Say what you like about the crowd at Goodison Park, but they are really good at booing. They’ve had plenty of practice in recent years, of course, but, still, there was something viscerally impressive abo ut the boos before kick-off. It began as a low moan, like the agonised groan of a brontosaurus dying in a distant valley, then built slowly, rumbling mournfully through the old stadium, gaining in depth and plaintiveness and volume to finally break in a mighty foghorn of despair summoned from the guts of all Evertonians.
They had already booed the two blokes in dark rain-jackets who brought out the Premier League signage, as well as the six ballboys who, with an understandable degree of hesitation, unfurled the Premier League flag.
