Fans Comment
Anon

Sunday dinner with the 'Devil'
16 December 2005

Theatre of Nightmares!

Alright Gents.

I was really pleased to be in work on Monday morning!  This may sound strange but I spent 120 terrifying minutes in the Stretford End side of the North Stand, Old Trafford last Sunday, watching the team I have loved, supported, cried over, shouted for, fought for and have swore allegiance to for the rest of my life. 

I had two bald headed 22-stone United Neanderthals on my left; one female United fan on my right who I was with.  She was sat next to cross between Hunter from Gladiators and that football fan off Cracker! Behind were five Irish lads who continually shouted / demanded scouse blood was spilled.  By the time I had turned Z-Cars off my ring tone and clapped the United players off the pitch for their pre-match chat, it started to hit home that I now had to completely distance myself from the Everton team for the next 90+ mins...  How hard was this?  I'll honestly tell you. But first, some context:

'Early years'  You're with yer Dad, brother or some Uncle.  You're too young to really be that fusssed watching the football or the tactics.  You're just happy with your nice blue Everton scarf and hat and the fact everyone says how great this little kid is who knows all the words to 'Bobby Latchford walks on water'.

'Middle years'  You're a junior Evertonian who's just been allowed to go the match with his mates.  You think you love the blues with all your heart.  You can name the first-choice team and one or two squad players. You think the footballing world revolves around Everton, the City of Liverpool, and Brazil.  Although the magic blue seed in your heart has sprouted it's first couple of royal blue shoots, you still have more of a laugh getting to and from the match than actually being there.

'Late Teenage years'  Wow... you not only love this side, this club, this stadium, the Toffee Lady, the fact you walk the match, you look at the fixtures ahead and there are only one or two matches you feel you may not get maximum points from.  You've now noticed the whole new world of off-the-ball football!  You shout for every throw, every foul every decision.  You Sing your heart out for the blues each match 90+ mins.

'20s Years'  You can now afford a season ticket.  You still sing and shout will all your heart but there is now another fluid flowing through those veins along with the royal blue blood... Lager!  You will now not only sing for the blues you will now quite happily fight for the blues with all might along side one of the most feared, aggressive, organised fighting forces in modern day football with a following of both boys and men who have been both born and raised alongside one another within an area of about 10 square miles.  Football is now an obsession, something we no longer have to put any effort into the thinking of.  Everton is now as much part of your life as your parents, your soul and the air that you breath.

Taking all the above into account on Sunday, I was sat with the enemy in their own place of worship wondering at what point will my instincts take over and give this toffee away.

Teams enter the arena, no problems there; clap and no one suspects a thing....

United team is read out.  Remain standing but can't bring myself to clap or boo.

Mighty Blues team is read out.  Do not have the balls to clap for any player except Phil Neville who the United fans are clapping anyway.

Kick off; I'm so nervous that I'm about to get my head stoved in, I am contemplating leaving the ground.

Next minute I'm half off my seat as the Utd defence start to give the ball to Blue forwards on a plate.  Forwards gently kick the ball straight to keeper...  Panic over.

Next minute Maca takes the ball over to the left, takes it into the first row of the Stretford End and still manages to blast the ball past the keeper to put the blues one up.  What did I do? Did I:

• 'A' - Jump up shout "Fluffin get in there Maca lad!" or
• 'B' - Not even flinch or bat an eye lid and pray no one has heard me talking.

Sorry, boys; the answer was 'B'.  For all the times you have told yourself and fellow blues you would die for this club, ask yourself what you would have done in my position?  I lost part of myself at that moment.

I can no longer take an active interest in the match.  I am ashamed of myself for not at least clapping.  I am disappointed that I have put myself in this position.

Before I know it, some hairy Welshman has put the ball into the Everton net.  What did I do?  Did I:

• 'A' - Remain seated.
• 'B' - Slowly stand up.
• 'C' - Jump up and start clapping.
• 'D' - Jump up and shout "Fluffin Manc Bastaaards!"

Sorry, boys; the answer was 'B'.  I am now not only questioning my love for the Blues; I am now also questioning my very manhood.  What is the best option?  Take a hiding and become a minor local legend?  Or keep my mouth shut and loose the biggest part of me since losing a very much loved family member!

I will never recover from this episode, gentlemen.  I will now never feel I have always given my all for Everton Football Club.

To sit there and look at the Royal Blue splendour of the proud proud away fans to hear them sing with all there heart.  To know most of them live within 10 minutes of my home.  To know most of them will be fighting for there pride and there lives outside the ground out numbered and just minutes away from one of their own who was walking through the car par park along side the United fans.  Can I ever look my brothers in the eye again?

I am completely ashamed of myself and I needed to confess to my own.  So ashamed, I cannot reveal my name.  I am so sorry.

Name Withheld

I read the above article with great interest and sympathy as it reminded me of something similar that happened to me many, many years ago.

Back in 1980, I was in my last year at college, Everton were under the tutelage of Gordan Lee and had found themselves in the semi-fianl of the FA Cup, their opponents being West Ham. Since I was at college, my chances of seeing the Blues that season were limited. However, I was fortunate to see them secure their place in the semi-fianl against Ipswich at Goodison (the journey back to College in Bangor, North Wales, being a story on its own) and doubly fortunate to secure a ticket for the semi at Villa Park.

The match at Villa was memorable for several reasons.

Firstly, this was the occasion when Blues fans invaded the set of a programme called TISWAS, which was filmed in Birmingham at that time. (Much beloved because of one Sally James, but I won't go into that!!) It would be wrong of me to claim that I was one of those fans, but there are times I wish I was!

Secondly, that was the time I was introduced to computer games as we (i.e. my twin brother, his Iinvaders in the foyer of a hotel in the centre of Birmingham. (It was also the location of a Young Conservatives conference at the time where the guest speaker was Christopher(?) Walker, who happened to walk past us when we were playing the game.

The game itself wasn't memorable apart from the fact that Brian Kidd (if I remember rightly) opened the scoring and then fell for Ray Stewart's baiting and got himself sent off. What hurt even more to someone who had visions of the Blues playing at Wembley was that Stewart then equalised forcing a replay at Elland Road.

Having come up from college for the game and facing my finals in the next few weeks, I went back to college resigned to the fact that I would miss the replay.

On the following Tuseday, I received a call from a fellow blue and student who said that he had tickets for myself and my brother for the replay the following day. I quickly made arrangements to return from Bangor to St Helens and from there to Leeds on the Wednesday. The first part of the trip went well; however, the coach to Leeds broke down which meant that we missed the meet with my fellow student and the tickets.

By the time my twin brother and I arrived at Elland Road, the game had already started and we were reduced to watching the game with other Blues from the back of an advertising board. Unfortunately, that didn't last long as the police moved us on. Desperate to see the game, we chanced our arm at one of the nearest turnstiles, luckily the gateman let us through for cash. It was only when we got inside that we realised that we were in with the West Ham fans, who at the time had a bit of a reputation to say the least.

Upon realising this, my brother told me not to do anything to give away our true allegiance. So we sat among the "happy hamers" and enjoyed the game as best we could, being careful not to raise the suspicion of our "fellow" supporters. Full-time came and went and the score was still nil-nil, then West Ham scored through Alan Devonshire and the stand we were sitting in erupted in delight. My brother and I sat there devastated, but were able to applause politely.

Then, with time running out, big Bob managed to squeeze the ball in at the far post and leapt into the adoring blues at the far end. Whilst I sat there not knowing what to do, my brother sprung from his seat and punched the air in delight. After this display, we decided to vacate our seats and make our way to the back of the stand. (My abiding memory of this was the look of devastation on the faces of many of the West Ham fans who thought that their cup chances had gone.) We were at the back of the stand when Frank Lampard Sr(?) headed a ball which seemed to have more spin on it than a Shane Warne googly crept into the back of the Blues net. The journey home that night was one of the longest and saddest I can remember.
Liam Taubman, Onchan, Isle of Man (17/12/05)

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