WE ARE EVERTON

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GrandOldTeam

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WE ARE EVERTON is the book that the all fans are talking about…!

Everton, in partnership with the National Literacy Trust and Legends Publishing, has produced a book which has been written by the supporters for the supporters and reflects the memories and experiences of both young and old Evertonians.
The stories are funny, quirky, unbelievable at times, poignant and some of them are emotional – but they all beautifully describe life as an Evertonian.

Read about the supporter who burst into tears when she was handed a Cup Final ticket in 2009; or what about the fan who got tickets for Old Trafford after fixing Tommy Docherty’s car; or the Blue who watched the 1985 ECWC final on an Australian submarine!

Those tales and many, many more besides are all in the fantastic WE ARE EVERTON. The Club’s official registered charity, Everton in the Community, will benefit from the sales of every single copy.

To pre-order your copy of what will be the ideal Christmas present for the Blue in your life, simply visit www.tilidie.co.uk.
 

Watch it D/D they'll be after you for supposed "copyright infringement" next.

Or claiming you have anyway. Which you haven't with the above by the way.

But still...


Davek's been gagged!

He's miserable. But he's our kind of miserable.

Totally not on like E***t*n
 
This was a good read:

On Sunday 15 November, 1998, Everton were playing away to Coventry City and, although the game was live on Sky, I was only 18 at the time and could still get student tickets, so I decided to go. Living in Formby, I drove to Maghull, were I left my car, and was collected by Happy Al's. We arrived at Highfield Road a few hours before kick-off, so I obviously went and joined the rest of the Evertonians in the pub opposite the ground.

Ten minutes before the match started I made my away across the street and into the ageing, old ground -- eventually finding my seat right on the back row. The game was dire to say the least and Everton ended up losing 3-0 -- when the third goal went in a lot of the Evertonians around me decided to leave, but I stayed on, in order to vent my frustrations at the players' lack of effort at the final whistle. As the last player trudged off the pitch, I finally made my way out, stopping off for a quick wee on en route and, knowing it was going to be at least three hours before I got home or had another chance to grab something to eat, decided to grab a quick burger from a van I spotted before heading back to the coach.

Well, a 'quick' burger was the understatement of the year, and after ten long minutes, my greasy offering eventually arrived and I made my way over to the coaches. But, to my despair, there was only one coach left, which I mistakenly thought must have waited for me. As I boarded the coach I was greeted by Bill Kenwright on the front seat and asked: "Is this going back to Liverpool?" The response was not what I wanted to hear. "Sorry son, but this is the London supporters' coach, the Liverpool ones have only just left, though, so if you run you might be able to catch them!"


As I looked down the road I could see the distant brake lights of the Liverpool-bound coaches, so I sprinted off in pursuit, my mind racing about what I was going to do if I couldn't catch up. I only had a couple of quid on me after buying that burger, so I knew that I couldn't catch a train -- the only other option was to ring my dad in Formby and ask him to come and fetch me, as I had work the next day! As the last coach turned a corner I had no choice but to ditch the burger and peg it. Thankfully, as luck would have it, the coaches hit traffic, so I was able to catch them up -- but I still had the task of finding out which one of them was mine. That task wasn't as hard as I'd first thought, however, as the lads on the back seats were looking out of the window as I ran towards them and were encouraging me by banging on the window and flicking me v-signs. With the coach still coasting, I ran along side the front door, desperately trying not to fall flat on my face, or worse, underneath the coach -- I banged on the door hard and shouted at the steward: "I should be on your coach!" "Naff off, we're full" was his helpful reply.

I was completely knackered by this stage, but I let the coach go past me, before running around the back, then along the driver's side, where I knocked loudly on his window too. "Mate!" I screamed, waving frantically, "I should be on your coach, I've got a ticket, let me on, please!" I think it must have been the look of absolute terror in my eyes that did the trick, and he slowed to a halt and opened the door for me to jump aboard. I didn't have the energy to give the jobs-worth steward the piece of my mind that he deserved! My arrival back on the coach was greeted by a huge cheer from the rest of the passengers, but I was so breathless I didn't even raise a smile -- instead I managed to find an empty seat and collapsed into it. I've never bought a burger from an away ground after a match since!
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