“I KNOW what goes on there.”

“And we’ll hang the Kopites one by one on the banks of the Royal blue…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake close him down, don’t let him shoot!”

Funny, Everton, aren’t they? I mean, if there has ever been a more Everton five minutes than the time from their goal to Philippe Coutinho’s, I’d love to see it. From desperation, to elation, to an overinflated sense of importance and belief to absolute desperation, a lovely circle of Everton life. They were still trying to cough the blue pyro away (nice to see the usual purple one had been upgraded) while aggressively singing about hanging Kopites, when Coutinho got the ball and so didn’t see the danger or stop singing until it was about to slap them absolutely in the chops.

I’m not sure which fan base shows more signs of a bitter obsession; Liverpool’s for laughing our clogs off at them at every opportunity or Everton’s for singing lovely songs about hanging people on the banks of a blue river. I mean, the last I checked the Mersey was a browny grey, caused by the high silt content, what with it being a tidal river and that. I don’t know, perhaps they will have a special noose like feature built into their ground; it will probably be in the architect’s brief, along with some magic beans, a heavy reliance on recycled products and some massive big fans to blow away the smell from the sewage works next door.

People ask why Evertonians wouldn’t ever want to go and watch a derby as if there is an underlying good reason for them to go. I have to say, if I had been raised a Blue, there is no way in this world that I would go and watch them play us. Not for a massive big clock bigger than that one in the Everton trophy room video would I go to Anfield. I mean, they know what goes on there. Evertonians know exactly what goes on when they go to Anfield – they have all heard the stories.

Tales of despair, humiliation, last minute losers, 4-0 hidings, not touching the ball, passed down through the generations like cautionary tales of yore. Don’t put yourself through it, son, it will only end in angst and tears on your Lonsdales. If I was raised an Evertonian, mate, I would play golf on a Saturday, every Saturday, even in the summer, with headphones and blinkers on, like a wild horse at the races. You have got to give credit to the Blues who turn up year on year; bigger men than me, or possibly just masochists.

It’s been a tough week. I spent the first three days of it looking for my head after it fell off when I read that Everton had agreed a deal in principal to buy some land next to a shit factory, but hadn’t actually bought it yet, never mind produced any noose-friendly plans and spent the rest of it trying to re-connect it, like your man Frankenstein. I didn’t know humans could go without their heads longer than chickens and that it could be just plonked back on like a wig caught in a particularly fierce blast of wind. It’s amazing what modern medicine can do, isn’t it? Your head has fallen off their, Mr Johnson, you have severed your spinal cord and numerous arteries, muscles and broken all kinds of bones – I’m not sure how this could have happened – unless, you haven’t been reading big Joe’s press release, have you? What a world, eh.

It helped my neck pain immensely when Everton decided to play a goalie who had given control of his limbs over to some virtual reality fellas who had been on the red wine pre-game. It was Big Bad Brad Jones proportions of shitness from your man Joel Robles, which was nice given that in an interview on the Friday before the game he was giving it the big one, saying “he wasn’t scared of playing at Anfield” and that Everton “need to kill” Liverpool; I don’t know either, perhaps he’s seen the plans for the ground. Either way, it’s nice to know that in his last two visits he has conceded seven; killing us with goals, mate.

The first goal is lovely the way he sort of tries to run after it, like an excited dog. The second is ace the way he just looks and thinks that’s a belter of a goal, that; presumably he was also singing about hangings up until the point Coutinho was in his box. The third was bananas. Big Divock Origi must have quite a believable gaze to be able to do someone quite so convincingly as that. If looks could kill, your goalie would stand still in the middle of the goal while the ball floats past his head. The school of science though lads, aren’t you? Why don’t you work on a new drug to stop your players mouthing off before a game and then swallowing their undies whenever they see anything red; make it available to your supporters, let them enjoy Christmas again.

Say what you want about the Blues but at least they put their foot in. They must be pretty made up about that this morning. Ross Barkley, the next big thing, still, spent the game showcasing his talents, which seem to consist of whatever wasn’t used when they were making Ste Gerrard. Think Danny Devito in twins. I’m not sure what the fuss is about. He’s got a good turn and a brain like a kid in a fair. The sign of a good player, that. Giving the ball away and then trying to impact on the match by having a good go at breaking someone’s leg. Keep going though, Ross; whatever you do, don’t watch that video of Coutinho sending you for the Echo and you having a nice big scream and a sit down.

The Reds were glorious. Coutinho was back to his best, Emre Can was big and hard and everywhere, Lucas Leiva was gloriously scouse, laughing at the”Lukaku’s right, you’re fucking shite” song was a particular highlight. Degsi Lovren was sublime. Their whole game plan was to get after the left side of our defence; the master tactician basically copying big Seany Dyche, except Degsi Lov was better than Baresi, thereby nullifying their whole attacking plan. Kloppo’s change to bring Trent Alexander-Arnold on was the best substitution he has made in his time at the club. Trent was great, assured on the ball, confident with and without it, nearly scored a belter; that is what the next big thing looks like, boys.

All in all, it was a pretty satisfying, almost run of the mill Derby win, which was nice. Now that we have figured out how to beat the small clubs who turn up, kick us and try to score on the break our run-in will be a piece of piss. Well in, the Blues. Always good for morale.

Shall we do this next year? Same time, same place? The bi-annual prescription to cure a loose head?

Is right, the boys.

Up the Reds.

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