Football being the uncaring, often vindictive sport that it is, there can be no more rewarding a sight than that of a vindicated man heady on the sweet and addictive drug of sheer relief. After almost wrestling with the less compliant members of his team in the dismal immediate aftermath of last Wednesday's despicable display at Coventry City, Everton manager Howard Kendall spent, much of what he conceded was a "long and uncomfortable" night in combat with his own conscience.

A confident man and a most accomplished manager he may well be but like the rest of us Kendall is bedevilled by human frailties and as he picked through the rotting remains of a performance which served only to blacken his club's reputation, he will have fallen prey to the greatest of managerial enemies, self doubt.

"I knew we would play better against Liverpool - we had to because we really could not have played any worse than we did at Coventry," he said. Kendall's demeanour was that of a humble man content with his day at the office but his eyes twinkled and were ablaze with passion, betraying the fact that what he really wanted to do was scream from the highest rooftop: "I told you so."

Modesty prevented, of course, but, as the cliche goes, there was no real need for manager to bleat for his team had done all the talking.

Improbably, Everton tore their neighbours to shreds and but for the sense of calmness which Steve McManaman instilled into Liverpool's always pedestrian football in the latter stages, the final margin of victory would surely have been far, far greater.

That Liverpool have come to loathe these parochial affairs is now self evident and they were swept away like so many sand-castles before an onrushing tide; it was more surrender than defeat.

Playing in games such as these, occasions of such extraordinary tension, is by all accounts no great fun.

That is easy to accept as watching them can be murder.

The bone-jarring challenges and the flying elbows are an inherent part of derby fixtures from Merseyside to Milan and - always it seems - they are deemed permissible simply because to outlaw them would be to drag this sort of tribal warfare back inside football's accepted parameters.

That would never do as those shoehorned into Goodison Park on Saturday would readily testify.

Take the events of the 15th minute if you will.

Small pockets of ugly friction had been bubbling up since the afternoon's first kick, so the purple mist was already hanging heavy in the air when Duncan Ferguson and Jason McAteer met in unholy alliance down on the touchline. The tackle - a genuine 50-50 affair would you believe - was simply thunderous.

Both men survived but less than a heartbeat later Paul Ince, the self styled enforcer of Liverpool's "we are stars so don't touch us" policy enticed Ferguson into an identical challenge.

You could almost hear Ferguson's fillings rattling from the main stand. This time, Ferguson was in the mood and subsequently a persistent threat to a Liverpool defence which, rather strangely, deputed the quick but slight Bjorn Kvarme to shadow him rather than the slower, but more muscular, Neil Ruddock.

"Duncan was awesome today but you don't want a number nine who only does it in the big games," said Kendall pointedly. Ferguson chipped in with much as Liverpool were outplayed, overrun and, ultimately, humiliated.

Indeed, the sight of Everton arrogantly playing keep-ball in the dying moments as those bedecked in red talismans filed away to the exits was, probably, the day's abiding memory.

Well, that and the magnificent contributions of Everton captains past and present, Dave Watson and Gary Speed.

And then there was Danny Cadamarteri - or Cadamagic as the less linguistically inclined have settled upon.

Just 18 and hurtling around football's learning curve as an infant hamster does a wheel, Cadamarteri was terrific, sprinting clear of the fallen Kvarme with 15 minutes remaining to score a stunning goal and so confirm Everton's victory.

Liverpool manager Roy Evans could have argued that Earl Barrett appeared to beat an Ince header off the line with his hand and that Ruddock was unfortunate to turn Andy Hinchcliffe's corner into his own net in first half stoppage time.

To his credit, he did not.

"We got precisely what we deserved - nothing at all," was his harsh and realistic assessment of a defeat which has done precious little to enhance his chances of keeping his job beyond the current season.

"We simply forgot to play," he added ruefully.