When asked "do you want to play for Everton, at Goodison, against the shite?" there are very few of us who would need time to think about the answer. I'm not one of them. The question was asked, I said yes and then just had three long weeks to wait for the big day to come. Three long weeks to think about what it will be like, what I'll do, how I'll do and who I'll do. Three short weeks to try to stay off the ale, get a bit fitter and get some sleep.

Having achieved none of my personal goals, although I did manage to shed a few pounds on the morning of the match, the big day arrived. It's a strange feeling walking towards Goodison with your kit bag over your shoulder wondering if people were asking themselves "who was the young(ish) trialist?" and hoping they weren't thinking "no I don't want any socks, undies or fuckin' batteries". Regardless I walked through the persistent rain and gathering crowds with excited anticipation.

The first of many surreal situations I found myself in was in The Winslow. Saturday afternoon, before an Everton match, no pint. What's that all about? It would be worth it. After a quick chat with the family it was time to cross Goodison Road to the Player's entrance. On the way in we (Kipper with camera in hand) bumped into John Barnes, the temptation was there to throw in an early rash challenge, but the magic of the occasion was already taking over.

Steve Milne (thanks again for the opportunity) met me inside the entrance and escorted down to the changing rooms. He introduced me to Dave Prentice who said we would be using the players' lounge as the first team were using the changing rooms and apologized for the heat as he opened the lounge door. The heat didn't kick in for about ten minutes, as I was engrossed in the ongoing conversation between my new teammates. Big Nev was holding court, drinking his customary cup of tea whilst wedged into a leather armchair, Mark Ward and Paul Lodge the recognizable faces amongst his audience. Across the other side of the room there was a growing gathering of shite, the only notable football talent being Stan Boardman.

I was trying to control the grin on my face when the blue ranks swelled further with the arrival of Peter Billinge, John Bailey (talking non stop from the moment he arrived), Derek Mountfield (team manager for the day) and then David Unsworth walked through to say hello and thank everyone for supporting his testimonial. Fantastic stuff. The dream continued with the arrival of a stunning Scandinavian bird, "is this really happening?" I thought. Then a strange reality hit when her fella followed her into the room. Oblivious to the legends around them, in their own little world they sat down in the middle of the room until a steward arrived to advise them the Players' lounge was not being used today. Off they went, Thomas Gravesen and his Mrs. Could things get any better?

Meeting a personal hero is a great feeling, having them sit opposite whilst you get changed before a "derby" match is a bit special, but when he looks at you and says "there's no such thing as a friendly charity match, we're playing the shite and if you get the chance go right through 'em" things really don't get much better. Joe Parkinson - living legend and top man.

Lisa, Jogger, Parky, Kim

Lard - Ready for Action

The Fans Await

As Derek dished the kit out with strict instructions not to nick any of it, heeded by everyone except Bails who must have had a stall to run on Sunday, he said "center half Gary? Number 4, you can be The Rat". Shit! No pressure then. Even less pressure when I got Duncan's shorts. Size XXXL! I know I'm not called Lard for nothing but that's taking the piss.

Finally we were on our way down the tunnel, passing Sharpie on the way, "are these your shorts Graeme?", and out onto the pitch. What a pitch as well. I've often heard it said "if you can't play on there you can't play anywhere" and its true. I was lucky that we had a couple of minutes standing round without a ball as I could take in the occasion. Time to wave to the crowd and soak up the atmosphere, 2000 blues can create a lot of atmosphere. Lining up for the shite was Barnes, Phil Neale, Alan Kennedy, Rob Jones and David Fairclough. They had no chance.

Game on!

Lard(No4) ready to give it to Fairclough

I knew I might only get half a game (15 minutes of fame) so I made sure I made the most of it. Nervous energy kept me running round but also I was pleased with the way I played. Not once did I have to shout "Ave it" as we stroked the ball around not giving the shite any possession, never mind a chance. After missing a number of chances we went one up, Mark Ward fed the ball to "another delighted unknown" who slotted home at the Park End. As the half went on I ventured further up the field and was unlucky not see a 20 yard drive hit the back of the net, hitting Phil Neale's arse as he tried to get out of the way. Jogger's scream of "Its on it way" heard loud and clear from the Upper Bullens.

Lard Covers Peter Bilinge

It's a Breeze for Bails & Lard while Paul Lodge & Mark Ward recover

The half ended and despite a gallant attempt to hide in the middle of a big field Derek called me over. Subbed at half time, first time for everything. Still ecstatic to be part of at all, but desperate to get back on the pitch. The shite equalized, our defence fell apart in my absence, with a free header past the sub goalie. Big Nev was now playing center forward and clattering their keeper at every opportunity.

Joe Parkinson smiles after scoring the winner, while Neal, & Kennedy frown

Joe Parky with Stubbsey's Shirt on

Joe Parkinson was wearing Alan Stubbs' first team shirt as our kit was too tight on him. So when he restored our lead with a left foot strike, there were a few Stubbs/left foot comments passed in the dug out. Watching the game from the back of the dug-out Kipper spotted that the shite had 12 men on the pitch so Derek agreed I should get on there to even things up. For the last 5 minutes I ran round like "a 28 year old toffeeman playing at Goodison for Everton against the shite for the last 5 minutes". Fantastic stuff. Then it was over. Hand shakes all round, a final wave to the crowd, a couple more photos, down the tunnel and back into the Players' sauna. Passing the first team on the way I got the chance to shake Unsey's hand and wish him "All the best".

Chaddy(black suit) gets some tips

Lard says: 'I Can't Believe It'

Waiting to get into the proper changing room for a shower the banter between Neville and Bails continued. Most of it not to be printable for liable reasons. Bails said to "The Doc" (club doctor?) "I could write a book about our trips abroad couldn't I", "Not til after I'm dead" replied the Doc. Bails then disappeared wearing just a towel to return 10 minutes later with a bottle of Heineken. "You've got to know who to ask" he beamed, "Ask them were the fuck my cup of tea is" replied Nev. Fed up waiting Nev marched towards the changing rooms wearing the a double sheet size "Welsh Dragon" towel. "Is that a sheep?" cracked Bails. "You'll have to hang on Nev" said Joe, "Bollocks" said Nev, who was going to stop him getting a shower?

"Bottle of Bud? Bails"

We've Just Beat The Shite

As we filed through to the changing rooms Derek said to me "at least the crowd should be up for it today, we've just beat the shite." It definitely means as much to the players.

I had the dubious honour of being in the shower between John Barnes and Rob Jones. As they only had a little bottle of shampoo Rob Jones had robbed from a Travel Lodge between them, I dished out the shower gel. Barnes used nearly all of it. Cheeky bastard, but I smiled to myself. We had just beaten the shite and its not true what they say about the size……I walked back through the changing rooms leaving Bails in his own personal bath with his Heineken. Its great to be a toffeeman!

Thanks to all who made it possible and who supported me on the day. I tried to explain what it was like but I have probably failed. All I can advise is if you ever get the chance, take it. (15/08/02)

Final Score: EVERTON 2, the shite 1.

Unsey's Testimonial Year