Everton – The Club They Wish They Were

I imagine if you’re reading this, you’re probably an Evertonian. So before we get going, answer me this — honestly, deep down in your heart: do you ever regret supporting Everton? Do you regret the family ties, the quirks of fate, the chance moments that made you Blue instead of Red? Do you ever look across at their success and think, “if only my life had gone another way”? I’ll bet you don’t. Not once. In fact, I’d wager the very idea turns your stomach. It defies logic — who wouldn’t want their silverware? But it’s resolutely true. Why might that be? Well, friend, pull up a chair, pour yourself the drink of your choice, and let’s take a few moments to meditate on this together.

Supporting Everton is not for the faint-hearted. If Liverpool fans get the thrill of rollercoasters, we get ghost trains. Not the good ones, mind. Ours is the rickety seaside kind, where you spend the whole ride hoping it might actually deliver something. Only for the big finale to be some bloke in a Poundland Scream mask leaping out from behind a curtain shouting “boo.” You build yourself up, thinking “maybe this time,” only to leave shaking your head, bitterly disappointed at the time, the money, the hope you invested — all wasted on something so utterly deflating. That cycle of hope and bitter disappointment has forged a particular Evertonian character: sardonic, world-weary, always ready with a joke at our own expense, but united in something deeper than silverware. Supporting Everton is a shared hardship and that hardship breeds a kind of kinship, even a stubborn pride.

To an outsider, Everton and Liverpool fans must seem quite similar: same accent, same sport, same streets. But live in the city for any length of time and the difference becomes clear. Full disclosure: I’m not a Scouser, but I lived in Liverpool for three years, and maybe that gave me an outsider’s eye. It’s undeniable to say — and ask any Scouser — that the city’s hardship has shaped its people. Merseyside has known struggle: managed decline, unemployment, whole communities left behind. For decades, Liverpool was looked down upon, dismissed by governments, sneered at by outsiders. And yet from that came something unique — a humour, a humility, a sense of togetherness, of being set apart but being in it together. To be Scouse, in that sense, feels Evertonian. It’s world-weary but warm, self-deprecating but proud, battered but never broken.

And then there are Liverpool fans. The reality is, they’re a different breed — the difference is imperceptible, but no less real. While Evertonians carry that Scouse humility and togetherness, Reds project arrogance, veneer, hubris even. They simply, to this outsider, don’t feel so Scouse. They feel Amazon. Starbucks. Netflix. Coca-Cola. To see a “typical Red” strolling around town is to see someone in full kit — shirt, shorts, socks, “CHAMPIONS 25” splashed across the back — strutting like a peacock, overflowing with confidence but carrying very little actual football knowledge and absolutely no self-awareness. Many haven’t set foot in Anfield, let alone stood on the Kop; they’re more likely to be on TikTok than on the Kop, or queuing for selfies outside the Shankly Hotel with a half-and-half scarf from the club shop still in the bag. Their devotion feels glossy, brand-driven, global, more Norway and Thailand than Norris Green.

And this is where Liverpool FC works. We live in an age of McDonald’s and Subway, where every high street looks the same. Liverpool fits that mould perfectly: easy to market, bite-sized, instantly digestible. Sky and TNT can package it neatly, and millions lap it up. It’s football as fast food — bright, instantly gratifying, and everywhere, but never really nourishing. By contrast, Everton is like your nan’s stew: slow-cooked, tough meat, lumpy, but real — and it keeps you warm long after you’ve eaten it. And here’s the thing: when your nan cooks it, it might not be restaurant cuisine, but it stirs an emotion no fast-food chain, no Michelin-starred chef, can touch. It’s love, memory, connection — that’s Everton. It stirs something deep — instinctive, guttural, visceral. Every Evertonian knows exactly what I’m talking about — when the goosebumps rise and the players run out to Z-Cars. And it’s something no Liverpool fan will ever truly experience. Oh sure, they’ll belt out You’ll Never Walk Alone like a karaoke number — but they don’t feel it. We know it, and they know it. The old Alan Ball adage of “when Everton touches you” could not be more true. Everton is not something you “do”, its something you are.

When it comes to the darker parts of our shared history with Liverpool FC, that difference really shows. Take Heysel: a tragedy where lives were lost — which will always matter more than football but one that left Everton punished as harshly as Liverpool, through no fault of their own. Our club missed out on Europe during our greatest era. Our momentum was broken. Yet you rarely hear Reds speak of that collateral damage. It’s not malice on their part; it’s just a lack of perspective, a blind spot that mirrors their fandom as a whole.

Meanwhile, we Blues crack on. We joke about never winning anything, because if we didn’t laugh, we’d probably cry. We wear the heartbreaks as badges of honour, because we’re still here. And here’s the thing: no Evertonian would ever swap. Ask any of us if we’d rather have been born red, and you’ll get a bemused shake of the head, bewilderment even. We’re proud to be Evertonians — proud of the history, proud of our culture, who we are, proud of being in it together.

But that pride isn’t just words — it’s lived through the darkest of days. Would Liverpool fans have stood by their team in the gloomy eras of Allardyce and Dyche? Through the chaos of 777 Partners? Through Headlock-gate? Through not one but two points deductions handed down by a crooked Premier League? We did, and not just stood by, but powered the club forward. Ask anyone connected with Everton, not just fans but players, staff, local press, and they’ll tell you the same: the club’s very existence has only been preserved because of the vociferous, angry, passionate support of its supporters, dragging the players through the darkest of days. We’ve produced unlikely cult heroes along the way: Louis McKechnie, the Just Stop Oil protester who cable-tied himself to a goalpost and gave us the momentum for a crucial equaliser against Newcastle; or Goodison dog Myra, carried on shoulders down Goodison Road like a furry saint before a must-win game against Chelsea. That’s Everton. Fans willing their club on through not just dark times, but existential crises. Evertonians, unlike Liverpudlians, are not just spectators with selfie sticks there to watch a game. Evertonians are the club.

Sure, Koppites will turn out in droves for parades after their heroes — half of whom they probably couldn’t name — win another trophy. But would they flood the streets to drag their team over the line in yet another relegation scrap? Not a chance. Their shirts, banners, flags, and car stickers would be quietly retired until the good times returned. Again, they know it, and we know it.

And in the end, that’s the difference. Evertonians, bruised and battered, know exactly who they are. Liverpool fans, for all the banners and the silverware, never quite convince you they know the same. They call us “Bitter Blues,” but funnily enough, it’s a jibe that never bites. We aren’t bitter. Hurt, yes. Disappointed and despondent at our lack of success, of course. But bitter? Never. We are proud — proud of who we are, proud of being in it together, and yes, proud that we are not them.