I was in Gatwick Airport returning from Spain and there were no TVs and the foreigners working there didn't know any scores (remember as well, no Mobiles), so I called home to find out we were 2-0 down.

The Kopite Bastards I was with were really taking the piss. I had resigned myself to us being relegated and called home and after guiding my wife through the teletext found out we had won 3-2 and were safe.

The sad part is that my red shite mates already knew as one of them had called his bro about 10 mins before. Anyway the flight was delayed so int the bar at Gatwick I got hammered.

Was doing my revision for my finals at Loughborough Uni. Agonised over whether to go but decided that study was more important. Mate went (one of the monkeys in the trees behind the old park end) and had offered me a lift on the back of his motorbike. I obviously made the right choice (2:1 - he got a Desmond), but I got fuck all revision done with the radio on, and head in my hands at my desk getting stuck into a crate of beer.

Then spent the next 3 days on the piss, thinking Mike Walker was gonna be a great manager...

Luckily Bill (I know he wasn't owner then) and the Board said "never again", and memory of being in Goodison in 98 against Coventry with a bunch of neutral mates (who all wanted us to stay up) must've been "never again" part II - a Broadway Epic in the making...

I remember being confident before the game in 94. I just had this feeling we were gonna survive. Even at 1-0 I was okay, and then I went from okay to resigned to relegation at 2-0 down. Everything from there on was good news, so I never really got too nervous or anything.

98 was worse, for me. I couldn't sleep so went for a walk at 2am on the day of the match and just sat in my local park for about 2 hours.

I've seen both games back a few times since, but the only thing I can remember clearly from either match is Coventry's equaliser in 98. It was like the opposite of 4 years previously, I was convinced that it was a pre-cursor to another goal that would consign us to relegation. When the final whistle went it was more disbelief than relief or happiness (at least for the first few nano-seconds).

I have one overiding memory of that game. Barry Horne. I can't even remember the last time I saw the goal. If you look on YouTube, you just get some ALF nutter with the same name. If anyone has it, please load it up!

A couple of related ToffeeWeb links:

• Page from History
• Fans' Stories

I was living in Sheffield at the time, not far from Bramall Lane so a very Blades area. Had to listen to the whole game on the radio. Absolute torture. Horrible. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers - so what it was like to be there I can only imagine.

That evening, I went for beer to celebrate, but had to be muted as I was surrounded by Blades fans drowning their sorrows and blaming us for their fate.

And you're right, I can't believe that was 16 years ago.

I`ll never forget it.

I`d working in London, I couldn't get the Saturday off but took it anyway.

Driving up on the Saturday, I`d picked two fellow blues on the way out and another one at Toddington.
Three of the rowdiest blues I`ve ever known, but we travelled to Liverpool in almost total silence, I even switched the radio off because all the talk was of "Everton going down". It didn't look good, we were truly shite and Wimbledon were running over the top of everyone at the time.

We got to Liverpool early about 10:00, so there was plenty of time for everyone to visit family, it was only when amongst old friends and family did this feeling of genuine terror me start to take over me, I hadn't been home for a fortnight, but If the tension was bad in the car, it was nothing compared to the mood in the city.

Blues everywhere were asking each other "Do you think we`ll do it? ".

RS friends were insincerely wishing us good luck, whilst planning "going down" parties — Gobshites.

We had a family do that night and I promised my missus that I`d be there no matter what the result and off I went.

My always unreliable mate had sorted the tickets, he managed to get us behind two pillars looking through a letter box at the back of Lower Bullens — where the away fans sit now — 8 of us got in with four tickets.

There wasn't anyone to our left in the Park End but the atmosphere was incredible.

I remember Anders taking a tumble just in front of us and I can remember scenes of what can only be described as mass Hysteria after Horne and Diamonds goals.

After the game thousands of fans poured down the streets onto County Rd, I`m not a big drinker, besides I had a family thing to go to and I was supposed to be driving, but the tension had been indescribable, I needed alcohol, lots of it and I needed to drink it in the company of my match going mates.

"Two-nil down"... "three-two up"...

"Are we down?". "Are we fuck".

Na na na na na na na na naah.

Stupid song followed stupid song. We were`nt celebrating, it was pure relief.

The next day I woke up with the worst hangover ever, I found out me Missus had done one back to her mams, the real Irish mafia — the women in our family — wanted my guts for garters, me car had been robbed and torched and I`d got the sack.

Halcyon days

I was just 10 years old on that day and managed too get in as through my junior membership but unfortunately my dad and cousin didn't manage to get in so I had to come back out again. Ended up sitting in the car listening to the radio!

16 years have left my memory a bit vague but the things I remember:

Limpar hand ball — thinking "you twat"
Limpar diving for the penalty — thinking "you cheeky twat"
Barry Horne's goal —- he does not strike it cleanly, hits his shin and rolls down his leg a bit

Sitting in the pub later not celebrating but looking like a rabbit in headlights.

Seen us win at Wembley, went to Rotterdam, was in the main stand when we last won "the league". Was at the Simod cup final, the Spurs semi and Bayern. 1995 too.

Nothing beats staying up.

Was on the pitch at the end, hundreds were. People, adults even, bouncing an imaginary ball, placing it on the penalty spot at the Gwladys Street end and running up to slot the "ball" in the corner.

I was there in the Street End and remember every emotion going through me in 90 minutes.

Strangest story though was that I was doing a sponsored walk up Helvellen in the Lakes the following day. Needless to say I had a dreadful head but did actually get to the top. It was a lovely cold but sunny day and I will never forget getting over Striding Edge then the last few yards to the top and what do I find there? 4 blokes with Everton hats, shirts, a flag and a crate of beer (no idea how they managed to get it up there). I sat and had a drink with them, relived the game then left to come back down the mountain.

If you were one of those blokes then let me know.

A VERY surreal experience.

Ian, I took a few imaginary penelties after the Coventry game. Except unlike Barmby I buried it past an imaginary Marcus Hedman. .

I was with mates who cried when we won in Rotterdam and when we won league titles. The only time I cried was at the end of that game; pure relief with the stress of the previous week probably taking years off me. Barry Horne was always one of my favourite players and that day he became a legend. Oh, and don't believe all that stuff about Segers taking one; he was just crap.

I was sitting in the upper Bullens and could not help but notice one old fella on his own and he looked well into his 80s and looked like he was bordering on tears, can you imagine the games he had saw and his final Blue days were resting on this game.

Then all of a sudden as the game kicked off up the steps came two red fuckers from my local in Prenton, proper bitter reds who had slyly come for a gloat at people like that Old fella, not expecting to bump into anyone.

After the initial shock I could not except this and stood up and slaughtered the pair of them, they went white as the whole of the Bullens glared at the shithouses. The first goal soon went in and off they popped, tails between their legs.
I have since seen them and no words get said, just a nice glare does me.

Indeed the 16 years have flown. I was meant to be revising for my GCSE's but was listening on the radio in my bedroom. Such a tortuous 90 mins, I seem to recall that revising French afterwards was made to feel a positively pleasant experience!

I remember the cold fear every time the commentator described the 'Dons going anywhere near our box, especially after the first 20 odd mins when anything we could do to shoot ourselves in the foot we did.

Mixed emotions when our goals went in, everyone seemed to signal that cruellest of double edged swords — hope. We got there, but that tension, that oscillation between positivity and fear was vulgar. Something I don't want again.

Decided to follow the scores with teletext on the TV in my room.
Just as the matches kicked off I fell asleep. Woke up and saw 3-2 R.

Life is about moments and I was feeling essentially empty I missed out on a cracker.

Still, the Coventry game was real pain right until the final whistle. Maybe it was for the best.

This is like the anniversary of your haemorrhoid operation or the day you won the lottery and forgot to buy the ticket — do you really want to remember it?

For what it’s worth, I was in the main stand as always, wearing the salmon & blue striped kit, which is the only kit I’ve ever bought, and I’ve never worn one since, because I’m convinced that it brought us bad luck (mind you it could’ve been the fault of a shite team and an equally shite manager.

I can only remember the sense of foreboding like going to the doctors to get the results and Limpar falling to his knees after the handball and Barry Horne’s wonder goal, and did Holdsworth have a goal disallowed. 2-0. Oh fuck, we’re down and the relief at the final whistle thinking I can’t go through that ever again.

And one final thing, on MotD Frank Skinner (who for some reason was standing in for the RS two) saying that a big club like Everton should never be allowed to be relegated, but I could’ve misheard on account of too much Stella.

Happy memories? Get the fuck.

I went with a mate to the game, but we couldn't get in. We went to a nearby pub, but Everton were already one down. After a while, another Wimbledon goal went in, so eventually we trudged off despondent to the car, by the time we set off we'd pulled a goal back, then on the journey (I was living in Ormskirk at the time and my mate in Skem), the equaliser was scored.

When we got the winner, most of the traffic on the dual-carriageway stopped and half the people leaped out of their cars, including us, and were dancing around wildly on the bloody road. One of the most remarkable things I've ever seen.

The whole two weeks before, the ninety minutes of the game and the piss up afterwards made it bigger than any cup win or any other Everton game I have witnessed.

It was not celebrating staying up, it was celebrating the end of the worst football pain I have felt. I will never forget the week before sat in the Central in town waiting for my mates to come back from Leeds (I could not bare going). In came all the doctor fun reds from their flag day on the Kop, smiling at our demise — people post big articles on here slagging us off for glorifying in their miss fortune, well that is why we do it.

I was up in Lancaster, went down with my Spurs supporting mate without a ticket but somehow managed to squeeze in.

The game was an emotional blur, all I really recall are snasphots, like the Ablett own-goal, the amazing shot from Barry Horne (I was behind that goal) and then the last mishit, trickling over the line finish from Graham Stuart that Hans Segers seemed to let slip through his fingers (ho hum). Then it was on the pitch, shouting for Mike Walker and singing all the way home with scarves trailing out the window as we drove home.

I missed the game. My wife took the kids to her cousins for the weekend, probably to get away from me in what she thought was going to be a horrible time. It was the only home game I missed that season.

Woke up at 3am on the night before the game and within 10 mins my head was pounding. Half-an-hour later, I started puking and then the chest pains started. I was about to die and I knew it.

The pain and puking carried on for all of the next day which I spent in bed with a bucket beside me day until about 5 o'clock when I suddenly recovered and felt like a man who had just had a pardon from the electric chair.

At that time I had no idea of the time. I got up and cooked myself a bloody enormous fry up. Then I turned the telly on for the first time that day. Strange days indeed.

I was away with work and I was driving between Brussels and Amsterdam. I was listening to the game and we went two-nil down. I couldn’t bear any more and turned the radio off.

By the time I got to the hotel, Final Score was just wrapping things up and I say on the bottom of the screen 3-2 to Everton. I needed a double take.

No celebrating, just numb.

13 years old. My first ever time at Goodison. Always been an Everton fan as far back as I can remember. Lost my dad in '89. And it was Bob, my mum's new fella of only a few months (obviously trying to get favour with me) took me the game (he also took me too Wembly for the Charity Sheild against Blackburn).

I was there — travelled over from Lincoln when I realised the importance of the game... I asked my Dad to get me a ticket.

It was a nervous build-up to the match — usually I would look forward for days before a match to coming over, but this time the journey was tense — and that was hours before the game had started!!

I was in the Lower Bullens Road stand and I have to confess I couldn't look when Stuart took the penalty!! Barry Horne's goal was just brilliant, it looked as if we were running out of time, it lifted the roof of the place!!!

I remember after the game hugging my old man as we met up — I recall feeling shattered after the game, like everyone else who was there — kicked every ball and lived every second of the match. Did it again 4 years later. I hope I never see Everton in another match like that ever.

I have to say I feel for all the fans in that type of situation. Not so far away from Lincoln — the Grimsby fans are going through it with a last day must-win and hope Barnet lose scenario. Give me a last day situation like Man Utd or Chelsea any day — tense for them? Yes, I am sure it is... but not as tense as a relegation battle. Good luck to all fans involved in any of those games.

I was on some crappy caravan site in France on an end-of-season football tour. We were all huddled round a radio. I can remember everyone was devastated at half-time. All the Liverpool fans were giving it loads. Of course we had the last laugh. Thank you, Graham Stuart.

Having seen us win every honour in the last 50-odd years, that was the greatest "cup" we have ever won. The celebrations went on for days!

The night before the game, I attended a boxing show in the St George Hotel in Lime St. During the show, I went to the toilet, where I bumped into Johnny Kennedy, the one-time Radio City presenter.

All week, he was going on about all the Reds and Blues wanting Everton to stay up on his radio show. Every day he was saying even though he was a Red he wanted the Blues to stay up.

I pretended I was a Liverpool fan and said to him "We don't want that crowd to stay up, Johnny, do we?" he replied, "Do we fuck."

I then told he that I was a blue and I'd set him up; he then hurriedly fucked off. What a plonker!

I remember getting to the ground about 11:30 and there was already a queue for the Gwladys St. There was a strange atmosphere whilst we were in the queue (never felt that before or since). I think we got in about 1:30 and found a nice spec in the middle of the Gwladys St.

I don't remember much of the game apart from the goals and jumping around like a madman, although I do remember Vinny Jones not straying too far from the dugout in the final few minutes (he was straight down that tunnel when the whistle went).

I remember me and my mate standing on our seats singing Blue Army to the crowd on the pitch who were singing it back at the stand. We went home, got changed, and went in to town and spent the night singing around all the pubs, one of my favourite matchdays ever.

Amazing game but Segers helped us there.

The Wimbledon manager joked that he never knew Segers had relatives on Merseyside. A few years later he was up on corruption charges.

Fantastic atmosphere and B Horne goal. People hanging in the trees to see the game.

Great Day,
Dave Long in Tokyo.

14 years old at home in Ireland. Bizarrely, the national station RTE actually showed Premiership football on a Saturday afternoon — but for some strange reason with a half-hour delay. They chose this game as their feature as the title was already decided. So the 'live' coverage kicked off at 3:30pm on RTE2.

Imagine the pain and agonising stress of watching the game at 2-0 down, then miraculously back to 2-2, all the while knowing that the match was actually already decided. I held my nerve not to check teletext and keep out of contact from my mates next door, in case they spoiled it.

And so came the relief at approximately 5:25pm that we were safe....happy memories, and yet dark days. Please, for the love of Jebas, let next year see us back in the top 4 somehow...

No pride or fondness in remembering this game, as it was THROWN.

Sure, Horne's legendary strike was genuine, yet anyone who has heard Cottee recount what Fashanu said to him on the day, and Seger's miraculous failure to save a simple pea roller, will know that the memory of that day is uncomfortable for many reasons...

I had a mate over from Oz.

He's a big 'sports fan' (all the Aussie stuff) but had never been to a match.

We both got in (main stand) and my main memory is thinking about what he saw that day and what it must have looked like.

One end of the ground missing, our goals (particularly the 2nd and 3rd) inducing insanity and mayhem and at full time, tears, hugs and the Barry Horne song.

We got a train to London about 6.00pm that evening and BK was in our carriage.

We all shook hands, hugged, sang, bought and shared our cans of pissy over-priced lager and finally... breathed out.

I remember saying to my mate "It's not like this every week" but what he'd witnessed I know is something he'll never forget either (he still sings the Barry Horne song).

As for me?

It is probably the most emotional I've ever been watching Everton.

The expression 'a roller-coaster' is probably over (and incorrectly) used, but that afternoon was EXACTLY that.

From feeling filleted to practically levitating, all in 90 mins.

I hope we never get near it again,

Kevin, what was Cottees account of that conversation?

http://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/everton-fc/everton-fc-news/2003/09/11/cottee-debates-fixing-probe-100252-13396292/


Here you go,Liam.

For those of you who want to rake over the day again, here is 'classic match' *cough* footage http://www.football.virginmedia.com/page/Football/Features/0,,12555~1556118,00.html

So Kevin, I'm a little confused reading that piece:

1) Does the conversation between Cottee and Fashanu take place before or after the game (or at half-time)?

2) Does not Fashanu say explicitly that the game was NOT thrown??? Quote: "I remember Hans had a howler. But we're not going to fix for our arch rivals Everton."

3) Segers's solicitor: "All the suspicious matches were looked at during the trial by the courts, including on video, and in both trials they found that there were no suspicious circumstances and that the goal Hans let in was just one of those things. Wimbledon were winning 2-0. If they were going to throw the game, why take such a lead?"

Just watched the goals. Segars didn't do anything wrong for the third goal. If anything Southall had the mare.

Michael,

The conversation took place after the game, and Fashanu's comment about Everton being Wimbledon's "arch rivals," is laughably ridiculous.

To fix a match doesn't require the consent or knowledge of the whole team; all you need is your goalkeeper to take a dive; pun intended. The fact that Segers, and Fash were implicated, coupled with JF's gleeful reaction to a defeat, which so peturbed TC, will always leave an uncertain taste, or perhaps not, depending on the tint of one's glasses...

Sure, the courts found insufficient evidence, and we can respect that determination. A charge of this magnitude has to be demonstrably proved, "beyond all reasonable doubt." For me, the fallout from this match compromises the memory of that extraordinary day.

By the way, Fashanu is also alleged to have used the phrase: "Yeah, we did it!" Hence the alarm bells...

I just remember the prime spec of the monkeys in the trees from my Top Balcony view point. Oh, and running around Toad Hall in Ainsdale later that night shit-faced shouting "9 minutes".

I was there, having managed to convince the ticket office I was a Wimbledon fan in order to get a ticket at the last minute.

Pivotal result in the club's history and also one of the biggest fixes in football history.

Not that I'm complaining, of course.

And it was a conspiracy that a great many were in on — not just Fasahnu and Segers.

It was never a penalty, Segers unquestionably let at least one in, Fasahnu deliberately missed at least one open goal and we had enough good luck (with Barry Horne's strike), to negate any hard-done-by claims for at least 25 years!

I was 12. I had gone on a camping trip with the Scouts to Bala in Wales with everyone learning to canoe on the lake. I didn't bother, stayed in the one spot we could get radio reception and listened to the game, wearing my salmon and blue kit. Most of the other lads were Reds and only really me and my Dad were Blues.

At 1-0 there was some stick and then at 2-0 I took some horrendous abuse, with one of the Scout leaders (a Red) spouting the shite theory that "It would do Everton good to go down", bollocks. The manner of the goals were galling, an OG and a stupid pen.

Wierdly at 2-0 I still though we could do it, I hardly said a word though until 2-1. I will let Anders off for the handball as he "won" the pen for us. We had to leave the lake to go back to the campsite so the radio reception went. Still loosing, I couldn't face getting in the mini bus with the gloating Reds so I got in my Dad's car with him to go back, the radio reception came back in the car and Horne scored my favorite goal of all time! As my Dad overtook the minibus Stuart scored the third, I leaned over and beeped the car horn repeatedly as we passed and didn't really care that my Dad bollocked me for it.

As we pulled up to the campsite, the final whistle went, the mini-bus came into the field and I ran over with my scarf held aloft running alongside cheering, the Red lads' faces were a picture, you would have thought they had gone down.

Afterwards my Dad (who has seen everyone from the Holy Trinity onwards) said he never wants to see me celebrate "failure" ever again. I never understood what he meant at the time. If I wasn't 12, I would have got well and truly pissed that night.

A few years later, 1996, we went back to Bala with the boot on the other foot, the reds were in the cup final and the lads were telling me that they were taking "our trophy" off us, as Cantona scored the winner I barley gloated but just smiled as if I held some kind of moral high ground, I have good memories of that place!

Simple really. Two 20 stone bluenoses in the main stand threatening to beat the shit out of eachother when we went 2-0 down and frustrations bubbled over. Then watching their communal lovefest at the final whistle.

Max, I remember it getting rather nasty in the Street End after their 2nd goal but thankfully it calmed down when we got that dodgy penalty soon after and Blues turned their attenion back on getting behind the team.

David Booth, how could Fashanu have missed an open goal when he didn't even play in the game?

I recall getting back to my car in a state of elation more so then any triumph.but once on my own Isobbed like a baby

Fair point, Ste: but do remember one, or maybe two 'impossible to miss' chances by their forwards being inexplicably wide — one a header in front of a virtual open goal.

There was more than luck on our side that day!

David, I do remember Dean Holdsworth putting a free header over from about 6 yards in front of the Street End, perhaps thats what you mean.

And yes, we did have luck on our side that day, as we did in 1998.

My brother recently told me Ian Snodin's memories of this game — as told at one of the "Meet the Fans" nights.

According to Snodin, before the game as they were lining up to go out, their Captain, Vinny Jones turned and spat on the Everton badge on a wall and said loudly "Don't worry lads, we won't have to come to this shithole for years again after today", at which Neville Southall promptly chinned him and a full-scale 22-man brawl broke out...."Well, 21-man — I forgot Limpar was there" finished Snodin.

(Would love this story to be true!)

Didn't Jones spit on the "This is Anfield," sign too? If true, what a piece of work...

Ste: yes, that was it. Impossible to miss... but he did!

And that wasn't the only one.

I'd lived away from Merseyside since 1980, the immediate years leading up to the Wimbledon game ,had caused me to wash my hands of Everton, didn't bother with the results, didn't know the players, couldn't watch them on telly, my wife was delighted at the resultant even tempered husband she'd got.

I don't know what happened, but 2am that saturday morning I was awake my stomach knotted, my mind focused on the fact that TODAY my beloved everton were getting relegated. The pretense of not caring, the rationalisation of the nonsense of being a supporter had gone all I could think of were the times with my dad at Goodison recalling all the history that makes Everton the greatest and travelling round the country watching the blues with my mates.

The conviction that we were dead and buried was a protection against the moment when the news would finally break at results time later in the day, I determined to avoid all news media until then so I occupied myself by finishing off painting the kitchen. Trouble was I'd finished it by 7am. What to do next?

I picked up my car keys got in the car and set off, didn't know where to, just drove, through Herefordshire and Worcester, the Cotswolds up to Swindon checked out the railway museum there walked around the town, dropped onto the M4 toward Bristol stopped at the services for a cup of tea, met Rolf Harris (honestly, he was in the car park) before finally ending up on the beach at Weston Super Mare. The car clock said 4:25pm, dare I put the radio on? Experience had taught me not to, usually it coincided with a goal against us or a goal for liverpool, I watched each digital minute change until 4:51pm appeared.

With the anticipation of a bomb disposal expert hoping he was cutting the right wire I turned the radio on, the unintelligible mufflings of a commentator attempting to be heard above thunder entered my desperate ears, then I heard "joy at Goodison Park" followed by an account of the scenes, the game, the amazing result. I put my sunglasses on so no one walking by would see my tears.

I started seeing Eleni when I worked in London. She was very attractive and coming from Cyprus, a little bit exotic.

Eleni and I had had a couple of dates. It was going well and we arranged that she would come over to my house near Southampton the following Saturday. The sub-text was that we were, ahem, going to take our relationship to the next level. I’m sure you get the picture.

Unfortunately, at that time, Mike Walker’s Everton were the worst Toffees I had ever seen. Results meant that we were now in the bottom three going in to the last match and needed to beat Wimbledon on Saturday and hope other results went our way to stand a chance of staying up.

Monday and Tuesday came and went and I was looking forward to seeing Eleni on Saturday. By Wednesday, I could take it no longer. I had to be at Goodison. If we were going down, I had to be there. If we had a miraculous escape, I had to be there.

So, I phoned Eleni thinking that if I explained the situation, she’d be cool about it and we could get together soon. I hadn’t banked on the Latin/Mediterranean temperament. She went absolutely ballistic, gave me the sort of tongue-lashing that isn’t fun and banged the phone down on me.

Oh well, might as well ring Goodison’s box office then. And that’s where I went wrong. I couldn’t get through. I must have rung 300 times over the next couple of days and either got no answer or the engaged tone. If you’re going to jeopardize a relationship for a football match, make sure you’ve got a ticket first.

So, I did the obvious thing on the Friday. I rang Eleni, said I was very sorry and I’d decided not to go to the match! Would she like to come over for the weekend as originally planned, I’d really like to see her. Suitably smooth-talked, she agreed and I arranged to pick her up just before 5pm from Winchester railway station on Saturday afternoon.

The fateful hour of 3pm on Saturday arrived. Bitterly regretting that I wasn’t at Goodison, I tuned in to the radio. I could only take it for the first 20 minutes. We were 2-0 down, going down. It was something that I was just going to have to come to terms with. I turned off the radio and just mooched around the house until about 4.15 when I got in the car to drive to the station.

The car radio came on and I soon realized that we’d got a goal back. Perhaps there was some hope. Then, unbelievably, Barry Horne, a player who averaged a goal every other season and used to play in front of me for our county as a schoolboy, scored my all time favourite goal. Now it was game on but of course it depended on results elsewhere.

By the time I got to the station, we were 3-2 up and somehow the tension was now worse because we actually had a chance of staying up. 5 Live kept skipping back to Ewood where Ipswich were drawing 0-0 but if they scored, they would still send us down.

The whistle went at Goodison... early according to the commentator. The result from Blackburn came in. 0-0, we were saved! Ipswich were going down (although two late goals by Chelsea subsequently relegated Sheffield United instead).

I suddenly became aware that Eleni’s train had pulled in. I ran into the station laughing and jumping for joy not caring who saw me. There she was waiting on the platform and, bless her, when she saw me so happy, she thought I was just pleased to see her.

Which I was at home a little later on!!!

For most Evertonians, staying up beats all the league titles and cups. I made sure I was at the Coventry match four years later when another catastrophe was avoided but, for me, nothing beats the drama of that day in 1994.

I still have the clipping of the report from the Sunday Times the following day. It described the electric atmosphere as the teams came out:

“Even Wimbledon’s six year old mascot was roundly booed. He stood there defiant though… a chip off the old block.”

I wish I’d written that.