The walk up and down Walton Lane to and from The Taxi Club in Cherry Lane to Goodison Park rarely changes, optimistic going, doom and gloom coming out

I've been doing this walk on and off since May 1963 when we beat Fulham 4-1 and Roy Vernon scored a hatrick to win the league
 
But something changed on that cold January night 2025 against Aston Villa. I found myself pondering whether it was all worth it
 
I was 12 years of age in 1964 and I'm now in my 74th year. For the first time, whether its age, health or a combination of the two, I really couldn't motivate myself for the match. I know the football at present is dire but I have honestly sat through worse than this.
 
I started to weigh up the positives against the negatives. Don't get me wrong — I will support Everton with every bone in my body until I take my last breath.
 
But before I renew my season ticket next week I am thinking am I too old for all this and maybe give up my seat for someone younger.
 
Bramley-Moore was a dream I thought would never in my lifetime happen. “On The Banks Of The Royal Blue Mersey” was an anthem that Liverpool supporters could never come back with an answer to. It's ours and always will be.
 
The continuous flirting with relegation isn't really an issue either. I would support Everton even if they played in the Zingari League.
 
Sometimes you just need someone or something to put everything into perspective and luckily Im blessed with four daughters and a wife who have done just that.
 
"It's a way of life, Dad," they said. "Think more about the positives. You've always done it, you're not going to stop now, we wont let you."
 
The positives come flooding back. What about my visits to the heaven that is The Taxi Club, three pints of Guinness before the game and three after the game?
 
What about never ever winning The Spot The Ball Mick Mackerell sells but you buy them because you know Alder Hospital benefits from it?
 
What about my half-time Bovril laced with my miniature Brandy and Port?
 
What about my nephew Tony and great nephew Thomas who sit next me in Upper Bullens forever positive and cajoling me with, "Come on, Uncle Fran, we can win this, you know"?
 
What about the small, tiny, very  very small signs of improvement in our attacking play?
 
Sitting next to them at Bramley-Moore — hopefully still in the Premier League — next season is another factor in my short but ridiculous brainstorm about not going the game anymore. So onwards and upwards it is 
 
“We (especially me) Shall Not Be Moved”
 
COYBs
 
 

 

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