Read Carra: My Autobiography for Free Online Page A

history, handing Arsenal the title. In a Bootle pub just a couple of miles away, an eleven-year-old Evertonian, his dad and his mates began celebrating as if their own team had won the League. A group of lads went outside and scrawled graffiti on the wall.

THANK YOU, ARSENAL.

The eleven-year-old laughed his head off, encouraging and applauding the offenders who were chalking the headline he dreamed of reading on the back of every newspaper the following morning.

That boy was me. I thought of myself as the biggest Blue in Bootle. On that depressing night for Liverpool, the club I would eventually come to love, their defeat meant as much as any of my own team's victories. I didn't simply want to bask in the glory of Arsenal's win; I wanted to rub it in under the noses of every Red in the city.

My earliest football experiences had been with an Everton team that competed for the League and FA Cup every year and which also enjoyed European success. By 1989, the only satisfaction left at the end of the season was this failure of Liverpool's to parade the championship. Nowadays, the Goodison trophy room is a museum of former glories.

This is part of being a football fan, and we should make no apology for it. The ultimate pleasure is a cup or League victory for your own side, but taking comfort in the disappointment of others is strangely satisfying. Anyone who takes a hike up the moral high ground and says they're not happy to celebrate when their rivals lose is a liar. You're always looking for these consolations as a supporter because it sustains your interest when your own ambitions are foiled. Seeing clubs you don't like suffer is all part of the tradition. Every side does it, not just Everton, though circumstances dictate some are condemned to feel this way more than others.

As an Evertonian, I was thrilled whenever Liverpool lost, mainly because it improved our chances of winning the title. As a Liverpool fan, those feelings are now reversed, and other sides have been added to the list of teams whose defeats I celebrate. Seeing Manchester United and Chelsea come a cropper makes me feel the same way I did about Liverpool when I was eleven years old. I'd never go as far as writing graffiti on the side of my house, but I'm sure if United ever lost a cup final in the last minute the drinks would be flowing.

I've thought a lot during the course of writing this book about my feelings towards Everton, and they must be as complex as anyone's in the city. My attitude has changed towards Everton as I've grown older. I used to love them, but there are things about the club I can't stand now.

There are two Evertons in my life: the Everton before Liverpool, and the Everton after. The club I loved in the 1980s and the team I see now are poles apart in my mind. I refer to the Everton of the eighties as 'us' and the modern Everton as 'them'. I can't stop myself discussing what 'we' did when I think of Howard Kendall's first wonderful side. That's why I'm dedicating a chapter to Everton. They're part of my life as much as Liverpool. It's a blessing and a curse to feel this way. It puts me in a unique position to observe the relationship between the clubs, but it forces me to confront some uncomfortable truths.

I was Everton-mad growing up. I was a regular at all the away games as well as at home. Evertonians talk fondly about the legendary European Cup Winners' Cup semifinal against Bayern Munich in April 1985. Never mind the Goodison second leg; I was in Germany with my dad for the first game too, getting my bobble hat swiped by some Munich fans outside the ground.

I'd be in a bad mood for days when we lost. Worse than that, I'd be inconsolable when our rivals won. Nothing meant as much to me as my Everton top, which I even wore while training at the Liverpool School of Excellence. Liverpool were the target of my poison in those days, even after I'd joined them. I thought the Liverpool fans were cocky and arrogant – a