Beaten

I went to Goodison Park to watch Bolton get gubbed by Everton. I was with an Evertonian friend in a section with the home fans, so it was just as well that Bolton didn't do anything exciting, otherwise I may have found myself in some trouble.

It was a totally gutless performance by the Trotters - I'm sure it didn't help that they had sold the still-beating heart of the team, Kevin Nolan, for not all that much money during the transfer window. Nolan was pure commitment and one of the players who could rally dispirited troops to snatch a result. Without him, as soon as things started looking bad there didn't seem any way back.

The most depressing sight however was the painfully small number of Bolton fans who had bothered to make the 30 mile journey to Merseyside. If I had put my mind to it, I could have counted them and given you the exact number. They didn't move around a lot and there weren't that many of them.

You heard it here first : Bolton will be relegated this year. They're dispirited, disorganised and they haven't even got the support of the fans. If I gambled (I don't) and if I had money (I don't) I think I could make a tidy sum here.

Goodison is in need of rebuilding and the toilet facilities are a joke. At halftime you push seven-abreast through the narrow doorway, get buffeted along like a cigarette butt in a urinal, and eventually find a place to do your business. You then allow yourself to be pushed along toward the exit and squeeze back out (I'll resist using another toilet-related simile here).

I couldn't help noticing that in front of me, exiting the toilets after passing through the same process, was a large man holding his young son's hand with his right hand and brandishing a half-eaten extra-long sausage roll with his left.

Don't ask.