I really dislike Everton. There I’ve said it. But it wasn’t always the case. My very first memory of football involves the royal blues, and it’s a happy one. On the 11^th March 1981 an eight year old is getting ready for bed. Unusually tonight, as well as PJ’s, I’ll be sporting my City bobble hat and scarf. The radio is next to the bed, with the little white plastic one eared earphone connected up – and we’re ready to go. For those not as old as me, imagine a sort of steam powered I Pod with an earpiece marginally less fashionable than a hearing aid.

It’s an FA Cup Quarter final replay, and I begin to slip away to the soporific sound of commentator Peter Jones’ mellifluous Welsh tones. Later in the evening my mum untangles the cable from my head and removes the hat and scarf from an incredibly sweaty but happy young boy. By this time the blues are heading towards a Villa Park rendezvous with Bobby Robson’s Ipswich Town.

March the following year was the first time I saw Everton play in the flesh. I was one of 33,000 who saw the 1-1 draw and witnessed Trevor Francis’s sending off for head-butting Everton’s Billy Wright. It was to be a short lived time at Maine Road for the European Cup winner. Francis stayed only 1 season, pulling on the sky blue shirt a mere 26 times before City’s perilous financial state forced the club to move him on to Sampdoria. I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t see the best of Trevor. It’s also fair to say that it would be a very, very long time before the club would be in a position to buy another European Cup winner.

From this point in time, our clubs were to take a very different path. City would become a yo-yo club, associated with underachievement, financial miss-management and an uncanny knack of shooting itself in the foot. Everton on the other hand, we about to embark on a golden decade. The 80’s saw the toffee’s win the league championship twice and finish runner up once, reach 4 FA Cup finals and most memorably win the European Cup Winners Cup in 1985. Many believe, and some are still bitter, that were it not for their neighbour’s “antics” from across Stanley Park, which resulted in English teams being banned from European competition that Everton’s excellent team would have been in prime position to win a first European Cup.

From the 90’s onwards both clubs went through a period of underachievement, and it was at the beginning of this fallow time that Everton thrust a jagged edge through my heart. For the first time in my lifetime, things were on the up for us. Football was undergoing a renaissance on and off the pitch, helped in no small part by a wonderful Italia 1990 World Cup. Football was reintroduced to a lost generation who had been put off by crowd violence and piss poor facilities. Gazza and Co reminded us why we used to call it the “beautiful game”. Suddenly, there were women on the Kippax, and children were returning to the sport as safety and policing improved post Hillsborough.

For City, we were on the up again. Howard Kendall was turning the club around. Some astute signings, and clear direction meant that for once we were looking towards the top of the table rather than down. I really, REALLY, felt like we were on the verge of success. It was a feeling I was unaccustomed too. Then Everton came and ruined it all. Celebrity City baiter Colin Schindler once wrote how Manchester United ruined his life. Well that’s how I feel about Everton. When they poached Kendall back from us, it felt like all that brief hope had been snuffed out. Their size 9 hobnail boots trampled all over the kindling of our fire before it ever got a chance to set alight. He returned to Everton for a second spell as manager in November 1990. He famously justified the move by saying that Manchester City was just an affair, but Everton was his marriage.

When I heard this news, I felt numb. I felt cheated – how dare this club steal my future away from me? I was at university at the time, and my limited budget took one hell of a beating as I came to terms with it. Judas! From this point on, Everton were dead to me. Whenever they played – I would wish them to lose. Please don’t misunderstand me, this isn’t a passing fad. I’ve felt this way for EVERY SINGLE game they have played from that point onwards.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, its holding a grudge. Have you ever bought a Sharp electrical appliance? Taken out a Vodafone contract? Would you use DHL or buy clothing from Nike or Admiral? You might, but I wouldn’t. Ever. I’d rather take the train than fly Turkish airways – even if it took me 3 days it’d be worth it to me.

It’s a shame it’s turned out this way, because in so many ways we have an awful lot in common. Or had anyway. Both in the shadow of a global superpower, with decrepit yet atmospheric grounds packed with a vociferous local fan base. We should have been mates, brother is arms. It’s not to be though. We came in to money, lots of it and have left Everton behind. They have been relegated to relying on hand outs from theatre impresario Bill Kenwright and the amazing parsimonious management skills of David Moyes. In the meantime, plans for a new stadium recede ever further into the distance.

So, to Tuesday night. Undoubtedly Everton will do what Everton do. Only better, faster and more physically than normal. They are fired by indignation when they play us. They must surely see “what could have been” when we come to town. Jolean will run the gauntlet for having the temerity to want to further his career away from Goodison, and the fans on the Gladwys Street will remind us of their history. Well you can keep it lads because win, lose or draw tomorrow, I’ll head out of that stadium with a little spring in my step –the future is ours.

@mikenumber5

It was with some trepidation that I decided to take my ten year old son to Anfield for the League Cup semi-final second leg. Having never visited the red side of Stanley Park, I had heard many a horror story about the hostility that a visit to Liverpool can bring. What helped me decide to go was the fact that the famous old ground’s days are numbered given Liverpool’s desperate need for a spanking new stadium to rival those of Arsenal and Manchester City. The fact that it was a cup semi-final under the floodlights with an inflated away allocation made this a mouth watering prospect and one that I wasn’t gong to miss.

Of course recently, the scare stories surrounding Anfield Road have increased tenfold due to the race issues involving both Luis Suarez and Oldham Athletic’s Tom Adeyemi. Reading the reaction of some rival fans, stepping into Liverpool would be akin to attending a ‘Warriors’ like gang warfare meeting with the Nogzy, the Crocky Crew, Combat 18 and the Ku Klux Klan all in attendance.

I arranged to meet an old mate who is Liverpool born and bred. I’ve not seen John for the best part of a decade and thought it would be an ideal chance to meet up, chat about nights out of the days when we were both young and single and use his knowledge of the area to find a quiet, safe spot to park with the chance of finding my car in the same condition I left it in. On the day before the match, John advised me to hide any hint of sky blue on both myself and the lad. It didn’t fill me with confidence that the night would be an enjoyable, worry free event.

I needn’t have worried. We parked on the Everton side of Stanley Park on a side street just off County Road. There were no scallywags asking if they could “mind your car mate?” and we had a short walk through the Anfield estate towards the ground. We stopped at a pub imaginatively called “The Twelfth Man” (come on Liverpool, more originality needed please) and due to the plan to keep my Salfordian accent under wraps, I happily allowed my tour guide to get the lagers in.

With Scouse John queueing at the bar, I thought it a good time to text the missus to let her know we’d arrived and were near the ground. After all the all the meticulous planning including tucking my City shirt in, zipping up my Boca Juniors jacket and keeping my big gob shut, I managed to out myself as the enemy in a new and imaginative way. As I unlocked the keypad on my phone, the gold eagled crest of Manchester City appeared, spinning away with the Etihad Stadium as a backdrop and sending me into a frenzy as it went. I scanned the pub to try to spot the first flying pint glass. Nothing. Not a clenched fist raised in anger. The only response my infiltration drew was from one of the two thirty something thugs to my right, one of which having spotted my screensaver leant in to his accomplice and shrugged “Fucking hell, he’s brave coming in here la, d’yer wanna gerroff to the ground?”

We had another pint and set off into the cauldron of hate known as Anfield Road. I stopped at a badge stall to add a Liverpool crest to my growing collection. I told the vendor I wanted an ’80′s retro Liverpool badge. Rather than chase me away down the street for even having the audacity to speak with an Eccles twang, he scanned his cork pin board and found me a rather splendid badge much to my liking. We left John at the corner between the Kop and the Main Stand, arranged to meet at the same spot after the match and headed towards the Anfield Road stand that was housing us away fans.

A brief stop for a few moments’ silence at the Hillsborough memorial made me reflect on the devastation brought to families across Merseyside. People reached out to place a hand on the marble and wiped tears from their eyes. My lad asked why they were touching it. I could only guess that these poor people were directly affected by the tradgedy.

We got in the ground ten minutes late due to some piss poor organisation from the Merseyside club and saw the first tense scenes of the night as City fans became increasingly frustrated at being outside whilst the action was going on inside.

Once in the ground I have to say I enjoyed the atmosphere and admired the scene before my eyes. The home fans are spoken of in glowing terms by all quarters in the national media for having a unique atmosphere that is unrivalled in world football. A load of old bollocks. They sing at the start, they sing for a good ten minutes after a goal and they sing when Steve Gerrard does something half decent.

When injury time is almost up and the game looks to be in the bag, a rousing rendition of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” is aired. Now usually, I despise this terrace anthem. I mute the telly whenever Liverpool are on the box as the teams walk out. Last night though, there was no mute button to be pressed. All I could do was watch in awe as all four sides of Anfield held their scarves aloft and sang their hearts out. Don’t tell anyone but it was quite emotional.

The final whistle sounded, the Scousers erupted and a female steward offered a helpful piece of advice to get my lad out of the ground as quickly as possible in case of any mither. This was the third time in half an hour she’d gone out of her way to be nice. She’d already told George (my son) that she wanted us to win the league and not to be too down if City lost the match. We left the ground and walked back around to the Kop, met John and had a pleasant stroll back to the car.

I found Anfield to be one of the most enjoyable matchday experiences of my City watching career. The place is traditional, hostile and steeped in history. The home fans are ridiculously blinkered whenever there is a refereeing decision to be made but maybe that’s why they seem to recieve more decisions than away teams at Anfield.

All in all, I walked away from Liverpool with a revised view of the club. Maybe a few feral youths who attach themselves to the club drag the name of Liverpool through the mud. Maybe the club, from top to bottom, could have handled the Suarez affair a lot better.

Let’s not tarnish the reputation of an entire stadium full of people because of the misguided actions of a minority though. For once, I’m going to rise above the Scouse bashing and form my own opinions of the club and on Wednesday night’s evidence, it’s a great place to watch football.

Well, what a time to be a Blue. We’ve had a rollercoaster few months, years for that matter actually, but the past few days in particular have been something else.

I walked out of the Etihad on Sunday afternoon ecstatic that we had pulled a win out of the bag against a team who, on recent form, we had all secretly been dreading playing, with or without Adebayor. At 2-nil up I thought we’d settle down and cruise to 90 minutes. Almost immediately that notion was disregarded, as Spurs pulled it back to 2 all. The next 20 mins were nervy, to say the least. At the beginning of this period, Mario Balotelli came on the pitch. For me this added to the nerves, waiting for Super Mario to save the day. And it happened, he won us a penalty in the final few minutes and then scored it, City get 3 points, and that is all that should matter. Harry Redknapp should go back to worrying about his upcoming court case, and we would go back to worrying about the things that matter to us, namely winning the league.

But the press didn’t fancy that. I was unaware of it, but the witch hunt had already begun as I exited the stadium that day. The first I knew of any controversy was when I got home and saw Redknapp’s post match interview. The long and short of it, is that for an incident which went unpunished by the ref, unprotested by opposition players, but involving Balotelli, media talk was of the FA “taking action”. The following day, this happened, and Mario has been banned for 4 games. A referee who was a few feet away signed the warrant, by saying he didn’t see it, thus allowing the FA to “take action”. He’s either not fit to do his job, needs an eye test or both. Following on from decisions made regarding Vincent Kompany’s challenge in the FA Cup game, where our appeal against his sending off was thrown out yet a similar challenge from Glen Johnson went unpunished in our next game, David Platt has today said in a press conference that he doesn’t see the point in appealing to the FA.

Balotelli has proven divisive in all camps. Us, them, everyone has an opinion. This most recent incident has been even more polarising. Some say he should leave for the good of City, some say he should stay for the same reason. My brother loves him but thinks he did it intentionally, I don’t. No-one knows for certain except Mario. My Mrs tells me that they talk about him on Radio 4. I don’t expect confessions in years to come a-la Roy Keane on Alfie Haaland in semi-literate auto-biographies. But having said that, Mario is unpredictable, after all.

On the back of all this fallout from one game, talk was not of City seeing off a rival in a closely fought football match, the talk was of an incident which went unpunished by the ref, unprotested by opposition players, but involving Balotelli, and against this backdrop the next chapter opened up.

Manchester City Chairman Khaldoon Al-Mubarak was interviewed in Abu Dhabi, and the content of what he said would surely rock football to the core, if not then at least scare the pants off Carlos Tevez.

In a nutshell, Khaldoon informed the world that Manchester City have not paid Tevez since November, and that AC Milan have to present a better offer if they wish us to consider letting them sign him. Without an improved offer, on “our terms”, Tevez will be contractually obligated for the next two and a half years. As he is patently not a part of Roberto Mancini’s plans, this means that Carlos Tevez will not play for anyone unless he is bought for at least £25 million, or until approximately 2015. He professionally ridiculed AC Milan and Kia Joorabchian’s tactics in trying to get a cheap deal, and said it was a pleasure to deal with cross city rivals Inter, and PSG, with whom dealings had been conducted in the correct manner, albeit eventually unsuccessful.

After seperating the fanbase over Balotelli, the media have done something of their own making, and reunited us. There was always a new Tevez story on the way, and having Khaldoon tell it has been a masterstroke. I don’t know if it was done on purpose, or if it was, then if it was for this reason. Maybe it was to force AC Milan into a deal, I don’t know. For football, it has put some of the power back with the clubs who offered the lucrative contracts, and especially in our case, indicated that what the media term “wantaway” players cannot hold clubs to ransom in the hope of a transfer.

What the past few days have told us, if you didn’t already know, is that it doesn’t matter who you are, because we are City, and we are not going anywhere. The boss isn’t, the Sheikh isn’t, we fans certainly aren’t, and the Club is on the rise whether the FA like it or not.

City ’til I die.

When is a stamp not a stamp? When the media says it’s not? When is dubious violent conduct to be prosecuted? When the alleged miscreant isn’t English? Compare and contrast the cases of Lescott and Balotelli from the weekend and it’s difficult to arrive at any other view. There’s no racism in football is there – is there?

When is it safe to speak openly about the furore which has followed in the aftermath of the cracking match we saw on Sunday? I hesitate to say anything for fear of making things worse, but, I’m so fed up with what’s going on in the media at the moment – especially having heard overnight that the Spanish FA aren’t taking any action against Pepe for what was a very obvious stamp on Lionel Messi’s hand last week – that I might as well go for it; whatever I say in a blog isn’t going to make a difference is it – is it?

Mario’s action on Sunday hasn’t been an alleged stamp since full time on Sunday. There has been no doubt about it on TV, radio or the press. No ‘alleged’; no ‘apparent’; it was a stamp – end of. So, what’s the chance of the FA panel withstanding the hurricane storm worked up in the media against City, and acquitting Mario if he appeals? Slim, to nil, I reckon.

I, like everyone else in the football world, have watched and watched and watched the video clips from Sunday – when being force-fed, like Alex in ‘A Clockwork Orange’, there’s little choice! I hope sincerely that it was an accident, and that Mario will appeal. Only he can truly know what was in his mind – though some in the media would have us believe that he has no mind.

I believe that the offence cannot be proved. In the moment before the alleged stamp, his feet are off the floor, and it is at this point that he is pushed in the back by Modric. I have not imagined this. I’ve seen it countless times, but, nobody in the media has commented on the push in the back. He is clearly off balance thereafter, and I honestly believe (how stupid am I?) his right foot comes down quickly because otherwise he will fall. He is not in control of where his foot lands.

Let’s face it, having played football, if I was Mario and I wanted to ‘do’ Parker, I could have ‘done’ him much more thoroughly by leaving my foot up and walking through Parker after the initial shot. Instead, there was an accidental contact with Parker’s head after the shot, and thereafter, Mario is airborne and it is then that he is pushed in the back and his right foot comes down suddenly as a part of regaining balance. That’s it. The truth? Blue tinted specs? Maybe, but, who can prove otherwise?

Mario’s already been hung drawn and quartered in the media. He’s been convicted by not only Lord Alan Brazil but also the splendidly right honourable Sir Ray (My Word!)Wilkins in the Talk Sport Courts this morning; widely stated to have nothing between his ears, and been in receipt of plenty of other racist based taunts. (Would a white/English player have been described – Ron Atkinsonesque – as having nothing between the ears?)

If he’s banned, so be it, but, f*** ‘em all – I hope City appeal. If the worst comes to the worst, he can try to get off on a technicality as, according to that doyen of football summarisers, Chris Coleman, Balotelli wasn’t even on the pitch; it was some other new signing in the name of Bolicelli – Da Silva can be called as a witness to that, can’t he!

It must have been Bolicelli – I heard it on Sky.

Last year, when the extended and enhanced Etihad sponsorship deal was announced, Liverpool was in the forefront of those clubs questioning the ethical and commercial aspects of the deal. Their owner, John W Henry, sneered “What was the losing bid?” He agreed with Arsene Wenger that it was for a ridiculous amount. Their MD, Ian Ayre posed the question “Are Etihad, City and Sheikh Mansour related parties? If they are, it’s up to UEFA to rule on them.” Well, if you’d asked me Ian I could have told you all about IAS 24 and disclosure of related party transactions in a company’s accounts. I could also have told you that it isn’t UEFA’s responsibility to rule on them; it’s the individual club’s. Is the MD of a company that is supposed to abide by certain accounting standards really that ignorant of his responsibilities? That’s frightening, if so.

So why bring that up now? Well as you may have seen in the news, Liverpool has officially confirmed their deal with Warrior Sports to manufacture their kit for the next 6 seasons. The figure wasn’t confirmed but is believed to be close to £25m a year, making it one of the biggest deals yet concluded and nearly the equal of the one the rags did. So to echo John W Henry’s question “What was the losing bid?” We know that for Liverpool’s deal because the losing bidder, existing supplier Adidas, told us. “We thought that what Liverpool were asking and what they were delivering was not in the right balance” said a spokesman. This was a polite way of saying that Liverpool’s lower profile of the last couple of seasons, without a top four finish in the Premier League and therefore no Champions League exposure, wasn’t worth the price Liverpool were demanding. Their previous deal was believed to be slightly less than the £13m a year Arsenal get from Nike and apparently Adidas weren’t offering more than that.

You will have heard of Nike, Adidas, Umbro and other global sports manufacturing brands but maybe not Warrior. That’s because they only currently do Ice Hockey & Lacrosse kits, both fairly niche sports. So a company with absolutely no experience in the manufacture and sale of football kits has secured a pretty prestigious brand for their entry into that market. You’d expect the selling club to extract a fairly good deal for that privilege and Liverpool have certainly done that.

Liverpool claim that they were Adidas’s biggest selling brand so Adidas must feel the figure being paid by Warrior is grossly excessive if they couldn’t come close to matching it. Warrior has therefore clearly paid a very significant premium to gain their entry in the lucrative, global football market. By all accounts the deal isn’t performance related plus they’ve given up the right Adidas had to sell non-branded merchandise, ceding that to Liverpool and giving them an extra, potentially significant, revenue stream. That’s a risk on both sides with Warrior gambling that the price they’ve paid is worth it to gain entry to the market and Liverpool’s risk is that Warrior can deliver and market a suitable kit when they have no experience of doing this within the sport of on a global basis.

Information on shirt sales is closely guarded by the manufacturers but Liverpool is estimated to sell around 50-60% of the number of shirts sold by United. Sales of other branded kit items may make up for that but, if those figures are close to correct then Warrior’s risk appears to be greater than Liverpool, particularly if they settle into the upper mid-table position that rivals Everton used to occupy. Warrior’s risk is even greater as there is apparently no performance related clause in the contract. These usually tie the sponsorship amount payable to the club’s performance in various competitions but Liverpool will still be getting the mooted £25m a year even if they drop into the Blue Square Premier in 6 years time.

So who exactly is Warrior? They’re owned by a Boston-based company called New Balance, well known for trainers mainly and, as I’ve said, started in the Lacrosse market before moving into Ice Hockey. Which begs the question of how such a niche producer got such a prestigious gig? Boston-based New Balance, known primarily for sports footwear, was introduced to Liverpool by their Boston-based owners Fenway Sports Group. Fenway also owns Boston’s Red Sox baseball team which is sponsored by Boston-based New Balance. The more perceptive will have noticed a theme in this paragraph. One Boston-based company sponsors a Boston-based sports team whose Boston-based owners introduce them to their own UK-based sports team, who conclude a deal for far, far more than their existing suppliers feel the market is worth. A deal that outstrips their Manchester rivals who sell twice as many shirts and regularly finish in the top 4.

Does the suggestion of a couple of mates doing each other a big favour creep into your mind when you read that? No – it didn’t occur to me either. Because if it was then the club crying foul about the Etihad deal would look like a bunch of classless hypocrites wouldn’t they? And we know, from the dignified way they dealt with the Suarez issue, that you certainly couldn’t apply that label to them.