The story so far: after escaping a post-Heysel ban from European competition, Everton went on to dominate domestic and European club football and, after becoming an independent country, international football as well. Off the pitch, Everton have peacefully assimilated the state of Iraq, pioneered commercial nuclear fusion and determined the outcome of a US presidential election. Now they seek a new challenge…
February 2005. The delegates at the United Nations General Assembly rose as one to applaud the new UN Secretary General. In return for the support pledged to him by Everton’s head of state Bill Kenwright, US President John Kerry had persuaded Kofi Annan that the time had come to hand over the reins to the only man who was truly up to the job of leading the UN: Everton’s ambassador, the legendary Howard Kendall.
Kendall took a deep breath as he stepped up to the podium. He knew that his announcement would capture the world’s imagination and change the history of mankind forever:
“My friends, it is an honour to stand before you today as Secretary General. This is a momentous year for the world. It is the sixtieth anniversary of creation of the United Nations, but more importantly, it’s also the twentieth anniversary of my first league title as manager of Everton. To commemorate this historic occasion, I am proud to announce that Everton will be launching the first manned interplanetary space expedition. As representatives of the human race, we will explore strange new worlds, seek out new life forms and new civilisations, and challenge them to a game of footy.”
The delegates roared their approval. What finer ambassadors for planet Earth could there be, what better choice to make first contact with alien races, than the People’s Club?
That evening, Everton manager David Moyes appeared on all major news channels around the world, his words translated into a hundred languages. Sitting resplendent in a beige cardigan, he told his worldwide audience that he would relish a new footballing challenge for Everton, such was their dominance of the game on planet Earth. They were on course once again for a clean sweep of domestic and European honours, and had already wrapped up qualification for the 2006 World Cup. Moyes boldly stated that Everton didn’t fear playing any alien species or civilisation, as they were clearly the best team in the galaxy.
A few heretics questioned Moyes’s confidence. Surely he was being premature? There were 200 billion stars in the galaxy. Surely some of them were home to life forms whose mastery of football far exceeded even that of Everton. But these cynics were rightly dismissed as ignorant cretins who clearly knew nothing about the game. No doubt they were all bitter Liverpool fans, whose jealous obsession with their neighbours’ success knew no bounds.
As Everton’s starship, the Dog of War, blasted off under Kenwright’s command, the Liverpool Echo decided to have a bit of fun at the Reds’ expense. They managed to secure an interview with Liverpool’s Jamie Carragher, a boyhood Evertonian who had wound up playing for the Reds. Surely he must be consumed with despair and self-loathing at his fate?
But the Echo was surprised to find Carragher philosophical and upbeat. ‘Of course it hurts, seeing Everton winning everything’, he said. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a nightmare, or in a weird parallel universe where things are different from how they’re supposed to be. But I’m not worried. It doesn’t matter how much money a team has or how many trophies they win, you can’t buy class, and I play for a club that’s got it. And because of that we’ll get back to the top where we belong, I know we will. Some things are just meant to be.’
So he wasn’t bitter then. Just completely, utterly mad.
Out in interstellar space, it wasn’t long before the Dog of War discovered an earth-like planet inhabited by an advanced civilisation. The craft landed, and Kenwright and his crew stepped out to meet their hosts. They were taken aback by the aliens’ appearance; they had been expecting something unusual, but these beings were so freakishly tall and spindly that it was hard to imagine how they could have evolved.
‘Greetings’, said the aliens’ leader. ‘We are the Crouchinhoids. We bid you welcome to our home planet, Mania.’
‘Greetings’, replied Kenwright.
‘We are the Evertonians, from planet Earth. We come in peace and sportsmanship, to challenge you to a contest. Does your culture embrace the beautiful game known as football?’
‘Why of course’, said the Crouchinhoid. ‘We’re the reigning champions of the Western Galactic Spiral Arm League.’
‘I see. So you’re pretty handy then.’ said Bill.
‘We don’t like to shout about it. We are a modest race, and we prefer to get on with playing instead of bragging about ourselves all the time. But we would be delighted to play you. As a gesture of our goodwill, we will give you home advantage and play the match on Earth.’
‘Are you sure? We are the best team in the galaxy you know’ said Kenwright.
To this the Crouchinhoids said nothing, but simply smiled politely.
And so the greatest sporting contest in mankind’s history was set for April 2005. In the build-up to the game, the world’s media comprehensively wrote off the Crouchinhoids’ chances. How could any beings so gangly and awkward-looking even kick a ball, let alone compete with the might of Everton? The visitors were greeted with derision by all but a few who chose to reserve judgment until they’d actually seen them play.
As the teams strode out onto the hallowed turf of Goodison, the Crouchinhoids were jeered by the home fans. The referee and his assistants were from a neutral race, the Collinians, whose reputation for firm but fair officiating was known throughout the galaxy.
The visitors won the toss and chose to kick off. They completed several passes inside their own half, and were rewarded with ironic cheers from the crowd, which lasted precisely eight seconds. Collecting the ball inside the centre-circle, the Crouchinhoid centre forward went on a mazy one, beating half the Everton team before slotting clinically past Buffon in the Everton goal.
The visitors raced to their fans to celebrate. For the first time the Crouchinhoid goal chant, which had echoed round a thousand stadia across half of the galaxy, was heard on Earth, as the booming cry of ‘Wacha Ganadu!’ reverberated around Goodison.
The home fans were stunned. What was going on? Perhaps Everton had been over-confident. Not to worry, there would be no more complacency. The Blues kicked off and immediately made a threatening foray into the visitors’ half, but as Adriano was about to shoot, a telescopic Crouchinhoid leg robbed him of the ball and flicked it neatly to a team-mate, who spotted Buffon off his line and casually chipped him from all of 80 yards. Again the strange alien cry rang out, even louder than before.
And so it continued. As the goals rained in from all angles, the Everton players seemed to shrink visibly in stature as their morale drained away. The half-time whistle was a blessing, but as they traipsed into the dressing room trailing 14-0, Moyes remained behind to remonstrate furiously with the Collinian referee. The Everton boss was convinced that the eleventh goal was offside, although the TV replays were inconclusive.
The second half was even more humiliating, as Everton were battered without having the slightest sniff of goal. No accurate historical record was ever made of the final score, as the television crews were incapable of operating their equipment: the Evertonians among them were in shock, while the rest were pissing themselves laughing.
The final recorded shot was of an ashen-faced Kenwright looking on in disbelief as his team crumbled. The scoreboard short-circuited in sympathy with Everton, and those members of the crowd who attempted to keep count gave up somewhere in the mid-thirties. What wasn’t in doubt though, and was remembered by all who were there, was that towards the end of the match a growing section of the home fans joined in with the visitors’ chant out of sheer awe and respect. Sort of like the Russians at the end of Rocky IV.
After the game the world’s football fans rushed to heap acclaim on the Crouchinhoids’ irresistible brilliance, which was matched only by their modesty and general likeability. A couple of their goals were deflections, which the assembled ranks of Earth’s football pundits attempted to count as own goals, but they weren’t bothered. They were simply happy that another planet had been converted to the way of Mania.
They were invited to stay on Earth for a while as guests of the United Nations, to impart their footballing wisdom to the human race. They promised to leave a great gift to the people of Earth when they departed, but refused to say any more about it until they had identified which of Earth’s many feuding football tribes should be the custodian of it.
Everton couldn’t recover from their annihilation at the hands of the Crouchinhoids. They crashed out of the Champions League semi-final to AC Milan, and were pipped to the Premiership title by Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea. Utterly dejected, their players couldn’t even muster the energy to turn up to the FA Cup Final. Despite having no opposition, Arsenal elected to keep it tight, and scraped a win on penalties (deep into sudden death after they missed their first eight kicks.)
Moyes blamed his team’s collapse on the Crouchinhoids’ disputed eleventh goal. ‘I really think questions need to be asked of the referee, and whether he was really neutral’, he complained. ‘It was a crucial time in the game, and I felt up to that point we were the better team. Ifithadnabinfor that decision we would have won the game and we wouldn’t have had this bad run of results, no question about it.’
Moyes’s bitter refusal to accept that his team had been outplayed sparked a worldwide backlash against Everton. While Blues fans defended his comments, the rest of the world expressed outrage that, after having subjected terrestrial football to interstellar humiliation in the first place through their misplaced cockiness and over-confidence, Everton were further damaging Earth’s reputation by their reaction to the defeat.
‘Moyes is bad loser’, said Mourinho. ‘He thinks he is invincible, but when he lose he has no respect for opposition and he whine all the time about referee. I admire him. He is almost as good as me. But not quite.’
The matter was referred to the United Nations. Despite Kendall’s efforts, the UN passed a resolution stating that Everton had brought shame upon planet Earth, and that they were no longer fit to be members of the international community. The General Assembly voted unanimously for Everton’s expulsion from the UN, and Iraq immediately seceded from the state of Everton. As further punishment Everton were disqualified from the World Cup.
Everton’s players had some serious soul-searching to do. As they pondered their futures, they recalled Jamie Carragher’s words about class. The reaction of Everton’s manager and fans to the defeat had shown them a side of their club they didn’t want to see. Did they really want to be associated with this club for the rest of their careers? One by one, they handed in transfer requests.
Everton received hefty fees for their departing superstars, but to their horror they were unable to attract big-name replacements. It was almost as if players didn’t think they were a big club after all! Many Everton fans started to drift away to support other clubs or even follow other sports. The final ignominy came when the club’s auditors announced that the Dog of War expedition had cost far more than Kenwright had let on, and that any proceeds from transfers or merchandise would have to go to pay off Everton’s debts for at least the rest of this century and probably the next as well.
In order to remain solvent, Everton had no choice but to give up their statehood and beg to rejoin the United Kingdom. Never before had football witnessed such a spectacular collapse.
Meanwhile, the Crouchinhoids had decided which of Earth’s tribes they would bestow their gift upon. They made their choice on the evening of May 25th 2005, after witnessing a footballing spectacle unlike anything they’d seen before on any world.
‘This tribe, the Kopites, are the chosen ones’, they told the people of Earth. ‘We have been watching their leader, the one they call Rafa, ever since we arrived on Earth. He is a true master of football who thinks as we do, but who like us knows not to boast of his own genius. He and his tribe shall be the recipients of our gift. We shall combine human DNA with our own to create a footballing phenomenon the like of which this planet has never seen. He will be greeted with scepticism and ridicule at first, even by his own people, for he will take time to adapt to the ways of football on planet Earth. But once his transformation is complete, he shall run wild and terrorise defences all over the world, from Merseyside to Europe to Japan. Truly he shall be a force of nature, and the mania that follows him will sweep up all in its path.’
And so the Crouchinhoids presented their gift to Rafa. With their work on planet Earth complete, they returned to the stars, leaving Liverpool as champions of Europe and Everton deep in the shit. The space-time continuum was repaired, and normality was restored to the universe. It turned out that Carra had been right all along: some things are meant to be, and no amount of bitching and whining can change that.
