough - not that I met him, mind) who didn’t know or want to know the truth (Hillsborough: The Truth, by Phil Scraton, £6.99 through Amazon).

Similarly, though, I wouldn’t accept the hogwash that was Dalglish’s “Hillsborough fatigue” resignation excuse two years later, not when I’d seen him swiggin big time from the FA Cup in the Wembley dressing room in

1989 as they all sang “Scouser Tommy” complete with “we played the Toffees for a laugh and left them feeling Blue” just a month after the tragedy (check it out on You Tube).

And I certainly wasn’t alone in talking about Heysel.

You would never, though, hear a Liverpool fan ever mention Heysel. Hillsborough, oh aye. Heysel? Airbrushed. And it was all starting to become clear that there was a defined hierarchy of tragedies in the LFC mindset.

Yes, it’s safe to say that by 1991 “the denial” effect was in full swing.

By 1992, though, another ingredient had been added to the recipe that would ultimately poison the fabled “friendly” Merseyside derby.

Although they didn’t win the league that year but came mighty close and only fell at the last fence, at Anfield of all places, it was clear Alex Ferguson had finally got to grips with the comedy show Manchester United had been and it was obvious that at least one title beckoned if not a decade’s worth.

When United finally did win the league at, erm, the 26th time of asking (when even we’d chipped in with three during that time), two things suddenly crystallised in the mind of your average kopite: 1) this looks ominously like a United dynasty starting to take shape, especially with this new Sky thing calling the shots; and 2) Evertonians just don’t seem arsed that United have won the league, in fact they seem to be happy that anyone other than Liverpool have won it and in fact they’re finding it funny at how angry we are.

Yep, while they’d been busy gathering cups in the 70s and 80s and assumed that Evertonians were their cuddly scouse brothers-in-arms, the kopites had completely failed to spot that we just didn’t share the same bile-fuelled bitter hatred for a team that had embarrassingly just gone over a quarter of a century without winning the league.

We didn’t particularly like Manchester United, that’s very, very true (and this side of Fat Kid it’s even less so) but it never has and never will come anywhere near to their eye-poppin venom regarding all things Old Trafford.

Frankly, I could never understand their hatred for a team that for two decades barely represented a threat to their dominance. But hate them, with an all consuming passion, they did. Unlike Evertonians.

And not only was this a huge shock to kopites but it also represented betrayal.

Slowly but surely they were even starting to realise that when Liverpool played United in any fixture there was only one side we ever wanted to win...by a sackful!

Sacrilege!

Because, for us, it all boiled down to one thing: we’ve only ever needed one derby, one grudge match.

For some reason, though, Liverpool have always needed two (even when United farcically got themselves relegated in 1974 and were a parody of themselves every August from 1967-1992 as they’d proclaim how they now had the “last piece of the jigsaw” -- aka Garry Birtles -- and were finally “gonna win the League”...doesn’t that sound familiar?).

Bizarrely, since the arrival of Roman Abramovich and José Mourinho, Liverpool have now seen fit to need three derby games with the annual spats against Chelsea joining their ever expanding list of vein-bulging, bizzy-draining fixtures (and they call us bitter!).

So there we were back in 1993 and 1994 and the twin combo of Evertonians’ refusal to join in with the denial of Heysel and our perceived love-in with Man United, which led to Goodison being branded “Old Trafford West” for a spell, was just too much for your average kopite to take (although we hadn’t yet been branded “bitter” that handy epithet didn’t really come to prominence until 2001).

So of course they conga-ed around Villa Park in May 1994 when they heard we were 0.2 down to Wimbledon and heading for the relegation trap door (and why not? don’t blame them one bit but I do take exception to that fact that they try to make us out as the only hate filled ones) and indeed they quickly had to make firewood of that Everton FC coffin they were gonna parade down Scotty (not a myth - fact).

record but the moment their star started to wane things started to go a bit iffy?

Go figure.

However, although things were starting to get a bit tasty in Merseyside derbies, it was still the case that the games of that mid-90s period were still relatively venom free compared to today’s efforts; and frankly, regardless of the pantomime moments like Fowler sniffing the touchline in 1999 and gaffs like Flanagan's becoming an alefuelled boxing venue twice a season, they continued to be generally unremarkable at the actual stadiums until “McAllister Night” in 2001.

No doubt about it, that was the pivotal moment and unsurprisingly it all revolved around Heysel and Hillsborough.

That was the night we were perceived to have conceded the moral high-ground (although I wasn’t too sure) but it’s true that if you give kopites an inch they will take more than a mile and that, in a nutshell, is why they’ve acted in the butter-wouldn’t-melt way that they have since 2001.

In May 1995, though, things were a bit different because it was Everton v Man United in the Cup Final.

This really presented kopites with a dilemma and, comically, they all rooted for Everton with Gerry Marsden leading the way in the Echo wearing his Blue Nose (eh, Ged? wink, wink).

And the smirks from them when we brought the pot home and Old Trafford was left silver-less was just bizarre.

Fast forward one year though and this time it was Man United v Liverpool. And farcically we were meant to repay the “loyalty”.

Laughin.

Especially when Cantona lashed that one home prior to him being gobbed-on as he collected the Cup (that one seems to have been “CS Gassed” out of the picture too, now (*)).

Finally, for the first time, all the pennies had dropped for Johnny Kopite and he really didn’t like it.

Especially as Manchester United did indeed go on to dominate a whole decade.

Strange actually, isn’t it, that whilst Liverpool were conquering all before them for two decades we had some of the most cordial derbies on

If was almost as if they’d been waiting for us to “slip up” - in the way they perceive it - and almost as if they’d actually been uncomfortable with how non-judgemental we’d been in the immediate five or six post-Heysel years and how supportive we’d been regarding Hillsborough.

Because in the wake of Hillsborough and all during the 90s, they couldn’t really call us what they wanted to. Bitter. Because we hadn’t been.

However, in the wake of the McAllister derby it was proven that all it took was one broken minute’s silence for them to go high brow and us to be transformed into “Bitter Blues”. And so it’s been since.

But it’s worth looking at the reality of that “broken” minute’s silence at Goodison in April 2001.

Again it’s indisputable that Evertonians had stood respectfully for every silence for Hillsborough that we’d been asked to do during the 90s (and not just for Hillsborough but also for the likes of Matt Busby at Old Trafford and the more weirder silences such as that of Archbishop Derek Worlock at Goodison in February 1996).

Basically, if we were asked to stand in silence for a dead cat we’d just do it and keep our counsel about whether we thought things were becoming a touch too mawkish and commonplace.

There were many such Hillsborough-based silences in the 90s - but not every year - and our behaviour at them all, as they should have been, was still exemplary as late as April 2000 (just one year before “McAllister Night”).

More crucially, though, the fact that everyone connected with LFC and the Justice Campaign had total faith and confidence that the Blues would play their part spoke absolute volumes about how things still were between us as late as 1998.

Imagine that happening now - only 10 years later!

The very last fixture they’d choose to hold a coordinated event like that would be a Merseyside derby.

It’s important to stress, though, that during the 90s as Hillsborough was becoming seven, eight, nine and even 10 years ago, there was total confusion about what English football should do every April to mark its worst ever disaster.

Whilst there had indeed been ad-hoc silences, there was nothing set in stone on an annual basis. There was no known ritual to follow.

In fact, it didn’t even have to be near the Hillsborough anniversary that we’d show our support, for we fully recognised (and hope we still do) that but for the order of a few balls coming out of a velvet FA bag we could have been on the Leppings that day.

Because one of the more remarkable moments actually came at an Anfield derby in February 1998 (two months prior to the ninth anniversary) when the whole ground, Blues and all, was asked by the Justice Campaign to show its distaste for the hypocrisy of Jack Straw who earlier that month had announced his refusal to re-open the inquest into the deaths.

Make no mistake, that was a co-ordinated, preplanned effort that night (as only kopites can do) and the fact that it was a Merseyside derby on Sky actually made it an ideal platform to “send a message to government”.

Every Blue turning up that night knew they’d be asked to play their part and every Blue in the Anny Road and dotted around the ground did so - which is why we were applauded so roundly by kopites (**).

That started to change around 1999 - not that it made major headlines (and for a very intriguing reason) - but it was still the case that although moves were certainly afoot to make the Hillsborough memorials a staple part of the footy calendar, most fans remained unsure about what was meant to be happening.

That’s because, in the main, it was Liverpool FC, no less, who were the main obstacles to clarity and cohesion.

In February 1999, “in response to a ground-swell of opinion”, the Hillsborough Justice Campaign, first wrote to all English and Scottish clubs requesting they voluntarily observe a minute's silence at the game they were to play on or nearest to 15th April that year (the tenth

anniversary of the disaster). Later, the group also contacted the Chief Executives of the English and Scottish FAs and the Premier League asking them to endorse this.

According to the HJC, the response was overwhelming to the first “voluntary” request made directly to the clubs. Then, just for good measure, the response from the FA and the Premier League was equally encouraging as they “officially” instructed all clubs to observe a minute's silence.

However, and this is the really revelatory bit, the HJC said that it was even more pleased that most clubs didn’t need to wait for instructions from either the FA or SFA. As the HJC website reports, though (***): “Sadly the one major club that ignored the request was Liverpool.

This was in keeping with their policy of ignoring the Justice Campaign. Although they did hold a minute's silence it was [actually] in response to the F.A.'s instruction.”

In other words, LFC had to be TOLD to have a minute’s silence.

Leaving that slice of hypocrisy aside, it has to be said that right up until the 10th anniversary there was a combination of either total confusion regarding what to do circa 15th April every year or an entrenched refusal, certainly in Sheff Weds’ case, to have the anniversary acknowledged or a distinct uneasiness in the cases of Bolton Wanderers, Celtic, Rangers and Bradford City to suddenly start marking Hillsborough when it was the case that the Burnden and Ibrox disasters had all but faded into history (prior to Hillsborough, I’d shamefully never heard of the Bolton tragedy) and there had never been any real acknowledgement of the fire at Valley Parade (save for a silence for which was marked

with absolute observance, as witnessed by millions watching on TV, by 100,000 assembled Everton and Man United fans prior to the 1985 FA Cup Final...ironically just 10 days before Heysel).

Nevertheless, regardless of the confusion, intransigence, hypocrisy and other varied emotions that surrounded the HJC-inspired calls for a minute’s Hillsborough silence to become part of the annual football calendar, most parties had agreed to draw a line in the sand and let Leppings Lane mark the end of one era of football spectating (i.e. the one when we were all treated like second class shite) and the beginning of a new one (i.e. the one when we just get fleeced).

And so came April 17th 1999 (the Saturday closest to the 10th anniversary) and silences were held at every ground in England & Scotland and, as was to be expected, us Blues behaved impeccably at St James’s Park (won 1.3, Campbell 2, Gemmill) as indeed did fans everywhere else including at Old Trafford as Man United played Sheffield Wednesday, of all teams.

But such was the incomplete PR surrounding the call to hold silences that day that most fans, understandably, assumed it was just a one-off for the 10th anniversary. It all seemed to make sense, anyhow.

Indeed, it actually all made perfect sense the following year, in 2000, even though it was now an “unround” 11th year; because the bulk of fixtures that day were actually on the very anniversary, April 15th, for only the second time since it happened.

That day, as well as a minute’s silence being held, games actually didn’t kick-off until 3.06pm (the time the Hillsborough semi was abandoned).

Everton played Bradford City at home and again, as you’d expect, everything was observed to the letter (****).

This was exactly 366 days before “McAllister Night” when we were judged to have conceded the moral high ground.

Before the next derby, though, at Anfield in November 2000, there was another “event” that happened to twist crosspark cordialities.

Enter Nick Barmby.

Frankly, it was up to Evertonians how we wanted to react to his defection (and yeah, it’s laughable when we look back considering how quickly his career went down the pan). The was the real precursor to the “Bitter Blues” era and the general consensus around the red-influenced parts of the city was that we were reacting in a hate-filled way that LFC fans never had done when Messrs Beardsley and Ablett had crossed the park in recent memory.

All nonsense, of course, because in Beardsley’s case there were no hard feelings because every kopite knew that despite wanting to keep him, Souness wanted shut and he was effectively jettisoned ignominiously from the LFC pay-roll during a pre-season tour to Sweden, from where he flew to conduct negotiations with Kendall.

Ablett’s case was even starker because he was actually hounded out of Anfield by the kop - he was openly laughed at in his last appearance for them - and they couldn’t get rid quickly enough with the biggest guffaw being that Everton were stupid enough to take him.

Barmby was different, though.

We’d laboured for four years with his constant underperforming but in the style that Tommy Gravesen would take to even newer heights four years later, he suddenly contributed a quality six months of football from November 1999,

including a hat trick at West Ham in February 2000 after which, completely unprompted, he declared the depth of his love for the club.

Stupidly, having forgotten the lessons of Lineker 14 years earlier (but we were wise regarding Rooney in 2004) most Blues were right behind Kenwright’s lobbying of then England boss, Kevin Keegan, to take Barmby to Euro 2000 and it had actually been a while since an Everton player had even had a sniff of an England cap.

We’d finished the 1999-2000 season looking allright-ish and things were looking half-decent for the next term with the likes of Barmby indisputably our best player at the time - at the centre of it all.

Of course, we all know he was tapped-up whilst with England and the rest was history.

What were we supposed to do? Lay a carpet of palms as he trotted over the park?

However, what undoubtedly fanned the flames of cross park discord to an unnecessary degree that summer was Foolier’s now infamous and totally ungracious, uncalled for comment at the Barmby press conference.

A quote which was so lapped up by them that it’s now regularly trotted out in efforts like Geoff Tibballs’ “The Little Book of Liverpool FC - 150 Kop Quotes” alongside all of the aforementioned Everton-baiting from Shankly (interestingly, though, Emlyn Spughes’ “tragic” quote from 1977 is conspicuously absent).

Just to recount what Foolier said, instead of just welcoming Barmby and lauding his talents, he took a sideswipe at Evertonians’ reactions saying “are we talking about a change of religion here or a change of a football club?”

Like Shankly and Spughes before him and like the FSW would do after him, Foolier knew precisely what he was doing when he said that.

It was a nap, then, that Barmby would then open the scoring in his first and only derby against Everton and so it was against that whole sour backdrop that the Goodison return the following April would be pitched.

and the return of the observance in the 10th year because that was such a significant anniversary and also the 11th year in 2000 because that was THE actual anniversary.

However, without seemed to many there would be a this time it was anniversary.

being callous, it just fans, on hearing that minute’s silence, that a fairly unremarkable

Had we all become accustomed on the 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th or 9th anniversaries then it would have been a known and accepted part of the calendar.

Not that we ever did get the chance - at Goodison anyway - to let Barmby know exactly what we thought of him because he was curiously injured for the game, but it still didn’t stop most Blues from being mightily fired up for what in the end would forever become known as the “McAllister Derby” in April 2001.

No doubt about it, we were.

Nothing wrong with that.

We were also defending a 10-year unbeaten record against them at Goodison (oh, for those days now).

It was also a chance, that night, to finally scupper any pretensions they had about finishing in third place and so (thanks to Manchester United’s victory in 1999) claiming a place in the Champions League, a competition in which they had never featured since its inception in 1992 and indeed since they trudged away from Heysel in 1985.

There was a lot of edge riding on that game, then, and very cleverly Sky decided to switch the kick-off to 6pm on an Easter Bank Holiday Monday thus allowing both sets of fans to get really tanked-up.

As it was, everyone knew that LFC held an annual event at Anfield every April 15th - as they indeed did just 24hrs prior to the “McAllister Derby” - and they always held a minute’s silence at their home game nearest to the anniversary.

As it happened, that game had been on Good Friday morning, three days earlier, as Liverpool were beaten by Leeds at Anfield and beforehand the Hillsborough silence was duly observed.

Everton played a day later at Aston Villa (lost 2.1, that Unsworth half-volley) and, correct me if I’m wrong someone, but there were no silences for Hillsborough that day. In fact, I can’t really recall expecting one - y’know some years I’m tuned in to the fact that “it’s the Hillsborough anniversary today / tomorrow/ yesterday” but other years I’ve just forgotten and I’d say that’s the case for most non-LFC fans.

Doesn’t mean we don’t respect it, doesn’t mean we don’t care, it’s just that it’s not ingrained in us the way it is in them.

The day after that Villa game came Easter Sunday and the usual Bank Holiday “down time” effect just kicked-in.

Aside from the Barmby factor, apart from what was also riding on the game, it was also the case that this game was actually taking place on April 16th, the day after the 12th anniversary of Hillsborough.

And this is where a lot of confusion crept-in ahead of that infamous minute’s “silence”.

Most fans had recognised the clear difference between the years after the 2nd anniversary, when most ad-hoc Hillsborough silences stopped, This picture has been deliberately blurred to protect us all

Then came Bank Holiday Monday and suddenly Everton are playing for the second time in 48 hours and basically most Blues were mentally tuned into that derby - and nothing else - from the moment they awoke.

The fact it was the Hillsborough anniversary the day before had passed me by. So shoot me.

Like most Blues I hit the Goodison alehouses at about 3pm ahead of a 6pm kick-off and took my seat at about 5.50pm.

Yeah, it was slightly edgy - chiefly due to the hangover from the Barmby affair - but at that stage it wasn’t anything really remarkable.

It naturally increased as the teams appeared and as we cleared the decks for kick-off, that true fever-pitch atmosphere you only get at derbies was duly reached.

But suddenly everyone realised that the players were circling in the centre and it’s, er, beginning to look like a silence is in the offing and the volume was reduced to a muttering “eh?”.

Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t take more than five seconds for people to click in an “oh it was Hillsborough yesterday” way.

Equally there was definitely a millisecond moment of “yeah but it was the 12th anniversary wasn’t it - nothing special?” way of thinking.

To put things into even further perspective there was absolutely nothing - not a word - about having a minute’s silence in the club programme

that night. No page three or page five photo of the Anny Road memorial with the two club badges and a headline saying “we remember” or something akin.

Nothing.

There hadn’t been anything, to my knowledge anyway, in the press either.

Genuinely, I don’t think anyone was expecting a silence. It was almost like it was an afterthought.

And if so, then fair enough. Better late than never.

To put it into further context, though, we’d played Liverpool at Goodison on April 20th (five days after the 11th anniversary) the previous year (the aforementioned Bradford game when we kicked off at 3.06pm) on the Good Friday night that Don Hutchison bummed “the winner” in and we didn’t have a minute’s silence then.

So I clearly recall thinking as the tannoy bloke started to announce the reason for the silence that “they’re gonna have to start getting a bit of clarity here as to when we have a Hillsborough silence before people start to think it’s a bit phoney and arbitrary.”

And I also clearly remember thinking that “they’re becoming more and more commonplace (the Hillsborough silences) of late but it’s now 16 years since Heysel and I can’t ever remember a call for that to be respected (in fact the 15th anniversary had passed the previous year without mention, as did the 10th and the 5th, and indeed, er, the 12th).”

But, regardless of the fact that we weren’t prepared for a silence (the kopites were obviously well tuned given that they’d had a silence on the Friday and then their annual event 24 hours earlier) we should be the type of fans (and we are) who can respond to a minute’s silence at the drop of a hat.

And, frankly, we would have been, despite the atmosphere puncturing interruption, despite the ale that had flowed during a nicely warm Bank Holiday Monday afternoon, despite Nick Barmby, if the revisionist on the tannoy hadn’t so badly skewed things.

For the extra backdrop to this minute’s silence was the fact that 43 fans had been stampeded to death just six days earlier at Ellis Park in South Africa.

So the Goodison tannoy man piped up with “Ladies and Gentlemen, no one needs reminding in this city that yesterday marked the 12th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster in which 96 Liverpool fans lost their lives...” and had he have left it at that then I’m fairly certain that given our previously impeccable record in observing all silences, not just for Hillsborough, that the 60 seconds would have passed off with reverence.

But, and I don’t blame him for adding a bit of contemporary perspective, he went on to add that “as we remember the lives of those 96 we also pay our respects to the 43 fans who died in last week’s tragedy in Johannesburg...”

No problems so far because that event was still in the news. Good call.

But then came the bit which fuelled the distortion because of the one thing which was hideously conspicuous by its absence.

Tannoy bloke went on to add “...as we always remember those who have perished at football tragedies in Bradford, at Ibrox Park and Bolton - so we ask you to observe a minute’s silence in memory of all those.”

And with that the ref blew his whistle, the ground fell silent, and we were only about seven seconds in when some bloke in the Park End shouted: “What about Heysel?”

Now, it’s interesting that in every kopite version you read about the infamous night Evertonians “broke the silence” they never, ever repeat how the silence was actually broken and what prompted the 10 second chaos that followed.

Okay, fair enough, the bloke shouldn’t have chosen that moment to say it. But just exactly when should he have shouted it? When the ref brought the silence to an end and the pre-kickoff roar went back-up?

Oh aye, because people would well have heard it then, wouldn’t they?

Or should he never have shouted it? Well, that’s clearly what the kopites would have wanted.

But as much as that lad showed a lack of courtesy, that’s all, I always believed he had a point.

And right at that moment, with the Emperor completely naked on horseback, he chose to say, in absolutely total context, what thousands of fans - definitely me - were secretly thinking.

Just how can you mention Hillsborough, Johannesburg, Bradford, Ibrox and Bolton without mentioning Heysel, especially given that our opponents were directly involved?

Or was that the point (like I don’t know)?

Was our tannoy bloke afraid of upsetting the reds? Had he been given a script? Did, in fact, given that there was nothing in the programme, the idea for the silence come from LFC? Whatever the answers, it’s clear that one of two things must have happened that night.

Either our tannoy man deliberately chose to omit Heysel - whether under his own editorial licence or that dictated to by LFC - or that he completely forgot there ever had been a Heysel but strangely recalled Bradford that happened two weeks earlier in 1985.

Whatever the answer, that, in my view, completely obscured the perceived “sin” of the

them by Shankly - as the arbiters supreme in the puke-inducing High Court of Sanctimony, that’s what.

The fact that they won that night in the most surreal of circumstances was seen by Foolier as some sort of divine endorsement of their status amongst the angelic chorus of powers, dominions and principalities and he duly seized on the “disrespect” angle in his aftermatch crowing to Sky.

bloke who dared to interrupt the silence.

Also, imagine if his “what about Heysel?” question had just hung in the silent air, without shushed reply and for the next 50 seconds the whole ground had been left to mull over his precise words?

“What about Heysel?” indeed.

As it was, we all know that from the very moment he issued that question, the kopites immediately seized the moral high ground which they’d been itching to reclaim since May 28th 1985 and went into condemnation overdrive.

Two instantaneous ping-pong episodes of counter barracking occurred as reds “shushed” Blues and vice versa before the ref finally did the decent thing and called it quits.

Anyone who then looked over at the kopites in the Bullens as they hung out of the top tier screaming “scum” at us was left in no doubt that at that moment the pendulum had swung.

Didn’t matter how Evertonians had behaved after Heysel.

Didn’t matter how we’d behaved in the previous 12-years-and-one-day since Hillsborough.

Didn’t matter how unimpeachable previous record in silences had been.

our

At a stroke it was all gone. And all it had taken for them to label every Evertonian as “bitter”, “twisted” and “scum” was just one of us to ask the right question at (arguably) the wrong time and suddenly we were all condemned.

What does that tell you?

That they had been itching for one fall, no matter how much Munich over the years, and assume their rightful place -

us to make they’d sang they could bequeathed

While it goes without saying that the alehouses were just foul that night, it has to be said that the fact we then didn’t join in with their festivities a few weeks later as they fluked their way past Arsenal to add the FA Cup to the previously won League Cup and then completed the treble as the almighty above ensured that they overcame Alaves to land the UEFA just cemented our new found status as “the Bitters”.

Prior to the summer of 2001, I can’t ever recall being referred to as a “Bitter Blue” and I wondered how, since April 15th 2000, when I’d stood at a silent Goodison as we awaited a 3.06pm kick-off against Bradford, in just 12 short months I’d suddenly become “bitter”.

I recalled how I’d behaved after Heysel and Hillsborough but suddenly I was “bitter”!

Like many Blues I railed against my new found tag for a year or two.

But then, like many, I joined the ranks of “bitter? me? oh aye”.

Because by December 2002 when you couldn’t even stare agog at Gerrard trying to castrate Naysmith, having attempted to do the same to Campbell three years earlier, without hearing your protests being dismissed as those of a “Bitter Blue” we all knew that the game was up.

There was no point at even trying to pretend the

derby wounds would ever heal.

And because we were labelled “bitter” a whole generation of younger Blues, who couldn’t recall either Heysel or Hillsborough, basically lived up to the bill and before long the risible “39 Italians can’t be wrong” and “meerderers” sadly became part of our song-sheet.

The derbies since, although now routinely bilefilled, actually plateaued a bit in the mid-2000s.

But compared to those of the 80s and even early 90s they were off the scale.

Of course, at the same time as we’re upping the ante even further by concocting chants like “the baby’s not yours” in late 2006 it was still foolishly assumed by us that it wouldn’t be regarded as any worse than what the kop used to inform Beckham that his missus got up to, or how they wanted to know, ooh-ahh, how Riiise broke his (Alan Smith’s) leg (better get an ambulance).

But, we forgot: for when you’re the sole appointees in the self-anointed spew-filled ranks of the High Court of Sanctimony and you have a willing media to do your bidding we should have realised that it was only our chants that were ever “quite disgraceful” (a Bascombeism).

And of course, we’d be stupid to think that in the same way that Parry squirmed in 2005 as Juventus turned up on Merseyside for the first time since, er, Heysel and the media were told that Liverpool would duly recognise the 39 dead (for the first time in 20 years) this would be the last of it because “it’s been 20 years, it’s time to move on” that the same will apply on April 15th 2009 as Anfield holds its last ever annual memorial to the 96.

Wouldn’t we?

And how quickly Senor Benitez has assumed the mantle of Shankly, Spughes and Foolier (note the absent names there) and instinctively knows how to issue “a small cloob” jibe here and a “disrespectful” [regarding Gerrard and Ms Curran] wail there.

And how instinctively he senses that the media will hear his dog-whistle signal which operates on “the baby’s not yours” indignant frequency and is incapable of receiving “elephant man”, “your daughter can’t walk”, “fat Purple Aki” (does he get caps?) and the unprintable one about Carsley’s nipper.

Because exactly what he intended to happen did happen on Monday March 31st 2008. The Monday press, Sky Sports News all day loop and Radio Merseyside (the Phillips phone-in -- a man who has trotted out the epithet of the “Bitter Blue” at will -- was selfrighteousness of the highest order that day) was broadcasting the kind of red party-line crap usually reserved for Beijing FM. Only Ian Ross - a much maligned figure in Blue circles - forced the likes of Radio Merseyside (especially) into a second day of covering exactly what it had covered the previous day, this time with a little bit of balance but still with comedy 7.30am moments on the Tuesday as the likes of Phil Kinsella was itching to butt-in to Tony Snell’s (who clearly didn’t want to know) script saying “oh yeah, Tony, but there was a chant about Gerrard, though” (no kiddin, Phil!! really!! yeah, we all knew that yesterday!!)

But perhaps now that some sections of the media (maybe even Roger Phillips) are slowly waking up to the fact that the kop is no better (or worse) than any other section of fans - anywhere - we might be at the end of an era when the likes of Tony Evans, presumably with Martin Samuel’s implicit nod, can peddle the type of cyber toss that masqueraded as “The Times journalism” on Saturday March 29th 2008.

For as I stated at the start of this piece, maybe, just maybe, there’s a positive to emerge from the events of Anfield - March 30th 2008.

Perhaps a line in the sand will be drawn when either both sides of the divide will be prompted to keep themselves in self-regulatory check or, failing that (sadly the more likely eventuality) there’ll be a mutual acceptance that we’re “both as bad as each other” but at least one side shouldn’t have the room any longer to wring their hypocritical mitts.

Just maybe, as we reach the end of a decade which began with the Barmby and the “McAllister Derby” episodes and has now plainly plumbed the all-time depths, some sort of amnesty attitude will prevail.

And if they really want to calm things ahead of the first 08/09 derby then all they need do - and it’s this easy - is wheel out Lescott, Gerrard, Carsley, Neville and Yakubu (those who were most insulted on March 30th) for a joint press conference and just send out a signal that “enough’s enough”.

Tell yer what, in the interests of symmetry and deference to Gerrard’s rank in the game he can sit in the middle with two Blues either side of him!

We’ll never get back to those “Merseyside” days, though - and to be frank, I don’t want to because

they were phoney in the extreme - but we may get back to being at least civil, in the truest sense of that word.

I suspect, though, that much of how the 2010 and onwards Derby decade will be framed will depend on the outcome of two projects that currently exist only on paper.

One marked “Stanley Park” marked “Destination Kirkby”.

and

the

other

GREG MURPHY (*) Rothmans Football Yearbook, 1986-87: Pg 25, Milestones Diary 1985-86 season, entry for February 9th: “Chris Turner gives a fine display as stand-in goalkeeper for Manchester United at Liverpool and they force a 1.1 draw...United manager Ron Atkinson complains bitterly about a brick and aerosol attack on his players as they leave the stadium.” My recollection is that the “aerosol” was in fact CS Gas and that the accompanying brick attack was on the United coach which Liverpool fans tried to board. Regardless, this was nine months AFTER Heysel.

FA Cup Final 1996, Liverpool 0 Manchester United 1, various news reports (this one from the Daily Telegraph) “...As he (Cantona), captain in the absence of the injured Steve Bruce, climbed the 39 steps to collect the Cup from the Royal Box, someone, a Liverpool supporter presumably, spat full in his face.

For one terrible moment it looked as though he was going to react, but, much to his credit, he quickly regained control of his emotions.” http://tiny.cc/CantonaSpatAt (**)

http://tiny.cc/AnfieldDerby1998 (Courtesy of Toffeeweb)

(***)

http://tiny.cc/HillsboroughSilences

(****)

http://tiny.cc/EvertonBradford2000 (Courtesy of Toffeeweb)

Sitting off... with Andy Burnham A couple of weeks ago, late on a Saturday, I think, we got an email in the WSAG Inbox. The name in the From box just said Andy.

I opened it during one of those disappearances we all do when you want to see if anything has dropped into your mailbox. It was from Andy Burnham.

"Hope all's well with you.

Would it be possible to have a word some time? Could do with a bit of help!"

Andy, we knew, was a longtime reader and current subscriber to WSAG. We knew he drank in The Stuart before games because we drink in there too.

Returning to the family film we were all supposed to be watching, I said "You'll never guess who's just emailed the mag...?"

To cut this ridiculously long pre-amble short, Andy was requesting our help in publicising how people could get involved in the leadership election of the Labour Party.

In truth, we had toyed with the idea of contacting Andy over the past year as we thought

he'd make a good interview so killing two birds at once we made arrangements to meet.

And so, there we are, me and Phil driving towards his house in Golborne on a sunny Thursday evening.

Andy opened the door. He was dressed in shorts and worn-in Birkenstocks.

His face is instantly recognisable. So was his t-shirt, a WSAG 'No al Razzismo'. It was good that he'd dressed up to meet us.

After making cups of tea all round, we walked through into the garden to start the interview. (At last, I can hear you all saying.)

We started where we always do, how did you become an Evertonian, was it a family thing? "Definitely." he replied, "There was never any doubt about that. We all were, me, my Dad and my two brothers Nick and John."

"We lived in the Old Roan at first, then moved to Formby for a year. My mum and dad both worked at the Maghull telephone exchange and then Dad got posted to Manchester so we moved half way in between to Culcheth, Warrington."

Phil, who knows the area well, suggested there probably weren't many Evertonians in Culcheth. "There wasn't, the Burnham's converted a few though. There was plenty of Liverpool and a few players lived there like Roger Hunt and Tommy Lawrence. Actually, I went out with Tommy Lawrence's daughter for a while. That didn't go down too well at home."

Part of my Dad's job was to set up the wires for the live feeds for football matches and we used to go up to Winter Hill, I think, on occasion to watch games up there.

I can remember us all gathered around a small screen watching the 1977 Semi Final against Liverpool.

"But my first real Everton memory is Joe Royle leaving on Christmas Eve 1974. He was probably my first favourite player. Then, of course there was Bob Latchford, who I think was a hero to many boys my age.

"The first game I can remember going to was Bristol City in 1976. We won 2-0. Bob scored in that and Martin Dobson, I think.

"Bob's 30 goal season was the closest we'd come to anything like success and I think that's why it's so special.

"Of course when success came in the mid 80s it was a special time. We used to be in the Family Club back then and we'd go and get our picture taken with all the trophies. It's a standard joke in our house that my mum complained in 1987 that she was fed up doing this every year. If only."

Unsurprisingly, Andy's favourite game is from this period

too. "The FA Cup semi final at Highbury in 1984. That was the first away game I was allowed to go on my own. We travelled with Eavesway which is just down the road here, that made the day all the more special. I remember we didn't play too well that day but when that goal went in, I was on the pitch, swinging on the goalnets. I didn't get on at the final whistle but my cousin Chris did. You can see him on the pitch in this Lyle and Scott."

Again, perhaps not unsurprisingly, his worst game is the Keeley derby. We won't go into that and soon we were reminiscing about all the other big games at the time.

The conversation turned to Hillsborough, I asked Andy whether experiencing all these games and the way football fans were treated give him a unique perspective for an MP? "Yes. I was forever correcting misconceptions and the story being told about Hillsborough. I was a very junior member of Government at first and it was difficult asking for the matter to reopened especially because the Establishment wanted to keep a tight lid on it.

"I'd been in the Leppings Lane for Everton's FA Cup game with Sheffield Wednesday in 1988.

We drew 1-1 with Peter Reid

scoring late on.

I can remember the crush in there that day. I can recall looking at the back of my dad's and brother's heads. That memory has stuck.

"By the time of the 20th anniversary, Steve Rotheram who was Lord Mayor of Liverpool at the time asked me to come along and speak. I was very aware that I was going to be there representing the Establishment who were responsible for the cover-up. I was conflicted and not sure about going.

man for contest.

the

Leadership

"I remember one time when he was fairly new in the House he asked me to support him trying to get the Cruise Terminal to Liverpool. He thought it would be good if a Greater Manchester MP was seen to be supporting it. I remember he gave a speech and then I stood up and said I was supportive of the Terminal because it would make it easier for the Norwegians to get to Anfield on match days. I could see him looking at me thinking 'you bastard'.

"As with all such political decisions, I did what I always do, I spoke to my dad and my brothers. Their response, was the correct one - don't go unless you are going to say something and do something.

How does that compare, I asked, to someone who can't remember the name of the team he's supposed to support.

"Well it doesn't. That was ridiculous.

"So I went and I did something.

I gave a commitment and it's proudest thing I've done."

As we'd moved into the area of politics, it was now time to talk about the leadership election.

Firstly, how was it going?

Are there any other Evertonians in the house?

"Well, there's Albert Owen MP for Anglesey. Steve, the MP for Liverpool FC says that confirms the fact that we all come from North Wales. There's also an DUP member, Nigel Dodds.

"It's going well. There's still a couple of months to go and more to do but I'm confident."

"I get on great with my mate, Steve and he's my right-hand

Phil was keen to hear about what difference Andy could make. He said that many people around here have lost faith with Labour because they pander too much to the agenda set by The Daily Mail and middle England and that he

we prefer The Stuart now any way."

We'd ran out of time. Andy had another meeting to go to. One his wife described as "one of those where you're going to be standing up talking" so we started making tracks.

Not before we got a couple of photos on, as I described it 'his Wembley', a stretch of grass in front of the house with a goal at either end. "I'd have died for that as a kid" Phil said. and others convincing.

will

take

some

Andy agreed and said that for too long Labour had lived within the 'Westminster bubble' and had failed to connect with its core voters.

“We have become frightened of our own shadow at times.

"The truth is we have lost our emotional connection with millions, not just in Scotland but in Wales and England too."

"We need to reach out to those people at all levels of society and the Labour Party I lead will speak convincingly and passionately to the aspirations of everyone. We will turn the light of hope back on.

It's easy to see the degree of change which needs to be made.

Only days after our interview Harriet Harman is quoted saying that Labour won't vote against the benefit cap and the cuts in child tax credit. Andy Burnham, alongside two of his leadership contenders opposed the move.

Andy believes the work he did taking on the Establishment over Hillsborough shows he’s got what it takes to be the next Labour leader and he wants people to know that they can play a part in making that happen.

"There's been a big change in the voting system and anyone who is a registered supporter can vote. You can sign up online and pay £3. There's a few months left and I'd like to think people would want to get involved.

"It can't harm things to have an Evertonian as Leader can it" he said grinning broadly.

Most importantly, I asked if he became Leader of the Labour Party or even Prime Minister would he still sit in the Gwladys Street. He laughed.

"Yes although I might have to have a Special Branch Officer with me. Seriously, people are great. We've sat in the same seat for years and so have the people around us. We all get along. People will come up and say 'you made a knob of yourself on Question Time' but they are supportive."

Finally, we asked him about WSAG and when he'd first become aware of it? "Not at the start, probably around 1994. You'll find old copies in mine and each of my brother’s houses. We are slowly getting used to the digital version. I remember at the time of the last paper issue we felt our whole match day routine was coming to an end. The Glebe closed and now WSAG was leaving the Island.

I understand why of course and

Andy was a genuine and likable fella. We enjoyed the interview and he certainly knows his Everton biscuits.

We would never tell you want to think politically, Andy didn't want us to either.

His aim is to make as many people as possible aware of the ways in which they can get involved in the Leadership contest.

Of course, he'd prefer it if you voted for him.

You'll find all the information here: http://www.labour.org.uk/blog /entry/how-to-vote-for-ournext-leader-and-deputy-leader If you want to find out more information about Andy Burnham's campaign for change you'll find all the details in the paid for advert on the next page. ps A pound for the first person to spot the WSAG badge on Andy's lapel.

ANDY NEEDS YOU A VOTE FOR ANDY IS A VOTE FOR CHANGE Show your support and register today for £3 Text LABOUR to 78555* or call 0845 092 2299

andyforleader.co.uk * £3 will be added to your phone bill after you text. This money goes to the Labour Party who will contact you to verify your details. Published by Andy4Leader Campaign, 83 Victoria Street, London SW1H 0HW

#wsagdiary #wsagdiary Phil Redmond, WSAG diary continues...

June 22 Everton announce another pre season game with the Blues travelling to Elland road for a clash with Leeds on August 1st.

This is the third confirmed game along with the clashes with Stoke and Arsenal in Singapore in July.

There’s loads of rumours of other games and no doubt there’ll be more confirmed in the coming weeks.

In other news Sylvain Distin looks like he’s on his way to Bournemouth.

Like most Blues, I’m sure, I hope the big Frenchman does well there.

June 23 It's being reported that Gerard Deulofeu is in town finalising his permanent transfer to Everton.

There‘s no confirmation as yet from the club. Meanwhile the under 21’s fly out to Austria for the start of their pre season training.

They’re joined by rookies Tyias Browning and Brendan Galloway, who are expected to be in the first team pool this year and by David Henen who’s expected to complete a full transfer from Olympiakos next week after his highly dubious move from Anderlecht last summer.

June 24 A quiet day with no update as yet on Deulofeu.

This, coupled with the fact that Liverpool have laid out 20 odd million on some Brazilian that

nobody's ever heard of, sends the usual internet cranks onto the ceiling.

There’s a nothing story about Kevin “I want to play in the champions league” Mirallas heading back to Olympiakos the club he could have stayed at and guaranteed Champions league football for the past 3 years.

With the Greek economy as it is, I’ll believe that one when I see it.

In the evening, John Stones has a bit of a mare as England under 21’s crash out of the Euro’s after a 1-3 reverse against Italy. He can now go on holiday. Good.

June 25 He’s little year year

back. Gerard Deulofeu, the magic man signs on a three deal with the option of a 4th from Barcelona.

Some will point to the buyback

In all honesty, no footballer of Ferguson’s generation onwards should get a testimonial, given the money they earned but as the clubs biggest icon in probably 25 years and seeing as though others from his generation have benefitted similarly, then if anyone deserves one, the big man does.

It’s not as if we have to go either.

clause that Barca have for the first 2 years of the deal, but at £4.3 million, this potentially represents an incredible deal.

Deulofeu is by no means the finished article and he will at times frustrate, but on his day he’s absolutely electric.

Indeed for opposing defences he’s as frightening as all of these NPS/legal highs that seem to be fucking everybody up.

Politically he’s made all the right noises, with his “once a blue” tweet.

Hopefully this is a signing that will re energise the support. I’m certainly looking forward to seeing him in a blue shirt again.

A new centre back, a playmaker and hopefully another striker and we’ll be looking good.

There’ll be a dozy 20,000 gate, it’ll be dreadfully dull and either team will win 1-0. Oh and a load of dickheads who live at least 3000 miles away, will be calling for Martinez’ head on the net afterwards.

Standard stuff really.

June 27 There’s a load of talk today about the blues doing a deal with Tottenham with Aaron Lennon and £5 million coming here and Kevin Mirallas going south.

Sadly it does appear that the Belgian front man will be on his way, given his apparently poor relationship with the manager and his sporadic appearances in the team since the penalty debacle against West Brom in January. If he does go he’ll be a massive loss.

Aaron Lennon meanwhile would be an excellent addition to the squad. If the figures add up, I can see this happening.

June 26 First team coach (I never thought I’d say that), Duncan Ferguson has been granted a testimonial when the Blues face Villarreal at Goodison on August 2nd.

June 28 Today’s news is dominated by a rumoured move by Man United for Seamus Coleman. Everton don’t comment, but the Echo

reckon he won’t be sold and is settled at Goodison.

Nevertheless there’ll be plenty more of this between now and the start of September.

June 29 Everton have confirmed three more friendlies with games at Swindon on July 11th before the Singapore tour and on our return we’ll play Hearts on July 25th and Dundee on the 28th.

Hopefully this year’s schedule will be more effective than last year's perceived debacle. In other news, Chelsea are apparently still after Stones.

June 30 Luke Garbutt signs a new 5 year contract with the club, which signifies another massive boost for the club and another vote of confidence for Roberto Martinez.

With Leighton Baines and Bryan Oviedo for competition and Brendan Galloway sneaking up on the blindside, the Blues have great strength in depth in the left back position and it was thought that Garbutt would exercise his right to leave as a free agent.

It may be that the young defender didn’t attract the offers from elsewhere that he thought

are out and not surprisingly given our start, 5 of the first 7 games are on live. The home games with Man City and Chelsea have been moved along with the away trips to Southampton, Spurs and West Brom.

The home derby will also be moved in early October due to them being in the UEFA. No doubt that’ll be televised once the next round of fixtures are finalised.

July 04 he might, whatever he’s signed.

There’s no news as yet of any potential loan move elsewhere, so it will be interesting to see if anything happens with Luke or any of the others as 4 into 1 definitely doesn’t go.

David Henen meanwhile, is meant to be signing from Olympiakos in the next couple of days. It's all happening.

July 01 The window is now officially open and it’s a busy day as Tom Cleverley and Gerard Deulofeu are duly paraded as our new signings, which is nice. Both make all the right noise in the signing press conference.

Among the younger kids there’s one year pro contracts for defender Jordan Thornily and striker Delial Brewster. In other news Sylvain Distin has gone to Bournemouth on a one year contract. We wish him well.

July 02 David Henen signs a three year deal for an “undisclosed fee” from Olympiakos this afternoon.

God knows what that move from Anderlecht to Greece was about.

In other news, its confirmed that Luke Garbutt will probably be going out on loan next season.

Aston Villa are one of the clubs who are said to be interested.

July 03 It’s Everton players being sold stories today. The Daily Star (yes I know) reckon we’re going to swap Seamus Coleman for Man United’s hapless centre back Johnny Evans.

It’s unclear whether they’re going to include a shiny mirror and some beads in the deal.

Spurs meanwhile are after a similar deal with Aaron Lennon and some dough coming our way and James McCarthy heading south.

Neither of these mooted deals sound appealing.

The first round of telly fixtures

Everton reveal they’re planning contract talks with Darron Gibson who’s entering the final year of his contract. I really like Gibson and when he’s fit he does add something different to our midfield.

Unfortunately his fitness record has been rubbish throughout his time at Goodison.

Obviously this isn’t his fault and fingers crossed he can stay fit, but it might be an idea for the club to give more priority in sorting something with his midfield partner James McCarthy.

July 05 It’s a generally quiet weekend with nothing seemingly going on either in or out.

Young professional Conor Grant has got a one year extension on

his deal whilst there’s professional deals for a number of the kids. Mateuz Hewelt, Jamie Yates and Michael Donohue have got two year contracts, whilst James Graham and Anthonee Robinson have got 12 month deals. Good luck to them all.

everyone this summer.

Apparently the Italian wants to live in London.

July 06

To be honest I thought he might have been out on his arse this summer, John Lundstram style.

Officially it’s the first day of the season for the players as they return to full training. The squad is joined by new signings Gerard Deulofeu and Tom Cleverley.

The Blues play their first pre season friendly this Saturday at Swindon. As yet there’s no word on who’s fit or not.

July 07 Everton duly announce their squad for Singapore and the notable absentees are Leighton Baines and the perpetually injured Darron Gibson and Bryan Oviedo. All 3 are said to be ahead of schedule in their recovery.

With Baines and Oviedo out, Luke Garbutt won’t be going anywhere for a bit.

In other news, rumoured toffees target, Angelo Ogbonna looks to be going to West Ham, who seem to be trying to sign

Two more of our kids, Callum Connolly and Josef Yarney have signed professional deals, whilst, perhaps surprisingly, young defender Matt Pennington has signed a new 3 year deal.

Nothing more on that Dutch fella.

Away from Goodison, the Raheem Sterling saga, over the park continues to raise the odd bellylaugh with the little shitehawk ringing in sick for the second day on the bounce and refusing to go on tour or play for creepy Brendan.

Predictably, according to kopites he’s shit anyway and Jordan Ibe is well better

July 08 Everton are apparently interested in the PSV Eindhoven attacking midfielder Georgino Wijnaldum. Apparently Newcastle are “in advanced talks” with the player so the Blues will have to move fast if there’s any truth in the rumours. The Under 21’s meanwhile, beat Burscough 3-1 away in their first pre season game.

The goalscorers were Sam Byrne, Harry Charsley and Greg Hurst who’s apparently a trialist.

David Henen apparently played a starring role in the win.

July 09 A quiet one today with only a spurious link to Arsenal goalie David Ospina doing the rounds.

July 10 Tomorrow sees the Blues play their first pre season game with a trip to the West country to face league one side Swindon town.

Martinez will be looking to break in his squad gently before the trip to Singapore and he’s already said he’ll be giving everyone a game.

Despite all that, no doubt cyberspace will go into meltdown if we don’t win, what is ostensibly a training exercise, 24-0.

Continues in the next issue when the season starts good and proper

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

As I embark on the next chapter in a somewhat Odyssean career, I have to prepare for it by rereading a variety of classic literature.

One of the books, a play which I only knew as the classic film it was reinvented as in the late nineties (when lots of films aimed at teenagers like myself, retold Shakespeare’s stories in modern settings) came to mind when deciding what to write about for this issue, focusing as it does, on those lovable Reds.

This film immediately sprang out as a headline because it summarises my thoughts quite nicely: Therefore, Liverpool, I now go on to outline the ten things I hate about you.

1. BOYHOOD My youth was spent growing up an hour away, proper wool country, and regular visits to Goodison aside, I was generally made to be quite unhappy by Liverpool’s late 80s dominance.

We didn’t understand about Heysel, I had been too young to fully enjoy ’84-’87, so from that year onwards, as football became my world, it seemed dominated by red, and I genuinely believe my childhood suffered as a result.

That most of the class were glory supporting ‘the enemy’, whilst I was still developing my understanding of football rivalry, was bad enough, but that most of them rubbed my nose in their success despite none of us having any real links to either club made it harder, and I can only imagine how much harder it might have been for me actually going into a Merseyside school on the Monday morning after yet another derby defeat, than the stick I actually had to put up with.

Back then, it was all important, and it was in these informative years that my hatred for certain players, although naïve, grew, because they did things that made my class mates really happy and gave them chance to laud it over me and the couple of other Blues who had little to come back with.

2. LADY IN RED Another thing from that time that persists – actually, has got worse over time, has been not just the media fawning but more specifically, the apparent sycophancy shown by many celebrities.

Maradona, Pele, Daniel Craig, Liam Neeson, Clive Owen, that female tennis player, Chris de Burgh, Mike Myers, Samuel L Jackson, Le Bron James, Tom Cruise, Ian Woodyatt et al have all graced Anfield with their presence over the past few years and are all apparently avid supporters.

I doubt this very much but their publicists seem to think it’s the place to be seen, and whilst I wouldn’t want many of them to come out as blues any time soon, their status as ‘everyone’s second team’ should have been eradicated years ago but instead, seems to be getting stronger in the public’s psyche. In reality, their level of fandom should be strictly limited to characters like this.

Or, just encapsulated in a YouTube plea that likens hideously supporting said team to heinous crimes (and there are some absolute classic quotes in here, you really couldn’t make this up) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nzu0bXXCcmg

3. Eartha Kitt Whilst they are responsible for a general disliking of the colour red, some of their strips especially have made my eyes bleed over the years. I don’t understand why, but they seem to have had some of the worst kits going, yet they are the kits we generally see most.

It’s almost as if adidas, Reebok, Warrior and now New Balance have purposely made them into the club that taste forgot, yet their popularity dictates they are constantly on show. Who can forget the bawdy white stripes, sickly shades of green, bizarre patterns, an over elaborate badge, then of course the infamous Netto kit.

All this, coupled with dramatic ad campaigns plastered across the city, bombarding the senses with kopitivity.

Then we start on the endless ranges of ‘fashionwear’ that dedicated followers lap up.

Even the ties some of my colleagues wear, are shit.

And the worst thing is, I always thought that to be a Red means you are devoid of any taste, and supporting them equals becoming oblivious to style. But no, apparently they do have some self conscience, as this quote on a forum highlights: “I have a 10/11 3rd kit (the yellow and black one) with Suarez on the back.

I like the kit, but an old man at the local Liverpool supporters bar started screaming at me about how I was a "bumble bee cunt" in front of everyone when I wore it there. Have not worn it in public since...”

4. People who I’d much rather kick Talking of ties, and colleagues, I sit every morning in our staff area, as the only blue in a department of five other Reds plus one who comes down every morning for a chat. I turn my back on them, at the base of an L-shaped office, akin to Stu Sutcliffe in that cool way he

turned his back on the crowds. I occasionally engage halfheartedly in their inane conversations, but more often than not ignoring the discussion of transfer targets and how fucking great the club is.

There’s the odd sarcastic comment directed towards me regarding the Blues, and whilst one of said colleagues is generally ok and actually goes the match, following them all over the country and Europe in the 80s, another is old and bitter, whilst one thought it appropriate to update his Facebook status with a question last season: “Is it just me, or are all Everton fans scum?!”

Such spite did not go unnoticed and myself and several other ‘friends’ replied appropriately.

Then, there are the arguably worse specimens, who call themselves fans but don’t know any players or even watch matches, however, were happy enough to join in the excitement towards the title or state how emotional they were at Stevie G’s demise. Often female (though not always, before anyone accuses me of sexist stereotyping) they express horror whenever I stated I didn’t want them to win a final or the league, showing that they just didn’t understand when actually, they were part of the reasons why.

I realise that it’s easy to generalise, and whilst I’d never describe fans of any team as scum, I’d hypothesis that for every ten Kopites, one is half decent and the others are at best, a bit of a tit.

There are lots of examples of this, certainly in my peer group it’s the case, and on a recent family stag do – when the Liverpool supporters amongst us didn’t want to watch Gerrard’s last game – I drunkenly discussed ‘Kopite Twats’ after Lukaku scored the winner against West Ham and my brother-in-law took offence.

5. The friendly derby Ah, the twice annual meetings, which in recent years haven’t been the most enjoyable of occasions for one reason or another. As I said earlier, victories have been few and far between, so they’re all the sweeter when they happen but I’d rather they happened more often. We are certainly due a win now, especially away from home.

The first derby I remember was the 1986 cup Final, I’ve written about the event many times

What galls me the most about it is that they didn’t actually win the game, in fact played terribly for large portions of it, and also drew their last two ‘winning’ finals before the lottery of penalties.

That they appear to have no shame about this, nor the fact that the ‘miracle’ happened over a decade ago now, winds me up even more.

1966 was a better comeback, at least we won the game.

before, and the first victory I remember clearly was either a cup tie when Gary Stevens scored or the one with Wayne Clarke’s winner, though around the same time, there are lots more defeats which stick in the memory.

I suppose that over the years, my best memory was Dan Gosling’s goal and not having a voice for the next two days, whilst the worst was a couple of seasons ago and Daniel Sturridge got that penalty to make it five. My funniest remains letting on to Jamie Carragher a few hours after the Hutchison goal, and reminding him that Kopites are gobshites, and I think of that every time I see him around where we live or on Sky, appearances which I have to say have taken him up in my estimation a little.

6. A Liver bird upon my chest Talking of kits, I hate the fact that they have claimed the Liver bird as their own, and the symbol of the city and the magical myth of the birds themselves, feels tainted by its association and apparent intertwining with the club – even though those who know their history can’t deny it was originally on Everton medals and souvenirs – especially when they tried to copyright the symbol as their own in 2008, of all years.

7. Istanbul Said bird is most annoying when tattooed on their bodies, especially if it’s accompanied by five stars. It’s ten years ago, but that magical night in Istanbul still crops up in conversation probably daily, and I wonder if it always will.

8. The Pool of life Town on match weekends… I try to avoid the place but there is sometimes no option but to brave the hordes of scarf wearing weirdoes, splashing their cash.

We all know where they come from, but I wonder just how much money comes in to the local economy from the out of town support. In that respect, it’s a good thing, just not when you need to go shopping or for a meal or for a drink and are faced with a sea of gap-toothed simpletons dressed in red.

Even the queues piling on the buses from the Hilton with their complimentary programme irritate the life out of me, as they’ve obviously spent over and above for the privilege.

Years ago I worked in De Coubertin’s and could tell you some stories about that place.

It was apparently advertised in a Norwegian fanzine so we would get loads of them in every couple of weeks, overspending on what for them was apparently cheap food and drink before they made it to the Cavern before their own mystery magical tour towards Anfield.

Back then it was bad, now it’s worse. It can be quite fun to sit and people watch, you do see some staggering sights, but the entertainment starts to grate and it’s time for the train home

gracefully and you learn the hard way to enjoy the good times when they finally come. You even have to wait longer for the kits to come out.

Meanwhile, the ingrained arrogance that comes with many young Reds, indoctrinated and never having seen us win a trophy, means they often have strong superiority complexes and can be cocky, rude, self-aggrandising and obnoxious.

This despite the fact that for a variety of reasons, fewer in proportion actually go the game. before it all gets too much.

9. If you tolerate this, then your children will be next A somewhat controversial choice but understandable and quite topical, I don’t want to scare people, but the really bad news is that the next generation of Liverpudlians are going to be even worse than current and recent generations.

I base this theory again on the everyday experiences in education. Far more Reds than Blues fill my classes and in the past couple of weeks, I’ve been told my wife’s a slag, she herself has been assaulted then accused (and quickly cleared) of striking the same kid, both of whom are big Liverpool fans.

Then, I read on twitter than it’s not just 12 year olds who are filled with bile: an ex pupil suggested recently that when he was at school, there was apparently sexual tension between me and an openly gay male teacher, whilst another said this about me: If I ever see Mr James I'm gonna slap him and then teabag his bird, saying I'd never get a job because I have no ambition ye queer twat I don’t actually remember ever saying this but I will keep one eye out for the fat lazy shit. The hypocrisies and contradictions aside, sexual confusion and aggressive language are part of growing up I know, but neither of these lads were the brightest sparks so I take their insults with a pinch of salt, especially when I see that on both of their profile pages there is a liver bird and YNWA. It is easy to use these specific examples and ignore the other arguments, so I will give a general overview.

Most young Blues are resilient and educated in terms of their football, with some understandable hatred of their counterparts but also a begrudging respect. I’ve spoken many times about the life lessons you learn early as a Blue, you learn to accept defeat

I’d argue it’s harder than ever to be a young Blue nowadays, regardless of results on the pitch, because of the levels of over confidence and ignorance many of them show.

However, the good will out. I’ll make sure of it.

10. The pen is mightier than the sword Writing this much about them has been quite cathartic.

The effect they can have on daily life is often negative, as I’ve discussed, but this has actually been a nice release and helped make sense of the contempt I feel towards vast numbers of the people I spend a lot of my time with.

Maybe I should do it more.

Actually, let’s not.

Have a good Summer.

Cameron James

HOW MEN ARE It all started at the end of a bit of a bender. Well they do don’t they? Too much ale and then the Bushmills comes out and it’s all downhill from then onwards.

What was a happy jolly old evening with the family turns into an early hours of the morning session and soon a few barbed comments come and then the sniping starts and all too quickly a big barney ensues over smoking a ciggie in the house.

Words are spoken.

Grudges are developed faster than High Court Judges and Morrissey. Welcome to falling out big style with my Dad circa December 1992.

The next morning I have to get up after 4 hours kip to play Sunday league football. I have the shakes but being 21 it isn’t a problem recovering as we kick-off against our closest rivals and I spot my arl fella on the sidelines watching. This does the trick and I channel my anger and indignation at him into a first-half Baresi like sweeper performance and we go 3-1 up. I go into the changies at half-time. We don’t speak.

He’s not there for the second half and the hangover kicks in and I defend deeper and deeper but we scrape a 3-3 draw. Time for a hair of the dog or five.

Sunday passes. We don’t speak.

The next morning poses a problem. You see I go to college in Leicester and my Dad very selflessly normally drives me there every day. I’m convinced he will leave without me but I go downstairs dressed and he is waiting. We get in the car silently and he drives me all the way to Leicester (50 minutes) and it is torture but we don’t speak. As I go to get out with a barely audible, mumbled ‘thanks’ he just says ‘6 o’clock tonight,’ and I nod. 6pm comes and he picks me up from college and we drive home and again we don’t speak all journey. Now this Monday night in December is the Derby at Goodison, a dead important match for an Everton side languishing near the bottom of the league and it is on the tele but we don’t say a word about the impending game to each other even if we are bursting to…

We got back and the atmos is like Siberia and we don’t eat together but come 7.30 or so he puts Sky Sports on and we sit on different sofas in the lounge to watch the Derby preview and before long the match kicks off. There’s the occasional inevitable scream or shout from both of us at the

tele but nothing to each other.

Still not speaking. The first half goes by. All Liverpool but somehow given that they are a lot more shite under Souness, it remains 0-0. Half-time and still silence. The second half begins and at least we get a bit more of the ball but it is still largely all them. They get a corner. Mark Wright gets a free header. 1-0 them. Deffo not speaking. And then……

Snodin plays the ball to Mo Jo. Amazingly he twists and turns Wright and shoots a daisy cutter and equalizes. 1-1. My Dad and I grin like Cheshire cats at each other.

Siberia slowly thaws. The match continues. Then Beagrie who has played really well gets a throw-in. Gary Ablett goes down the left and it comes to Peter Beardsley in the middle on the edge of the 18 yard box. As he has been doing since he joined us his brain works faster than anyone and he shoots low, the ball rifles past Mike Hooper and he scores. 2-1 to us.

My Dad and I look at each other for a split second and immediately we are in each other’s arms, hugging, kissing and yelping like two demented idiots.

We sit back close together on the same sofa.

The match continues. Nails are bitten, watches are urgently looked at and we sit there willing the final whistle to blow.

And then finally…..the ref blows for fulltime and against all odds, we’ve won the derby and we’ve beaten the Shite!

We are hugging and screaming delightedly and are jumping for joy. He legs it to the fridge and cracks open a bottle of champagne.

On a Monday night. We sit down together and watch the match again draining glass after glass until the bottle has gone. He opens a second bottle of champagne. On a Monday night. We watch the match again.

We can’t stop gabbing about Beardsley and Mo Jo and Billy Kenny who we are convinced will lead us back to glory. Everton have won the Derby, my Dad and I are the best of mates again, the whole world is alright and the fall out is never referred to again.

Which dear WSAG readers goes to prove conclusively doesn’t it?…..Everton are magic, Liverpool are tragic tra la la la, tra la la la x Kieron

TONY McNAMARA The piece below is an extract from an as yet unpublished book by Jon Henderson, a sportswriter for more than 45 years. Jon has reported events from around the world working for Reuters and national newspapers, including the Observer and Guardian. His assignments included five Olympic Games and two World Cups. He is the author of three books: Best of British, The Last Champion: The Life of Fred Perry, and The Wizard: The Life of Stanley Matthews.

For his latest book he has interviewed footballers from a time before the maximum wage was lifted. One of the players he interviewed was Tony McNamara who played for Everton in the 1950s. Tony sadly died recently and Jon has agreed to allow us to print this piece as a tribute.

Thanks to him and also Tony's son, Paul, who arranged this.

Born 3 October 1929. Everton 1950-57 (113 appearances); Liverpool 1957-58 (10); Crewe 1957-58 (9); Bury 1958-59 (15)

the rare move from Goodison to Anfield, he suffered a series of leg injuries at key moments of his career.

Like many of the former players I go to see while compiling this book, Tony McNamara says that somewhere in his home in Huyton there is a scrapbook of cuttings containing reports and photographs of his playing days. Also like most of the others, he says it was the work of other family members, he wasn’t that bothered about chronicling his career. His wife, the kindly Doreen, goes to find Tony’s scrapbook and says it is all right if I keep it for a while.

As we sit talking he taps the two new knees that have kept him walking into old age. He shows absolutely no resentment that his injuries prevented him from realising his full potential.

I have come to realise the importance of these tattered collections. It is not that they fill in details mislaid by fading memories, rather that they tell me things the player never would.

Things such as the assessment of a columnist who described McNamara as ‘an outstanding young prospect to challenge Stan Matthews for England honours’. Sadly it wasn’t to be. Although he served Everton on the right wing with distinction over seven seasons, before making

Instead he is quietly accepting of the misfortune that he played in an era when medical treatment for footballers was primitive by today’s standards and full-backs regarded a successful afternoon as one on which they caused GBH to their opposing winger. McNamara’s gentle manner is testimony to the fact that not all characterisations of Liverpudlians of Irish descent are entirely accurate – and that prejudices such as the one that meant Doreen was fearful of telling her father that the man she was dating was Catholic are… well, prejudices.

I started playing football at my school, St Matthew’s in the Walton area of Liverpool.

Although I got into the school team we played hardly any matches because Germany was

dropping bombs on the city. In fact I think one of them hit our school, possibly during the Christmas Blitz of 1940, and it was because of the damage this caused that we had to go to certain private houses for our lessons.

There was quite a bit of bombing around where we lived in Sandyville Road and as kids – I had three sisters and a brother – we used to take cover in the Anderson shelters that were provided.

Most nights during the Liverpool Blitz we’d go into the shelters at around seven o’clock and often stay there until as late as midnight.

I remember my father got fed up with doing this and took to staying indoors. When we came back into the house one night the windows had been blown in and my father was lying there in bed with glass splinters all around him. It didn’t seem to worry him.

Not much seemed to worry my father. On another occasion a landmine attached to a parachute went off at the bottom of our road and blew the soot from the chimney all over my mother. My father just laughed and told her she looked like Eugene Stratton, a music-hall artist from those days who used to black his face for a singing routine.

But the luckiest escape my father had was when there was an air raid while he was at work one day. He managed one of Scott’s bakery shop and there was some problem at the store a couple of miles away. While he was away looking into it another landmine struck a building in Durning Road that collapsed on the air-raid shelter where my father would have been. More than one hundred people were killed.

My father, whose father had come to Liverpool from Ireland, was a betting man who was too interested in following the horses to bother too much about my football career. In fact he was a Liverpool supporter but not to the extent that he cared one bit about me ending up playing for Everton – and, of course, I did join Liverpool eventually. My mother was the supportive one. I have this memory of her shouting from the stands: ‘Be quick, Tony, be quick.’

I also had a brother-in-law who was keen on football. He lived in the same road and my sister hated Sunday mornings because he’d come round to our house and we’d spend hours talking about football and discuss the match that had taken place the day before.

The incident that sticks in my mind about being in the school team had nothing to do with football in the first instance. I’d been to a

woodwork class and came out with a small piece of wood in my hand. On the way home for lunch I threw this piece of wood at a friend but it missed and hit a lorry. The wood was no more than an inch or two square but the lorry driver stopped, came into the school and reported it to the headmaster. I was a prefect and the headmaster hauled me up in front of assembly.

He told everyone: ‘A prefect of this school has thrown a missile and as a punishment he will not be allowed to play football at the weekend.’

But when it came to the day it was not just me who didn’t turn up – none of the other lads in the team did either. Nobody would play, they all refused. Incidentally, a lady ran the school team, although I don’t think that had anything to do with the mutiny.

After I left school I got a job as a clerk at the solicitors Silverman Livermore and then later working for a ships’ chandlers Burnyeat, Dalzell.

At that stage I was playing my football on the wing – I was always a winger – for St Matthew’s Old Boys in the Liverpool CYMS [Catholic Young Men’s Society] League and it must have been while I was playing for them that I got spotted

by Everton. The match was at Goodison because it was a final of some sort and we beat a team from Crosby eleven-one – after they scored first.

There was a player on the Everton books who didn’t live far from us and the club asked him to

go and visit this fella McNamara to ask if he’d play for Everton. So he came along to the house and that’s how it started. But, Mr Bushell, who was the manager at the evening institute side, wouldn’t let them have me straightaway because we were still in the running to win the league and cup. I joined Everton as an amateur at the start of the 1947-48 season.

It was a dream for me to play for Everton. I loved my football and Dixie Dean was my idol.

He’d long ago stopped playing for the club by then but he used to pop in every now and then and he was still talked about all the time. There were so many stories – as many of them about his misdemeanours as about all the goals he scored.

There was the one about the phone call the trainer, Harry Cook, got from the police one Friday evening. They said: ‘We’ve got Dixie Dean here. If you want him to be fit for tomorrow you’d better come and get him because he’s stoned out of his mind.’ So Harry collected Dixie and took him back to his house – Harry’s house, that is – for the night. Apparently Harry was going to have a party and there was this big cake on the table. During the night Dixie had woken up, seen the cake and had eaten half of it. The next day Dixie played, scored a hat-trick and played a blinder.

I went pretty much straight into the A team, usually you began in the B team, and I also had a few games for the reserves before my national service came along. This could have been much more disruptive to my football career than it was.

I went into the RAF and I did my initial training at Padgate just by Warrington.

After that, because Everton reckoned I had a future in football – and I wouldn’t have been much use to them if I’d been sent abroad, which was where most of the other recruits went – the club arranged that I got posted to the Liver Building in the centre of Liverpool. I was given a desk job, paperwork and so on, distributing kit and other equipment to members of the armed forces going overseas.

I couldn’t have been luckier. While others were having a hard time of it, the toughest thing for me was getting a seat on the number 14 bus when it was time to go home. And I was able to carry on playing football.

I made my way from the Everton A team to being a regular in the reserves and then after training one Friday morning, when we were just going back to get changed, somebody said to me and the centre-forward Dave Hickson: ‘Don’t you two leave because the manager wants to see you.’ So we went to see Cliff Britton who said:

‘I’m picking you for Saturday for the match.’

That’s when we found out we’d be making our debuts in the Football League.

By that time I’d signed as a professional. I did that when I was twenty, at the end of my national service. There was no ceremony as such although they did come to the house for me to do the signing. The manager, who was a fair and quite a quiet man – he didn’t go mad like some of them do these days – had told me the club would be offering me professional terms but I can’t remember what they were. The money wasn’t the big thing it is today in professional football. No one expected to get rich by becoming a professional footballer.

That moment when Mr Britton told me and Dave Hickson he was putting us in the first-team was soon after the start of the 1951-52, when Everton were in the Second Division. It was for an away match against Leeds. I remember there was a stack of good-luck telegrams waiting for me at Elland Road, which I’ve still got. One was from Mr Bushell telling me he always knew I’d make it.

My main memory of the game itself was simply the excitement of appearing in the Football League for the first time in front of a crowd of several thousands – and the fact that we won two-one made it even better.

It took another fifty years for Everton to win again at Elland Road, when Wayne Rooney scored the only goal. A week after we beat Leeds I scored my first League goal, in a home draw against Rotherham.

But there’s no doubt about my most memorable match for Everton, the five-two win over Manchester United at Old Trafford in 1956, by which time we were back in the First Division.

That was probably my best season for the club. I played more than thirty games and was the club’s top scorer with ten goals – one of them in that win against Man United, who were the League champions and hadn’t lost at home for a couple of seasons. They even mentioned that game at Dave Hickson’s funeral more than sixty years later.

I can still picture my goal at Old Trafford. The Man United goalkeeper cleared the ball and it came to about the halfway line. I moved in from the wing, picked it up and was looking for someone to play it to when I noticed the goalkeeper had come past the penalty spot and was just sort of watching the game. So I thought I’d have a go. I lobbed the ball right up in the air and the goalie went as though he was going to catch it when he realised he wasn’t going to get

to it. He turned round to race after it and he and the centre half finished up in the back of the net with the ball. And as well as scoring that goal I made a couple of others.

Next game we beat the Arsenal four-nil but we couldn’t keep it up and I think we finished in the bottom half of the table.

Although the team had been good enough to get back in the First Division, I wouldn’t pick anyone out as having been oustanding. We were just a solid team in all positions. If we had a star it was Dave Hickson who used to put himself about a bit. He was a quiet sort of fella off the pitch, but on it he was dynamite. They called him the ‘Cannonball Kid’. He was always in the wars – cut eyes and that sort of thing – but he’d go off, they’d patch him up and he’d come back on again.

During one match, after the opposition scored a goal that Hickson wasn’t happy about, he took the ball back to the centre circle for the restart, plonked it down on the centre spot, but then refused to kick off again. He just stood there with his foot on the ball. When the referee told him to get on with it, Hickson had a go back at him: ‘You happy then, ref, now that you’ve given them a goal. Happy, eh.’ And he carried on like that until the ref told our captain, Peter Farrell, to quieten him down or he’d have to send him off.

There was another funny incident with a ref, this one involving our inside-forward Wally Fielding in a match against Arsenal. Wally had been blown for a foul against Leslie Compton, brother of the England cricketer Denis. He was protesting his innocence but the ref wouldn’t listen. So as Wally had hold of the ball he kicked it in the air and when everyone was looking up at the ball he went over and gave Compton a good kick.

What the team did have was a good team spirit.

We spent a lot of time going out together.

These days everybody has a car and they all go their own different ways but in our day maybe only a couple of the lads had cars and their lack of driving experience could be pretty comical. Jimmy Tansey had a car and was struggling for power one day even though he had his foot flat to the floor on the accelerator. It turned out he had closed the door on his trouser leg and couldn’t put his foot fully down.

Those fellas without cars used to head out together for a few hours instead of going straight home. We’d have a couple of pints or go dancing. Players like Derek Mayers, Jack Lindsey. Alec Farrell.

There were a lot of pranks when we were

travelling: apple-pie beds, cutting the bristles off your roommate’s shaving brush, that sort of thing.

One of the guys, I forget which one, used to travel with all his stuff in a paper bag, a greengrocer’s bag. We’d all have a go at him about it: ‘Fancy playing for the great Everton football club and carrying a bag like that.’ Then one day someone threw it out of the train window and for the rest of the journey we all kept our hands on our own bags – I had a nice leather holdall – as the guy whose bag had disappeared overboard went looking for revenge.

In the end, it was the injuries I got playing for Everton that restricted what I achieved for the club. I am proud of having played for them for seven seasons as a professional and having appeared in more than a hundred games for them, the majority when we were in the First Division, but the treatment we received for injuries was pretty basic compared to today – and, because substitutes weren’t allowed then, managers made things worse by always wanting to get us back on the field however badly we were hurt.

My first bad injury couldn’t have come at a worse time, early in the 1953-54 season just when I looked like really establishing myself in the side.

It was in a match at Blackburn. I went to turn round quickly and got my foot stuck in a divot and my whole knee turned. I played on afterwards having had treatment but I needed a cartilage op that kept me out for the rest of the season.

That was the year Everton got promoted to the First Division – they’d been relegated just before I got into the first team – and they’ve stayed up ever since. It went down to the last match of the season, a midweek game that we had to win away at Oldham. All the other players who

weren’t in the team went to watch it but I knew if I’d gone along I’d have been thinking: ‘I could have been out there.’ I was annoyed with myself for having played so few games – I don’t think I was even back in training – and so I went to the old Liverpool Stadium instead to watch the boxing. The stadium gave the players tickets. I recall word coming through while I was there that Everton had won and were going up.

As it happened, as we went back up, Liverpool went down and stayed down until the early Sixties after Bill Shankly had become manager.

So I never played in a Merseyside derby – at football, anyway. I did play for Everton against them in a heading tennis match – you started by kicking the ball over a net and then headed it back and forth – at the Co-op ground one summer. They had the great Billy Liddell playing for them and Bob Paisley – but we beat them.

I hurt my knee twice more, once on a summer tour to Germany and then later that same year playing against Burnley.

I can’t remember after which of my injuries it was but after one of them the trainer taped my leg up with the wrong side of the tape against my skin. It meant my leg couldn’t expand and I was in a lot of pain. In the end they sent a doctor from the club to the house and when they peeled off the tape the sticky side was against my leg and it pulled all the skin off. The shock of that caused psoriasis to set in. To an extent I don’t think I really fully recovered from this.

I have two false knees now – and to give the present Everton set-up their due it was they who paid for me to have them done. The first one was eight years ago and the other one five years ago.

When Everton found out that I was struggling, rather than let me go on an NHS waiting list they looked after things for me. That’s one thing about Everton now, they look after their former players.

I suppose the only surprise about Everton letting me go was I’d had my best run for some time without injury in 1956-57 when my goals helped keep them in the First Division. But after Cliff Britton left in 1956, complaining about board intereference, members of the board took over running the club in his place and things changed.

It was ridiculous really. The directors hadn’t got a clue what to do. Peter Farrell, who was still the captain, had to go to the meetings when they picked the teams and used to tell us how amateurish it all was.

Once they selected a player to be twelfth man and a particular director wasn’t happy. He thought this fella should be playing. ‘We should give him a kick,’ he said. That was it. No other reason for playing him except that he should have a chance to kick the ball. Peter wasn’t at all impressed by the way the directors were running the club.

After a while they did bring in this Scottish fella, Ian Buchan, but I don’t think he was ever given the title of manager, just chief coach. I didn’t have much to do with him because it was around this time that I got transferred.

Other clubs had been showing an interest in me – there’s a cutting somewhere about Bolton wanting to buy me – and at one point I put in a transfer request, which I later withdrew. What changed my mind was when at the start of the 1957-58 season the directors hardly ever picked me at all. Then I think it was one of the directors who called me in and said: ‘We’ve had an offer for you from Phil Taylor at Liverpool. It’s entirely up to you if you want to go.’

Even though Liverpool were in the Second Division I thought: ‘That’ll do me.’ It meant I’d be able to continue to stay at home, which is what I wanted to do. So I left Everton and scored a goal on my debut at Anfield.

This was shortly before Christmas 1957 and the goal against Bristol City was the only one I really remember apart from the one at Old Trafford.

I got the ball on the wing, moved inside and pushed a pass out to Alan A’Court who’d moved up. I said to Alan: ‘Hold it until I get in the middle and then cross it.’ And that’s exactly what happened: I ran into the middle, he crossed it and I headed into the net. As I was running back for the kick-off the full back said: ‘Just keep doing that, Tony, and you’ll be all right.’ But I got injured again and it wasn’t long before I left Liverpool.

Unlike Everton, Liverpool did have a really big star then.

He was Billy Liddell from Scotland, who played his whole time at Liverpool – and that was twenty years plus. He was a winger who scored more than two-hundred goals.

He was coming towards the end of his carer when I joined Liverpool and by then his presence and his popularity meant he was in such demand to make speeches and attend functions that you never saw him. I shared a room with him once and even then I don’t think I saw him for more than a few moments.

He’d started training as an accountant before leaving Scotland and could have made a good career for himself outside football, which was a rare thing among professional footballers in those days.

After he retired from football he became a Justice of the Peace in Liverpool and did good works and later took a post at the University of Liverpool.

After injuries caught up with me, I didn’t last much longer in the Football League. I was at Crewe for a short while and then went to Bury for the simple reason it was a bigger club and a couple of players from Everton who I knew – John Willie Parker was one – were there. But I only stayed for one season.

As people keep reminding me, all those moves meant I was the first player to appear in all four divisions of the Football League in a twelvemonth period.

I still enjoyed playing and after I left Bury I turned out for Runcorn, a non-League club.

These days I watch football and think how very different it is from when I played. In my day teams played with five forwards, three half-backs and two full-backs. No one really questioned this for a few more years.

So the emphasis was on attack. Now defence is the first consideration. The attitude is: don’t give a goal away and at least we’ve got a point. There can be as many as five people ranged along the back to stop the opposition scoring.

Certain games are pretty good. They pass the ball around quickly and get it forward. But in other games you can sit there for ten minutes and all you’ll see is them passing the ball sideways and backwards, never forwards.

And as for the money they get, good luck to them.

It doesn’t upset me at all.

A Bad Wind Blows In My Heart (or I just fucking hate them) I was born (under a wondering ma) in the Year of our Lord (Grantchester) 1968, or 1968 CE for those of you who prefer that sort of thing.

that I will mention Heysel in response to an inevitable quip of theirs about our trophy cabinet/European history.

To a lot of you that almost certainly makes me an old get, but try saying that to my face. In that time Everton have beaten our lovable friends over the park twenty one times in all competitions.

They were just there hovering on my shoulder on one side, Thatcher on the other and so I had a chip on each shoulder which I guess made me a balanced human being.

That is twenty one times in forty six years, which doesn’t even make for one victory every two years.

There’s a World Between Us This filthy and festering wound (not a reference to Phil Thompson) continued through the early and late eighties, aside from our magnificent purple patch part of the way through that decade, but even then they managed to spoil our fun in more ways than one.

For every Sharp volley, European Cup Winners Cup and Cup Final victory, they came back with a Rush Cup Final double (twice for fuck’s sake), a European Cup and a Cup Final victory, only against us rather than Watford.

You might think “Fucking Hell Professor Henrik, no wonder you hate them so much”, but my hatred for them was born far earlier given that I am a child of the seventies when those whoppers were winning everything in sight on a regular basis.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the fact that the majority of my school colleagues supported United or the Shite (and therefore were not school mates) apart from, bizarrely, one Wolves fan I can remember.

The back pages were dominated by them for most of my childhood, and any schadenfreude I gleaned from them losing was rarely at the hands of Everton, Andy King and 1978 aside.

Clive Thomas’s decision a year prior is when I think my barely concealed hatred for them began. I am talking about the Club not the fans here. I have met some decent enough Reds over the years...well at least one, but I always try to avoid talking about football whenever I encounter them because I can almost guarantee

1986 was a real annus horribilis for Everton, missing out on silverware twice at their hands, which when allied to their fans behaviour in the aforementioned precursor to West and East coming together in Berlin 1989, meant we lost three times at their hands that year.

Only two years previously everything was so different.

The 1984 Milk Cup Final had the fans famously chanting “Merseyside, Merseyside” but I think our friendliness that day was founded in relief to have made a final after such a long wait and the fact that it was the first ever Merseyside Cup Final.

Within two years I hated them.

The institution, all the Shankly/Bootroom bollocks, the players and the media love-in that followed them like flies round shit all contributed to making me one Bitter Blue.

The strange whitewash heightened my antipathy.

of

Heysel

only

In 1987 we gained the upper hand once more but then Howard left and the rot set in, and if we are honest, aside from last season, the last five years is the first time we have almost matched them in achievements, because they have won fuck all too (aside from the Mickey Mouse Cup

thanks to Steven Gerrard’s brother...see what I mean?)

Derby-wise, we can all recount when we won them. The Beardsley derby was a sweet moment for me because the Kopite sat next to me went from a reasonable, talkative and friendly football fan to a massive clunge in the time it took for Peter’s shot to leave his foot and nestle in the bottom corner.

I knew then that everything I had previously believed to be true about Kopites was summed up in that one beautiful moment. Two ex Reds celebrating like they had won the League (there was none of this metrosexual “I am not celebrating against my former club” guff) and the current Red next to me spitting his dummy out was a wonderful moment.

The Duncan Derby was great too, partly because baked bean face Tommy Smith predicted a 5-0 win for his horrible descendants. Kanchelskis and Campbell gave us further joy, as did Johnson, Cahill and Arteta in later years, but if I am being honest I got as much pleasure from Arsenal in 1989 and the latter stages of the 2013/2014 season as I did from those games because I don’t particularly enjoy the Derby for all of the reasons cited above, and the manner in which the Shite came unstuck in both of those fantastic scenarios means I can die happy.

Le Grande Desordre Anyway, now it’s time to hand over to Alan

Freeman (given a few rumours of Yew Tree links you might wonder why we chose Fluff for this prestigious event, but given it’s about the RS, no explanation or apology is needed) for the Countdown of Cuntdom that is in some ways the reverse of WSAG icons; yes folks it’s The top twenty Kopite Cunts of all time.

Dah dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah...

“Greetings pop pickers! Here we go with this season’s countdown. Remember, managers couldn’t be included, so no Fat Waiters or Tranny Shaggers but who needs them when you have new entry Jordan Henderson at number 20!

Henderson, Sunderland born and it shows, he would have been nowhere near the charts were it not for his incredibly poor Steven Gerrard impersonations (almost as bad as Stevie Me’s this season) and his frankly ridiculous hard man tete a tete with Diego Costa. He’ll be around for a bit and could well break the top ten next season. Not nearly as good as the deludeds (or himself) consider him to be, here’s hoping he is a fixture of this event for years to come.

At 19 it’s Uncle Alan Hansen. From his handball in the Milk Cup Final (a feelgood Final and they cheat, there’s a surprise) to his casual racism on Match of the Day, Alan’s scar headed grid was on my television set for three decades until thankfully he was put out to pasture the season before last. With any luck he was shot.

Leapfrogging Alan at 18 is Jamie Carragher who despite a pitch of voice that would attract dogs, the human equivalent of nails down a chalkboard, Sky in all of its Tory wisdom has decided to allow him to forge a career for himself despite not being technically cut out for it, not unlike his football career. A limited player he was a typical badge kissing Shite player. Never forget his gift of a medal to a ten year old fan only to demand it back, possibly, given the history of the club, on realising the recipient was Asian.

You’re Getting Like Your Sister Jamie Redknapp the archetypal Spice boy falls two places to 17. The cock(ney) will always be remembered for poncing around Wembley in a white suit...and not much else. He can now be found on television laughing at unfunny fatty James Corden and offering trite and shite commentary to various matches. Souness (who has failed to make the top twenty for years now as a result of his very good analysis for T.V.) would obviously love the chance to flatten the prick. To the Flathouse!

A non mover for twenty years at 16 is Steve Fuck Off McMahon, the ultimate Evertonian shithouse.

Left his boyhood club then had the temerity to

The only thing good about this pic is Villa's kit.

open his account for the dark side against Everton too. Vinnie Jones managed to show the world just how hard he was. Cool hair at Everton, shit hair at Anfield.

A leap of four places sees Jan Molby rise to 15 due to being the player least likely to have a rainbow coloured face book status. The gay bashing rotund Dane picked up the accent and the customs of his beloved supporters and when not overturning cars outside gay clubs in Chester was getting pissed enough behind a wheel to warrant a prison sentence. Admired by the fans simply because he made them believe they too could be athletes with a 44” waist.

Jimmy Shithouse Case is unlikely to ever leave this list mainly as a result of his horror ‘tackle’ that broke Geoff Nulty’s leg and ended his career. I have met a cousin of his. He thinks he’s a shithouse too. Looks like Roland Rat and a paraffin hybrid these days and is currently the Official Mascot of The Liverpool Legends Autograph and Memorabilia Group and is a regular host of the group's "Meet The Legends" events. You couldn’t make it up. What a hank, and a hank in fourteenth place on this occasion.

Phil Thompson, the original cocknose albeit with an appendage so much larger than Brendan’s (nose and cock according to Chelsey), regularly assails our ears on Sky Sports news and often gets all emotional and passionate when his own club is involved. Blinkered to anything other than the Liverpool way, this often seems him defending the indefensible. The Nick Clegg of Sky Sports News, boring, stupid and a shit house.

Unlucky 13 Phil!

The clown jester Bruce Grobbelaar hits the number 12 spot! Fought for the Rhodesian army which is no doubt where he attained his questionable views on race which in retrospect he quite obviously passed on to his mates Hansen (coloured) and Dalglish (Suarez has nothing to apologise for).

Apocryphal or not, his “On your marks, get set, pick up your lips, Go!” to a young Howard Gayle is entirely believable. He later got done for match fixing. How more Kopite could you get, racist and a cheat.

At number 11 is fat boy Neil Ruddock. Never quite as weighty as Molby (but God he tried) Ruddock, like Henderson considered

himself a hard man yet noticeably wilted when facing Big Dunc. Now a big fat (consistency at least) washed up pisshead down on his luck.

Good.

The Reader The Top 10 opens with new entry Raheem Sterling. The woman beating, prolific fathering, mincing gaited weapon is so hated that even his own fans hate him too. From his constant diving, moaning at the referee, and money grabbing antics to his hippy crack usage and idiocy in having it filmed, Raheem is a legend in his own mind. Once his hamstring snaps, he’ll be shite.

Sadly that looks more likely to happen at Manchester City rather than Klanfield. Booed at Wembley by England fans; says a lot.

Faux hardman alert Mk 283 because in at 9 is the self styled Guv’nor! Not ‘alf! Paul Ince was a weedy little fella who had the Manc walk off to a tee. He wasn’t often seen utilising it by walking up to the penalty spot for England except the on the one occasion he did, and missed. The Guv’nor was another to suffer at the hands of Duncan Ferguson.

Duncan had a knack of making those who talked it unable to walk it, and sometimes unable to walk full stop. God Bless him. May the Devil take Ince to the Klanfield of the Underworld.

Dropping to number 8 is Jason McAteer. Irish (yeah right) international Jase (you just know that is his nickname alongside Macca) was a professional Scouser from Birkenhead. Like that famous Runcornian John Bishop he likes to hide this fact by being the biggest Liverpool fan on the planet. He almost certainly wept on having to leave his home club (sic) which would have been delicious to see. Thick as fuck apparently too. Go ‘ed Jase!

I could eat a scabby horse

Proboscis monkey Ian Rush hits the number seven spot. Another cerebrally challenged member of the Liverpool Klan, Rush’s inclusion is based on purely football matters. Never has one Redshite been responsible for so much heartbreak over the years. Four goals in a derby, four goals in two derby Cup Finals and the rest, Rush was a figure of hate for me which was only embellished when he became shite and moved to Newcastle but still managed to knock Everton out of the Cup. What a bastard. Speaking of which...

Emlyn Hughes takes the not so coveted number six slot for reasons far too many to list.

Highlights include crying in defeat, “Everton are tragic, Liverpool are magic” ( I bet Ted Hughes had some sleepless nights) his brown nosing of Princess Anne on Question of Sport and his cosying up to Thatcher when she was at the height of her viciousness (see also Keegan, Phil Neal (just outside the Top 20) and the aforementioned ‘Thommo). Shankly bon-mots (ahem) littered his prototype Carragher squeak and he more than anyone is responsible for the sentimental guff that is a feature of the club’s profile to this day. A massive beaut.

Christina, That’s the Saddest Thing The only manager, by dint of being a player also, to make the top twenty is heralded by the piss stained aroma of Kenny Dalglish. I had the utmost respect for ‘King Kenny’ after Hillsborough and up until a few years ago he would not have been quite so high on this list.

Then he wore that Suarez shirt and all bets were off. The manner in which he defended the racism of that odious little Uruguayan prick means he is unlikely to be ousted from the number 5 slot for some time. What’s that smell?

Dropping two places to number 4 is the Analfield Iron Tommy Smith. As a player he was a cunt.

As a footballer writer he was a cunt. As a disability claimant he was a cunt. His response to being reported for taking a penalty at Wembley when he was collecting benefits from the taxpayer was hilarious. Along with Emlyn he is one of the chief Shankly torch bearers. A quite horrible person, who now the Tories are in power is likely to face more cuts inspired misery. If one person deserves that, it is Tommy Smith.

And now to the top three! I am sure you can guess the names, but in what order? Well in at three is everyone’s favourite racist cannibal, Luis Suarez. A horrible player who embodies everything about the club he played for. He dived, he deliberately handled the ball, he put in snide tackles (Mirallas being one particular victim) and feigned innocence in each case. His racist remarks aimed at Evra were ugly (not

unlike his horse like visage) and his biting of opponents unforgiveable.

That said, he shat all over Liverpool which is why he didn’t quite come in at number two.

That position is the preserve of Steven Gerrard, because he is the most used to being runner up.

This cunt walks into a bar...

A constant thorn in our side not that it did him much good. His ego, his Blue denial, his diving, his cheating, his horrific tackles means he is just elevated above Suarez.

He also hits the number two spot due to the comedy that was that slip, a moment that no Evertonian will ever stop enjoying. It couldn’t have happened to a bigger twat. Fuck off to the US and take your Yaya/Kolo embarrassment with you.

Some Absolute (Bell)End (apologies to BRJ) So pop pickers, who makes the coveted number one spot? Was it ever in doubt given that his full name is ‘That Cunt Aldridge’? A horrible product of the city who had he not been a footballer could have been a smackhead whose main occupation would be robbing grannies. Totally devoted to the myths that surround his club he is never backwards in reminding everyone that he played for the best football club in the weeeerrrrlllld.

If you don’t agree he will offer you out. He has every attribute that makes the perfect Kopite cunt and is unlikely to be overtaken for some years yet. Wimbledon Haha!

So that’s it from me guys and gals. Goodnight pop pickers, this is Fluff signing off. Now where are those kids you promised me...?”

Yes there are omissions but I am sure we can all agree, Once a Kopite, always a cunt.

KOKO Peace and Love Prof. Henrik P Sensimilla The Bunker L4 4EL

A WSAG DIRTY BIG LIST

Derby moments Here's a massive list of derby moments compiled from lists sent in by many readers.

If there's some repetition then that's just the way it is.

• Kingy´s winner October ´78 • Danny Cada tearing Kvarme and Ruddock new ones to make it 2-0 • The final whistle of any Derby we haven’t lost • Jags’ Kop equalizer last season • Sheeds’ free-kick and Ted Rogers hand signs • Zico Harper’s equalizer in ’84 and the Clown banging his head on the floor • Campbell’s winner in ‘99 • Kanchelskis’s second in ’95 as Limpar and Everton carved the RS open • Totally dominating Hodgson’s side in 2010 at Goodison • Stopping them beating Leeds’ unbeaten record in ‘88 • Playing a weakened team in the 84/85 Goodison Derby and still winning • Sharpy’s winner at Anfield October ‘84 • The Milk Cup Final 1984 and (beacon cheeks) singing ‘Merseyside’ with dust in the eye aots • Gosling’s last minute winner in the Cup • Listening to the 1984 Charity Shield in France on the World Service on holiday on a car radio and my arl fella beeping the car horn at the final whistle as we drove through the Brittany countryside • Being at a mate’s eleventh birthday party and seeing the classified scores that we’d

beaten them in the Cup, 1981 • Going into school the Monday after the Kingy Derby and lauding it over my red mates • All the Evertonians at school getting together in the playground and singing ‘1-0!!’

• The Lineker Derby • The first match post Hillsborough when the City was united • Cottee’s second equalizer in the 4-4 • ‘Spot the Scouser On the Kop’ chant in the Campbell Derby • Big Dunc’s first Everton goal starting our mutual love affair • Bottom of the table but beating them in November ‘94 • Mark Ward’s piledriver 93/94 at Goodison and Grobberlaar and McManaman’s subsequent comedy fight • Ringing my Grandad (a red) from a Galway alehouse in October ’87 to find out we’d beaten them 1-0 in the League Cup. • Southall’s one man heroics stopping them in 88/89 Anfield Derby • Big Dunc and a very young team drawing 1-1 in the Goodison Derby 96/97 reducing their title hopes and easing our relegation fears • Waggy’s winner in the second replay 1991 and thinking we were gonna win

the Cup • Mick Lyons finally being on the winning side in a Derby, 1981 • The way we went for it when Ged came on in the 3-3 Goodison Derby, 2013/14 • Dunc’s goal at the Kop End in 97/98 and his subsequent celebration • Olivier Dacourt’s screamer at the Kop within seconds of the 98/99 Anfield Derby • Rooney nearly scoring at Anfield, December 2002 • Moyes’ first derby win, the Carsley Derby, December 2004 • Joleon Lescott and Tim Cahill shushing the Kop celebration, 2009 • Cahill’s late equalizer at Anfield in 2009 • Billy Kenny bossing the midfield, Goodison, December 1992 • Wayne Clarke’s cool head for the penalty at Anfield 88/89 • Any Derby week – I hate them with a passion • Walking out of Wembley in May ’86 with my Dad after their third goal • Having to go home from Wembley in May ‘86 in a van with mostly Liverpudlians drinking champagne • My Dad getting home from Maine Road in 1977 and calling Clive Thomas for everything • The Glen Keeley Derby and Ian friggin Rush • Rush’s second at Wembley, May ‘89 • Getting a phone call from my cousin gloating after the 1-3 at Anfield in 86/87 but getting my own back not long after at Norwich • Not getting a ticket for the ’89 Cup Final and getting bladdered on Newcy Brown and somehow kicking a hole in a wall in our house after the final whistle. My Dad getting home from Wembley and the aftermath

• Still celebrating McCall’s second equalizer when ET scored again • That shithouse Suarez getting Jack Rodwell sent off • Alan Robinson reffing two Wembley derbies and missing two penalties • Pat Nevin not getting a penalty in 1991 at Anfield • Really thinking we’d beat them at Goodison in September 2003 and then getting ragged 0-3 • Walking out of Wembley in April 2012 in disbelief that it had happened. Again.

• Having a bevvy with the WSAG Editor in London after the 2012 semi and both of us contemplating whether we would ever beat them in a big match that really mattered.

• McAllister’s free-kick going in Easter 2001 and feeling as shit as I’ve ever felt in my life • Losing the Milk Cup Final in ’84 – so near and yet so far • Going 3-0 down in 85/86 and fearing another 0-5…

• Wayne Clarke’s perfectly good header getting disallowed in 88/89 • Getting ragged 1-3 in the first match after 9/11 and the gap between us seemed as big as ever • Jigsaw’s Anfield misses in 92/93 and Rosenthal’s inevitable last minute winner • Michael Branch being played

by Smith in 98/99 when patently not fit • Losing for the first time in 5 years at Anfield in 98/99 and really fearing relegation • Losing at Goodison in 1980 but even worse Dixie Dean dying at the match • A section of our fans throwing bananas at John Barnes in 1988. Cunts.

• The racist chants from our KKK element at Anfield in 87/88.

• Blues getting all sanctimonious at Fowler’s line sniffing • The 0-4 Anfield Derby under Martinez in 2014 – I genuinely feared it would be 7 or 8…

• Mick Madar’s shocking miss in the Anfield 97/98 Derby stopping us from three certain points and the

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inevitable late equalizer from them That prick Graham Poll disallowing The Don’s ‘goal’ and lying about the reason, Goodison Derby 99/00 Barmby natch scoring against us in 00/01 Anfield Derby That utter gobshite Clattenburg’s refereeing performance in the Goodison Derby 2007/08 Stevie Me getting Tony Hibbert sent off in the Goodison Derby 2007/08 Getting beat playing against ten men for most of the match in the Anfield Derby 2007/08 Moyes picking an under strength side in the league match at Anfield in 2011/12 resting players for the Cup and Stevie Me getting a hattrick Sharpy’s penalty miss, Goodison 83/84 David James’ comedy dive as Gary Speed equalized in 1996 David James’ hilarious attempt to stop Rideout’s winner in 1994 Big Dunc throwing Ince to the floor in 1998 Big Dunc almost throttling ‘Dave’ McAteer Chasey’s Clown costume AJ megging Jamie Carra la Stevie Me running the whole length of the pitch to celebrate thinking Suarez had scored a last minute winner in the 2-2 in 2012/13 only to find out it was disallowed

• Big Dunc showing them his Everton tat in the 2-3, 2001 • The ‘Going Down’ chants, Anfield, October ‘84 • Grobberlaar the Clown letting Ratcliffe’s daisy cutter in, 85/86 • Rush’s nonsensical and bitter interview after the Kanchelskis Derby, ‘95 • The lad who everyone thought was a Liverpool steward in the Kop celebrating after Kanchelskis’s first goal in 95/96 • Joe Royle’s smug grin at the final whistle of the 94/95 Goodison Derby and the subsequent British Gas WSAG cover • That Liverpool supporter’s face when his Everton mates were celebrating AJ’s second in 2006 • The massive brawl at Anfield in 79/80 with only two players shitting out • Roy Evans crying about the dogs of war and Joe Royle’s dummies and prams comments • Dalglish jibbing it after the 4-4 • Rhino’s wrestle with Fowler, 96/97 at Goodison • Riedle and Berger kicking each other rather than the ball, Goodison 97/98 • Benitez’s pathetic ‘small club’ comments in 2004 showing how we’d got under his skin • Glen ‘My Hobby Is Sex’ Hysen’s comical dummy to let Cottee in for his equalizer in the 4-4 • ‘Fuck Off McMahon’ chants

• ‘You’re Not Very Good’ chants to the reds in the Bullens, October ‘97 • The Welsh Xavi’s miss at Goodison, 2013/14 • That Stevie Me in an Everton kit with the league championship trophy banner • Seamus Coleman nearly lamping Tim Cahill cos he wouldn’t celebrate with him in the Goodison Derby 2010/11 • ‘Fuck Off back To Norway’ chants • Cahill on Lescott's back at the Kop End • Wayne Clarke stopping them breaking that record • Losing my phone in the Upper Gwladys when Gosling scored • Rideout's forgotten 2nd lying on the floor in the Ferguson Derby.

• Amokachi's shot getting tipped around the post before Hinchcliffe's corner for the 1st goal in the same match.

• Southall making some ridiculous saves in the 1st half of that game • Eastoe's goal in the cup game in 1981 never crossing the line but the rebound from Phil Neal's clearance going in off in Avi Cohen. Clive Thomas still having to check with the linesman. The balls in the back of the net you stupid Welsh cunt.

• Part of Pat Nevin's leg still being in the Anny Road penalty box after Gary Ablett tried to remove it from the rest of his body in 1991 but Neil Midgeley thought he dived • That McMahon/Ebbrell tackle when FuckoffMc had to go off and Howard said post-match that Ebbrell's "shin pad had to be taken to hospital" • "Robbie Fowler's Illegitimate, he ain't got no birth certificate" • Danny Cadamareteri leaving Kvarme on his arse.

• Marcus Bent's rugby tackle in Lee Carsley to start the Big piley On • Andy Johnston holding up 3 and 0 fingers running away to the corner of the Park and Main Stands being caught up

by James Beattie who then also holds up 3 and 0 fingers.

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McAllistair 40 yard 94th min mishit free kick was a low moment "Gobbler" twatting McSlackerman just after Wardy scoring in the St End The first time Goodison rose in unison to serenade Benitez "Fat Spanish waiter, you're just a fat Spanish waiter...'

Red girlfriend pestered me to go to a game. Goodison, Glen Keeley, Rush, Lawrenson, disallowed dogleash header, You know rest Suarez teeth being offside Gerrard knee slide Street End playing volleyball amongst themselves at 3-0 up Reina just stood watching When that cheating bastard Thomas robbed us in the semi in 77 1986 cup final. Ahead at HT & comfortable. One misplaced pass from Stevens changed the game. We never truly believe we can.

AJs 3-0 and spending nearly a week's wages in the Winslow disco after it Moyes putting Anichebe & Stracqualursi up front, and leaving Cahill & Jelavic on the bench.

Knowing that no matter how shit Liverpool are, we will bottle it and they'll walk all over us 'Somebody' burning a kopite's scarf in the Spellow before the game 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me?' being played as we left the Tin Mine in 99 after the

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Campbell 1-0. Beautifully apt moment!

Bumping into a kopite cousin after the big dunc derby, we was pissing ourselves laughing at him,not cos of the result, but because he was in the top balcony, his false teeth flew out landed on the netting, and steward wouldn't let him reach over to get them back The 5-0 defeat in 82, I was a young kid and it was my first derby, older brothers always refused to take me until that one, bet they wish they'd carried on refusing to take me Being on the Kop age 14 to see Sharp's volley 100,000 singing 'Merseyside' at Wembley.

The 4-4.

Also Cahill and Arteta 2-0 bye bye Woy! Dr Fun David Moyes surrendering before a ball had been kicked, every time.

All the ones we didn't win, and there's plenty!

When my glasses lens fell out when Gosling scored and I spent the celebrations on my hands & knees in the Gwladys half blind Some red nosed bastard tried to set my scarf on fire in Goodison Rd. No worry, my Dad chinned him! Bag of shite Knocking it in the Gwladys Street bogs while they scored their third, circa 2002 (I'm not sure I want to know what this means - Ed.) Despite being relegation fodder, going 5 years unbeaten during secondary school!

The time Moyes put out the worst Everton team in history a few weeks before we played them in a semi-final Southall in the 4-4. Beaten 4 times and man of the match by a mile.

'86 Cup Final. Sat on those wooden steps crying my little bitter eyes out for ages. My Hate-O-Matic was in overdrive Hutchison off his back disallowed

• McAllister. In a pub surrounded by plastic RS fans. Wearing nicotine patches as trying to give up smoking. Horrendous • FUCKING MAGAYE GUEYE • Fucking Distin • The Carsley Derby. First derby I went to with my Dad. Amazing day.

• Kuyt not seeing red for his assault on Neville • When we played the worst Liverpool team of all time at Wembley, went 1-0 up and shat ourselves vigorously • Pepe Reina's assist for AJ • 14 years old at the kanchelskis derby at anfield.

Got a ticket in the centenary stand by myself, dad in the kop. On the way out was watching a fight in the street, walked into a lamp post and got knocked spark out. I was helped up by friendly liverpool fans. Met up with my dad at the car with a cut face and black eye. Him kicking off on me massively for getting into a fight. Not being able to convince him otherwise.

• Wembley, watching Sylvain Distin in slow motion lay a perfect through ball to Suarez, the type of pass our forwards hadn't/haven't seen for years.

• If you could reprint the Steve McMahon John Ebbrell front cover, that would be great.

Still chuckle at that one now • Going to school on the Monday after the 86 cup final.

Only one in the class who had been the game and got shit off all the red shites who wouldn't recognise a football if it hit them in the face. Hate that gargoyle Rush to this day.

• Me in me mates gaff givin it the punch air syndrome after Mo Johnstone scored.....his house, his telly and he a red....asked me to leave !!

• Duncan trying to 'get the boot in' on Sammi 'hard man' Hyppia after he had decked him, but being held back by Tim Cahill • The Grobbelaar clowns • McAllister from over 40 yards, they have 10 men, last minute, 2 man wall that walked out of the way, Gerrard going down slower than the keeper in the craggy island over 65's indoor game.

• The "Owen" 3-0 at Goodison under Smith seems to be forgotten. Fucking hell that was an ordeal. To not get beaten by a snide decision but by a total surrender was awful.

• The '77 semi final and that moment of elation, quickly followed by the awful decision by Clive Thomas to disallow the goal....and then going back to Maine Road a few days later to have them given a dubious penalty.....and I don't think we've had a fair referee since..

• The Clattenberg Derby • '86 final was as already mentioned, an awful experience. To be 9 years old at the time and have to see that live, after being witness to greatness a mere 12 months before was a terrible memory • The Glen Keeley derby and my transistor radio being launched from the bedroom window onto the crazy paving below.....to which my ald fella responded " soft lad"....

• Goofy givin it the big 'un right in front of Moyes.

• 'stevie mee laa' getting Hibbert and 'Bingo' sent off then shaking hands with clattenburg when he was substituted. Just so many life defining gems.

• Wembley '89. For a variety of reasons.

• Sittin in row a in the anny road and seeing Barmby score right in front of me.horrendous.

• Carsley enough said • Mirallas twatting Suarez and getting way with it. Revenge.

• Campbell. In the Kop end that night!

• Cahill equaliser late on • Getting dragged away from some kopite by me Dad after ruffling his hair when Beardsley scored the winner in the street end. He'd done the same to me earlier when Mark 'Rhyming Slang' Wright had scored the opener.

• Arteta's bolt at the Park End. Possibly the easiest win of this fixture. They were awful and they knew it.

• Gosling just as the Kopites were banking on winning on penalties.

• 3-0 win in 06, straight from the kick-off we we're right into them, remember Neville going into Fowler and that set the tone. What a day

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• • Big Dunc's first derby...with the dogs of war too..

• Osman's reaction after his goal when two nil down.

• Varadi getting a pie in the kisser after slotting • 'The Babies' Not Yours'....

• Eezz Gorra Soiled Tena Ladies' On Iz Ed' • Jagielka's Screamer • Bob Paisley's face at the end of the Andy King Derby • Dalglish's face at the end of the 4-4 'Game Of The Century'.

• The empty away end at Goodison 2008. 'Best away fans in the world'.

• The pensioner in the flat cap and 'flash' mac, running full pelt, crying, launching himself at Duncan as he stood in the middle of the penalty area facing The Gladys Street fists outstretched at the end of the 2:0 21 November 1994.

• The 1971 semi. My first derby memory. Hearing we were winning and then not understanding that we’d lost.

• Friendly Kopites ripping out crash barriers in the park end for about 4 seasons on the trot (early 70’s) • Emlyn Bastard Hughes • My first derby December 73.

Mick Lyons has a perfectly good goal disallowed before Alan (who? Waddle scrambles home a minty winner • The mid 70’s games merging into one long interminable 0-0 draw • David Fuckin Fairclough • Martin Dobson from 30 yards at Anfield • Bryan Hamilton’s hip • David Johnson getting a coin in the grid off the Enclosure

• 28/10/1978. At that point, the best day of my just 13 year old life. Andy King RIP • Mick Lyons comedy own goal at Anfield • Garry Stanley and Terry McDermott getting the first post war derby red cards • Jimmy shithouse Case ending Geoff Nulty’s career • Dixie Dean RIP • Imre Varadi • Getting on the pitch for the first time and hugging a very sweaty Trevor Ross • John Bailey’s own goal at Anfield • Singing “Merseyside” at the 1984 milk cup final • Blue and red “I support Liverpool city council” stickers • All the coaches getting bricked at the replay at Maine Road • Bruce Grobbelaar’s comedy own goal at Wembley • “He got behind Lawrenson did Sharp” • The first win at Anfield for 14 years • Sharpie followed by The Windmill • Still never seen us lose, been ten (I think) derbies and never seen us lose. (James Guy - You can have my ticket this season - Ed.) • Bunking in at 3 quarter time to see the end of a 0-0 at Anfield in 1983 – my first ever derby, aged 8 years old.

• Watching a televised 3-0 defeat at the tin mine in my Nana’s house, November 83.

• Bunking in to Goodison at 3 quarter time to see Alan Harper’s equaliser in the 1-1 dress rehearsal for the Milk Cup Final, 1984. Celebrating

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after Graeme Sharp’s penalty in the same game, before realising he had missed (I couldn’t see from the back of the enclosure).

Alan Hansen’s hand in the Milk Cup Final 1984. Horrible Bastard. Being forbidden to sing ‘Merseyside’ by my Dad. Not being taken to the replay and finding out about Souness’s goal in Mio’s on Townsend Lane. Horrible Bastards.

Travelling to Wembley in a brown Austin Princess to see Everton become the first Merseyside team to win a derby at Wembley, in the Charity Shield 1984. A comedy own goal to give the blues a deserved victory.

Graeme Sharp, October 1984. Greatest Everton goal of all time. Not being able to believe that Everton had won a game at the tin mine.

Paul Wilkinson giving us our 3rd derby win of the season, the night before my 11th birthday 1985. Thinking that things would always be this way. Heysel a week later, and the attempts to deflect the blame.

Fearing another 5-0 at half time September 1985. Being relieved at the spirited fight back, despite still losing the match 3-2.

Ratcliffe and Lineker at the tin mine, February 1986.

Dalglish’s bitter comments to the press afterwards.

Travelling to Wembley in the back of a van, full of kopites, May 1986. Watching Everton dominate but miss a weirdly high number of chances until Gary Stevens passed the ball to Molby. Learning a harsh lesson about the unfairness of life. And that the Liverpool team are able to summon up the evil powers of Satan, in times of adversity.

Adrian Heath giving a depleted Everton side the lead with 10 minutes to go in the Charity Shield, 1986. ET equalising with 2 minutes to go to share the shield. Being marched out of Wembley because my Dad “didn’t want to see us sharing anything with them cunts”.

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• • • Kendall putting a half arsed reserve side out in the Screen Sport Super Cup. Being completely annihilated 7-2 over two legs, by a full strength Liverpool.

• A dull as fuck 0-0 at Goodison, December 1986.

ET having a goal chalked off for what appeared to be ‘accidentally slobbering’ on Derek Mountfield.

• Being in the Park End terrace with the sub-humans for the Jim Beglin leg snap game in January 1987. Being offered a scone, by someone who was handing them out to his fellow mutants from a plastic bag. Refusing. What kind of fucking scruff would bring scones to a derby match?

Graeme Sharp almost breaking Molby’s face, and Everton losing to a goal from that horrible big nosed bastard, again.

• Rush breaking Dixie Dean’s derby match record at Anfield. We had the league in the bag though, and Sheedy did what every Evertonian dreams of, so it wasn’t all bad.

• Watching Gary Stevens’ deflected shot send a so far unbeaten Liverpool team out of the Littlewoods Cup, on the ‘Jumbotron’ (a double “was it called that back then?”) at Goodison.

• Being in the Liverpool section of the Anfield Road end at the tin mine for a 2-0 defeat the following Sunday.

Offering several of the gobshites out, who were

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laughing at me when Beardsley scored.

Watching Wayne Clark’s goal give the mighty blues a 1-0 win, and thereby preventing them achieving the record 30 game unbeaten start to a season. Singing “you can stick your fucking record up your arse” all week afterwards, to no-one in particular.

Seeing Ray Houghton put us out of the FA cup at quarter final stage, March 88. I was thinking of altering the number in this list so it didn’t end in defeat. But in the end it just had to. It always does against them.

My dad's mate posting loose baked beans in a Jiffy bag to Michael Owens house. Just because he's a twat.

The very same mate of my dad getting a ticket in a seat next to the tunnel (despite having a season ticket elsewhere) just to hurl abuse at David James as he came out onto the pitch.

Every red devising a list of reasons why it was correct to disallow Don Hutchinson's 'goal'.

The bellend DJ in the Chelsea at New Brighton announcing these reasons midway through his set the following Saturday night.

Half of the Chelsea's Saturday night (underage) punters leaving and going to RJs instead.

The blue loudly ranting at kopites on the walk back through Stanley Park after

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the Gerrard 4-0 derby - 'get back on your coach to the Cotswolds from this local derby and I hope you're feeling smug sat at your desk in work tomorrow turning the page on your Steven Gerard calendar, whilst reading the Sun, you horrible, lying selfrighteous bastards'.

Of the gobsmacked Kopites only one 7 year old kid having the balls to speak up and tell the guy to shut up.

His dad with a Cornish accent quickly ushering him away.

The Reds sat next to me in the Top Balcony getting kicked and hair ruffled after Fergusons equaliser cancelled out Fowlers goal.

The Gwladys St descending into levels of hatred normally reserved for Rooney after Suarez gets Rodwell sent off.

Bellamy bears the brunt of the anger getting pelted with missiles whilst stewards remove any reds as skirmishes break out. It really isn't big or clever.

Mirallas being by far the best player on the pitch two seasons running until snidy Suarez tackles force him out of the game.

Being a much better side than them between 20102014 but never making the most of this advantage.

Pienaar leaving the boot in.

The kopites reaction to having a couple of decisions against them and disallowed goals in recent years. Really!

You've been hard done by?

Blues being able to agree that the ref got it wrong and finding that funny, in stark contrast to the complete denial culture of kopites.

Bjorn Tore Kvarme having one of the worst Derby performances ever.

Reminding everyone in school of the Derby score throughout the 90s by writing it in large letters on every blackboard.

Draws feeling like a win in the 90s.

Draws feeling like a loss in the 2010s.

Tim Cahill - a modern Derby legend following in the

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footsteps of Big Dunc, the late Andy King, Alan Ball etc.

Cahill's last minute equaliser in front of the Anfield Rd end.

The shell suited kids dancing on the Wembley pitch after McCall's goal.

The front row of the Kop celebrating Super Kevs goal.

Unsworth vs Fowler. Knowing Rhino would have filled him in good style given the chance.

Westerveld v Jeffers.

Wouldn't have ended quite so good for Franny had it been on Sefton Park not Goodison Park.

Andy Van de Meyde's only real meaningful contribution in a blue shirt.

Danny Gosling's first of only 2 meaningful contributions in a blue shirt.

Sock throwing jibes and zany Tesco bag stunts by the pocket warmers being as empty as the boards commitment to these ventures.

In the space 90 mins, Royle, Ferguson and Rideout remove the gloom that had been hanging over Goodison for 5 years.

The reaction to Martinez throwing Deulofeu on, after years of Moyes caution.

Derby songs in the 90s being generally in bad taste Souness' health, Fowler's extra carriculars and Shankly and Paisley's current residence being amongst the main topics.

Dreading the whole day.

Not being surprised when we get turned over.

• Not going to Anfield for years and listening to it on the radio I just can't be near them when we play.

• That gobshite Gerrard an his jarg hard man routine the soft cunt couldn't fight is way thru a wet echo.

• The LIVERPOOL Echo loving them winning again.

• Naming our derbies, Kings, sharpy, Campbell, Carsley, Johnson, Gosling etc coz we win so few.

• Injustice against us there's been so many that deal with the devil is not running out anytime soon is it.

• That cunt Carragher celebrating wins against us fuck off letting them tell us it's our FA cup.

• The semi when moyes sat back on a 1 goal lead fuck off Moyes.

• Getting to Analfield 5 mins after Kick off coz I can't listen to that song.

• Seeing usually levelled headed blues lose the

fucking plot.

• The wins when they come it's the reason we go thru it all.

• Big Dunc terrifying them.

• Checking the Derby dates and promising yourself I'm going on Holiday straight after the game because you can't deal with the defeat.

• Not doing the above and just taking it like an Evertonian.

• Thinking in the balance of karma thinking our time to rule is coming it's the hope that kills you.

• Jagielka having Torres in his back pocket, and simultaneously ruining him forever.

• Jeffers and Westerveld having that weird bitch slap fight.

• Counting my lucky stars Sturridge skied that penalty in front of the Kop. • Melting in the Gwladys Street on an unusually hot day in October.

• The purple heart? (before my time but my gather-in-law mentions it regularly) • the book on the history of the rivalry, from late 80s I think?

• bananas • Stuart McCall • Ray Houghton • Billy Kenny • Stuart Barlow's misses • Dirk Kuyt's tackle • Milan Baros's tackle • Three games in a couple of weeks, all on TV • Tic Tacs • Andy van der Meyde • Bottles launched at Andy Carroll • Lukaku / Sturridge • Jagielka last minute

blue-tone.co.uk

“...and a Little Bitter That.”

And here's part 2 of Greg Murphy's seminal 'Bitter Blues' piece. Well, when I say part 2, I really mean the middle bit... I'll let Greg explain So you submit an article which is 15 million 273 words long and the lads at WSAG say “it could have been longer”. Sheesh!

Truth is, though, that as part of an occasional gag from several seasons ago, the editorial team knew “his piece on the Derby” had variously fluctuated in promised length from a high-point of some 23,000 words a few years back (book territory, that).

After being variously stiffed, edited, hacked to bits, built-up again, forgotten about, tried to be forgotten about by me, over intervening seasons, the article “A Little Bitter This...” from the last WSAG basically forced itself into being submitted following the fallout from the last Derby.

the article was the easiest to hack-off then it was this.

But I’m submitting it now as a companion piece purely to provide a one-stop reference point for Blues in order to detail those 17 derbies in question which utterly shatter the myth that our response to Heysel was responsible for the Derby being the vile fest it has now descended to.

They’d like to think that but ultimately it’s facts, not opinions, that prove the point and as I said in the original piece, our response to Heysel and indeed Hillsborough was faultless.

So, essentially, both pieces add up to a whole. After this, I promise, that’s it.

Honest.

That was the step too far in us being painted black and them virgin white (which is exactly the self sanctifying view they subscribe to and wish to perpetuate).

And as a point of note since it was printed, there have indeed been two fellas banned from the front rows of the Centenary Stand (I was starting to wonder if it would be brushed under) which throws into even sharper perspective how hideously skewed the immediate and willing media response to Rafa’s latest whinge was in the aftermath of that match.

NB: the last two Derbies listed below were, obviously, played after Hillsborough but as the subject has been to examine Evertonian’s relationship with LFC in the period between the disasters, the two matches in question are a key part of the whole study.

Despite what the WSAG team said, though, in reality I did have to seriously edit the article down to avoid the last issue really becoming “When Skies Are Greg”.

But noting their Oliverian pleas for “more” (the fools!) here’s the stuff which frankly had to remain on the cutting room floor lest readers lose the will to live.

These, then, are the excerpts in question. The DVD extras. And basically it’s no more than a checklist of the 17 derbies between Heysel and Hillsborough which once formed the middle section of that original article.

If you look back you can see the join. I left them out first time around not just for length issues but also because the main thrust of the message, which I won’t repeat, was far more important.

Also as it’s primarily a checklist of games it’s a pretty self-contained unit and so if any part of

Liverpool 2, Everton 3, Phil Neal Testimonial, 12th August 1985, Anfield: att 23,480 Given that it was a testimonial it may seem pedantic to list this match but I honestly think it’s the most important of the 17 derbies that were played between Heysel and Hillsborough.

The atmosphere at this game set the tone for the whole nature of our interaction with LFC between 1985 and 1989. And in pitching up at Anfield just 65 days after Heysel the sizeable number of Evertonians in the Anny Road End couldn’t be faulted.

Knackered from the Charity Shield two days earlier, the Blues shipped two early goals. Once we’d got into our stride, though, there was no question that we’d overhaul them. Anfield was left somewhat mute at the supremacy of the champions and every Evertonian left the ground that night with their head held high. On two counts.

Everton 2, Liverpool 3, Canon League Division One, 21st September 1985, Goodison Park: att 51, 509 Just 115 days since Heysel and Kopites are welcomed to Goodison to feel the full force of the Bitter Blue reaction.

Also, as this match was played on the Monday before the season started (just 48 hours after we’d beaten Manchester United in the Charity Shield at Wembley) it represented a full-on test for the two sides that had finished first and second the previous season.

As part of the massed bank of Blues, I recall being more interested in seeing the champions strut around Anfield, or maybe getting another look at Gary Lineker, or another gauge of Adrian Heath’s fitness and a general suss of what shape we were in, rather than scoring points about Heysel.

Far from being “Bitter Blues” Everton and Evertonians turned up at Anfield with good grace and there wasn’t a hint of trouble.

Just 65 days since Heysel! Obviously the arrangements for the game had been made long before Heysel but there was no question of Everton telling Phil Neal to find himself other opponents during the summer.

Had they known, though, that 20 years later Neal himself would scurrilously and shamefully demand payment from the Observer for his views on Heysel, then Philip Carter and Howard Kendall could have been forgiven for telling him to do one (Google: Phil Neal Heysel Observer).

What happened? Was the game rescheduled to a 7am Saturday morning kick-off on police advice?

Were Kopites advised not to come over? Was there a joint appeal for peace from Ratcliffe and Neal prior to kick-off? Similar to the last time they’d visited Goodison, to play Manchester United in the previous April’s FA Cup semi final, were golf balls with nails driven through them the chosen L’Objets du Jour for all hoolie Kopites in the expected event of Evertonian attacks? Was the recently refurbished Abbey alehouse which had been wrecked after the said semi final again trashed? No to all the above.

In fact, a certain Kenny Dalglish had the temerity to put them a goal up after 27 seconds and instead of stifling their celebrations, assorted Kopites in the Park End, around the ground and particularly the Street End went utterly ape, as you’d expect.

That they felt secure enough to turn up at Goodison at all, let alone take up residence on the Street End - as we would still do on the Kop spoke volumes about how Everton FC as a whole had reacted following Heysel.

If you can bear the 27 second pain then Google the following: “The King Rips The Bitters Apart” and see for yourself just how bitter the Street End was as Kopites go wild.

If any game pointedly demonstrated the undoubted cordiality that still existed between the two clubs then this is it.

No, the atmosphere at this 3pm Saturday afternoon Derby took its cue directly from the events (or lack of them) at Phil Neal’s tessie a month earlier.

Although players have long since cottoned on to the fact that there are willing testimonial whores in the shape of Rangers, Celtic and Newcastle, the thought of a long-serving Liverpool captain welcoming Everton to Anfield for his benefit game is borderline unthinkable now and it’s only in the context of a Marina Dalglish cancer appeal game that it could probably ever happen.

And when you consider that Liverpool raced into a 0.3 half-time lead and the third of those goals was scored by a certain Steve McMahon who was making his debut for Liverpool having only signed a week earlier, then it’s clear that this was a hoolie fest just waiting to happen.

Except it didn’t.

Officially recorded at 98,000, the attendance that day was easily 110,000 if not more.

When you weigh up the context of having lost the Milk Cup Final, dealing with the aftermath of Heysel, and still stinging from blowing the league to them seven days earlier, then surely the manner of this defeat - given that Everton looked to be cruising with 30 minutes to go (a microcosm of the whole season in fact) - then it was surely inevitable that “the bitters” would be pushed too far and mayhem would ensue in all parts of North London.

Wasn’t it?

Liverpool 0, Everton 2, Canon League Division One, February 22nd 1986, Anfield: att 45,445 What Heysel? What European Cup? Evertonians turning-up at Anfield on this gloriously sunny Saturday - another 3pm - had only one thing on their mind: victory that would put us 11pts clear at the top of the table and certs to successfully defend our title.

Thanks to goals from Ratcliffe (well, Grobellaar) and Lineker, we did indeed gain that victory. The reason that the papers didn’t record the pitched battles in Stanley Park was due to the fact that there weren’t any.

Everton 1, Liverpool 3, FA Cup Final, May 10th 1986, Wembley Stadium: att 98,000 Well, if Heysel hadn’t already tested our perceived “bitterness” then losing the championship and then the FA Cup Final in the space of a week would surely push us over the edge.

Wouldn’t it?

But no, despite the fact that it was only two years since we’d lost the League Cup Final to them, despite the fact that Heysel had been a year earlier, despite the fact that they’d pipped us to the title just a week earlier, Evertonians mixed freely with Kopites at Wembley and apart from the officially designated “ends” behind the goals it was hard to see any other segregation in force around the rest of the stadium.

Instead, not only did the Met praise both sets of fans, not only did the BBC marvel and linger long with cameras at how intermingled blue and red was, but Evertonians also stood respectfully alongside Kopites throughout the streets of Liverpool a day later.

The Everton runners-up bus was minus trophies and Peter Reid. The Liverpool bus behind it had the League and FA Cup trophies aboard. And not a brick, not an egg, not a plassy bottle was lashed at it.

Our “bitterness” knew no bounds.

Everton 1, Liverpool 1, FA Charity Shield, August 16th 1986, Wembley Stadium: att 88, 231 The dullest of the five Merseyside Derbies at Wembley in the 80s.

Which really is the point.

The second season of the European ban is underway. Kopites are gleefully reminding Evertonians about the double won just 14 weeks earlier. And what did every last bitter one of us

do? Just went to Wembley, had a load of ale, a good laugh and came home. And we even shared the trophy for six months apiece. Strange type of Heysel triggered bitterness.

Liverpool 3, Everton 1, Football League ScreenSport Super Cup Final - 1st Leg, September 16th 1986, Anfield: att 20,660 So cometh the sixth Derby since Heysel. And surely if the bitter blueness was ever gonna spill over it would be at this farce; designed as it was to provide some form of “compensation” to those teams banned from Europe?

they both played out 90 minutes of the dullest fayre imaginable.

And then everyone - including the telly cameras went home.

Everton 0, Liverpool 1, Littlewoods League Cup 5th Rd, January 21st 1987, Goodison Park: att 53, 323 This was becoming a joke. It was only January and we’d already played them five times that season alone.

And we hadn’t won one.

Oddly enough, er no.

And Rush scored again.

Except it wasn’t considered odd at the time because as had already been proved at the five previous Merseyside Derbies since Heysel, the friendly Derby and cordial cross-park relations were still in full 80s swing. And to cap the big love-in, Liverpool’s goals were notched by two boyhood Evertonians in the shape of Rush (inevitably) and McMahon whilst Everton’s Martin Dobsonesque screamer was lashed home by a former Liverpool reserve named Kevin Sheedy.

Everton 1, Liverpool 4, Football League ScreenSport Super Cup Final - 2nd Leg, September 30th 1986, Goodison Park: att 26, 068 Well, we’d had to endure Liverpool captains lifting trophies at Maine Road and at Wembley but surely it was a step-too-far for the naked Evertonian “bitterness” to be able to cope with watching their chief nemesis (a certain Ian Rush, who’d managed to lash five goals past us over two legs) lifting a pot aloft at Goodison?

But that’s exactly what happened. This surely was adding insult to injury. For this was the “European replacement” competition following the post-Heysel ban and we’d been royally tonked 7.2 over both final legs.

Murder, surely? “The worst night of football related violence on Liverpool’s streets ever,” Merseyside Police chief constable, Sir Kenneth Oxford, was heard not to say later.

Everton 0, Liverpool 0, Today League Division One, 23rd November 1986, Goodison Park: att 48,247 Match facts: some Evertonians went to Goodison Park on a dull Sunday afternoon; some Liverpudlians did likewise; as indeed did 24 professional footballers representing the teams either side of Stanley Park and

And Liverpool had turfed us out of a cup competition yet again.

There was surely no way this supposedly friendly Derby could survive any longer?

Something had to give.

Unfortunately for Jim Beglin it was his right leg.

Of course, Gary Stevens’ bile filled reckless challenge is now historically seen a prime example of post-Heysel Blue bitterness and the fact that Evertonians, while alternating between sympathy and spew as Beglin’s leg protruded from his sock, could only say four words “Nulty, Geoffrey, Case, James” was a demonstration of just how low we’d sunk. We really were wrecking the “friendly Derby”.

Liverpool 3, Everton 1, Today League Division One, April 25th 1987, Anfield: att 44,827 The tenth Derby since Heysel and frankly the

A very sweet night indeed. Of course, our wild celebrations were the very epitome of bitterness and we had no right bringing such partisan behaviour into these fixtures which had been the source of so much pain for us in the previous few years.

Given the way that we’re now told how we so wantonly used the Heysel issue to wreck the “friendly Derby”, it was somewhat curious that things were still quite cordial at this stage. Question was, just how much longer could it all last? weirdest.

A very familiar scoreline. Very familiar scorers in the shape of McMahon, Rush (who eclipsed Dixie Dean’s Derby goalscoring record in this game) and Kevin Sheedy.

Indeed it was Everton’s seventh Derby without a win. But curiously we didn’t seem so concerned.

Because although we’d lost, it was almost certain that we’d be lifting the title within a week or two thanks to a stunning run of form that spring.

The only downside was that we could have all but clinched the pot at their place - the second time in our history that we’d have done such a thing given that we lifted our first title in 1891 when we were still Anfield residents.

But despite that, we had a moment of Everton folklore to cherish forever in the shape of our darling midfielder “flicking the Vs” to a sanctimonious Kop who’d not only dished abuse out constantly all game to him for his temerity to have jibbed Liverpool reserves five years earlier but for a perceived lack of solidarity towards his Republic of Ireland team mate, Jim Beglin, who’d obviously suffered the worst injury in the whole history of football.

Liverpool 0, Everton 1, Littlewoods League Cup 3rd Rd, October 28th 1987, Anfield: att: 44,071 Finally we’d dumped them out of a competition.

Any competition. At their place too. Their first defeat of the season as well. And how we celebrated Gary Stevens’ deflected winner into the Kop end which frankly should have made it 0.2 considering the howler of a sitter that Graeme Sharp missed at the same end which far eclipsed anything Mick Madar would do on the same spot a decade later.

Liverpool 2, Everton 0, Barclays League Division One, November 1st 1987, Anfield: att 44,760 Well it managed to survive another three days at least. Many Blues had only just about sobered-up following Wednesday night’s festivities (us being bitter again) and suddenly it was Sunday and it was time to trek across the park again, this time for a televised league fixture.

Sadly it was a case of normal service being resumed again - with Steve McMahon managing to sling another past Southall - and suddenly the shine from Wednesday’s victory was starting to fade.

Especially as it was starting to look ominously like this new fangled Barnes-Beardsley-Aldridge caper of theirs was inexorably steering them towards taking our title back across the park.

Faced with this increasingly obvious inevitability and Steve McMahon’s celebratory grid, how did the Heysel-obsessed massed ranks of Evertonians set about demonstrating their naked bitterness and ruining the image of Merseyside football?

Er, they just went home. Or more likely The Winslow and other local hostelries. But obviously by this stage - two and a half years since Heysel - the “friendly Derby” must have been hanging by a thread.

Everton 0, Liverpool 1, FA Cup 5th Rd, February 21st 1988, Goodison Park: att 48,270 Another cup draw, another Derby (we don’t know how lucky we’ve been over the last 17 years...it’s only a matter of time, though).

Yet again Liverpool dump Everton out of another cup competition. Painfully at Goodison this time.

Given that we already had one foot in the grave of our League Cup Semi Final versus Arsenal, having lost the home leg 0.1, and the fact that we were miles behind Liverpool in the league, there was much riding on this game - another televised Sunday afternoon affair - for Everton; and realistically the FA Cup was our last hope of glory that year.

Naturally the bizzies were stretched to breaking point all over Walton as angry post-Heysel Evertonians rampaged in anger and bitterness, with the papers and the media finally proclaiming the “death” of the “friendly Derby”.

Then again that might be what Kopites would like to believe.

Whereas the truth of the matter was that once again many of us were probably already home in time for the Antiques Roadshow. And Bread, probably.

Everton 1, Liverpool 0, Barclays League Division One, March 20th 1988, Goodison Park: att 44,162 Sod Hugh Scully (ask yer dad, kids), Ming Dynasty vases and Lilo Lill on this particular Sunday evening, for there was a Big Blue party being held around L4 4EL as not only had Sniffer Clarke’s latest sniff condemned them to defeat but we’d also prevented them from setting a new league record for the number of unbeaten games from the start of a season.

Of course, this was probably just the stuff of bitterness wasn’t it?

Because unlike their wild celebrations a year earlier when they beat us at Anfield late in the season even though it was obvious that the title was heading across the park to us, we weren’t supposed to do similar this time around. We weren’t bloody stupid.

We all knew ultimately that in the great scheme of things they already had the title sewn up but it was certainly cause for a major celebration because quite frankly we’d had enough of being denied honours, titles and victories at their hands over the previous four years.

Just halting their machine, however briefly, was cause for at least a nightime’s bragging?

Naturally this was interpreted as us being more obsessed with Liverpool’s fortunes rather than our own.

Ever thus.

It was all symptomatic, of course, of how low relations had sunk since Heysel. And the extent

to which Evertonians had wrecked the “friendly Derby” would start to become a national security issue as the country could ill afford all police leave to be cancelled in neighbouring forces every time the two teams met. Just as well then that they didn’t have to and that the usual 600 or so local bizzies were still coping with things pretty much as they had been doing since er, well, since before Heysel.

Liverpool 1, Everton 1, Barclays League Division One, December 11th 1988, Anfield: att 42, 372 In an era when we seemed to be playing each other every other week, it seemed odd that we hadn’t met them for nine months and that this was the first time that season.

This was the first of the three Derbies that season - there had only been the two basic league matches once in the previous six campaigns - and it was the least significant, certainly in terms of what was to follow come springtime.

However it was most definitely a significant day for the Evertonians in the corner of the Anny Road for we witnessed the unthinkable: getting a penalty at Anfield (honest kids, it really happened...”but, ah, no, no, lad, it wasn’t at the Kop end, I mean come on you can’t have it all!”).

And although Sniffer Clarke did the honours again to cancel out Houghton’s opener, there was still the salutary reminder that we were indeed at Anfield to come later.

For not long after scoring from the spot, Sniffer rose to meet a high cross at the Anny Road end and duly nodded it home. Cue bedlam. Cue a linesman’s flag. TV replays showed he wasn’t offside nor had he impeded anyone.

In fact it was a legit goal. The fact that we dared to even question the decision of course meant that we were bitter and naturally it was all part

That’s because - as I said in the original piece we hadn’t been “bitter” since Heysel. Simple as that.

The Derby games after Heysel had been no friendlier or no more acrimonious than those that had gone before. A revised history, peddled by Kopites, would now have you believe otherwise.

of our “itifhadnavebinfer” post-Heysel attitude that was wrecking the “friendly Derby”.

Nonetheless there was still no major argy-bargy.

Kopites probably put that down to Evertonians being in a festive mood what with it being so close to Christmas. Because of course, as they’ll tell you now, the “friendly Derby” had ceased to be in the immediate aftermath of Heysel.

Bollocks. Anyway, this was the last time we met them before Hillsborough.

Everton 0, Liverpool 0, Barclays League Division One, May 3rd 1989, Goodison Park: att 45,994 The first game played at Goodison without the “safety” fences since they were erected in the summer of 1978. And the first game that Liverpool elected to play following the Hillsborough disaster 18 days earlier.

Which says it all.

Kopites in the Park End unfurled a banner thanking Evertonians for their support. It was a nice gesture - roundly applauded by all sides of the ground - but it was hardly a surprise that our solidarity with them had been so pronounced.

Because not only did most of us know someone or know of someone - who was either there or who had been directly affected (and many of us were crapping ourselves coming back from Villa Park for fear of finding out we knew someone who had died) but also because we implicitly recognised that it could have been us that day and that ultimately this was an issue to affect all of football.

But there was no sudden gear change in cross park solidarity concerning Hillsborough. It was a seamless product of all that had gone beforehand. Especially since Heysel.

There was absolutely no sense from them that “you’ve surprised us, given how bitter you’ve been since Heysel, that you’ve been so decent about this.”

Everton 2, Liverpool 3, FA Cup Final, May 20th 1989, Wembley Stadium: att 82,800 The second time we played them that month. It really was all about Hillsborough. The whole ground sang YNWA. Kopites pretended that the result didn’t really matter.

It did, as Dalglish demonstrated later - swigging from the cup - in the dressing room as he led a chorus of Scouser Tommy in the dressing room complete with “We played the Toffees for a laugh and left them feeling Blue, five nil, one-two, onetwo-three, one-two-three-four, five nil.”

Nice touch that, Kenny. That’s why his “Hillsborough fatigue” excuse two years later doesn’t really hold water.

Anyway, it’s all on YouTube if you wanna search it out. I’ve always wondered, though, how an Everton victory would have been greeted that day. We’d probably still be getting called heartless bastards to this day if we’d been celebrating.

--Anyway, there’s the above list as was referenced in the original article.

You can see why I cut it out. I present it here only to “complete the piece” so to speak.

And purely as a matter of record and a resource for any Blue (or Kopite) who wishes to reference it in future.

Really speaking, the above narrative list doesn’t work that well for those who haven’t read the original piece.

Safe to say, though, that any Kopite who tries to suggest that the current animosity between the two clubs - as evidenced at the last Anfield derby - is all due a deterioration of relations that set in immediately after Heysel is talking bollocks.

As I hope I amply demonstrated in the original piece and have illuminated to an extent in this companion listing.

GREG MURPHY

AVIATOR 31 . 08 . 2015

INFOS & CONTACT

www.aviator-music.co.uk

Take A Long Hard Look I am an Evertonian. I live in Liverpool. Sefton actually. Merseyside anyway.

I don't go to as many games as I used to. I gave my season ticket up a couple of years ago. To be truthful I got a bit sick of working all week to pay the wages of the likes of Pistone. They're just not worthy of it.

I'm off to Dublin in April though. Can't wait. It's not Istanbul but that's hardly the point.

There are not as many 'I was there' points to score. It's watching the Blues, having a few scoops with an old friend in a city I'm very fond of.

Do you still need to phone ahead for the Guinness?

My elder brother, Gary, died at Hillsborough.

Asphyxiation. The breath was crushed out of him by the sheer mass of bodies squashed into such a tight space.

I'm getting angry thinking about it.

He was no angel like, and I hope to God he did have a few bevies before the game. [ don't like to be reminded of it. I don't much like the memories of seeing the disaster unfold on the telly, not realising he was there until my Dad said so. Even then, jokingly saying 'Our Gary'll get me one of them' about the numerous Police helmets littering the pitch.

There was no phone call to say he was alright.

This became more worrying as the day wore on.

My Dad's grim march around to the Pub. His return with the dreaded news, from his mates who had returned but couldn't bring themselves to come to ours. I don't blame them. What would they have said?

My mother had kept her composure all day up until that point, busily ironing every bit of clothing in the house that wasn't on someone's back.

Upon hearing the news which was a strained 'There's no other way of saying this. He's dead', all the days ironing got flung around the kitchen and the ironing board was upended.

I escaped to the back garden and tried to fend off a particularly boisterous Jack Russell I kept there (for the rats in our council slum).

The rest of the day is a bit sketchy. I realise now I was in shock. I was seeing a girl I'd known for years at the time. Not that serious, but in my thoughts enough for that to be the first place I turned to.

The poor girl didn't know what to do with me. I was pretty vacant. She probably just plied me with drink. Her dad, who I regard as one of my best friends now, came in.

Not knowing about my news said 'Have you seen what's happened? Do you know anyone that's gone?'. My girlfriend had to take him out of the room to explain. 'Yeah' I said to no one.

I went to Sheffield the next day with my dad and a couple of uncles. The rest of my dad's brothers who were scattered around the country all met up there to support us.

My girlfriend still says I shouldn't have gone, but as I said at the time 'I can't remember the last time I saw him. I've got to'.

It was a weird dream like journey. I kept expecting him to be standing on some street corner, smiling saying 'Where the fuck have youse been ay?'.

It

never

happened

and we set about making sure the person they had lying on some slab in this town was our Gary.

They had some kind of community/ church hall set up to deal with people like us. I suppose they were doing their best in a terrible situation but the last thing we needed was to be comforted by some stranger, with that serene look God botherers have, who knew nothing about us or the person we were looking for.

'Listen mate, where's the nearest pub?' My Dad said.

'There's one across the road. Shall the young fellow stay here?' Lazarus says. I was at the front going out the door.

After a few pints we decided we'd better find the place where they were keeping the bodies.

We were sitting around on couches in what I think was a morgue. There were a lot of people about, crying or with worried looks on their faces. A couple of fellas went past in white tunics. One of them was about Peter Crouch's height and had something a bit queer about him.

My uncle David said 'I bet he does nights'. We all laughed, God you had to, The laughter didn't last long and the smiles didn't linger.

We were ushered into a room. There was a glass viewing window with a curtain drawn across it, on the inside. As we stood in the dark, all nine or so, there were no jokes. The curtain went aside and there lay my elder brother, Gary.

It was him alright.

Or something with the life knocked out of it that resembled him. My Dad rested his hands on the window sill and put his nose up to the glass. I couldn't handle it and fled the room. I was off up the street and our David came after me and brought me back, I asked my Dad days later why he did that and he said 'Well, you have to make sure'.

The events of 15th of April knocked the stuffing out of my Mum and Dad and they began visibly ageing. My relationship with my Dad is better now as we did clash at the time. My sister and I get on better than we did at the time too but what teenager is on more than grunting terms with their elder sister anyway.

Not long after we were in one of the Cathedrals in town, can't remember which one. They had us all lined up in some vestry as Thatcher and some Royal with the coldest hands I've ever shook, shook mine.

The coldest hands I've ever felt and the coldest heart in the same room to shake the hands of a

lad from Bootle. That wouldn't happen while I was conscious nowadays but I was young and impressionable at the time. 'So dreadfully sorry' I think Maggie said. 'Yeah, I fuckin bet yis are' I can just about live with myself for not saying.

Fair play to my Granddad who turned his back on the pair of them, and I'd pay money to revisit that sketch. God knows what Maggie and her mate thought. I hope they had a good think about it, but I doubt it.

I better get to the point of this, if there is one. It feels alright writing about it for the readers who will take it for what it is, on a basic human level.

Something I suspect some folk are lacking. Basic Human kindness. Not a word, but fuck it, this is my piece.

We as a family started getting letters and tickets through about memorials. I was all for supporting my mother and father in this if that's what they wanted to do. I'd already explained to my mother that I wasn't going to visit a gravestone in Thornton every week, and she accepted it.

Its single figures the amount of times I've been there. My mum and Dad go every week, that's their decision.

They also go to the memorial every year. One of the first ones I went to was at their yard and I remember thinking 'Why?' when we parked behind a taxi with Leicester plates.

I've had to stand on the Kop while everyone around me sang that horrible dirge of theirs. I stood there with my mouth sealed. I've never been to one since. I've vowed to never go there again unless it's for the Derby.

What struck me was the amount of people on the Kop that day. It was full. 96 people died and they give around 5 tickets to each family. I don't understand why you would want to be involved in something like that unless a relative or a friend had died. My mum got upset when some tit at the back was shouting about boycotting the upcoming Sheffield Wednesday game (over a plaque).

She thought they were being disrespectful. Thanks lad, me mum swerved that game on your advice.

At the start of the day, we were gathered in one of their lounges. Somehow we had managed to get in the wrong place and the players walked in and stood near us. I'll never forget the sight of people standing their kids next to them and taking photographs. I was speechless. I suppose I wasn't much better with my black Everton badge on.

My Mum and Dad still go to these things, but even my Mum is getting a bit tired of the whole thing. My Sister and Aunty go and I normally give my ticket to my cousin, who was very close to Gary.

I normally meet them in the Abbey or one of the many boozers along County Strasa afterwards. I bollocked my sister and (female) cousin for going on about being able to smell Baros' aftershave last year. A couple of years before, Berger was the object of their attention.

I reckon I could tout that ticket and some weirdo would pay good money for it too.

There are probably weirdoes about that wish they had a relative that died that day, so that they could feel even more aggrieved on message boards. In the same way Brett Anderson will never forgive God for not letting him be Angie Bowie.

I was in Sheffield recently to do with work. After I'd done what I was down there to do, I very nearly stayed on the tram to Leppings Lane. I decided not to in the end.

It struck me that my brother, who I used to get a hiding off for wearing his clothes (he went off his head when he saw our Isle of Man holiday snaps and I'm standing there grinning in his Adidas top, with a fish I'd caught), got another for snapping the forks on his Raleigh Bomber In Derby Park (I never went home that night but sat in my mates shitting myself), got me caught dangling out of our bedroom window about to jump on a pile of privets my dad had chopped, on his insistence, was sleeping next to me in the same bed when a bed spring came through the mattress and gave me the scar I still have on my left knee, used to throw darts back that I threw at him, got me a hiding off my dad because he riled me to the point where I called him a 'tool' when I didn't even know what it meant, used to laugh at me doing Southall impressions bouncing the ball off the wall and diving full stretch across the bed,

died in a strange town at a horrible football ground with people sitting and shouting on the spot where he drew his last breath, once a fortnight and I wasn't there to help him.

On the journey back to Lime Street that evening there was a lad on the platform with a Liverpool scarf on. I naively thought this kid who was waiting for the same train as me had taken a sickie to visit Leppings Lane. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The carriage I was in had a few people in scarves dotted about. One lad was sat in front of me.

The ticket fella got talking to him and mentioned some European team and the penny dropped.

This lad had travelled from Cambridge to watch the Mighty Reds and had changed trains at Sheffield. The lad didn't know how to get to Anfield and the ticket fella said 'There'll probably be a few more getting on as we get near Warrington, you can follow them'.

That kind of sketch makes my blood boil.

At the FA Cup Final in 1989, me and my girlfriend went. We got free tickets from LFC. I had a few bevies that day, and joined isolated crowds in hurling more than a bit of abuse at the Met, who to be fair, took it on the chin.

The game's a bit of a blur. My girls a Blue and I remember her being stood on her seat screaming. One thing that stands out from that day is during the minute's silence, someone started playing reggae music full blast from somewhere. Cue shouts of 'Fuckin shut up!' and the like.

I don't like minute silences, there's far too many of them and they're never completely silent. This clapping larks a much better idea. The thought of armchair fans clapping at the telly is marvellous.

A few things I'm going to leave you to chew on.

I am an Evertonian. I live in Liverpool. I am a Scouser. What's so hard to understand about that?

No amount of profound banners, car stickers or cheap wristbands is going to bring our Gary back. It's hard to explain to children why they would have had another Uncle only he was killed at a football match.

Boycotting The Sun is pointless. The lazy bastard journo that wrote the offending crap and the editor who let it go have probably moved on and not missed a night's kip over it.

If you would read The Sun anyway, without the boycott you need to have a rethink of your world view.

A gang of Mancs and assorted wools singing beauties such as '96 is not enough' to a load of wools, Southerners and Scandinavians, and them getting wound up about it reeks of phoniness. I hope no-one ever sings anything similar near me. Then again, why would they at a match where Everton were playing?

I hope my mother never gets to hear about other human beings singing songs about her dead son.

Justice is never going to happen. Let it go. I'm trying really hard to. Some of you have even more reason to do so.

I've visited Hillsborough since 1989. It was a horrible game it rained, I sat in the home bottom bit with the Evertonians above me, and a mate shouting down to me who I thought was going to get me filled in. Bakayoko shot a sitter over the bar to cap an awful day Id sooner forget. 3 points would have been nice, but the game summed up that season.

I am proud to say I have sat in Wembley and sang 'Merseyside' at a Cup Final. I've also sat on the shoulders of a huge Watford fan when they were two Nil down.

I was with my dad. I'd like to take my kids to see Everton in a Cup Final one day. I'll be fucking annoyed if it's spoilt by a gang of dickheads.

I'm still with the girl who looked after me on the night of 15th of April 1989. We have three kids. I couldn't imagine how I'd feel if I lost one of them. Let alone hear or hear about people singing songs about it. I hope it's never called 4/15.

She still plies me with drink.

Take it Easy. Come on the Blue Boys.

Ian Collins

1964 and all that (crap) Sometimes you can just foretell events.

While not Claiming descendancy of Nostradamus, I muttered 'doh' as I watched a galoot of a Gooner raise his blow-up Premiership 'trophy' in the lower tiers of White Hart Lane's claustrophobia corner last May. 'Dooooon't throw it to Henry,' I silently beseeched from the alehouse I was watching in.

'He'll only cavort with it. The team will pose in mock irony with it and, over the next few days I'll probably hear THAT gripe again from befuddled kopites (lower case).'

Gavin the Gooner did precisely what he threatened though, Thierry the Humble behaved as predicted, bouncy 'we've won' photos followed and then, THAT 'gripe' surfaced immediately laughable thinking it might have laken a few days. Less than three seconds.

I guessed the prime suspect correctly, namely pre-Shankly red (a colleclive I've always thought reasonably engaging, unlike his mid-60s-born cousin, the truly undealable with kopitus putridus, or the rancid mid-80s born kopitus misseditallis and new lash-out breeds kopitus lobotimis) who I knew to be at the bar.

Stereotypical: rollies, knackered tin, permanent smoke halo, brown-mixed, Fergie nose, eight hacking coughs to every word, just aching for any arl Ron Yeats conversation with anyone who'll suffer it - even 18-year-old Tammy Titetop behind the bar'll do.

'Silke Everton in 64 dat. Sgrace. Never forglvnum for da. S'yer John Moores doh, and dal Catllick.'

Luckily I had my back turned but I knew his socalled 'gripe' (though barely truthful it has scandalously lodged in cross-park apocrypha without challenge).

However, it's a lesser trotted anecdote and, as such, I knew exactly which nearby Blue would rise.

The pre-Shankly red was granted 30 seconds of air time as the caged, ready for an off Blue, about 25, drummed his fingers.

Cue diatribe. Miraculously the Blue touch paper remained unlit. It could so easily have gone the other way though. And there's the danger with unchallenged folkloric crap which gathers 'authenticity' over time. Because, occasionally, someone, usually well-aled too, does challenge 11, albeit with justification, and before you can fetch a mop Tammy Titetop's handed her notice In over broken glass.

Don't get me wrong. Blue v red half-truths are fun.

In right measures.

And reds aren't the sole authors either. As alehouse material though, they're to be handled carefully for they have hidden incendiary properties.

Consider the oft-used - to huge success to my continuing astonishment and delight - Blue line that until Shankly arrived Liverpool had won zip, I've heard this Blue point lobbed into many verbals and go totally unchallenged by reds who casually accept it at face value before playing their 'four Yorlapeen Cops laaaa' card.

As many reds don't challenge, it simply endorses my belief that the majority actually don't know, or maybe aren't arsed, about pre-Shankly; but of course any onlooking Blues, are all too eager to swallow it.

Dangerous game though. You have to weigh your kopile up carefully if ever playing this hand.

Where's the trophy?

I've seen a few unwitting Blues wade into the wrong audience with this card with inevitable aled-up consequences 10 minutes later.

On one sorry occasion, when asked by a fellow Blue to confirm his charge, I had to gently tell him the awful truth that unfortunately his red 'acquaintance' was right. That, despite us being first to win the title they actually led 1-2 as early as 1906, increased it to 2-4 by 1923 and despite us overhauling it to 5.4 by 1939 (we've only ever led by one) the truth is that Shankly arived with both level at 5-5.

Of course, even being as objective as possible, there is no disputing which club, pre-Shankly, was pre-eminent in stature and if it boils down to quantity over perception, then Everton's two FA Cups plus a pride which has still (touch) never allowed the ignominy of wallowing in a lower division for eight years clinches it.

Often though that's not the argument and unfortunately I've seen too many Blues go gung-ho that pre-Shankly the reds never had a pot to puke into.

Amazingly, despite this easy 5-5 I've seen very few reds use it, which would if were them.

Though when faced, rarely, with a clued red, every clued Blue, with justification, should then, play the Two World Wars card (more later). But note, this card, which they've tried to ban from the pack, is only to be played in such circumstances.

Never, ever, whine, without prompting, or context. that if it hadn't have been for the wars our championship sides of 1915 and 1939, would, in all probability, have added to our total.

It's a dignity thing.

Back in the pub on Spurs - Arsenal day, I knew about this 1964 crap.

Frankly it's risible.

I've known for a while now that it's been given a new lease amongst reds, largely propagated by one of the more jaw-droppingly inane LFC websites polluting the net (stiff competition).

I won't give this particular site credit by naming it, save to say that, unfortunately, it's one of their most popular.

I've scoured for hints of irony in it but, like The Office was reshot for Yanks, intended audience is obviously witless and therefore its prose ploughs that unfathomable code best described as 'kopite mirth' (think The Arkles pre-Derby).

Sorry to include this but it proves the point I've never got their "gags" and I'm glad I never will (witness their fanzines).

This website has a section chronicling legendary "Blue Wails" (heyyyyy, cleverl) and the predictable litany courses the likes of Clive Thomas etc. (but curiously omits Heysel discuss). Naturally it includes the World Wars quibble under the snappy headline "Kaiser Bill and Hitler" and our titles of 1915 and 1939 are deconstructed to the point that the author convinces himself there was no chance we'd have snook even one more title between any of the war seasons (aaar, go on, give us one).

Moreover. if any team would have made hay during the wars it would actually have been... yawn.

Royle, Kendall, Reid (the 86 bus tour, or not) all get slagged, as expected. But amidst this unrelenting knee-jerk drivel lies the zenith chapter, namely: "The Missing 1964 Championship Trophy".

For those who don't know, it's true that as Liverpool clinched the 64 title at Anfield, just two seasons after crawling from their Division 2 pit, made sweeter by taking it from Everton the 63 champions, they lifted a make-do paper-mache 'trophy' which they paraded a-la the Gooners at Spurs 40 years later with their plassy thing.

The 64 'trophy' was mingln' - all household gloss with hero piccies stuck on, As a lad, looking at pictures of it in the Topical Times Football Book, I wondered what the hell it was.

"Is that what they won? Or were they happy just makin do?" Mingin.

Apparently our 63 triumph "was not universally acclaimed" (tch) and despicably we were "dubbed the chequebook champions after being bankrolled by Littlewoods founder John Moores" (don't, it's too easy).

Liverpool's champs were, it seems, "built on solid teamwork, rather than individual brilliance" (you said it kidda) and were, don't laugh, - "far more popular champions than Everton."

But that's not half of it. It seems that apart from bad jealousy, "Cattlick" wouldn't hand it over because he had a cob on as, apart from seeing us blow it big time with a 3-3 home draw to Wolves, he'd opened his Sunday People the previous week to discover what Tony Kay had really been up to at Sheff Wed. So between them, Moores and Catterick stiffed the trophy.

As I used to pass the regal-looking commissionaires with ornate epaulettes standing sentry on 1970s Goodison Road, those Anfield 64 images compounded a conviction I'd already developed: they really were greasy beggars.

I didn't know though that yer swaying, Cillasingin, 64 kopite was well miffed. In fact, it's crucial to note that the day they paraded this in pauper's pot was the same day Panorama descended at the pit, fuelled by Beatlemania meets-Shankly Merseybeat hype, to film THAT horror documentary ("leeeeerPewl!"). But while the cameras captured the swaying kop to amuse middle England (twas actually the day the kop was really born), the laughing fat copper, and Shankly (twas also the day he was really born) there was, apparently, a sinister Evertonian backdrop to it all.

We ruined the love-in because we hadn't 'allowed' them to parade the silver lady title trophy. Being less than 12 months after JFK, a conspiracy, of course, ensued.

The lamentable yarn goes, with special effect quotes provided by our red web satirist, that the trophy was deliberately kept "firmly under lock and key 800 yards away at Goodison".

The reason? "A bitter Blue board who couldn't handle Liverpool's new found popularity and were reeling from the Joss of one of their star players due to match fixing.

No realty, if this is new to you, I'm not making it up.

I thought long about giving this toss undue publicity. But I think Blues should know.

Although, so far, it's a relatively little known tale, its "notoriety" is rising and, typically, coz it's long enough ago, it's spreading without challenge like the 'Bitter Blue' catch-all label that surfaced overnight in 2001 and has tiresomely stuck (give them their due though, as a PR campaign it was so well executed that soon Auld Slappers were trottin it out at family dos).

I decided to stamp on this 1964 crap, lest it join the Hall of Infamy, mainly due to this quote: "Liverpool's lead in the First Division was so convincing that it was a case of when, not if, they would be crowned champions".

Stemming from this arrogance, it's entered kopite folklore that Moores should have done the decent thing and ran through the park to hand it over before kick-off for Yeats to cavort with it

later for the Beeb (the real gripe, because the b/w footage has no trophy on it).

Let's examine 'convincing' lead.

that

Whaddya know, not only were Liverpool mixed in a title hunt with Everton in 64 but there was another pesky intruder Manchester Utd (no red conspiracy is complete without both Satan Sisters - I'm surprised it doesn't allege Moores got a call off Louis Edwards).

It's true Liverpool were set strong. But the fact remains that on April 18th 1964 THREE clubs could still have won it, under the old 2pts system. Everton on 50, with two games left, were strictly in 'mathematical only' territory; but United, on 51 with 2 left, were still gamely chasing Liverpool on 54 who needed to beat Arsenal that day but really a draw would do.

Strong yes, but not 'convincing' enough to have the trophy on 'standby' for god's sake. The extra factor is that, including Arsenal, Liverpool still had four games left and it's presumably because of this that kopites assumed all bets were off. An arrogant assumption though, especially as everyone knew they had to play those four games, the last three away, in 10 days. If Liverpool bottled It against Arsenal then it was game on.

Indeed Liverpool went on to lose two and draw the other of those away games (some claimed foot-off-the-gas, others said they were as knackered as people, chiefly Utd, were banking on). It proves though how pivotal the Arsenal game was. Sadly Liverpool smacked Arsenal 5-0 and the empire Shankly built had dawned.

Trophyless. Our fault!

Everton said the league told us to keep it until things were certain, at least out of courtesy to Utd. In any case, Everton had enjoyed no trophy the previous season after beating Fulham at home to clinch it and we didn't bother laying it on thick with sanctimonious, tug at yer heartstrings, paro gestures like lifting paper pots (but that's their stock-in-trade; think GH mosaics!)

Look no trophy!

Even here though they whinge because they say that in 63 the trophy was down in Ipswich. Oh, I see it's because we were 800 yards away that we should either have delivered it pre-match or, at least, leg it across at 4.45. They're serious.

Of course, it's handed down now as proof of Bitter Blueness, when in fact it was more a case of Liverpool learning, not for the last time, that the rest of the country, even 800 yards away, doesn't dance to the kop's tune, Panorama or not (Paro-rama more like).

The unintentional irony of such toss is that we're meant to be bitter! Apart from anything else, I can't recall Liverpool ensuring the trophy made its way, just in case, to Forest or Villa when they dared interrupt proceedings during the 70s and 80s. Of course, there was that one humorous night at Anfield when they had no choice but to unlock the cabinet and hand it, there and then, to Arsenal (ho-ho).

But if you really want to put this claptrap into perspective, try 1984-85 when the Canon Trophy was "kept firmly under lock and key 800 yards away" at Anfield as we beat QPR in our clincher.

Going into that game 13 clear with six games left. Now that's a 'convincing' lead! That's just cause to hand it over on 'standby'. But they made us wait til the Wednesday night against West Ham. Y'know, when it was certain. Or were they just getting their own back? Sad. Greg Murphy

Talking Blues We ask you (our dear readers) a question and you send us your answers, rambles and rants. Dead simple. For this issue we asked three straightforward questions What is your favourite derby moment? What is your worse derby moment? What is your funniest derby moment?

Dead Easy John Cook Favourite derby moment Wednesday 20th February 1991. Everton 4 Liverpool 4.

At the time I was at university in Aberystwyth, mid Wales.

I was lucky enough to have been given an A reg Astra (1984) from my Auntie in Crosby.

It had only done 1,000 miles (to Church and back on a Sunday) and although it was beige with brown interior it was a great first car.

Anyway, I was looking forward to the derby ‘under the lights’ for weeks and had planned to travel back with a mate from Uni. Unfortunately, the week

before the game I sprained my ankle quite badly and the ‘experts’ at Aberystwyth Hospital decided a full plaster was the appropriate treatment.

Nightmare as I couldn’t drive.

I managed to persuade my then girlfriend to drive us back the 100 odd miles from Aberystwyth to my parents on the Wirral. It would be the first time she met them so a certain amount of nerves for her, plus the fact I would be shooting off to the match with my mate and leaving her to it.

The other problem was that she had passed her test 2 years before but had never driven since the day of the test.

On the day of the match we set off in plenty of time and she drove all the way back with no problem at all. No problem that is until she pulled up on my parents’ drive, started to slow down but forgot to put her foot on the clutch. The car started juddering, she panicked and took her feet off all the pedals and the car crashed into the garage wall.

No big deal and a great ice breaker I suppose in hindsight.

We did the introductions, had a brew, then it was time for my Dad to take me and my mate over to the game. He went to the garage door and announced that the door wouldn’t open. I thought he was having a laugh as that is exactly what my Dad would do, but it was true.

The impact had moved the wall of the garage and he couldn’t get the car out.

Much embarrassment for my girlfriend but my parents were completely laid back about it (god bless them).

My Dad then trooped off to the shed, returning with a sledgehammer and starts ‘gently’ knocking the garage wall back into place from where it had slipped on the damp proof course.

He managed to get the car out and off we went. A memorable

blue. People had moved away from him leaving him standing on his own with about a 10 foot circle of space around him.

start to one of the most memorable and best Derby matches I’ve ever seen.

Worse derby moment I went to a few Derby games at Anfield during the late 80’s.

I was a teenager living with my parents on the Wirral and in common with many others used to go to Tranmere on the Friday and then Everton on the Saturday or Sunday.

Not sure many could afford to do that now. Anyway, I’ve got the ticket stubs so I know that these stories relate to the games on Sunday 1st November 1987 and\or 11th December 1988.

Memory is a bit hazy. It was a different era and racist chants such as ’Everton all white’ were common and others even more vulgar. If you were there you will remember them, with shame I hope. I was 16 or 17 years old and, like many I suspect, just went along with it.

I’m not trying to make excuses, I should have known better.

Anyway on one of these particular matches bananas were thrown in the direction of John Barnes. He picked one up,

peeled it and took a bite. I thought then, as now, that his reaction was great to show us that he was not going to be intimidated by our ignorance and stupidity.

I was on the Kop for both of these's games and there were always a load of blues on the left hand side of the stand as you look out on to the pitch.

In order to get the ticket I had to go and watch one or maybe more turgid Liverpool games in order to collect ‘loyalty’ vouchers.

It was quite a surreal experience going to watch the RS after the excitement of watching my beloved Everton for the previous few years.

I remember how slowly the games went at Anfield. They just seemed to drag on and on and I was completely bored, constantly looking at the clock.

Looking back I’m not sure why I didn’t just leave.

Anyway prior to the kick off of the derby match (not sure which one) I was standing on the left hand side of the Kop when suddenly a space appeared around one particular

Very odd as the whole place was packed. He was standing there on his own and I was trying to figure out what was going on. He started to wipe something brown from his head and face.

He then screamed or rather roared with rage and turned towards the middle of the Kop. The last I saw of him he was running towards the middle of the Kop to try and identify and ‘reason with’ the dirty Kopite that had literally taken a sloppy shit in a cling film type bag and launched it at the Everton fans, hitting this guy right on the head. I hope he delivered his retribution.

Marc England Favourite derby moment Sitting in the main stand at Anfield 1999, with my dad and my mate Andy, having the chat beforehand about not leaping up or anything like that, and 4 minutes into the game, Super Kev slotting at the kop end and all 3 of us jumping about like loons. Looking around and seemingly half the stand doing the same.

Worse derby moment November 1982 - my first Derby. The only match I went to with my grandad Bill (a top blue who told me about Lawton, Hickson and Young.)

Pretending to be sick on the Monday morning so I didn't have to face them lot at school, and me ma making me go in as "you'll have to face them some time,"

Funniest derby moment 1996: Kanchelskis scores early on and Fowler equalises with a

few minutes to go. Having an alcohol fuelled gob on all the way back to the car park where we were all, red and blues together, going out into town. I had also arranged to borrow a cricket bat from one of them lot and having shunned them all the way back I asked for the bat. "You can shove the fucking bat up your arse" was the reply I got as they left to go elsewhere, as me and my blue brethren went bat-less and red-less into town.

Derby days now will at some point involve a text message that includes the words "Bat" "Shove" and "Arse"

Harvey Weewax Favourite derby moment Who wouldn’t say Sharp at Anfield 84? Clarke at Goodison 88 to end Liverpool’s winning streak or King 78. More recently Johnson 06 and comedy goal keeping for his second. But my first real derby highlight was Varadi 81and getting crushed in the Street End as a 15 year old.

Worse derby moment So many to choose from.

Growing up in the 70’s and 80”s was not a happy time for derbies and wins were few and far between (between March 1970 and August 1984 Everton won just 3 games!).

The 77 Bryan Hamilton FA Cup game and subsequent replay was my first major derby disappointment.

How can you not mention the Glen Keeley 5-0. On the plus side as a 17 year old it was the first time I’d been drunk and dad didn’t seem to mind when I got home (in bed by 8pm!), I think he understood the need

to numb the pain. I also found a Liverpool scarf after the game which my brother's mates ripped up and threw on the fire in the pub, very symbolic.

The Souness League Cup final 84 was gutting after Hanson’s handball at Wembley. The 86 FA Cup final hurt, but I did have the pleasure of winning the sweep for Lineker scoring first and also celebrating in the Liverpool end with one or two other blues, not so good at the end though.

More recently I’d have to say the 2012 FA Cup Semi was the worst for a long time, it was our time to put one over on them in the big occasion and we’d controlled the game for so long but as soon as they equalised you knew what was going to happen.

Funniest derby moment Kevin Sheedy the Kop after jesters on Grobbelaar in

flicking the V’s at scoring. The two the pitch with a Goodison game

with I think a clown cut out (?). Radcliffe’s long range effort at Anfield in 86 dribbling under Grobbelaar. Westervelt and Jeffers handbags after school, McManaman and Grobbelaar’s handbags. Robbie Fowler sniffing the penalty box white line and Houllier’s subsequent comment he was “pretending to eat the grass”.

Sure.

Nevmog Favourite derby moment Cadamateri's goal at Goodison.

One of the worst blues sides ever going into the game after a disastrous cup exit and expecting to get humiliated.

What a sweet victory.

Worse derby moment Distin's back pass in the semi.

So gutted and thinking we will never win anything ever again.

Funniest derby moment Andy Johnson's second goal making Reina look a complete muppet. Makes me smile whenever I see it.

Paddy Howlin (@PaddyH1976) Favourite derby moment Every win against the Red Shite over the last 30 years has to be savoured.

Unfortunately for us there are far too few over this time.

If I had to pick out my favourite it is a toss-up between the Kanchelskis Derby at Anfield in November 1996, in the only time that I have seen us triumph in person at Castle Grey-Skull or the Andy Johnson 3-0 at Goodison in September 2006, where for once under David Moyes in a Derby, we actually went for the jugular.

Two particularly defeats stand out to me – the first is around March 1993 during Kendall’s second spell in charge. We went to Anfield on a fairly poor run of form, however under Souness they were on the slide as well.

For about an hour the game underlined how poor both sides now where (a long way from their 1980’s peak) and it was fairly non-eventful.

Enter Stuart Barlow from the bench to liven things up. The ex-Kopite supporter had three open goals to put the game out of sight, however somehow managed to miss every

I’ve got to put in a special mention for the Mo Jo/Beardsley Derby at Goodison in December 1992, when we came back from one nil down to win 2-1, that was my first Derby victory I had witnessed in the flesh and I think the first time I got on to the pitch at the end. Happy days.

Also, if I’m following Martinez speak, perhaps the best ‘moment’ to be an Evertonian in the context of the Merseyside Derby’s was between 1994 and 1998, when for the only time in a generation we had the Indian sign over the RS, perhaps because we actually had a winning mentality going in to these games.

Worse derby moment Far too many to mention.

Every defeat has been felt hard, with the Cup Finals in 1986 and 1989 very hard to stomach. Fortunately I wasn’t at Wembley for either.

many reasons. Firstly we were a far better side than them man for man (if only Piennar has not been cup tied or Drenthe had turned up for the bus), secondly Moyes bottled it at half time and set us up for the 2nd half to defend, when in the 1st half we had the beating of Liverpool.

This was the game I knew we would never win anything under him and his time with Everton was almost up.

However the thing that sealed it for me was before the game when I walked in to Wembley with my son who was about 6 at the time, with them in the full flow of YNWA. I’ve never seen him more terrified in his life before or since. There is definitely something in-bred in to our Everton DNA when it comes to them that breeds an inferiority complex (as much as we like to deny it).

Funniest derby moment

chance. After this game he would be forever known as ‘Jigsaw’.

Then with five minutes to go, they brought on the rotund Ronnie Rosenthal who showed how a super sub should finish, and with the game about to go in to injury time, slotted the winner in to the Kop where I was stood in the Everton section we used to have in them days. The pain of their winner was compounded by the brick thrown at my head to greet the goal. So much for the ‘friendly Derby’.

The second defeat that really hurt was the FA Cup SemiFinal in April 2012 and for so

I hate Derbies and I’m struggling to think of anything particularly funny that stands out (possibly McMahon breaking his leg in front of me at Anfield was a comical highlight). If we win, I’m too overjoyed and if we lose, then you need to hide any sharp objects away from me.

To be honest, the one thing I get from Derby’s regardless of the score is the great satisfaction that I am an Evertonian and am not one of them. This feeling grew more and more in the days I would sit in their end at Anfield at the Derby and be surrounded by the world’s biggest collection of Bellends, plastic Scousers and football tourists known to man.

I called time on this around 2010 when I had the misfortune to sit in the Lower

Centenary Stand when I had to endure the so called ‘best fans in the world’ giving Mikel Arteta all kinds of racial abuse – this was at the time their manager and half their team was from Spain.

When challenged, you would have thought I’d shown them the wheel for the first time. I know we have some absolute whoppers following Everton, however I know they have far more. I won’t set foot in that place now, unless I’m in our end.

Paul Greensmith Favourite derby moment I have 2 favourite Derby moments. The first is the Graeme Sharp goal at Anfield in the 80's.

It was a great goal, the goal I wanted to score as a kid. I used to tee the ball up in the same way and lash it into the back of the net like he Sharpy

did. Only my goal was the winner in the cup final as well.....

loss to them is, but to lose a double that way was absolute hell.

Funniest derby moment Second favourite would be the goal Lee Carsley scored against them at Goodison. I sat in the Gwladys in them days and watched it all the way. The celebration was something else as well. It summed up what it meant to us all, team and fans.

Would be Slippy running the length of Goodison Park to find he had been ruled offside a couple of seasons ago. It was even better when TV later showed it probably should have stood.

A piley on with everybody involved summed up the team spirit . Even the Spanish waiter was magnanimous in defeat.

'They scored one goal, we scored none. '

Daniel Hughes Favourite derby moment

Worse derby moment Would be the '86 Cup Final.

Everton had surrendered the league rather meekly to them the week before and this was to stop the double. I was Driving trains for Merseyrail that afternoon and had a kopite playing me the goals over an intercom as they went in. Absolute purgatory . Any

Dan Gosling FA cup magic honestly I could see the smug kopite faces turn to disbelieve as the slowest player in history (Gosling) looked to have fluffed his lines what a time to be alive when it went in, Andy van de Meyde who supplied the ball in was who I was acting like after the game.

Worse derby moment Gary McAllister free kick we had done so well but as always fell short close second was the Don Hutchison goal that was

disallowed Mr poll was a shit house that day.

due to the injustice. In fact I'm still seething about it.

AND cup to those shysters…

Funniest derby moment

Funniest derby moment

Rafa's head falling off and calling us a small club kopites would have you believe he was the ice man this proved he's not he's a stupid fat prick.

I really struggle to see a lighter side of derbies, it's normally joy or anger. The 3-3 at Goodison 2 years ago had me feeling sick for 90 mins, never enjoyed one second of it. I suppose the funniest moment has to be one of their errors, Ruddocks own goal, Kvarmes fuck up, Grobbelaar and McManaman scrapping, Reina dropping the ball on Johnson's head. In fact scrap all of them, Sheedy's two finger salute has to be the best!

Goodison Park: October 28th 2012, Has to be loyalty fraud Steeeevie G’s momentous sprint the length of the pitch, full on knee slide for nothing.

Everyone point and laugh at the tiny wrinkled forehead.

Har Har Har.

Big Joe Favourite derby moment - Carsley in 2004. Because it was the first time in beards we'd beaten them and that was also the first time I knew we actually could do something that season.

Worse derby moment Many contenders for this in the past 10-15 years or so, but I'm going with Wembley 2012.

Felt physically sick because we threw that one away big time.

Funniest derby moment Suarez having that last minute winner at the Street End ruled out for a foul/offside.

Alan McKeown Favourite derby moment Difficult, so many Big Dunc memories of goals and skirmishes however Cahill's last minute header in front of the Anfield Rd end has to top the list. Seeing the blues in the away end going wild always makes me feel warm inside.

Worse derby moment We've been royally twatted at Anfield twice in recent years, including a Gerrard hat trick.

Both were very hard to take and made me feel sick.

However Gerrard sending off Hibbert in the Clattenburg Derby, followed by Kuyt's unpunished lunge and Carragher's man handling of Lescott all combined to make me angrier than I've ever been

@zinegreenzidane Favourite derby moment Goodison Park; November 21, 1994 – Duncan Ferguson – pandemonium!

Need I say more?

Worse derby moment Goodison Park: September 21, 1985, The (piss) artist formerly known as KK scored after 20 seconds, but me and my Dad were still running up the steps to Upper Gwladys Street and missed it, then watched us sink to 0-3 at half time. Battered them second half but still lost 2-3. Missed out on the league

Funniest derby moment

Wes Coles Favourite derby moment Big Dunc's header from the Hinchcliffe corner.

The commentary that night was perfect too. We knew somehow as younger fans that we could cling to a hero again.

Worse derby moment Paul Gerrard and Gary McAllister. How could anyone be so far out of position? I was watching it with a load of reds too which really made me feel like Travis Bickell.

Funniest derby moment When Ferguson had McAteer on the ground during one derby match. I had the picture on my wall for ages! I bumped into McAteer and mentioned that I had a pic of him on my wall as a kid, under Big Duncan and he laughed and recalled crapping himself a little.

Paul Favourite derby moment 21 November 1994. On the evening that Duncan Ferguson ‘became a legend before he became a player’ by putting in a second-half performance that really got the Old Lady rocking and terrified the life out of Liverpool’s back four, at the other end of the pitch, Everton’s largest of legends reminded fans of other clubs, and a fair number of Blues, that he was still a player to be reckoned with.

With the teams locked at 0-0, early in the second half, Neville Southall dived low to his right to keep out Steve McManaman’s powerful strike. It turned out to be a crucial save at a crucial time in a crucial game as just moments later Ferguson put us 1-0 up. As you all know, we went on to win the match (Joe Royle’s first in charge of the club) 2-0 and finally got our season up and running.

In the last two years of my secondary education (1993-95), schoolmates, Sunday League teammates and even

members of my own family all took great pleasure in telling me that my hero, the world’s greatest goalkeeper in the 1980s, was now ‘past it’, ‘a has-been’, ‘a fat bastard’ (though my mam never used this term!), and that my club should be looking for a new goalkeeper.

lightning-quick reflexes that had set him apart from his contemporaries for so long seemed to be missing from the Welshman’s game. But from the moment Joe Royle took over, the whole squad seemed rejuvenated, re-energised and revitalised, none more so than Southall.

Indeed, at Goodison the previous season, I even heard one Blue say, ‘We really should be looking over the Park and trying to bring that David James here because he’s not getting a game for them and Southall’s had it.’

Calamity James – with his stupid haircuts and even more stupid hands – to replace Nev?! Are you serious? Please. Just.

Fuck. Off.

Less than a week after the derby win, Everton went to Stamford Bridge and defeated Chelsea 1-0, with Southall again in majestic form. And in every round of the FA Cup that season, he pulled off outstanding saves, which firstly got us to Wembley, and then helped us to overcome Manchester United in the final.

Neville Southall made far more impressive saves in Merseyside derbies than the one to keep out McManaman in 1994 (my top 5’s below, if you’re interested) but for the reasons I’ve outlined above, it’s one I look back at with real fondness.

Undoubtedly, Southall’s powers had begun to wane by the midnineties and, like the rest of the team, he’d struggled under Mike Walker.

Poor goals had been conceded at Maine Road, Ewood Park and Selhurst Park in the early months of the 94/95 campaign and the agility, athleticism and

Nev’s best saves versus Liverpool: 1) A double save from Beardsley and Aldridge in the

first Goodison derby after Hillsborough https://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=0F02eKFO2Xs

moment of all time; it also gave me my funniest.

2) A flying tip-over to deny Barnes at Anfield earlier that season (he made similar saves to this one in derbies in 1990/91) https://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=nsoMt2OWAk4

I was in the Lower Gwladys on the day that his fluffed clearance landed at the feet of Mark Ward.

Ward’s arrowed strike flew past Bruce Grobbelaar, who then went absolutely ape shit at his own man, in scenes mirroring those mentioned in the paragraph above. On this occasion I did not find the behaviour disgusting and did laugh when a slap was thrown.

A lot. www.youtube.com/watch?v=lF qYv27kHc8

3) A brave block at the feet of Rush in the same game as Ratcliffe’s goal at Anfield in 1986 (made even better by the fact his cap fell off!) https://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=pgGfDzOMdrU 4) A diving save in extra time to keep out Rush’s header in the 4-4 FA Cup tie in 1991 https://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=-uWmQz98k_c 5) A nonchalant Jenningslike one-handed catch in the home derby of the 1993/94 season

Worse derby moment 16 April 2001. I don’t want to dwell on this one because it was a truly horrible experience.

The result stank, the way we lost the game stank and so did the atmosphere/feeling inside the ground that night. At the final whistle, I saw a middleaged Blue slap the young Kopite he had taken to the match: disgusting behaviour.

To make it worse, only a few days before the game, I’d written a letter to WSAG defending Paul Gerrard. I don’t think it was ever printed.

Funniest derby moment 18 September 1993. Steve McManaman coming out second best in a duel with a veteran goalkeeper kitted out in all black didn’t just provide me with my favourite derby

Tommy Boy Worse derby moment 6th November 1982 or, outside of League Derbies, Wembley 86.

Favourite derby moment Wasn't at the tin mine for Sharpie's so Andy King.

Funniest derby moment Two. The first, queuing up to get in the anal road end with two Japanese tourists in front of us with red bags full of shite from their 'store'. Jesus, did they take some stick. And none of it of the racist variety I might add. When they got to the gate they discovered that the tickets they'd been sold for the Everton end were just the stubs. Such incredulity. Such disappointment. Such hilarity.

Fuck 'em. They were tickets from our allocation they thought they had and they

didn't give a fuck about Evertonians missing the match.

The second, getting a seat on the back row of the same end one year and having to duck down double just to see the six yard box. Fuck this I thought. I wondered down and found an empty seat on the end of a row halfway down right behind the goal. Asked a fella if anyone was in there and he said not yet. About ten minutes before half time during a quiet moment some obvious Norwegian with one of them pointy Norwegian hats and obligatory red bag came in down the front and started looking at his ticket and bobbing slowly up the steps, looking at the letter of each row as he went, as though he was in the theatre, with the eyes of blues following him disbelievingly until he got to me and said in a thick Scandinavian accent, "Excuse m..."

"Fuck off!"

"OhhhKay", he said.

And he did.

To much amusement all around.

Childish, I know. Funny at the time though. Can't remember the score.

Think we drew.

WSAG Summer Playlist

Manifesto ‐ Flowered Up Swimmers Groove ‐ Beautiful Swimmers Glynys & Jaqui (Acoustic) ‐ Michael Head & The Strands Only Love Can Break Your Heart ‐ Bill Ryder‐Jones Soulful Old Man Sunshine ‐ The Beach Boys Phoenix ‐ Paul Weller Make Me Sad ‐ The Kingfishers You With Me ‐ Emily Saunders Open Me Up ‐ Flowered Up Express Yourself ‐ New York Community Choir Sunshine On A Rainy Day ‐ Zoe Southern Freeez (feat. Emanuelle Araújo) ‐ Sonzeira Through the Knowledge of Those Who Observe Us ‐ Errors Getting Away With It' (greg wilson edit) ‐ Electronic Love Don't Come No Stronger ‐ Jeff Perry Why (12 Inch Chic Mix) ‐ Carly Simon The Pressure (Frankie Knuckles Classic Mix) ‐ Sounds of Blackness All Join Hands (12" Extended Mix) ‐ Ce Ce Rogers I Can't Stop Dancing ‐ Archie Bell & The Drells Goodvibes...Goodnight ‐ Ballistic Brothers Summer's Gone ‐ The Beach Boys

For more music follow WSAG on Spotify and This is My Jam

listen to this...

A selection of the things we like that might interest you

THE MAGICAL WORLD OF THE STRANDS - MICHAEL HEAD & THE STRANDS In WSAG63 we featured an advert for the album 'The Magical World of The Strands' by Michael Head Introducing The Strands.

We, well I say we, I suppose I'm talking about me were big fans and I wanted to help promote the album if I could.

I had to go looking for it. The album was coming out on a small French label and we had to track down the owner, Stephane

Bismuth to see if he wanted us to publicise it.

He did but wasn't sure how he could get an advert to us. In the end we used an advert that had been in The Guide supplement from The Guardian. The advert quoted two five star review from The Guardian itself ("One of the furthest reaching guitar records this decade") and the NME ("Staggering... a genuis with few contemporary equals"). To it, I added our own succinct review "Just buy it. Michael Head deserves to be a fuckin' star."

What it lacked it subtlety it more than made up for in passion.

That was 1998 and now in 2015, Stephane's label Megaphone is repackaging the album and releasing it again in the hope that it finally reaches the audience we all hoped it would and deserves.

Not only that, there's a second album 'The Olde World' being released too featuring alternative versions and other demos from the same sessions.

Now, Michael Head is no stranger

to these pages. In fact, when I've been looking back over past issues to source pieces for this Special, even I was surprised how much him, his band and his brother, John, had been featured.

Admittedly the issues I was looking through were from a time when both Head brothers were relatively active in terms of playing shows. But it wasn't always so and that's what makes the Magical World so special.

As I said, the album was released in 1998 but already at that time, it was already something like five years old.

Now Mick's career is littered (or more precisely glittered) with lost albums and long silences.

Waterpistol had been released in 1995, it was recorded in 1990. The album existed only on cassettes handed out by band members to trusted friends.

Had it come out when it was first slated to - in its original double album format with its Warhol inspired Waterpistol sleeve - it might have changed musical

history. As a collection of songs, it pisses over anything else released at that time. It's better than The La's and The Stone Roses and if you haven't heard it you really should do.

By 1995, Mick already had another lost album, (this one) and had started work on a collection of songs which would become 1999's HMS Fable.

The who, what and why has been discussed on many, many occasions.

In short, it's a mix of back luck and, perhaps a lack of ambition or desire to play the music industry game. That and heroin. Definitely heroin.

Of course, Mick had played the music industry game once.

The Pale Fountains signed to Virgin in 1982 for the then massive ÂŁ150,000 following a frenzied bidding war and by 1985 they had produced two albums.

until they played a festival in - of all places - Llangollen in 1999.

Not many other people saw them either.

After a tour in '91, they all but disappeared.

Briefly, they resurfaced for a couple of chaotic gigs in London and Manchester in 1996 billed as Michael and John Head of Shack but that was all.

Those who witnessed the gigs understood why more than most.

It was painful.

The first, Pacific Street, is superb, the second, From Across The Kitchen Table could have been if the production wasn't so unnecessarily eighties pop shtick.

And yet, in amidst all this personal turmoil, Mick was still writing songs, his creative genius somehow undiminished by his lifestyle. .

The Pale Fountains changed name, personnel and direction and in 1988 released Zilch as Shack.

The Magical World comes from this time. The band was without a label following the collapse of Dick Leahy's Ghetto Recording Company but still functioning.

Stephane Bismuth, the owner of L'Europeen venue in France, had put on some Arthur Lee gigs in 1992 and had got Shack to fulfill a lifetime ambition by acting as his backing band.

Again, the production and the superfluous drum programming, did its best to ruin the album.

But as Mick always says - it's about the songs and despite everything they still shine through.

Then it all fell on its arse.

I remember seeing Shack on The Picket in 1991. I think I saw them again later that year somewhere else. Then I didn't see them again

Strands. Brother John, Iain Templeton, Michelle Brown and Les Roberts on flute. And in a recording studio in city centre Liverpool, left to their own devices, with a sympathetic producer, Mark Coyle, they recorded the songs that would become The Magical World.

Incredibly the sessions were abandoned when London Records picked up Shack in 1995 and paid for Mick to clean up his act by (in the alternative words to Undecided) sticking a needle up his arse.

With the recording halted, the songs gathered dust. Stephane knew that within the hundred or so minutes of music - some of it finished, some of it not he had something great.

A year later, Stephane's largesse extended to financing recording sessions in the hope that a new album would emerge.

(It's typical Mick. Ask anyone who has worked with him, he can't finish anything; he doesn't know when to let go. He is forever changing, forever perfecting.

Long-time fans will know that songs can have an incredibly long gestation period from first being aired live and finally released. Take Comedy, for many one of Mick's best songs. It was first aired in 1986 when still playing as The Pale Fountains. It was recorded as Shack and released in 1999.)

Mick

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sees this.

Mick has had more silences in the years since 1998 but thankfully every now and again he lets us into his magical world again.

He has another lost album Adios Senor Pussycat and is now working on a whole new set of songs which includes songs with titles such as Broken Beauty and Kisses With Dreams On Them.

Coyle, Stephane pieced together an album and released it to critical acclaim in 1998. Critical acclaim, but very little by way of sales.

could imagine someone like Robbie Williams covering it and it selling by the ton. He laughed loudly, then thought for a second.

Hence the re-release, I guess.

Yeah, he said suddenly relishing the idea

Unsurprisingly, this time around the album has been hoovering up five star reviews again. From Mojo, Uncut, The Guardian, even The Sunday Mail.

Whether it makes any difference this time, we'll have to wait and see.

For me though, as an album it is peerless. I admit I am not the most unbiased of critics. Thanks to Tony McGuiness, I've got to know Mick. He's a friend now, someone who phones regularly at any hour of the day and night to play new songs down the phone.

He asks me what do I think of this song or that and I always tell him, I can't give him a proper answer because, well, I've liked his various bands since 1981 and asking me to pick between various songs is like asking me to choose between the kids.

But if pushed, I would say Something Like You is one of greatest songs I've ever heard. I told him recently that I could I

He is recording on his own label, Violette, which is funded via the fans website, Shacknet. He and his Red Elastic Band are in a good run of form, playing live and releasing singles.

Mick's looking after himself a bit more but he has a remarkable ability to bounce back.

It's a song of fragile beauty and subtly that it stops you in your tracks every time you hear it. On The Olde Worlde, there's a version of the song featuring only a string quartet. It's superb.

On a recent song he sang "you're gonna need better wood to crucify me".

Alongside this you have X Hits The Spot, a paean to heroin. X hits the spot, when you're not around.

5 TELEVISION THINGS WE'VE BEEN WATCHING 1. Cordon - a thriller from Belgium currently showing on BBC4. It's great.

2. The Met - fabulous Police documentary on BBC2.

3. Odyssey - clearly made for an

You'll also find tracks such And Luna and The Prize which could have been recorded by Arthur Lee if he'd have been brought up in Kensington.

Let me mention too Queen Matilda, a dark fucked up psychedelic seashanty and the lullaby that is Undecided (Reprise).

I could go on, but I'd better start thinking of drawing this to a close. Phil will kill me when he

Is right Mick.

American audience but we love Anna Friel. God I wish the story about her and the coke fairy is true.

4. True Detective - not as good as the first series but then what can be? Shaping up very nicely.

5. How To Be A Bohemian Entertaining series from Victoria Cohen Mitchell. Bit up its own arse but then she was interviewing a load of pretentious twats. The art class where she drew a spunking cock and balls was a televisual highlight.

‘RED KITE’ SARAH CRACKNELL If you’ve kept up at the back of the class over the years you know we love Sarah Cracknell over here.

Ever since she became the Saint Etienne singer in the early 90’s with the glorious ‘Nothing Can Stop Us’ and the gorgeous ‘Join Our Club,’ Sarah’s lovely voice allied to her looks cemented her a permanent place in our hearts, not to mention her luscious cover of John Head and Shack’s ‘Miles Apart’ (B side on her latest vinyl singer fact fans.)

The Saints’ output over the last fifteen years or so has been

sporadic to say the least although their amazing return with ‘Words and Music’ two years ago more than made up for the wait.

In Sarah’s case however we have also had some sporadic solo work ‘Lipslide’ and ‘Kelly’s Locker’ which have kept us devotees happy but ‘Red Kite’ her most recent release is something else all together.

Trying not to be too gushing and inevitably failing, I would say it is one of the best LP’s I have heard in ages and in terms of its’ consistency, its’ melodies, its’ warmth and its’ charm, it is an absolute gem.

For starters, in terms of the music

it is less dance orientated than Saint Etienne or her previous solo material and was rightly described

by The Guardian as "sounds like the soundtrack to a film set on Paris's Left Bank circa 1965."

Just up our street or rue then…

Sarah wrote every song bar one I believe and there are some great lyrics in there but what is most apparent is the dreamy pop nature and quality of all of the songs which mean it is hard to single out one or two.

Starting with the whimsical ‘On The Swings’ and then continuing with Sarah’s duet with Nicky Wire from the Manics ‘Nothing Left To Talk About’ the LP has gem after gem of melodic tunes all delivered with Sarah’s unique and beguiling voice. If you pressed a gun to my head I would go for ‘In The Dark,’ ‘Underneath the Stars’ and ‘Favourite Chair’ as my faves but as said that is probably doing a disservice to the others.

Now I know WSAG is often criticised for flogging dead horses with our love for certain artists but really boys and girls with something as beautiful as this collection, what do you expect us to do?

So do yourself a favour and hug your soul by getting hold of ‘Red Kite’ and join Sarah’s club….

‘A SONG FOR ISSY BRADLEY’ BY CARYS BRAY A recent great review here described a book as the most WSAG book ever or something like that.

This novel by Carys Bray could on the surface be described as completely the opposite given that I only saw it when my wife picked it up in WH Smith in the Airport as she looked for some books for our holidays.

Now cards on the table, I normally loathe what Elvis Costello called ‘airport novelettes’ in his song ‘God’s Comic.’ I hate the way the paperback cover is designed, the hyperbolic reviews on the front and back and my assumption is that these books are all matching the genre ‘chick lit’ and not worth going anyway near.

And when she picked this one up I thought here is another one but for some reason flicked through it and to my shock (and delight) came across a page with the following refrain in one of its’ chapters.

“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of a crow, I’d fly over Anfield tomorrow, And shit on the bastards below, Shit on, shit on, shit on the bastards below.”

It certainly got my attention being something you don’t often see in such novels and I was intrigued to see Everton mentioned in the context of the song and encouraged my wife to get it and of course picked it up first and read it, only in the interests of bringing you this review dear readers.

It is the debut novel of Carys Bray who was brought up in the Mormon faith until her 30’s when she started writing and it is set in Southport telling the story of a devout Mormon family facing a desperate family crisis which strikes a massive hole in their world and which highlights the already present cracks that exist with family members of following such an extreme faith in the secular modern world.

The Everton chapter is on Derby Day and so quite relevant for this special WSAG issue and it comes when one of the lead characters, a young lad called Alma (read your scriptures) who is a Liverpool fan, encounters some young Everton lids off Queens Drive having run away from the Mormon place of worship.

Maybe I am getting less cynical in my old age and maybe my critical senses are dulling but I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and can thoroughly recommend it as an easy-ish read whilst you are on your holibobs.

It is well written, imaginative, sad, funny and an accurate observation of the human spirit. Just make sure you persuade your wife or significant other to buy it along with your ever so much cooler choices and you’ll be OK. AVIATOR We have been sent a promo copy of the new Aviator album No

Friend of Mine which is out in August.

You might know Pete from his time in Shack, Cast, Echo and the Bunnymen and, currently, The Red Elastic Band.

We asked Pete to give us a brief description of the album, he said: "No Friend of Mind was made during 2014. Taking just a year to make. A miracle considering Huxley Pig Part 2 took almost 7 years to make.

Mark Neary (The Hours & engineer on High flying Birds 1st record) helped with the production side of the album and has now become a co-writing member with another album at the embryonic stage.

Once the album is released we hope to be doing a few live shows playing past and present tunes.

Thanks for listening and support.

JFT96 From what we've heard, this a great little album and you should keep your ears pinned back for more news of it in about a month's time. Until then here's the web address http://www.aviator-music.co.uk/ and finally...

If you're in a band and you want to send us some songs, please do. If you've written a book, please let us see it. In fact if you do anything you think we might be interested in, send it in.

Join in. You're amongst friends here. It's what it's all about.

Send anything and everything to whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com

WHEN SKIES ARE GREY is an independent Everton fanzine. Written by supporters for supporters.

The fanzine was first published in 1988 and produced 175 paper issues.

Last season the fanzine went digital and is now only available on your tablet, phone or PC. WSAG used to be only on sale around the ground on match days. It's now on sale all over the world. Any time, any place, anywhere.

WSAG is now produced monthly.

You can subscribe for next season for ÂŁ20.00 and you will receive 11 issues over a year. Subscriptions are available here: http://www.freewebstore.org/WSAG/Digital_Subs/cat150030_1892561.aspx

On subscription we will send you confirmation and full instructions on how to download WSAG. As part of your subscription you will also receive all digital back issues free.

WSAG is a celebration of all things Evertonian. A celebration of this thing of ours. It's a shared experience and we want to make it an inclusive as possible. Join us. You can see a sample free copy here: http://www.exacteditions.com/read/wsag If there's anything else you want to know about WSAG contact Graham at whenskiesaregrey@btinternet.com.

Onward Evertonians. Please take a pic of this page on your tablet or phone and share across Twitter and Facebook or email to your Evertonian mates.

The twenty second digital issue of When Skies are Grey (E022) was produced in July 2015

by Graham Ennis and Phil Redmond and Nick Jones with invaluable assistance from Kieron and Thomas Regan.

Thanks to the following for their words, pictures and stuff: Jonathan, Greg, Lee Molton, Greg Murphy, Ray Kirwan, Slim Sheedy, Benny Blue, Paddy Howlin, Stan Getz, Paul Owens, Paul Dempsey, Nevmog, Harvey Weewax, Blue Vein Havana, Daniel Hughes, Paul Bennett, Andrew McEgan, Wes Coles, TommyBoy, Paul Greensmith, Alan McKeown, John Cook, Marc England, Big Joe, @zinegreenzidane, @jinsen1, Francis Porter, Kevin Hogan, David Deakin, Les Roberts, Dixie Dave, Paul Hennessey, Fred Rylands, Andy Ormesher, Tommy Cosgrove, Jon Digga Lines, Ian Collins, Joph Mckenna, Ant Hawkins, Marc Manford, Anthony Parry, Michael Charmer, James Guy, Steve Corley, Gary Chase, Nick Evans, @Ian_fishwick, Denton Toffee, Michael McCool,@cb_bsfc, Everton Musings, Gary Morgan, Phil Houghton, @graemeh1984, Adam Bennett, Zarbastardo, @Efcmordecai, Ruaraidh Callinan, @GarryH1985, @treboreuk, Graeme Martin, Andy Jones, Michael Reid, Kevin Turner, Neil Halton, @LongshoremanX, Anthony Doyle, @1878_joe, Gareth Humphreys, Rob Thompson, @nickwillo4efc, jayne mccready, JoeQ, Jack Dowden, Baz Devine, Stuart Tomlin, Greg Eckersley, Ellie, Paul Traill and all those who have sent messages and tweets in the last month.

Thanks also to: All our subscribers, all at Exact, Andy Burnham, Pete Wilkinson, Reuven Fletcher, Pippa, and Dave Swaffield.

As ever much love to: Julie, Louis and Ruby; Nikki, Danny and Lauren

The next digital issue will be uploaded: E023 around 22 August 2015

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