Landon Donovan: substance or spin?

Like trips to the cinema and popcorn, like fish and chips, like JR and Sue Ellen, Everton and Landon Donovan just kind of go together well.

Why though?

What the fuck has a Californian with a big fod got in common with a football club in the Merseyside heartland of Walton? There was absolutely nothing to suggest that the loan deal of Landon Donovan from LA Galaxy to Everton in January 2009 would be anything more than a couple of fleeting substitute appearances that at best would sell us a few more shirts in the USA.

But ohhhhh nooooo, Landon and EFC became like Jack Daniels and Coke. They just clicked.

Donovan got off the plane at Heathrow and basically got straight on the pitch across London at the monolithic Emirates Stadium, home of Premier title chasing Arsenal. He announced his arrival with a delightful delivery which was met by the diminutive Leon Osman as Everton dominated the game and were robbed of victory with two deflected Arsenal goals. 2-2.

After that, Landon made his home debut against the oil rich Arab owned Manchester City, a side playing fantasy football with the best players in the world and convinced they were entitled to a run at the title - or Champions League qualification at the very least. Everton completely played Citeh off the park winning 2-0 (should've been more) and Donovan put in a good solid display and the 'American players are shit' brigade began to re-examine their pre-conceptions.

After that, Donovan saw some sobering lows (Birmingham in the FA Cup and a scratchy, ugly defeat across the Park) but some scintillating highs (Goodison defeats of Chelsea and Man Utd, a rousing home farewell and sign off goal in the 5-1 hammering of hapless Hull and the emotional goodbye at St.Andrews) but the overall feeling from his time at Everton was overwhelmingly positive.

There's a few reasons for this I think.

Landon offered us something we've desperately needed for some years now...attacking pace to burn and direct running down the right flank. He showed a passion, desire and will to win that every fan can associate with. He did our precious number 9 shirt proud, albeit in an unfamiliar part of the pitch for the Everton 9 to be plying his trade. The short-lived love affair between the LA boy and EFC wasn't just about his ability on the field though because I'm sure there are more technically gifted attacking right-sided players on the planet right now.

He seemed to always say the right thing. From his first press conference to his final Facebook status update when he was sitting in Heathrow departures, the soundbite or quote was always on the mark. Tony Blair's PR spin machine would've been proud.

Which brings me to my only nagging doubt.

Landon Donovan. Everton FC icon and legend in the making, blue blood and never forgotten until he returns someday?

Or fucking excellent politician?

80's Hooliganism - A Shithouse Standpoint

We're playing West Ham at Goodison in a couple of days. I know that the current crop of Hammers 'boys' haven't quite got the reputation of their ICF peers of the 1980's (mostly blokes now who've got mortgages and drive Mondeo's) but thinking of West Ham got me remembering a few of my scariest escapades supporting the blues through the dark days of early eighties football hooliganism.

It was about 1983 and I was standing in the terraced paddock right in the shadow of the main stand not too far from the old Park End - the days when it housed the away fans behind the goal and was about three feet wide. We were 2-0 up with about five minutes to go and I suddenly became aware that the crowd around me was dissolving. I looked around wondering WTF was going on and looked to my right. Everton had opened the gates ready for the final whistle and about half a dozen ICF had decided to have a wander into an Everton part of the ground and were steadily walking towards me, a 16 year old shithouse who was beginning to rapidly become isolated! They were doing these 'come on, let's fakkin' 'ave it!' motions with their hands and all looked ready to leave a calling card or two on the nearest Scouser. Which at this very moment was me. They started to go into a kind of pincer movement and began to speed up towards me as I suddenly thought 'Oh bollocks! Gotta go here!' - and as I turned to join the rest of the quickly retreating crowd one of them produced a blade which flashed under the floodlights. I saw my pretty boy, New Romantic looks disappearing fearing I would never look like Simon Le Bon when from nowhere three hefty coppers pounced on them and a bit of a ruck started which resulted ultimately in them being escorted from the stadium by the local constabulary.

The only other occasions I ever felt that I needed to genuinely fear for my existence happened in Manchester. Three times.

A night match at Maine Road, home of Manchester City was something to behold. A walk through the edges of Moss Side, gun and drug capital of the north-west and through a maze of little terraced streets offering a multiude of hiding places and ambush points. We got legged all over those streets after a game one night, they never caught us though the dirty Manc scumbags. Then there was a visit to Old Trafford sometime in the early nineties. We were given a police escort from the station to the ground and talk about the gauntlet of hate. They bottled us, threw piss at us, spat at us, threatened to cut our throats...and that was just the police! And then the time I was at Picadilly in Manchester after a game at Old Trafford waiting for the train on my own and got approached by three Manc lads clearly desperate to give any Everton fan at all a slap or three. They asked me who I supported and I managed to answer in a decent enough Manchester accent 'A dornt like footah' and they had a bit of a debate about whether or not to give me a kickin' and finally decided not to. I was working in Manchester at the time so had the accent down ok luckily.

I know these accounts all involve me avoiding getting me face slashed or my head kicked in and I'd love to be able to tell you all about how I led a firm of ten lads and chased Tottenham all over London - but I'd be lying wouldn't I?

Everton did have some serious players around that time though and you can read all about it in the absolute classic book 'Scally' by Andy Nicholls.

Manchester City Anagram: Catty Rich Semen. How Appropriate...

When I was younger, I used to tell people that Manchester City were my third team. The reason for this was probably because I grew up in the north-west supporting Everton and saw parellels with the blue half of Merseyside and the blue half of Manchester.

That particular misguided belief changed a long time before the Arabs came along with their oil money and I'm so glad my adolescent mind saw thorough the kind of classless club Citeh would become before they actually did.

It was so satisfying to destroy them the other night on their own turf. After the way they'd claimed our win at Goodison was a fluke earlier in the season. You remember? That was the game in January when we played them off the park and should've won 5-0? Yeah, jammy bastards aint we? The result though coming out of the City Of Jeddah Stadium last Wendesday night sent out a signal to the entire football world.

That message shouted loud and clear:-
REGARDLESS OF YOUR RICHES (Saudi Riyal in this case), MONEY CANNOT BUY YOU CLASS, HISTORY AND CULTURE.

Or in the more succinct words of the ecstatic Evertonians on the terraces that night:-
2-0, AND WE'VE SPENT FUCK ALL!!

Since they won the Saudi lottery, supporters of Manchester's third team (after Man Utd and Droylsden) have gone and got themselves in a little tizz about how they're about to rule the world by buying the Premiership, the Champions League, the Copa America and the Eurovision Song Contest. Mind you, Terry Wogan's got more time on his hands these days I believe so he might fancy having a crack at winning something for Citeh because everyone else has tried to polish that particular turd and at the end of the day, a turd is a turd. They remind me of those Harry Enfield characters Stan and Pam Herbert, who used the catchphrase "We are considerably richer than yow", to try and make themselves feel superior. They're support is generally a ragtag collection of bitter old bastards who've watched years and years of divisional ups and downs, the Liam Gallagher set complete with swagger and plastic Manc badboy attitude and the newbie hangers-on who've attached themselves to the club recently when it looked like they might be getting some success at some point in the next twenty years.

Then the Italian Stallion goes and gets frisky with Moysey on the touchline and you just know that back on the streets of Glasgow, that particular incident would've ended up with Mancini writhing around on the floor with a broken nose and a deep fried Mars Bar shoved up his designer Italian arsehole. Abbia che voi omosessuale italiano sporco! On top of that, in the high end hospitality, Gary Cook (Arab glove puppet) throws out a guest of Everton and his missus for taking the piss at the end. We really did get at them in every area of that stadium didn't we?!!! The terraces were ours, the touchline, the pitch and even the prawn sarnies!

Everton have the dignity and team ethic within the current set-up to meet the arrogance of Manchester City and their fans head-on and they hate us for it. They see us as the scruffy bindippers from up the East Lancs Road, conveniently forgetting that Maine Road was situated in Moss Side. Remember that walk on night matches? Their history is an embarrassment which is probably why they enjoy wallowing in this amusing superiority complex that they have.

Everton might not have millions in the bank but our club has a heart and soul that money can't buy and now and then we get reminders of why it's a grand old team to support. I'd rather have that all day than be considerably richer than yow!