Brian Viner: If only us Evertonians weren't in the mire too, we could sit back and enjoy Liverpool's plight

The Last Word

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The jokes keep coming, booted joyfully into cyberspace and textland mainly by gleeful Manchester United fans.

"Just watching the news footage of those poor people getting rescued," came a text on Wednesday. "Great to see the smiles back on their faces and faint glimmers of optimism in their otherwise impoverished lives. Still hope Everton beat them on Sunday, though." Earlier, via email, a Stretford Ender's version of an old joke. "I have two tickets for The Comedy Club in a couple of weeks' time but can't make it. Does anyone want them? They're for the Anfield Road end."

Disapproval of these unsubtle jibes does not come altogether naturally to Evertonians, who have endured years of them from Liverpool fans. A readier response, it has to be said, is a smile. A chuckle, even, as we watch that old Bayer Leverkusen full-back, Schadenfreude, stick one into the back of the net in front of the Kop. But United supporters in particular should hesitate before laughing too hard at a great club, once the powerhouse in English football that became so crippled by debt, factionalism and American corporate greed that its future had to be decided by the High Court. It might currently be the ghost of Bill Shankly shaking with disbelief in the celestial boot room, for if the sale of his beloved club to the owners of the Boston Red Sox wasn't bizarre and unsettling enough, it was then held up by a judge in Texas; but the ghost of Sir Matt Busby won't be resting too easily either.

Nor, meanwhile, can we Evertonians derive much sadistic pleasure from Liverpool's perilous league position, a missed opportunity that feeds our collective persecution complex. In 2004-05, when the Blues managed to qualify for the Champions' League by finishing fourth in the Premiership, nudging the Reds into fifth, Liverpool went and won the European Cup, qualifying too and undermining our bragging rights. And in a way, here we are again: Liverpool's worst league start for decades and we still can't brag, because ours has been almost as bloody bad.

All of which is why tomorrow's 214th Merseyside derby, if not quite the relegation six-pointer that Mancunians are making it out to be, is the most meaningful for years, more meaningful than almost all the previous 213. Of the many I have attended myself, only the 1989 FA Cup final, five weeks after Hillsborough, strikes me as more significant.

The mood at Wembley that day was extraordinary; sombre and celebratory at the same time, with a degree of solidarity between the two sets of fans that could not, even in similar tragic circumstances, have been matched by any other pair of city rivals. But that was then. There will be scant sympathy for Liverpool's plight from the Goodison faithful tomorrow afternoon. On the other hand, neither club can stake much claim to being the pride of Merseyside just now. Whatever happens on the field, let's hope that the city of John Lennon and Roger McGough, Alan Bleasdale and Willy Russell, shows its true colours, neither apoplexy-red nor obscenity-blue, and that the chants are witty.

Sad shades to Moore memorials

Apart from the 93 minutes of international football, I had a wonderful time at Wembley on Tuesday evening. I went to the England v Montenegro match with three old school friends, great guys I don't get to see much these days, and we had a fine time reminiscing. We met up on the concourse outside the stadium beside the splendidly imposing statue of Bobby Moore, the obligatory rendezvous point for anyone getting together at the new Wembley. Later, following the match, while one of the lads was queuing for the urinals, we waited for him outside Wembley's swanky Bobby Moore Club. Then, as we were making our way to Wembley Park Tube, we passed the fancy Indian restaurant, Moore Spice. And the thought occurred, not for the first time, that it would have been nice if England's World Cup-winning captain had received a fraction of the recognition in life that he does in death.

Weale kindles warm spot for amateurs

Our gardener, Alan, phoned me on Wednesday evening with the exciting news that his 47-year-old cousin, Robert Weale, had won the individual gold medal in lawn bowls at the Commonwealth Games. Not only that, but Weale then got to carry the Welsh flag at the closing ceremony. Now, professionalism in sport is a great thing, and anyone who yearns for the days of amateurism should be reminded that Gareth Edwards did not tour with the 1977 Lions because he was uneasy about asking for so much time off work. Nevertheless, it's truly heartwarming to see an amateur sportsman get his moment in the sun. Weale works for Hereford Council's housing department. I hope they've got the bunting out for him.

Open steeped in tradition from the very start

The inaugural Open golf championship took place at Prestwick 150 years ago tomorrow. It lasted one day, and eight men took part. The winner was Willie Park, whose brother Mungo and son Willie Jnr would also win The Open. He took 174 strokes to complete three rounds of a 12-hole course. Runner-up was Old Tom Morris. Television commentary, I believe, was by Peter Alliss.