5 non-Everton footballing heroes

I have previously professed my admiration for the greatest goalkeeper ever seen, and would always consider him my overall footballing idol. Growing up though I was overwhelmingly obsessive about the game in general until far too late – for normal social interaction - into my teens and would embrace the (relatively rare compared to now) opportunity to watch any game deemed worthy of televising. I therefore developed affection for a number of individuals never lucky enough to wear the Royal Blue, foremost among them being the following five:

Roberto Baggio
Channel Four’s foresight in buying the rights to Italian football in 1992 was, for young nerds like me, a wonderful innovation. Saturation coverage of many European leagues now have encouraged a sense of complacency and near boredom about the opportunity to see the world’s best players week in, week out, but at the time it was superbly exciting given that an air of mystery still hung around players you would only ever see in international tournaments. As a result of this revolution though, a generation of kids grew up extolling the virtues of Ruben Sosa, Beppe Signori, Giuseppe Giannini and countless other glamorous players who appeared miles removed from the crash, bang, wallop nature of grey English football (the only Italian imported around this time was Andrea Silenzi, their equivalent of Kevin Kyle). Better kits, sunshine, ace hair and James Richardson with pink newspapers and ice creams – it had it all. Everyone had a favourite player. For me, it was Baggio all the way.

Having come to attention with a big money move from Fiorentina and a memorable goal in the 1990 World Cup, he was clearly gifted and, as with other number 10s of this Serie A era, strolled around with a style and finesse that screamed confidence. But there was also an appealing fragility that suggested disappointment was around the corner, sadly borne out by the 1994 World Cup. Half fit and labouring, he almost single-handedly dragged an average Italy side through to the final before enduring a spectacular Al-Pacino-in-Scarface-type climax by spectacularly blazing over the deciding spot kick in the shoot out. Even Diana Ross thought it was a shit pen. When the tournament is recalled it is Roberto, hands on hips and utterly alone, staring fixedly at the spot, who provides the enduring image, rather than the celebrating Brazilians. Unlike his successor at Juventus, Alessandro Del Piero, who atoned for misses in the 2000 European Championship final by helping to win the World Cup in 2006, Baggio never achieved redemption. But he was still ace and my eventual realisation that we would never sign him, despite a cruel, vague tabloid link around the time he played for Brescia, was a disappointment.



Istvan Kozma
A real nostalgia selection. Half of my family being Scottish, trips were frequently made to Fife in the late eighties and early nineties to see my grandparents. My grandfather was a keen Dunfermline fan and while my dad often took my brother to Edinburgh to watch Hearts, I would walk the short distance through the park with my granddad to East End Park and watch a side shuttling between the top two divisions that for a while featured agricultural centre back David Moyes. The standout attraction for me at that time was Kozma, a lovely, graceful footballer at times seeming out of place when compared with the style of many of the teams he came up against. My one vivid recollection of him was being sat with my granddad, with my dad and brother suffering in the away end, watching him torture Hearts in a comfortable Premier League victory. His performances against Rangers convinced Graeme Souness to make him part of his glorious Anfield revolution, but he made no impact, often featuring in Liverpool worst buy lists. Which makes me like him more.


Josimar
In all honesty, his selection is probably as much a reflection of the tournament in which he came to prominence as for the man himself. I think it’s a truism that your favourite World Cup is your first. That is certainly the case for me, nearly seven and half years old in 1986. Looking back, my memories are fragmented – the time difference to Mexico meant that on many occasions my mum would come up the stairs and find that my efforts to defy orders and watch the 9pm matches on the little TV in my room had ended with me fast asleep with my head on my desk. But I was essentially a blank canvas, my love for Everton and football in general only properly having come to fruition through my desperation at Everton’s Cup Final defeat a month earlier. Such was the fickleness of being that age that domestic football concerns were almost instantly buried by wallcharts and the most important playground currency of them all: stickers. Once the tournament began it became a blur of goals, colour, exotic names and countries; Vasily Rats, Morocco, Preben Elkjær, Iraq, Joel Bats, Bulgaria, Steve Hodge, the list just went on. Until Diego grabbed my attention later on in the month, it was Josimar I became fixated with. A rampaging right back in a Brazilian side characteristically unconcerned by the boring art of defending, his standout moment was beating Pat Jennings from about 70 yards, the ball dropping beautifully into the great, yawning net. As if that wasn’t good enough, he scored another stunning goal a few days later against Poland, both goals being greeted with Tardelli-esque celebrations. He only made 16 appearances for Brazil but for me epitomises the glory of discovering the World Cup.




Matt Le Tissier
Workshy? Not ambitious enough? Maybe. But in an era where every player stringing together a few reasonable performances suddenly feels they ‘need’ Champions League football to achieve their ‘aims’ and ‘progress’ as players, there is something to admire in the attitude shown by Le Tissier. Undeniably capable of playing for better teams than Southampton but loved his environment and the club and felt no need to risk that for the sake of a bit more money. He had faults; he probably needed to have a team built round him, didn’t like tackling back and was not quick. But with the ball at his feet in the opposition’s half? Superb. I can’t help but enjoy the languid, lazy majesty of his goals, even if half the time his caressing of the ball into the net is probably because he couldn’t be arsed putting his foot through it.



Xavi
The only contemporary player on the list, and a player now considered among the most important midfielders in Europe. The man who completed more passes in the home game against Arsenal last season than Arsenal’s whole team managed. The man that even the Daily Mail, who initially inexplicably rubbished him, has come round to admire. But I first noticed him when he was by no means the first name on the team sheet, back in 2003. Over in Barcelona for a midweek trip, we had tickets for their dead rubber Champions League group game against Bayer Leverkusen. Settling in a bar near the ground before the game, over exposure to the six or seven draught beers on offer resulted in my remembering only two things about the match. The first was how bright the floodlights were for some reason. The second was how artfully the little midfielder, who barely seemed to move out of the centre circle, effortlessly controlled and moved the ball without anyone getting within twenty yards of him, in a manner I’ve only seen done live since by Juan Roman Riquelme at Goodison.

Salt Yard Charcuterie Bar and Restaurant

54 Goodge Street
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W1T 4NA
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A trip down to the big smoke for a couple of days to revel in Everton’s entirely predictable, never-ending ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory at the Emirates afforded the opportunity for a meal at Salt Yard Tapas, located on Goodge Street. The small bar area was busy for a Monday night and the four of us were taken downstairs to the cosy restaurant area. We decided on a sharing platter of meats and some rillettes with crostini to start, both of which were excellent, to be followed by a very decent selection of many of the various options on the pleasingly compact menu.

The main dishes, for the most part, maintained a very high standard. The jamon croquetas were superb, in no small part due to the manchego contained within, while the 'Gloucester Old Spot' pork belly with cannellini beans was moist and had gratifyingly tasty crackling.



The chargrilled chorizo with marinated peppers was smoky with a lovely substantial kick to it and benefited from the presence of the peppers, while another tapas staple, crispy squid, was lifted above the norm by a powerful and garlic-fuelled shellfish Aioli. One slightly unexpected hit was the light and moreish butternut squash gnocchi with a sage and butter sauce, which had a lovely soft texture.



The dishes were not faultless though. Despite a lovely goat’s cheese stuffing, the courgette flowers tasted slightly underseasoned and were marginally on the bland side of tasty. Similarly two meat dishes almost but didn’t fully hit the mark; an excellent salsa verde didn’t quite rescue the Fillet of Lamb, which didn’t seem well matched with crushed Jerusalem artichokes, and the bavette arrived at the table somewhat late and somewhat tough, although by no means inedible.



Pudding ensured the evening ended well, my excellent cold chocolate and honeycomb fondant was more than rich enough for someone without much of a sweet tooth, and an equally positive report was received on the milk pudding with rhubarb. A varied and well-judged cheese board rounded off an overwhelmingly positive night’s feeding, washed down very nicely by a couple of bottles –between the table - of a decently priced Honoro Vera. Competitively priced and very enjoyable.

Great Liverpool Songs #1

Michael Head & The Strands - ‘Something Like You’

I have seen Michael and John Head live in their various band incarnations and as solo artists more than anybody else over the years. First alerted to the work of the brothers by positive press in When Skies are Grey, whose online presence is now sadly limited to Twitter, I invested in HMS Fable, which I loved, and worked my way backwards from there to the Pale Fountains. To be frank, aside from one or two notable exceptions such as the sparkling ‘Thank You’ and the cover of Deniece Williams’ ‘Free’, I’ve never really taken to the Pale Fountains for some reason, but the subsequent one-off Michael Head and The Strands album and the Shack recordings, including ‘HMS Fable’ and the brilliant ‘Here’s Tom with the Weather’, are superb. There is some similarity in investing money watching Everton and Mick Head – it would be unfair to bring John into the analogy, as he is rarely less than spot on – live. Very occasionally the whole occasion will be a massive unexpected letdown due to Mick’s well-known love of a drink and stronger, whereas on other instances what you are expecting to be a run of the mill night is lifted into something far more majestic and uplifting. Their lack of fame in the face of many inferior alternatives is maybe just further proof that much of the most worthy art lies on the periphery of popular culture.

From all their recordings, this is my favourite individual track; a lyrically stunning string-led emotive affair, encompassing all that it is great about their work over the years. Although they’ve taken criticism for their continued slavish devotion to the brothers, who both are apparently due to release solo offerings this year, I’m probably one of the few who feels there isn’t enough about them in the average edition of WSAG.

Random great Everton goals #8

Leon Osman - Everton v AE Larissa
Goodison Park, October 25, 2007

At the time of writing there are under two weeks of the two weeks remaining and our financial predicament appears so delicate that any players not nailed down are disappearing to enable the club to try and bring in new faces. While the departures of Yakubu and Vaughan (not confirmed but looking increasingly likely) are lamented; in the case of the former for talent lost through injury, for the latter talent never quite fulfilled due to injury, it is the loss of Steven Pienaar that appears the most wounding for the team. A lovely footballer, whose partnership with Leighton Baines has often, particularly this season, represented the team’s most potent threat, the South African is now subject to the classic jilted-lover supporter revisionism – “he wasn’t that great anyway”. While this is 95% horseshit and doesn’t reflect his tireless contribution over the last three seasons, the only small kernel of a point might be the suggestion that his final ball or shot was too often wasteful, which would appear to be backed up by a mediocre goal return and lack of recorded assists, to use a depressing modern method of player assessment.

Whatever the truth, if Pienaar’s replacement is to come from within the squad then one of the most likely candidates is Leon Osman. In many ways, his performance the 2-2 draw at Anfield on Sunday could be seen as an excellent summary of his curate’s egg Everton career to date. Large stretches of the match were marked by an inability to impose himself on the game, giving the impression that things were just too quick and powerful for him. However, when in possession around the box his quick feet and brain allowed him to cause Liverpool problems, most notably in his perfect hold up and layoff for Jermaine Beckford’s second half goal, a passage of play that caused tight-trousered irritant Jamie Redknapp to correctly (for once) point out that had that been Iniesta or Xavi we would be talking about it for months. In many ways he would be far better suited to a slower, more technical league, and his better performances have often come when he has had more time on the ball as part of a central three man midfield in a 4-5-1, as opposed to stuck out wide on the right where his lack of pace has told. While not ideal, being used as a ‘false’ winger on the left and cutting inside, allowing Baines to bomb past down the wing, would seem an obvious short-term measure for David Moyes, and has already been used to decent effect in a number of the team’s better results this season. This goal from the 2007-8 European campaign is one of the best team goals of recent years and highlights the clear footballing ability the 29 year old possesses.

Across 110th Street (1972)

Recommended on Amazon as a blaxploitation classic, I added Across 110th Street to my Christmas list, despite knowing little more than it had a soundtrack penned by Bobby Womack and featured the ageless and superb Yaphet Kotto as the young, liberal Lieutenant Pope. Pope is forced to team up with the older, tired Captain Mattelli (Anthony Quinn) when a $300,000 money exchange between two Mafioso and three Harlem blacks is hijacked by three robbers - one of whom, Antonio Fargas, is so annoying he might as well be holding an badly written banner and singing 'Poor Scouser Tommy' - who kill the five, and two police officers during their getaway. Pope and Mattelli attempt to reach these three before the unholy alliance of local Harlem crime boss Doc Johnson (the excellent Richard Ward) and wannabe Mafia don Nick D'Salvio (Anthony Franciosa) catch them first.

Almost unremittingly dark in tone, the film is a real period piece; both in terms of its portrayal of the sometimes brutal life on the Harlem streets, and the changing face of the NYPD. The film came hard on the heels of the Knapp Commission and reflects the internal divisions experienced as the force began to attempt to clean itself up, no more so than in the scene where Doc Johnson reveals to the newcomer Pope that Mattelli has been in his pay for a number of years, but fails to reach the same arrangement with Pope. The relationship between Pope and Mattelli also characterises the growing changes, the modern-thinking Pope (a relative rookie promoted, in Mattelli's eyes, through positive discrimination) horrified by a battle-hardened Mattelli's efforts to coerce information from suspects through overt violence, a juxtaposition revisited recently in 'Life on Mars'. The theme of racism also runs strongly through the whole film, whether underlying, as with Pope and Martelli, or in the disparaging and uneasy relationship between the Harlem blacks and the Mafia, which simmers with distrust.

Despite one or two flaws - the ending is a bit contrived and some of the acting a bit hammy, particularly in the slightly cartoony Mafia gang, this is a broadly superb piece with well-rounded characters - even the cold-eyed and ruthless John Harris (Paul Benjamin), the most vicious member of the three man robbery team is given a shred of humanity. At the price of a pint of Peroni from Amazon and others, it's well worth a look, standing up well against 'Dirty Harry' and other cop movies of the time.

5 Talk Sport irritants

Like the Daily Mail online edition, Talk Sport has become an unavoidable part of my daily routine that I can’t quite shake off. And, whisper it quietly, some of it is good. Paul Hawksbee and Andy Jacobs’ show on a weekday afternoon is, by virtue of not taking it too seriously, funny and genuinely interesting at times. Similarly, the brilliant Danny Kelly appears to be unable to find a permanent slot in the schedule but regularly pops up like a chubby supply teacher and is often an eloquent, lone voice against the ‘Premiership is biggest and best’ bandwagon. And, although an utter tool, I have a certain grim admiration for Adrian Durham’s seemingly unending ability to adopt a hardline view that he appears to seriously believe for whatever issue he needs to get people to call in on (at premium rate), especially having held the exact opposite position two days earlier. But to get to the better stuff, there is much shite to endure:



MICKY QUINN
‘Everyone’s favourite Scouser’ is how one of the station’s trails describes him, although this is no truer than Ian Huntley being ‘everyone’s favourite caretaker’. A clear advocate of the concept that bluster and volume is preferable to intelligence and analysis, he wears his Liver bird close to his chest and is a persistent exponent of the tiresome ‘we won it five times, the Kop speaks as one, we don’t sack managers, unique atmosphere, best supporters in the weeerld’ horseshit heard from pub bores in ecru away kits the length and breadth of the world. And Alvin Martin is no better.


DARREN GOUGH
Living proof of the ever-increasing depressing trend toward employing former sportsmen before first checking they can speak coherently (on which note Sky must surely be receiving a grant or fulfilling a quota by giving Dean Windass air time) Gough appears barely capable of sustaining a consistent point of view through a three hour show, during which he is careful not to insult anyone he may bump into on the ‘celebrity’ circuit. Makes Ian Wright seem like John Arlott.



MARK SAGGERS
Co-host of the weekend breakfast show with Micky Quinn and anchor of much of the weeknight output. Came across quite well while performing a similar role at Radio 5, elevating himself in the minds of most right-thinking people by his clear dislike of Alan ‘this is woeful’ Green. However, on arrival at TS was clearly told he needed to be more opinionated, which he is not remotely suited to. His ‘oh get on with it’ outburst at the staggered announcement of the 2022 World Cup hosts, in reaction to England not getting 2018 a few minutes earlier (despite England being in his opinion the only show in town because, well, ‘we’re England’), was pure, unfiltered, glorious Partridge.



MIKE PARRY
Almost single handedly ruining the name of Everton fans every time he opens his mouth, his mid morning show is a great clunking mess of a current issues discussion show, seemingly sponsored by The Sun, in which little Englander Parry attempts to win arguments by making words up and taking up entrenched positions too odd to make for a proper debate. Still miles better than predecessor Jon ‘Political Correctness gone mad’ Gaunt, the obnoxious love child of Richard Littlejohn and Margaret Thatcher.


RONNIE IRANI
See Darren Gough

Gerry Rafferty (1947-2011)

"Whatever’s written in your heart, that’s all that matters
You’ll find a way to say it all someday"

Having written of my admiration for Gerry Rafferty before, I was sad to hear of his death yesterday. The many obituaries that have appeared in the last few hours will no doubt do him better justice than I can, but I would say only that hopefully the coverage following his passing will inspire a few people not overly familiar with him to download or pick up a copy of ‘City to City’ and ‘Night Owl’ (surely due a proper release on CD) and enjoy the man at his peak.