Ben-Johnson-Ident-69--1024x3011995: It’s ages ago that, isn’t it?

I mean really, think about it. What were you doing in 1995? How old were you?

I was 15 and I was a bit of a farce. Britpop hadn’t really taken hold, New Labour was in its infancy — two years away from government. That was the last time Everton Football Club won anything. Mad that, isn’t it?

Everton haven’t won anything since a time when the internet was only used by Stephen Hawking and his squad to determine whether it was raining outside their door. Everton haven’t won anything since Ross Barkley was two years old.

For all the young people reading, I wasn’t messing just then. The internet wasn’t a thing that existed in everyday life when Everton last won anything. There was no such thing as Google, or Facebook, or Twitter, or anything really.

In fact, Mark Zuckerberg was only 11. Fucking 11, and when he was in school they didn’t even have email. He was there, in America, sending his mates pictures of his dinner and spending the rest of his time poking everyone he met.

In 1995, Everton won the FA Cup and no-one in the world knew who this team was because they couldn’t Google it. Imagine that.

We didn’t even have mobiles, lads. Not even the ones that could just phone people. We used to have to phone our mates on our mum’s landline for fuck’s sake when Everton last won anything.

Liverpool's goal scorer John Scales (right) returns to his defensive duties to keep Manchester City's Uwe Rosler at bay this evening (Wednesday) during their Coca Cola Cup match at Anfield.

John Scales was knocking about in Liverpool’s defence in 1995.

If you wanted to speak to a girl outside of school you had to phone their house phone and ask for them and hope like frigging hell that they would answer the phone otherwise it was awful. Well the Reds had to do this. The blues used to just stare at the girls and then fume when they didn’t say “hello”. Imagine a world where there was no such thing as mobile technology. Seems like a distant planet or an alternative realm doesn’t it?

Is it any wonder that Evertonians are so, well, shit?

Imagine not being happy since 1995. That type of thing would start to mess with your mind. It would start to send you a bit mad. It would start to eat away at you, from the inside out, especially if your bigger handsomer, richer brother was consistently winning cups: European Cups, FA Cups, UEFA Cups — sometimes with more luck than anyone could think possible. That type of shit would start to leave you somewhat bitter, somewhat twisted. That’s type of shite might start to make you a bit wary of a colour.

Every year in Liverpool city centre they have this thing called the Santa Dash. It’s a five kilometre fun run where the people taking part dress up as Father Christmas. I have a couple of issues with it if I’m honest.

First off, who the frigging hell is Santa? He’s some American bellend, that’s who. It should be called the Father Christmas jog.

Secondly, Evertonians have taken to wearing blue Father Christmas suits on this run. They can’t wear red you see as it reminds them of “the red shite”.

What the friggin’ hell is that about? There is nothing funnier than weird bluenoses who are scared of a colour. I mean, imagine being brought up in an Evertonian extremist household and not being allowed normal Christmas decorations, or to bleed, or eat red food.

“Can I have tomato sauce on my dinner, Dad?”

“Fuck off, son — get out of my sight, you are a disgrace to this family. Go to your room and think about what you have done. You are no son of mine.”

It must be heavy, la. Imagine being an Everton wife, the longest of long sufferers.

Romantic meal out:

“How would you like your steak cooked, sir?”

“I would like the shit knocking out of it, lad, followed by it being minced and fried for an hour to get rid of every last hint of blood. Can’t be too sure, can you?”

“I got you some roses, love, for Valentine’s Day. Well I say roses, they are actually empty packets of cheese and onion Walkers scrunched up and stuck to a pencil. Still, it’s the thought that counts, no?”

The logic is baffling. You can’t have anything to do with the colour red? Nothing? Ok, sound. What I want to know is whether this is self-policed or if there is some form of unofficial or official monitoring system. Is there a big massive bluenose overlord, maybe a big Bill Kenwright in the sky, who keeps an eye on it?

If there isn’t, why would you add such a level of stress to your already miserable, stressful unlucky life? You are potentially giving yourself a conflict in every facet of your daily life. How could you accept a letter delivered by Royal Mail, “the red shite bastards”? How could you enjoy Christmas? How could you get the train to London?

“Fuck that, I’m not getting on that, I’ll see you there, lad. I’ll fucking walk.”


They are bananas. Now, I’m not saying I hate Everton but I would quite like them to get relegated tomorrow and never ever come back. I hope they get battered in every game they ever play regardless of who it is against. I hope they fold.

In fairness, it would be the best for everyone concerned. If we are all honest with ourselves no-one is having a nice time any more. In fact they have managed to have such a shit time over such a prolonged period that they have institutionalised themselves in status quo of perpetual shitness. Given the slightest chance of success they buck like a buggered horse and revel in the anger, bitterness and hatred that ensues.

FA Cup semi-final last year — one of the first chances of silverware since a time before the internet and they contrived to make the manager’s position untenable prior to the game. That takes a certain level of commitment.

They appoint a new manager, convince themselves they are billionaires and are going to win the league and then fume when their manager puts traditional Christmas decorations on his tree to the extent that he has no choice but to slaughter his bird and blame it on her, while simultaneously scratching his head wondering what the friggin’ hell he has gotten himself into.

Don’t worry about the game tonight, Reds. If you start to get a little bit nervous just imagine how your bluenose counterpart is feeling. Imagine 21 years of winning shite all, of having hard lines or bad luck. Imagine throughout the whole of that time watching your dashing neighbour getting all his own way. Before kick-off they will convince themselves they are going to get beat.

Whatever you do, don’t pity them, Reds. Don’t feel sorry for them. It’s how they like it. It’s how they survive. If someone was to free them from their self-imposed prison of misery they would run screaming from their life.

Do the only thing open to you, Reds — score early, then score again and then finish it off with a last minute third. It’s the kindest thing you could do.

Get into these, Reds, for everyone sake. No-one will thank you for anything different.

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