On a cold December day in Rock Ferry, a couple of weeks before Christmas in 1953, a midwife held a new baby aloft and said "It's a boy! blue eyes, ten fingers, ten toes, all normal but he looks a bit blue, thats ok though".
The baby let out a loud yell, the mother said "Arrr, another Evertonian there".
That midwife was well known for slapping babies arses real hard.
Male voices outside the room were heard to whisper "yeesssss another blue boy".
About 12 years later, after years of beggin' an' pleadin', the mother said "Ok you can go". That day the young blue boy was taken to Goodison for the first time by his oldest brother.
The blues drew 1-1 with Man City.
The boy was totally gobsmacked for the whole day. The ferry 'cross the Mersey, the green bus to the ground.
Thousands and thousands and thousands of people, blue rosette's, scarves and hats, wooden rattles. The smell of pies and beer.
The singin', oh, the singin', then that deafening roar when the Blues scored.
The young lad asked "what are all those letters around the wall for?"
"Don't worry about that, just watch whats goin' on on the pitch"
When the game ended, the brother said "come on, stay close, if we leg it we'll get on the first bus back to the ferry"
The pair made the bus.
Life had began for that young lad. He made it to another few games that season with his brother. The following season the older brother went back to sea. Determined as fuk, the young Evertonian saved every penny he could get his hands on, and every two weeks walked/ran from home, bunked onto the ferry, got on the green bus and went into the boys pen.
There then follows a long story of the lads life as an Evertonian. Growin' into a teen, startin' work, gettin' paid, movin' from the pen to the St End. Never missing a game, at home or away. I was that lad.
Everton, Goodison Park, a pie, a pint and a good sing, are the only things I truly miss about England.
Born a blue, forever blue.