Back when Disneyland gave you ticket packages full of E-tickets, C tickets, etc, an E ticket was for the best ride, and an A ticket was for the crap rides. Suffice to say, there were more A tickets than E tickets.


E tickets would get you on Haunted Mansion, Matterhorn, Pirates of the Caribbean, while an A ticket would land you on People Movers or Monsanto's “Tour of the Future.” A “Tour of the Future” meant that you sat in moving chairs and hummed through a dark passage past bits of astroturf while a voice talked about how great Monsanto was. At the end, a giant eye blinked at you through a microscope.



The other A ticket Attraction was the “People Mover.” This was an above-ground trolley suspended by wires that people waited for in the same manner they waited for a bus. Then, they got on board and moved to another spot for no particular reason.


I mention this, because “For No Particular Reason” seems to be Everton's football passing theme. Watching the Blues is less sex in favour of more massage. People moving with no particular reason. Players passing with the intent of passing some more, instead of burying a shot inside the net. 


Everton Football Club, at the moment, are a titty show. You can get your dick hard while you watch the titties shaking, but you can't stick it in anything; unless you're Leighton Baines, which is what he did from the spot after Barkley had the sense to get tripped in the penalty area before he could pass. What's amazing about Baines' penalty shot—hard into left corner, is that Mirrales didn't take it.


Since when has Kevin Bloody Mirrales started taking corner kicks as well as free kicks? I've got an idea, Kevin. If you like to be involved in the play so much, how about when you have four teammates in the box, you send them a little 'howdy do' instead of kicking the ball into the ass of an opponent? Or how about you study what colour shirts your teammates are wearing (hint: they're the same colour as the one you're wearing) before the match?


Well, with the one-nil win virtually unassured, Everton went about the business of giving the ball away and practicing defencive lapses. Swans found this very much to their liking and scored a goal which was achieved in two parts: first, a guy passed it across the penalty area; second, a guy shot off that pass and into the net.


After halftime, Everton somehow managed to score from open play as Mirrales accidentally managed to make the ball go across the goal mouth to a sliding Lukaku. Everton, lead restored, then went back to watching Tim Howard work for a while. Once Howard tired of making saves, Everton rested him by taking a corner at the other end, which Barkley squatted at to get his head to the ball, bopping it the short distance into the net.


Now, firmly in command at 3-1, Everton went back to the business of watching Tim Howard, who didn't seem to think he was supposed to do anymore work today; at one point even throwing his arms into the air and rolling his eyes. Well, if Everton were going to hang on to their 3-1 lead—oops, make that 3-2, at least there wasn't that much time left in the match, and what do you know? The referee blew his whistle. 


Swansea, with their sanskrit shirts, got loaded onto a sack-of-shit mover headed out of town. The Everton fans left as well, with their hearts still beating faster than they should, but it certainly was no E-ticket that had created the unnecessary thumping.





 

When I turned on my DVR to watch this recorded match, the box informed me “Part of this match did not record due to satellite difficulties.” Great, just great. My dog brought me the leash and wagged his tail, but I dashed his hopes by pouring a fifth of gin and turning on the TV regardless. I clapped with pleasure: “Ah, the white ball is back!” and the match kicked off. One of the first things the commentator mentioned was that Everton need some goals from McCarthy. Anybody who knows football, however, knows that one cannot score standing by one'self in the middle of the pitch, wide open, futily waving their arms.


When I first saw Everton's new passing from the back attack, I was thrilled. I was also thrilled the first time I saw a balloon. It was bright and colorful, but it just didn't do anything. So, sure, Everton play like Barcelona. However, Barcelona plays that way after they're ahead 3-0. Everton employ that style before any goals have been scored. And so Everton passed. They passed it from 'keeper to defence. They passed it from defence to midfield. They passed it from midfield to the final third. They passed it from final third into the penalty area. They passed it from the penalty area to the final third. They passed from the final third to the midfield. They passed from the midfield back to the defence—I would dare say I had more fun writing that just now than I had watching it unfold.


West Ham did what most defences seem to do against Everton lately. Merely escort them around the pitch on their journeys to make sure they don't do anything foolish with the ball; like shoot. Everton did play a couple of balls off Naismith's head in the opening minutes, but that seemed to be more in sport than with intention. Gareth Barry also rocketed a souvenir into the Park End. I sat back, not knowing why I had been sitting forward. Perhaps Tim Howard might sneak one in today.


For the next 35 minutes, I began to suspect I was watching the part of the tape that didn't get recorded. Then I began deliberating switching off the game for a test-pattern. Delafeu did manage to step around his man in the right corner and fire a ball in that only got attacked by the Hammer's goalkeeper, who apparently was desperate for some action. A few moments later Delafeu mad a stirring dash down the centre of the pitch with West Ham players swirling around him like wigs on a windy day, until he fired a nothing shot. The fans finally resorted to booing Andy Carroll just to keep their blood circulating, and then halftime descended from the heavens.


Everton came out for the second half as though the talk had been: “The goal is that way. Kick the ball there.”

Pienaar certainly picked up on the message...sort of. He ran onto a backheel, shooting softly onto the post. Delafeu poofed the rebound at the keeper. Then Pienaar went to ground, sitting there gesturing as his mates trudged past him to head the other way. Moments later, Pienaar sent a delicate offering over the bar. Osman then took off on a long, dribbling run and sent a short dribbling shot into a defenders legs. After a brief spell of defending, Everton went back on the pass, with another Pienaar effort lacing nicely over the bar. Even the shots Everton took had all the sting of a short pass.


Everton were sort of playing more aggresively, and I was kind of happy. They played with the kind of vigor as though they all had the flu but were going to soldier on, anyway. I watched them much in the same manner. Gerrard D. toyed with a defender before letting a shot fly wide, and then Martinez started with his subbing, the first one being Lakaku on for Ossman. This resulted in a goal. Everton then stuffed the goal into their back pocket, and crammed the Hammers into their own end and began practicing their footwork again. Yes, Everton started passing like Barcelona again, but this time they had the lead, and the Hammers would never have the ball again until the ref blew his whistle, by which time they lost all interest in the ball. Not James McCarthy, though, who was still on the pitch, waving his arms and waiting. 

 

"Yes, I would like to have this pressed and sent to the subs' bench."

 




Chelsea and their many Aryan-looking players awaited Everton today in London. Okay, so William looks like Jermaine Jackson. Oh, and John Terry looks not like an offspring who resembles a part of both parents, but rather mirrors both their sexual organs. Anyway, take the first 17 minutes of this match, and throw them out the door, because that's when I finally stumbled out of bed to hit the on switch. I landed on the couch with a juggled mug of black coffee in my hands and interested dog at my feet.


The match was about the same as all Everton matches. Everton with the ball at their feet but never in the back of the net. It wasn't until minute 28 that Chelsea caught up with this the game. They poked their heads inside of Everton's penalty area to see what they could get, and they got their noses smacked by a Jagielka scorpion kick that took the venom out of the False Blues' bite. A few minutes later Etu came sneaking back, but his attempt was blocked by a skidding Howard.


The half verily came to a close with a pair of Mirrales corners; one bad, one good, but neither with any net result. The half literally came to an end on a Baines free kick with the ball dying of loneliness. The cameras found Mourino on the bench with his lower lip sticking out looking like Charlton Heston's bride from Planet of the Apes after he told her to take her damn, dirty hands off him, and my dog rolled over for a belly rub, and that's how the half ended.


In the second half, as I watched Howard block a shot, I began to pity Chelsea. A bunch of old retreads led by a dried up geezer who are flapping their wings in a desperate attempt to recreate their championship winning side from the turn of the century. Watching them chug around the pitch after Everton's young guns indeed brought on a melancholy feeling that the times, they are a changing. Perhaps if Everton's young guns ever actually fired a shot, the times will indeed change.


The only time Chelsea were ever in this game was when Everton would wear down from their constant passing, and flub a ball Chelsea's way. The London club would then, like a faithful old dog, scarper off with the ball before forgetting they had no teeth. They would then settle down and lick at the ball until Distan or Jagielka would yank it away from them and chuck it back up the field for Chelsea to go and fetch. In minute 60, however, Howard was called on to make a hand save off a shot by the splotchy-faced Torres, and then stand up tall to block another shot.


By minute 70, Roberto Martinez made his first of three rather quick and aggressive substitutions meant to lighten Everton up and ad some final zip to the attack. However, the subtraction of Osman, Pienaar, and Mirrales for Barklay, Delafeu, and McGeady, had the effect of tossing ballast into a sinking air balloon, rather than out of it. Barklay, in fact, played as though he had just stumbled out of a whorehouse where he had partaken of as much whiskey as women.


In the 87th minute, the hot air began spewing from the Everton balloon at an alarming rate, until it folded in flopped over them like a huge deflating ball sack. Speaking of ball sack, it was a Torres flop that began the descent. Torres committed a dive that should have him expelled from the league. Untouched in the Everton half, he suddenly clutched at his head in agony and threw himself to the ground as though he had suddenly discovered that the price of tampons just doubled.


The referee, who had been just fine all afternoon, seemed to be wearing down near the end of the match as well, and gave a free kick to Chelsea. While Everton eventually cleared the danger, the effort slogged them onto their back foot, and saddled with the play of their diabolical subs, Everton finally wilted.


In the third minute out of five in stoppage, Frank Lampard was awarded a questionable free kick. Frank Lampard? I double-checked my TV channel to make sure it hadn't somehow skipped over to an MLS game. Nope, Lampard was still in the Premiership! His kick dipped wickedly toward Howard, with John Terry sliding in at the keeper. The ball bopped the back of the net and the London slums erupted with delight. At first it looked as if the goal had gone from cock head to dick head, but the ball actually bounced off Tim Howard, who had been surprised by the sudden appearance of a huge dildo in his net.


Everton managed a couple of attacks and a corner, but it was that aged dog, Chelsea, who had devoured the steak. In the end, Everton were left licking the platter and wondering what if? What if they actually had taken a few shots? What if their subs weren't absolute horrors? What if the ref had been as resolute near the end as he was the rest of the day? Indeed, and if my aunt had balls, she'd be my uncle.





 





The last time Everton won at Anfield was a night game, and Everton had a black talisman playing up front. Secure in that knowledge and seeing who we had up front tonight, I certainly liked our chances. 

That we had more players out of action than Compton does on warrants sweep night held little sway in my mind. Roberto Martinez had swept the field at Old Trafford, held sway at Emirates, and had clearly stated his intention upon our arrival at Anfield.


And then the ref blew the whistle and the match started. Lordy, Lordy, Lordy. 

Everton started brightly enough with a few raids into the Reds' end. One such foray ended with a sizzling shot from distance by Barkley that nipped over the fingertips of the guy who plays goalie for Liverpool these days. That was about it for Everton this evening.


The good news is that Tim Howard seems to have overcome his weakness of giving up goals from distance. He made tremendous such saves in the opening 19 minutes. 

The bad news is he needs to start working on his one-on-one saves. He made a nice one on Sturridge, standing his ground and legging the ball away, but after that the match was a series of break away drills that left Howard sprawled, filleted, and sore from bending over to pick the ball out of the net.


Their first goal came off a corner taken by Suerez. The ball almost hit the back of the net before you were even able to see who flicked it in. 

Gerrard's goal celebration was something that will have little children crying out “Mommy!” in the middle of the night and checking under their beds for years to come. It was like demons finally opened a seam under Anfield and allowed the underworld to spill onto the pitch to forage for souls.


This unwordly troupe was led by the deviant Gerrard, with his sunken eyes and wild, evil face. The cluster included that retard with all the vowels missing on the back of his shirt. His forehead was wrapped with seaweed that looked like it was straining to keep a penis from bursting out. 

This red mob ran to the fans, and they in turn held out their odious offspring to the snarling maws of the Liverpool players, who snapped the heads off, and slurped blood, as the bowels of hell roared.


Referee Atkinson, witnessing this, obviously decided he wanted none of that. This clearly showed in his dubious and cowardly performance the rest of the match. However, Everton's own tenuous grip of their nerves proved that even a courageous referee would not be of use this night.


Next up in this unsightly parade was Sturridge running onto a pass that left just him and Howard alone in Anfield. 

Tim closed his eyes and murmured prayers that came out as swears, and as the rampaging Liverpool player drew near, Howard finally threw himself upon the ground hoping for mercy, which was granted and simply paid for with the shadow of a ball crossing over him and touching the back of his net. A calliope serenaded Anfield, and the carnival of carnage was on.


Anfield begged another bucket of blood and were quickly sated when what looked like a wind-blown ball sailed the length of the field catching Sturredge so far offside he was almost hit by a bus. 

Tim Howard ran out and threw himself at Sturredge, begging for mercy, which was granted, but not until the ball, again, passed over Howard and into the trappings of the net.


If this nightmare had a halftime, I didn't notice. Indeed, it was just one long night's journey into darkness. 

Pienaar, again, showed his lack of stomach for these affairs, as he proved most effective when clinging to the referree, who spent most the match trying to throwing him back into it. Lukuka chewed off his own ankle to gain relief from the gore and mental anguish.


At one point, brave Leon Osman came on for Pienaar, who had hung himself. Leon had the audacity to made a play and took a shot at Liverpool's goal. He was never heard from again.

 Liverpool were like the blood suckers in “Near Dark” breaking up that saloon. They just strode at the cowering Everton, round-housing their knotted throats with spurs, drinking their blood, casting aside the husks of their bodies, and terrorizing the hapless Howard.

Everton's best play of the night came when a Sturridge penalty sailed over the crossbar and into the vampire night. 

The razor's final slit fell to Luis Surez. Suerez had almost exhausted all of his energy imitating Linda Blair in her battle against holy water, as he tried to draw fouls and penalties, and blood-soaked women's panties from the stands.

 It is amazing he had enough left to score a goal with, but he did score, dicing up Jagielka and then stabbing Tim Howard through the heart. 

The tubular bells inside Suerez's mouth celebrated by playing “Undertaker's Melody” The Everton fans, too numb to boo, filed out of anfield as though rows of gallows awaited outside. As for Liverpool's players, the night was young, and they were drunk on blood. The coffins would have to wait.







The Premier League is starting to resemble a third-dimension Withnail who needs Spaniards instead of booze. “Spaniards, Spaniards; I must have more Spaniards—I WILL have more Spaniards!” Well, Everton showed up to the Hawthornes last night, and—ooh, somebody went out and got themselves a Spaniard to go with their Nazi!


To be honest, the Baggies new "Spaniard" looks more like Allan Shearer just added a few pounds to his face, changed his name to “Pepe” and wormed his way back into the league. However, if West Brom want to say they got a Spaniard, (wink) okay, they got a Spaniard. Let's play some football and get a few points closer to Arsenal. 


If Everton were going to zip past Liverpool in the standings, first they were going to have to start moving out there on that big green thing. Everton played this match as though suffering from bus lag due to the exhaustive journey from Merseyside. To be fair, Olviedo stung a one-timer left that was caught, and minutes later nailed one right that was caught.


Meantime, West Brom were playing pretty much as though “Pepe” really was Alan, but Everton's “Hands on Hips” defence was proving quite breach-able for the Midlands gang, who managed to break into Everton territory a few times and shout some Jewish slurs before running away. However, the feeling up period never really reached the groping stage, but in the “minuto” before halftime, (Spanish, for “Minute,”) Lukuka, who has been getting grooming tips from Pienaar, jumped up for a ball that crossed itself off his back over to Mirrales who boinked the ball in to make sweet love with the back of the net. That's the way teams that have real Spaniards do it, fools.


Everton, happy with their win, sent shadows of their former selves out to play in the second half. This was just the remedy West Brom needed, and they bullied the dark and useless shapes mercilessly throughout the half, running through them at times to take advantage of their lack of physical form. All the Evertonians in attendance could do was hope the Baggies tripped each other on their sojourns to the Everton net, and wait for the final whistle so they could do some much needed booing.


Indeed, Pepe's men were doing some real conquering stuff while Everton were left licking empty paella wrappers that they finally choked on with 20 minutes to go till fourth place. Speaking of Fascists, a guy named “Luiggi” or something, made a run at the Everton net out of boredom, and bounced a Morrison cross off his head past Tim Howard, who didn't even bother to follow the ball with his eyes as it spanked the back of the net.


For the final 20 minutes, Everton sloshed around the pitch like a bucket of water spilling on its way to nothingness. However, with ten seconds left in stoppage, Everton got a corner, took it, and scored, but Distain was laughably offsides. Martinez blurted, “Fuck my life!” The whistle blew, and “Pepe” was shown sipping Madera wine, catching rose petals with his teeth, and saying “Oui, oui!” a lot. “Pepe?” come on, Allan. You can do better than that!



 




The Canaries flapped into Goodison today, barely fluttering above the Championship coal mine. Their last visit to Merseyside saw 5 visits from the ball into their net. Would today be a repeat? Not if Everton could bloody help it.


In what is becoming too common a scenario, Everton played keepaway with the ball as though they were big brothers tormenting little brothers. However, when it came down to shooting and scoring, Everton are proving to be the feckless sibling week in, and wretched week out. 


If hitting your own man with a shot counts as a shot on target, Everton were peppering the targets. They delay shots until there is no shot, they take shots where there is no shot, and like perfect hosts, they constantly invite the guests back into the match. In the 18 minute, Everton took a corner that saw the ball land in front of the goal in the midst of a pack of blue boys. 


Each took turns staring at the ball like it was an unwelcome possum they had stumbled upon in their kitchen and they weren't sure how to get rid of it. A couple of players kicked at it gingerly, but in the end the possum fled out the window, to the relief of the Everton players. 


Mirrales was lively, yet barron, Baines was active, yet unproductive, and poor Lukako is either dead tired, low on confidence, hiding, or the ball is allergic to him. Each time the ball came to his feet or head, he reacted like a cheapskate at a restaurant reaching for the bill when the waitress brings it to the table. Ooh, almost! Hand hovers near pocket area before returning back to the glass. 


Then, in minute 22, Lukaku got the ball in Norwich's end, and started backing his way towards his own goal when he met Gareth Barry, who was coming the other way. Lukaku inquired of his friend if he might hand the ball over to him, as indeed, he was finding it to be a tremmendous burden. Barry beamed: “Sure!” took the ball and smacked a left-footed laser into the right hand upper corner of the net ahead of the diving keeper.


Norwich responded with a breakout towards Howard and a one-timer with deceptive speed that Howard just managed to bat away. Norwich followed that up with a few more chances that made you realize that Everton could well leave home with just a point. They finally managed to put the genie back in the bottle and set up camp in the Norwich end in the 33rd minute. However, halftime arrived with Everton still needing 16 goals to support the predicted scoreline of prediction wizards Dinero and Stallone.


The second half was more of the same nothing. Everton lively and not scoring, and Norwich missing opportunities on the counter. In the 60th minute Everton made a break downfield with Norwich in pursuit. On the TV it looked like a crying clown's mascara running. Baines gathered in the ball and almost made it inside the Norwich area, but was tripped. Mirralles and Baines stood over the kick. Of course, Everton have learned their lesson and won't let Mirrales take it, I told myself as Mirrales stepped to the ball and drilled a beauty into the upper left hand corner.


Poor Lukuka. He's beginning to resemble a cartoon hobo, who each time he almost gets his hands on a sandwich, it gets yanked away. Countless balls found themselves tantalizingly in his path only to be kicked away just as his boot was about to sock it. Finally, in the 64th minute, Coleman popped a peach of a long pass that Lukuka was able to run onto. Ruddy came out, Lukuka lost control, but regained it just before the ball went over the touchline, and poked it into the net. Romalu spent a good 30 seconds saluting the Gwladys end before he turned around to see the flag was up.


The only thing more disturbing about Everton not scoring 6 in this match, (17, I mean) is that Norwich easily could have had 6 goals themselves. The whistle blew and the score showed 2-0, but Everton need to learn how to dominate weak teams without giving them so many chances.

"What has one finger and is a retard? THAT guy!" 

 "THAT guy—wait, what has one finger and wha???"



WHEN I looked out at my back garden this morning, this is what I saw: Sunshine, blue sky, green grass, orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees teeming with fresh fruit, and peeping birds pecking about for goodies in the rich earth. When I turned on my TV a moment later, this is what I saw: Mark Hughes. Well, 2014 is sure getting off to a banging start.


This match got off to a banging start in a drizzling rain, as both sides made it impossible for me to go to the kitchen and make some fresh squeezed orange juice, let alone alone cup of coffee. Everton dabbled about in Stoke's end like concert pianists tickling the ivory before wailing on the keys. Stoke responded by dashing towards Everton's end like barking squirrels chasing an acorn.


Leighton Baines was tricky, and he danced, pranced, and galloped down the left side creating havoc. Mark Hughes sat on the bench looking like a man concussed and wondering if he would be asked that tricky “What day is it?” question again.


Howard had to wait but fifteen minutes for his gloves to taste leather, and moments later backed off to allow Crouch a successful chance at a miss. Both ends of the pitch churned under the studs of racing, red-blooded footballers. At minute 29, Mirrales would hit the first of his two efforts off the goalpost.


The drizzle turned to sideways rain. The camera paused a moment to show the downpour glaring against the lights of Britannica. After a moment of this, the commentator uttered a droll “Happy New Year.” It seemed the harder the rainfall, the more furious the Stoke attack. However, at minute 45, Lukaku played a sublime ball into Baines, who bucked his way toward the goal and was tripped. For the second time, Mirrales hit wood. This time on a free kick. Halftime, and both teams counted themselves lucky to be even at nil, and unlucky to be without goals.


Halftime broke and Stoke had a penalty claim right off the bat. However, it wasn't given, but before Mark Hughes could even come off the bench and demand to know what his name was, Assadi made the point moot by firing the loose ball hard and to the right of Howard and into the net.


Everton's dainty football became ham-fisted, and they trod instead of danced, but in the 56th minute Barkley began a run that started in his own end with Coleman insisting he send the ball back to Howard. He didn't stop until his foray into Stoke's end brought about a series of shots that produced nothing more than a free kick that Mirrales was induced to hit wall with, instead of wood.


Everton began to turn the screws about ten minutes later, but they kept screwing up near the net. Finally, Martinez had seen enough and sent Osman and Gelavic on in place of Pienaar, who was playing as though he was with Spurs, and McCarthy. This bent the will of the match Everton's way, and forced Stoke to scuttle into the darkness of their own end. Perhaps they would still be there as I write this, had Everton not been so committed to handing the ball over to them.


With 10 minutes left, Naismith came on for Lukaku, giving Everton that dangerous double-Ranger's duo up front. By this time, Mirrales had given up on hitting the post and driving the ball into walls the way James Dean drove Ferraris off of cliffs and just started taking shit free kicks.


Jelavic and Naismith, so elated at being freed from their sub-bench prison, galloped with wild abandon around the penalty area, yet rarely brought the ball in with them. They resembled five year olds gleefully prancing around on pretend ponies. Once again it was left to the old gray man, Leon Osman—ouch, we're all getting old! to shake things up. In the final minute Osman charged into the box, forcing Jermaine Pennant to trip him. No call was made, Ossie kept going, so Pennant tripped him again. Mariner finally realized that Moyes was no longer at Everton, and blew for the penalty. It was the 90th minute when Baines stepped up to take the penalty kick. What happened next?

Ball in net, birds singing, and Mark Hughes's face phhted away from my TV screen the way a balloon spurts into the atmosphere when you let the air out of it. I had a sip of orange juice. Blacht. Bitter. 



Weren't the 1990s the era of boy bands, lame sitcoms, and metro-sexual GQ models? Why then, in 2013, do I tune into a Premiere League match featuring Everton, only to find the entire "male" cast of Friends sporting red pajamas awaiting them?


As a matter of fact, I couldn't even be sure this was Everton! Baines was back, but Oviedo was still out there. Howard was gone—I expected that, and huge black widow bounced around a web in his place, Jagielka was gone, and in his place was some guy named Alcarez. Osman was wearing the captain's armband after sucking wind last week, and the kinetic Naismith had found his way back into the starting lineup.


It was almost as though a huge slotted spoon had scooped all the sausage from the gravy and replaced it with lumps.


Well, it took all of 3 minutes for Everton to force a save, and five minutes to realize that attacking football was a two-way street. These pouty-mouthed pansies from SOTON could play a little football! Both teams attacked an it took all of 9 minutes before Coleman ran down the right side, showed frustration over the lack of options in the middle, juked inside and smacked a ball with plenty of mustard on it into the upper left corner of the net.


The match restarted like a ball kicked into a roundabout. The midfielders played like dizzy traffic cops trying to snag drug traffickers, with the defences standing in like hard-nosed border control agents. So captivating was the play, that when I looked up to see if it was past the ten-minute mark, it was already the 39-minute mark. It was at just this point that SOTON's Lalana brought down a pass in the middle of the Everton defence, and whirlybirded his way around them. So sublime was the move that grown men stared, women sighed, and the commentators cooed. Lalana rewarded them with a wild-assed shot out of touch. Minutes later, Baines sent a “Forget-Me-Not” corner across the SOTON goal that reminded everybody of how great he is. Shortly after that the halftime whistle blew.


Halftime resumed and both teams remembered where the nets were. Barkley and Oveiado broke off on a tear that almost tore out the back of Southamptons net—had it been on target, and the Saint's answered with a corner at the other end. It is strange that Everton's new attacking style has led to them having the best defence in the league.


Well, in minute 70, Southampton's Ramirez looked up and noticed that Everton's goalkeeper had been replaced with a babbling waterfall. He shot, and the ball splashed straight through into the net, dashing cold water all around Goodison and on Everton's attack. However, it took all of two minutes for Everton to crank up the generator when Pienaar, McCarthy, and Lukaku snuck into Saint's territory on what they said was a talent scouting mission. By the time the pretty, but not-so-sharp boys caught on, McCarthy LOL'd a sidefooted pass to Lukuka, who smashed his own Forget-Me-Not past Southampton's gaping mouths into their gaping net. The referee sprinkled the pitch with some yellow cards, and twenty minutes later blew the whistle. Everton returned to fourth place, and Southampton retired to their houses to hold hands and sip hot cocoa. 





What did you think you would be doing on Boxing day? Nothing? Not Everton, and certainly not me. Me, I figured I would box up some rubbish for the servants, put away—have the servants put away the Christmas elves, reindeer, trees, lights, and aging relatives. I would then await supper, and then tune in to watch my favourite Holiday TV show: “Everton Knock the Piss Out of Sunderland.” Let's review: 1. Check. 2. Check. 3. Check—Wheyhay!!!


Since this is Christmas, let me say this match began with Everton playing like magicians at a children's birthday party. A magician at a children's birthday party who had left the rabbit at home:


“Okay, see this hat?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, see this hat? it's empty!”

“Yes.”

“Okay, erm, see this hat? This hat is silk!”

“Doesn't it have a rabbit or something inside that you can pull out?”

“I can place this hat on my head, or take it off my head...”


Everton did all the old crowd pleasing tricks, they just left their magic at home. Without their magic, Everton's bag of tricks just sounded like album titles for old Genesis albums: Back Heels to Nowhere, Over the Crowd, Crosses Out of Touch, Wasted Corners...you get the idea...Well, nonetheless, this fare had Sunderland spellbound. They even held hands and formed the “Hansel and Gretel Look for Bread Crumbs” line of defence while Everton sought out plump little cat morsels to stuff into their ovens.


All of this was amusing until, from his own goal line, Tim Howard rolled a pass to Jagielka like a flower pedal. While Phil awaited the scented piece of daisy, a North Korean/South Korean/Chinese/Japanese fellow with a huge smile pounced upon the ball. Tim Howard pounced upon the Asian, who (seemingly) squeezed his eyes shut, bared (it seemed) his teeth, and fell over.


OMG! The ref wanted to call the UN and file a discrimination lawsuit. However, the young Asian man said, “No, it's okay. Just give penarty kick.” Done and Done! The ref showed a red card to Howard, Osman came off, and some goalkeeper named “Joel” put away the crossword and came on. The young Asian knocked in the penalty kick and excitedly invited his entire team over for takeout.


Well, weren't Sunderland the chuffed fat cats? They jaunted and sauntered and strutted around. Tabbies, Persians, Calicos, and Siamese. In fact, before halftime, Joel had to pull a double save out of his pocket, and then the goal scorer had another chance, but with players and ball both in motion, he could't quite hit anything but rain clouds.


Halftime, and then there was darkness.


The substitutions Everton made; nothing. Everton attacked, one man down all half; nothing. Backheels, daisy cutters, bicycles, toe pokes, headers; nothing. Corners? Nothing. Free kicks? Same. Jellavic on?Nothing. The points for Everton today? Nothing. So, what did you do for Boxing Day? I know what Everton did. 




I don't mean to brag, but I have purchased a fake fireplace. I plug it in, it heats the room and looks as though logs or rocks are burning while flames shoot up past the top of the glass front. I tell you this, because despite the fact that nothing is really happening, I can stare at this fireplace for hours with a smile on my face. It reminds me of watching Everton over the last couple games.


If it is true that the very good teams win when they are playing poorly, then this Everton team may yet prove to be one of the best in Europe. In fact, it may be argued that good football was only on display twice in this match; when Everton scored. Swan's goal came during a sloppy shooting fest where a ball ricocheted off of Oviedo for an OG.


Nothing felt right from the start. Everton played as though they were blindfolded, and Swans, swaddled in white, resembled a bunch of infants trying to change their own diapers. Apart from Mirralles breaking through for the occasional missed shot or failure to spot Lakaku making a break, this match was more predictable than my fireplace, and less fun to watch.


Halftime arrived like a long lost friend. I made supper, drank beer, played with the dog, and watched the flames in my fireplace. You know, the fire can go all night long, and I still won't have to clean up any ashes in the morning.


To my chagrin, halftime ended, forcing me back to the TV screen, and away from the fireplace screen.

Well, both teams started up again with the same old crap going nowhere fast. To my mind, they resembled a convention of businessman trying to hand out business cards to a delegation of Jehovah's Witnesses who were trying to hand them copies of The Watchtower.


The beautiful thing about The Beautiful Game, is that beautiful goals will adorn an ugly game with beauty. This happened in minute 64, when Coleman gathered a stray ball—were there any other kinds in this match—from well outside and to the right. The look on his face said, “Fuck this shit.” Which is funny, because that was just what I was beginning to think. However, before I could truly “fuck this shit,” Coleman did exactly that with a wicked rocket to Russia. Wales. Whatever. I didn't go mental. Everton owed me this goal for watching the whole mess.


Earlier, I mentioned an OG on Oviedo. This happened just four minutes later, and then the match pulled the covers back over its head and went back to sleep. I entertained myself by watching the South Wales rain on the TV, the fireplace on the other screen, and then throwing back the curtains from my window to reveal the sunny day and 80 degree weather outside. Then, I would cover the window back up and be surrounded by darkness, a fire, and the gloom on my TV screen that was taking place in lieu a footballing match.


As the match entered the 80th minute, I contemplated switching over to a “Water World” festival on the Science Fiction Channel. Well, not a festival—just watching the movie once is like watching a festival. As a matter of fact, it could be argued that I was already watching an Everton festival on NBC.


Anyway, I paused because I heard a whistle. Everton were pondering a free kick from about the same area where Coleman had scored from, but a little more centered. Lukaku and Barklay stood over the ball. I think Barklay somehow looks less disturbing with his shaved head. Anyway, it was Barklay who swung his leg, and it was the ball that dipped under the crossbar for a perfect goal.


The match folded in on itself, the referee blew the whistle, and I curled up with my fireplace. Dreams of first place danced in my head as phantom flames danced upon the screen. 




Poor Fulham. Look at the names on the back of their shirts:

Parker

Bent

Duff

Berbetov

Senderos

Hughes


Their roster reads like a “Who's Who” in the obituaries. In fact, it's as though their entire team, year after year, is made up of creatures that clawed their way out of Stephen King's “Pet Cemetery.” You know, you bury the dear sweet pets, but they come back as something worse. Oh, my Gawd, look at John Arne Riise! He's come back as Eraser Head!


Nothing was right, and nothing felt good. Not even Roberto Martinez's football sexy time. What can you expect when the opponent slopes at the shoulders, plods on its feet, and looses teeth every other minute? Attractive doesn't play against relegation and graveyard fodder. The wary zombies took to the pitch against Everton, but what started out like a game of chess burst into a checkers match, and not much more. Here, I quote from the commentator:


“This is a nice spell of possession from Fulham...not that they've gone anywhere with the ball.”


Well, that was a hell of a lot more than you could say for Everton at this point! This match was Lukaku racing down the pitch and waving for the ball only to jog back up the pitch with his head down. Goal hero Delefao racing down the pitch and shooting the ball into the crowd. Delefao passing the ball to a Fulham team that, heretofore, had been backpedaling. Everton were handed a fistful of corners, but they launched them the same way NASA launches astronauts, and they landed like capsules splashing down in the ocean.


I had just begun painting the various “Faces of Death” on my toenails, when in the 19th minute Osman took a pass from Pienaar from about bumpety range, dippity-doo'd with his own toenails, and smashed a beauty past the keeper.



Do you remember the story in the bible about the woman who was going to be stoned to death for adultery? And then Jesus said, “Let he who is without sin throw the first stone?” And how everybody just sort of hemmed and hawed, looked at the ground, then pulled all the rocks out of their pockets and shuffled off to their own homes, wives, and mistresses?


Imagine if just one person had picked up a rock and said, “Screw that, I'm nailing her!” and chucked a rock at the poor woman! Do you think everybody would have continued home? No. With a roar, they would have started heaving rocks two-handed at the lady. Men would have been doing behind-the-back throws, and women would have been throwing like cricket bowlers. People would have been plunking her and high-fiving.


Pretty much, this is the effect upon Everton that Osman's goal had. They began back-heeling, side-stepping, crossing over, and firing wild-assed shots that would have made Delofoe blush. Oh, wait. He was the one firing those shots. Ossie just missed out on a hat trick, and a few other balls pelted the goalkeeper's head, face, shoulders, hands, legs, and nuts. Finally, the referee strode over and stitched a huge “A” on his chest, signaling halftime.


Everton started the second half, but not as much as Fulham did. In fact, Fulham slapped Everton with two chances like Indian warriors counting coup on wounded enemies. Everton survived, but the real fans crept closer to their televisions and clenched their fists.


After 63 minutes, Martinez had seen enough missed passes and glopped shots by Delefeo, and brought him off for Mirrales. This decision was met with a penalty decision for the Cottagers, and Berbatrov converted as though in a trance, while Howard leaped like voltage was in charge of his body.


Everton finally began swinging the winds of change back in their direction, and in minute 73, Lukaku and Pienaar played a great 1-2-1, which ended with a saved shot that rolled out to the right of the net and waited there teasingly for Coleman's arrival. Arrive, Coleman did, and so did the ball into the back of the net.


Ten minutes later, the Toffees had a corner, and the ball lolled around the shoulder and arm of Lukaku. The ball plooped up to Gareth Barry, who managed to lean his head into the ball, nudging Everton ahead by 3-1. Six minutes later, Mirrales came storming down the middle of the pitch. Poor Lukuka raised his hand again and broke for the net, but Mirrales nailed a shot that bumbled underneath Fulham's young keeper for a final score of 4-1. Everton got a bucket of points and goal differential, and a creepy feeling that it was the luckiest 4-1 win ever.




  ARSENAL HOLD EVERTON

                                Sunday, 8 December 2013


Well, Tim Howard isn't superstitious, is he? He has worn his Islam iman beard through a 14-game unbeaten streak, and right after Everton beat United at Old Trafford for the first time in 21 years, he shaves it off. Or, perhaps he IS superstitious and hacked it off after seeing the group his international team got placed into for the world cup. Allow me to segue by starting a new paragraph.


So anyway, Everton, never having any luck at Highbury, hire Martinez, who forces Arsenal to build a new stadium so that Everton don't feel daunted by not having won there since before armadillos stalked the earth. As you would imagine, Everton started the game brimming with confidence, and Arsenal played like French army volunteers trying to talk each other out of a stampeding retreat.


Well, if football is like sex, Everton were employing their tantric strategy. The silky smooth foreplay by the team in blue had plenty of panties peeling, deep, soulful looks, teasing pauses, coy passes and sexy touches. However, the end product was still like using a rubber band to stave off an orgasm. Crosses from the left, crosses from the right, and through passes up the middle never came close to sending any of the Everton supporters to the confession booth. In fact, Tim Howard's kicking was more accurate than the passing Everton needed to light a fire under the Arsenal goalkeeper. By the 16th minute, Everton ruled the control statistic by 66 percent to 34, but producing little more than light boos from the Arsenal supporters for their team.


Near the end of the first half, the Gunners finally cashed in their “Everton Missed Passes” coupons to group together a few attacking flurries at the other end. This unfolded much like when homeless people group together their spare change, food stamps, and coupons to get a couple of 40 ouncers of malt liquor: the guy they send to the liquor store loses some of the change, pockets a bit of the rest, and is then told that the store doesn't honour coupons or food stamps. He returns to his buddies with some pocket lint, a guitar pick, and a half-consumed 40-ouncer of Miller High Life, only to receive a black eye and some curses for his efforts. Let's move into the second half, shall we?


Due to Howard Webb's halftime talk, Arsenal came out determined in the second half. Wenger may be French, but Arsenal ground out the game like an angry German lady making sausage. It was all Everton players could do to keep their fingers clear of the meat-smashing gears, and Wenger's pastry boys controlled the game with new determination. Well, that is until Everton finally touched the ball again and Pienaar had a long wicked shot slapped over the bar, and then, after a 30-minute build-up, Barkley's shot was rejected.


At this point, Wenger replaced half his team with subs, and Everton countered with Osman, because of his leaping ability. A few minutes later, Gerard Delofeo came on, as well. One day, I'll look up the word “Miasma” in the dictionary, but for now, it seems to describe the run of play pretty well. Then, in minute 80, Rossicky, still wearing that hair thingy from when he was in that euro chick band, lifted a ball into the area the way a circus bear would. A circus crowd, of course, would laugh, but at the Emirates it passed for pretty damned good football. One Gunner in the box miss-kicked it, which passed for a pretty good dummy, and then some guy who looks like Lenny Bruce buried it into the left hand side of the net.


With ten minutes left, this meant two things: Everton knew they only had ten minutes left to win the match; and Arsenal wanted Webb to blow the whistle. Minutes later, Oviedo sent in another cross that Lukaku tried to bicycle kick in. Unfortunately, he whiffed, and simply resembled Drenthe trying to catch a cab after closing time during his Merseyside stint. On the fortunately side, the ball petered out to Deleufao. He skittered around the outside corner of the box on the right, before suddenly just chucking the ball into the left back of the net like a shuttlecock. Both teams missed out on their paid-for drinks at the Last Call Saloon, and Finally, Howard Webb had nothing left to do but to send Naismith onto the pitch to signal the end of this fantastic match. 

   EVERTON GET OUT ALIVE

                                   At Old Trafford, December 5 2013


Throw away the dictionary; irony has finally been defined. Toss the garlic; Dracula is dead. Stop knocking on wood; the door's been smashed, and shine up your Saint Christopher's, because we're coming home singing. Ding dong, the wicked witch is melting from a chucked bucket of magical water off the Costa Rican coast.


Among the wasps and bats that have burst flapping from David Moyes' yap recently was “When you play at Old Trafford, you just want to get out alive.” He may still be locked away in the dressing room waiting for the villagers with torches to leave. Someone should tell him the coast is clear. The only people left around Old Trafford are wearing blue, and they're dancing. The lynching and torching will begin with the media in a room decked out in red, and it will follow Moyes outside to his car, his home, his church, his supermarket, back to his office, and finally, his soul.


How strange that we have thanked David Moyes for the way he elevated Everton the past ten years, when tonight, Roberto Martinez showed us that perhaps it was Moyes who was dragging us down. Escape from Old Trafford alive? Check. Well done, Bob. Geez, that wasn't so hard, Dave, was it? Well, depends upon which side of the fence you're on...


Martinez stated he wants brave football and points from these sort of matches. Everton's players performed as though they concurred. After the one minute's applause for Ryan Giggs, the final survivor of the Munich air strike or whatever, the match kicked off like popping corn. That is to say it simmered, but then flurries of fluffy corn burst from the frying pan at United's faces. These were met with flinches and grimaces, along with some nice saves. United's attacks were more like empty boxes of Jujubees: You turn the box upside down and tap it furiously, without anything happening, until suddenly, a couple of black ones come shooting out at you. In fact, the match was 9 minutes old when I first heard Rooney's name:


“Rooney, back on defence...”


Everton built their attacks just as though they were playing Lop United, or Stoke. Slow, patient, and with confidence. They threaded the back, mid, and final third of the pitch like Italian magicians showing string magic to stupefied children. Once in a while, a United child, with drool on its chin and doubt in its eye, would swat at the string and scatter the ball into Everton's end. When this happened, Ryan Giggs would wave his handicapped placard and await a pass. However, these spurts just ended up as string in Tim Howard's beard, and anger in David Moyes' eye. The half ended with both sides out of breath; fans and players, and both teams sniffing blood.


Second Half.


I snapped on the TV back on just in time to see Tim Howard making another snap-whip save only for the same thing to happen to Everton seconds later. It became clear that even if this match ended without goals, this was the match of the day. This was two scorpions in a cardboard box swinging their stingers at each other for our enjoyment.


In the 55th minute, something strange happened. Moyes made a double substitution. This was curious for two reasons:


He never would have done this with Everton.

The commentators said that “You have to make aggressive substitutions when you are with Manchester United!”

What this means, is that he never played to win when he was with Everton. However, because of his fear of losing at Manchester United, he adjusted his management style to “Release the flying monkeys!”


Ten minutes later, Martinez made his own substitution. It was as though he handed his Armani coat to a ball boy, and asked for the cashmere sweater. I could have sworn that Moyes hissed at him. It was in minute 71 that United cashed in all their Ferguson chips for the goal, only to find that those chips had an expiration date. This is how I recall the moment:


Corner, save, header onto the bar into path of Manc, kick save out of the way by Howard, penalty shout, denied, Rooney skies into crowd, Moyes: “LESS CHEESBURGERS, YOU FAT, AND NOW BALD FUCK.” This bit lead to another furious and futile Manchester United attack. You just knew this match would not end in a scoreless draw, and in minute 88, Baines proved you right by not being in the lineup. However, his replacement, Oviedo, was in place to receive a grounded cross from Lukuka. Oviedo looked up, saw an empty spot in the net, and filled it. Song rang out from Old Trafford, but the Stretford end was quiet as death. Four minutes later the whistle blew, and ashes rained down upon Moyes' Theater of Dreams. Oh, in his new uniform Fellaini looks like an overworked tampon.

Reaction: 


HOW ABOUT YOU STOP FEELING AROUND FOR OUR PLAYERS, THEN. YOU BLOODY VAMPIRE



                       23 November, 2013


         

          DERBY FRAY 




This is a world that has gone so horribly wrong. Terrorism has become mundane, looters ravage streets already ruined by hurricanes, children are ripped away from sports fields and tossed onto battlefields, drive-by shootings are heard popping out of cars and into houses where babies sleep, and drug cartels shovel burned and decapitated bodies into mass graves the way a squeegee wipes water off a windscreen. Dear God, why then can't you just nudge Liverpool's bus into the path of a train that has Phil Dowd strapped across its front?


Well, The Creator is busy doing other things, and so Liverpool showed up, as did Dowd, and this game kicked the hell off. Everton held most of the possession without much happening. What this means, is if they couldn't score right away, somebody else would. Oh, look. It's minute 6 and Liverpool have a corner. The ball ding-donged in the area while Tim Howard cracked the door open, leaving it on its chain, peeked out and shrilled, “WHO'S THERE?” Well, some guy wearing half of Howard's beard on top his head was there, and he slammed a ball through the crack in the door.


Liverpool's fans began jumping around like lobsters trying to flee the tank at feeding time, but Everton slapped them back into the tank minutes later. Baines took a corner, and fresh off his “Wow, I Suck Now. Go Figure!” tour, he bumped in a tempting morsel that Mirrales sunk his teeth into to tie the score.


Everton used the impetus not to defend, but to try and stab Liverpool's achilles heel. They attacked with gusto, but to no effect. Speaking of teeth, moments later Surez set his monster chompers into the Goodison grass in search of earth worms, but what he came up with was a a mouthful of free kick. He should have been carded for diving, but Dowd apparently is rationing those cards out for Everton players. Last year, this would be perfect range for Baines. The ball sailed by the Everton wall, as Pienaar, who last year would have been the perfect partner for Baines, shied out of the way. Howard's surprised eyes grew with the approaching of the ball. Too late, he dove, still, his gloved hand just missed the ball as the orb nestled into the lower right corner. The half ended with Sueraz, yet again curled up on the pitch, twitching like a diseased hamster that couldn't get another call. The ref ignored him, although an elephant hunter stopped by and tried to pry some of that precious ivory from his horrible mouth.


The second half was like being in a snug, wintery snow globe, except without snowflakes and horse-drawn carriages, but with wood chippers and chainsaws, instead. In fact, the pace was both frantic and cautious. Phil Dowd chugged about the pitch too dazed by the action to make any more lame ass calls. The teams in Blue and Red took care of the rest. Lakaku in minutes 72 and 82, equalized and drew Everton ahead with a boot and his head. This was good enough for Goodison glory, until the 89th minute, when Sturridge headed in from a corner with a sickening sound.


When the whistle blew, both teams seemed ready to call it a day and were more than happy to exchange handshakes after a job well done. Oh, but in the growing dark of the Liverpool evening...no, that doesn't work...Oh, but as the day grew colder, the true LFC spirit of pettiness and hate began to surface as complaints began to surface regarding a challenge Mirralles made with his studs up. Why was Mirralles still on the pitch at the end of the game, LFC wanted to know? Why was he not sent off?

The answer, you wankers, is that sometimes, God gets it right. Now, fasten your panties, because it's rough sledding on your way down to the Europa League.




Everton vs Barcelona @ London 



This match began with the fans observing a minute of silence for Crystal Palace, and went downhill from there. The commentator told us that the Everton team would remain unchanged from the team that played against Spurs. Everton then went out and played like the same team that had played against Spurs.


Palace matched Everton in their reluctance to engage, but who could blame them? Before the match, their big-mouthed intern manager had boasted, “I'm going to war with Everton! Who's with me?” and then spent the entire match standing well away from the action.


If Everton were at war, they didn't seem to notice. They played more like finicky animals than warriors. In fact, Osman sent a stray ball Lakaku's way in front of an open net, yet the African merely pecked at it as though the ball were a tainted kernel of corn. Watching Everton, one would think that with Christmas approaching, they were placing all their goals on layaway. Palace played the way a robber pokes a dead body to make sure it's really it's safe to rob. Once they were certain that Everton couldn't hurt them, the first half came alive. Tim Howard was hurtled onto the proving grounds, but seemingly just to verify the closeness of Palace's chances. Unfortunately for the Londoners, Palace took all their chances as if they were expecting that stupid fucking eagle to get loose again and swoop down onto their heads. Halftime came and TV viewers saw Howard trying to rip the armband off Jagielka.


Halftime


Palace took Kagisho Dikgacoi off, and put in some bloke whose name didn't sound like a drunk about to fail a drink driving test. Martinez, bless his heart, took off Osman and Mirrales soon after that and put on Barkley and Deulofao. Palace began the second half playing as though Ian Dowie had burst in during halftime and slapped them around with some boxing gloves. Everton showed new life with the lively Barclay and erratic, yet promising Deulafayo. However, it was Palace who continued to miss chances, and Everton wishing they had chances to miss. Baines took each corner and free kick as though he had promised the Sheffield United fans that he would never play well against Crystal Palace. This match, in fact, was like watching carpet cleaning soap going to work on your carpet, and it ended like the fizzing bottle of beer that caused the need for carpet cleaning in the first place.

As poor as Everton played, the difference between Moyes and Martinzez is that Moyes would have lost this match.



From "The Baron" on LASH


Worst match I've been to for a while this. A few points: teams have sussed that Lukaku is crap with his back to goal, takes too many touches to control the ball and turn so they get tight to him and pounce as he receives the ball. The result is he usually loses possession one way or another, this may be why Mourinho is uncertain of him?
The players struggle against sides who get behind the ball and defend in numbers, remember Cardiff? it was exactly the same. There's a lack of guile/creativity in the final 3rd to unlock really defensive teams, just like there was under Moyes. We look better against sides who play an open game and don't tackle the fuck out of us
Ossie's legs are finished. Baines looks pissed off and grumpy and unwilling to make runs and link up with Pienaar. Jags has gone from the worst passer in the world to one of the worst passers in the world so an improvement there but he's currently touching the ball more than the wide men which just slows everything down to a snails pace. Soon, a team will target him for aggressive pressing and things might get a bit dicey there. Mirallas is having a quiet season so far and his averageness has begun to infect Seamus.

Also it was cold and rained constantly with hardly any public transport to and from the ground. We had to walk the 3 miles back to my mate's place as it was completely gridlocked. Palace's ground makes Goodison look like the Bernabau and their fans are retards.

That is all. 

 



Crystal Palace Preview: Let's see if DirectTV have pulled their heads out of their arses. It looks like the match is a go. We. Shall. See. 

          


               Spurs Match Report: 

I'm going to show you the same thing that I saw on my television when I tuned in to the match: 



This company has gone from awesome to shit in about 0.25 seconds. I apologize.

 



IN DEPTH SPURS ANALYSIS WITH 

ROBERTO MARTINEZ 



              ... First, MY analysis: 


Spurs always provide a challenge for Everton. Everton often struggle to score more goals against Tottenham, than Tottenham score against Everton. That's MY analysis. I also work at a gas station for a living. 

For analysis that goes beyond my realm of expertise, I went to the realm of THE MAN. Roberto Freaking Martinez. Roberto?

You have a mind like Uri Geller, Kenyon,. However, if I may... 


 

Make no mistake of it. Football is a man game played by red-blooded mans. 


 

 Spurs, for instance, features an entire team of men with red bloods and mans names. They have: Kyle, Brad, Aaron, Danny, Ulad...? Jan...wtf, JAN? I'm think a joke is played on me with this.



 

Anyway, Everton have complete complement of Man Names:

Phil, Tony, John, Kevin, Steven, James, and Ross. Need I go on?

So, subtract their man names from from these of ours man names---I'm very much into namerology--and we are lefts with an advantages of 3. 



 


 



 

 

 Fair play. Make that two. Everton will win this match by a two goal margin.




      Everton 3 Spurs 1 


                           26, OCTOBER, 2013

                             EVERTON @ VILLA


 

  





At work, they have retooled the cash register because the old edition was working just fine. Now it makes barking noises and takes long, soulful pauses during transactions so that everybody in line can get better acquainted. My cellphone, usually a stalwart of nothingness, has begun making mystifying ice cream truck melodies without offering any treats, but dishing out loads of low-minutes warnings, even though the minutes are full. I just bought a Kindle that does nothing but show me covers of books I can't open, and listings of wifi opportunities I can't unlock. And then there is dear, sweet Everton, ticking along like German clockwork from happier times.


However, as this game unfolded, the Everton machine began making shrieking noises that in the old days meant the pumps need priming. Everton kicked off, and it was all backwards from there. Tim Howard resembled the paddle part of a paddleball toy being played by a kid in desperate need of Ritalin. Before Howard could even get the hairs of last night's Midland's conquest out of his beard and teeth, he had to save a penalty. Then, he had to save a one-on-one opportunity, and then another. Villa's coach, Paul Lambert, who dresses like Drew Carrey and has the expression of a guy who's always asking people if they know where his wife is, was beside himself. "Why could we not score a goal? Why could we not--hey, you haven't seen my wife, have you?"


Everton were not without their own personal problems. Lukaku had already had a hat trick's worth of goals saved by the other American keeper. In fact, it began to look as though the British empire, for their own amusement, had pitted two American slaves against each other in a deadly game to see who would come out alive. In the meantime, Everton buildups would breakdown just past midfield, Aston Villa would break with long, deadly passes, and Howard or Distan would save. I began to fret, because halftime was approaching, and Lukaku was without his first half goal. That would mean the second half chances would be the responsibility of Kone. Then the halftime whistle did blow, and my smoke alarm began shrieking.


The second half began with the sort of slogging that follows a lively first half, and it became apparent that if Everton didn't score the first goal, they would not win this match. Martinez, who looks as if he HAS seen Lambert's wife, made an early substitution. Osman came on for the poor-decision-making Barkley. This lead to a three-man Everton passing triangle down the left side with Osman taking the ball and sending it into Lukaku's path. The Nigerian, no, Belgium player's face lit up and he scuttled the ball along the pitch and into the open, half-net employed by the “thrifty” midlanders.


If you think this lit a fire under the Villain players, you would be correct. They suddenly seemed in a hurry to get back to their houses and wives...except for poor Lambert, who had begun eyeing Martinez with suspicion. Meanwhile, Martinez made another substitution. He seems to be pretty good at this sort of thing. He brought on the kinetic Naismith, speaking of Ritalin, and Naismith and Barry combined to send a pass into the electro-magnetic field of Leon Osman, who set the frequency to high, and the shot to low, beating the keeper inside the left post to end the match. The Villa fans dropped their heads and boarded the people mover conveyor belt to Loserville, as the Everton fans sang a song that rang around the empty park: “David Moyes, are you watching?” How could he have been watching? He was too busy celebrating Manchester United's epic late-minute winner over...Stoke? I bet David Moyes would make a heck of a co-worker. I wonder if he can handle a chirpy cash register while I disappear for long periods of time?


 


Everton Football Club versus Hull Tigers. Ha ha ha! Hull Tigers! 20 Octover, 2013 

Steve Bruce is not the gift that keeps on giving. He is the gift that keeps getting re-gifted. My God, where will this man “turnip” next? I Googled “Steve Bruce's successes as a manager,” and this is what I got: “Steve Bruce was born on December 31, 1960.” That may well have been a late lump of coal in his parents' Christmas stockings, but what a boon it was for the shit clubs of the world! Ladies and Gentlemen, let's give a huge Goodison Park welcome to the Hull Tigers, led by Steve Bruce!”


It took Everton 8 minutes to dump a load onto Bruce's lap. Kevin Miralles ran onto a Leon Osman pass at the outside of the box and struck a depressing little skip of a shot that the goal keeper had no chance on--unless he stuck out his boot. He didn't, and Everton were up a goal. The commentator said that this was the worst start possible for Steve Bruce. I say that skipping a full English Breakfast would have been the worst start possible for him.


Hull countered with two chances; the best being when Distan and Howard combined on a quick, one-two that Howard just missed by kicking the ball over the crossbar. Gareth Barry saw yellow shortly after this, when he tackled some soft twat who rolled around on the ground, alternately massaging his head and his shins in order to give the ref a bigger target for carding.


Somewhere around 30 minutes, Hull burst into Everton's area, roaring with energy and baring their “Cat in the Hat” uniforms at the Blues. They “pounced” when a pass cut across the face of the goal and a guy named “Sagmo”-- am I reading my notes right?, let the ball smack the side of his boot for a wicked quick shot that scorched the (always) diving Howard on its way to the back of the net. The away fans chanted, “Let's go Tigers! Let's go Tigers!”


For the rest of the half, Everton's play became diabolical. In the wrong way. I began to wonder if perhaps they may be lagging on purpose late in the half, in order to not lag at the beginning of the second half. The fans didn't seem to see it that way and boo'd Everton all the way into the dressing room as the half ended.


At halftime, a sudden torrential downpour drenched Goodison in slanting, hateful sheets of piss water from the Liverpool skyline. Fortunately, Hull's Huddlestone came out and absorbed all the water from the sky into his hair. However, it didn't take more than five minutes for the rain to start pissing down again, and it did so just at the point when Martinez called for Stephen Pienaar to come into the game. Stephen paused at the touch line, and gazed into the sky. While many believed it to be a gesture of prayer to God, my lip reading told me he was saying, “Shit, it's pissing down, again.” However, come into the game Stephen did, and so too, he did score by popping a Barkley cross off his fins and into the net.


This caused Martinez, who had launched Piennaar in the first place, to become so full of the blood lust that he pulled off Mandingo Lukaku and offered Kone in his place. Kone came onto the pitch, dutifully, chugged around, made a couple of moves and shot into the bar and had another shot saved. Hell, THAT'LL DO ME, KONE! I yelled at the TV in anger-thoughts. Then, bouncey Mr. Naismith came on and hopped around like he was lip-syncing and air-jamming to some Plimsoul's songs. The referee checked his watch and blew for the zero hour, and Steve Bruce's mouth pulled downward at the corners as his jowls and fingers shook at the referee. 


See that bit in large white letters down there? No, ignore the money amount, I know I will. I mean that DVR thing? Yes! I have a high-def box. My TV is some kind of mess from the early nineties, but I swear, the picture is SWEET! Strange how all the figures on it look over-tall and skinny, though. 





My Snapshot

Receivers(1)

HD-DVR(1)

Current Balance

Previous Balance: $331.82
$157
09

 



Well, just as Washington fingered out their thingy-McBang, I sorted out my problem with Direct TV. As you are well aware, they have been loathe to give me my Premiere League package without me having a high-def box. Well, thanks to automated phone systems and humans with "exotic" accents, I only had to wait since July to get "all that EPL action and more!"

Also, I mean no disrespect to anybody's auntie who works the phones at Direct TV. However, sometimes, these ladies just sound like Orson Welles in "The Third Man," or Inspector Clouseau in "The Pink Cougar" or whatever that movie I watched alone last weekend, numerous times, was.

That said, I look forward to bringing you all the head-splitting action tomorrow against Cardiff. I hope I can ad pictures to words, but it is Ojai Day tomorrow. That means a bunch of hippies running around Ojai, closed streets, shit bands, and long lines at Chevron. I hope to leave at the proper time, plug the game into my eyes and get it on. 




                   LEARNING CURVE

                      AT CITY: 05-10-2013 





Everton's evolution from the 1990s to the 20-'teens has not been meteoric. I think we can agree on that point. In fact, in those waning days of the last century, Everton have resembled the airline business before the Wright Brothers became involved in it. However, since then, and up to this point, they have evolved enough to resemble the Wright Brothers' first flight. That is to say, wildly successful if you aren't flying to Europe, or anywhere beyond a donkey and a bale of hay.


City came into this match on a relative tailspin of their own. They pounded Manchester United, and then were rolled around in the dirt for a little while by Aston Villa, and then batted around like an old sock by Bayern Munich. As this match kicked off, the commentator said it was curious that City could play such a game at United, and then succumb so easily against the two latter opponents. Umm...was this idiot not aware that there was a coaching change at United, lately?


Anyhoo...this match kicked off and I rubbed my hands together. If Everton owned City with Moyes in charge, what would they do with Martinez at the helm? It didn't take long for Everton to drop a turd bomb on City's latest model Italian blow-dried roadster. In a tribute to David Moyes, Lukaku gathered in a long, seasonal pass on a dead sprint. He slowed down to a loping gate while waiting for a linesman to raise a flag. When that didn't happened, he galloped through the final quarter pasture, bucked a bit, slowed down long enough to toss flower pedals to the City players in his wake before playfully bopping the ball off Joe Harts hands, his England hopes, and into the net.

I then swished my drink around in the glass, took a sip and murmured, “Ah, excellent.” Everton were ahead, at City, 1-0.


What happened next? Roberto Mancini is no longer City's manager is what happened next! City bolted the other way and played a little do-daw into Howard's net. In watching Tim Howard going one-on-one with a player, I'm beginning to understand the rush of bungie jumping. At first, you're terrified, and then you splat the ground and die a horrible mental and physical death. All right, I was talking about the rush of bungie jumping when the lengths of the chords being used have been seriously misjudged. Well, after their goal, City began to mirror the Everton style of play, and that confused the boys in blue. Royal blue, I mean. City began moving in like Italian gypsies wielding knives, and Everton began playing like tourists who were sorry they didn't tip the lady for reading their fortune. When somebody is stalking you with a knife, and you begin backpedalling, it isn't long before you start spitting out cash, and spewing blood. Just before halftime, City afforded me another vicarious and failed bungie jumping experience when Aguerro found himself with a couple of moments alone with generous American Tim Howard. At 2-1, Everton were nicked, but the halftime whistle kept them from getting carved. However, City were only just smearing oil onto their whetstones.



In the second half, Everton tried playing their patient back to front mode, building their attack like an outgoing tide, but a sense of urgency robbed them of their needed accuracy. City began nicking the ball off them at every turn, and the second half became a wave of light blue crashing over navy blue. In the first half, the referee had ignored 47 penalty shouts from both sides. Finally, in the 70th minute, with City doing all the work, and Everton all the watching, the ref awarded City with a penalty, and who cared? It wasn't as if Everton were ever going to get an equalizer. The penalty was saved by Howard, who tipped it off the post, off his head, and into the back of the net. This is a marvelous billiards move, but for Everton, it just meant 3-1.


To his credit, Martinez added two subs in the 62 minute, but unfortunately, he had to take two players off as well. Gibson was brought on to fill the ghost spot Osman had been occupying, and Deloufeo came on to help City add to their ball control percentage. These substitutions had the effect that punching the sky has upon the air. Ten minutes later, Martinez added to his strange science concoction by taking the goal scorer off, and adding Kone. This is like trying to fix a flat tyre by hitching a boulder to the back of your car, but Martinez must experiment in order to learn. When the whistle blew, it was clear that Pelligrini had taught Everton a lesson. The next match will show us if Martinez learned anything. 



A desperate pitch invader is dragged back to Manchester United





MANCHESTER CITY MATCH 

PREVIEW 


I would like to wish Everton and all the players all the best, when they rip Man City a new arsehole tomorrow. Council house shit blue wearing cranks. Do one and take the fucking Gallaghers with you. Mongs.


              

    Newcastle at Home

       01-  10-'13

 



The sprinklers sputtered to life just before kickoff. Then, they began spraying long, easy streams of water onto the pitch. Like gargoyles overseeing Goodison, they spread an aquatic net for Everton would float upon. Back and forth, up and down, in their deadly, pragmatic manner, the sprinklers steadily covered the pitch. When the game began, Everton picked up where the sprinklers left off.


Like snake charmers, everton coaxed the ball up the field, back and forth, slowly and patiently. Newcastle, for their part, looked like a  western tourist. Big blob of sunscreen on their nose, wearing a noisy, tacky shirt with “WONGA” on the front, and their beady little eyes focused on the cobra, and growing wide with apprehension. It only took five minutes for the snake to strike. Mirrales ripped open the right flank, crossed the ball to Lukaku at the net. He shot hard, and Newcastle's keeper cleverly parried it into his net.


There was a kickoff, Everton took the ball, and began the process anew. There was as much joy listening to the crowd reacting to the play as there was in watching the play, itself. Oohs and Ah's rising and falling like a summer crowd at an air show. Newcastle's fans looked like jurors at the Nuremberg trials. Across my TV screen, the network flashed an ad for an upcoming “DC United vs Chicago” match. I nearly sprayed beer across the screen. The ad was as fitting as bursting into the Louvre and shouting, “Hey, I've got clowns dry-humping goats outside! Just five bucks!” Actually, that sounds pretty interesting...


Well, here we are at minute 24. Lukaku is bucking his way through a bunch of Lilliputians who are trying to attach rope to his limbs. He pauses just long enough to send a pass into the path of Barkley. The pass is as soft and perfect as a flake of Belgium pastry. Barkley lovingly bounce-touches the ball over the keepers leg for the second goal, and Newcastle's eyes roll up in the back of their heads.


Moving back into past tense but up to the 37th minute. It must be said that up to this point, Everton's midfield had seemed anonymous, which in this system seems to mean they were playing perfectly. Newcastle's attacks were the same as when a bug attacks your windscreen on the open road. The defenders spent the time wiping up bits of mess. Anyway, Tim Howard, who looks like he should be wearing paisley pajamas and a beret, kicked a ball that Lukaku took down near the Newcastle goal. He performed a Chinese fire drill around two Newcastlians. The keeper, seeing his bodyguards splayed upon the ground, fled, and Lukaku fired emphatically into the empty net. Shortly thereafter, the referee blew for halftime, and the players withdrew into the changing rooms. The crowd dissipated into discussion groups, and from beneath the pitch, the sprinklers pushed their heads back above ground and went back to work.


Well, Allan Pardew's sour-faced halftime talk must have been this: “We must not let them pass the ball.” He also stuffed a couple of players into an old rag bin and brought out some new ones for the second half. I am amazed to say, but this worked a treat. The second half saw Newcastle trying to mirror Everton's first half performance. Of course, this is like that stout Irish lady from “Britain's Got Talent” trying to mirror Maon Kurosaki. However, they did get loose in Everton's end, and the result was the same as if that stout Irish gal had gotten loose at a bachelor's party. The defenders were confused, Howard ran around in circles with his mouth open, trying to catch seagulls with his mitten hands, the ball bounced around an open goal a few times and finally rolled out to some guy with WONGA on the front of his shirt. From about 25 yards away, this peckerhead let fly with a curling shot that entered the top right corner of the goal one second before Howard's hand did. It ruffled the back of the net, and seagull feathers settled around the area.


Great. The Christians managed to scratch the lion. They can take that back to the north with them. The memory will keep them warm at Christmas. Meanwhile, Lukaku was on a unique hat trick. He had two goals, and two disallowed goals. However, the magic was used up for the evening and Newcastle were treating Goodison like snotty-faced invaders let loose from Chuck E. Cheese. This would have been a good time for the sprinklers to reappear, if only to trip up Sissoko and rip his knee in half.


Newcastle poked a second goal through in the six yard area in the 89th minute that Howard could do nothing about. Wait, yes he could. He could have saved it. He did manage to get in the way of a few more waning volleys with one going just over the bar a minute before the final whistle blew. Everton puffed their chests out and blew air out threw their lips. Newcastle sagged, crumpled, and then Pardew picked them up like a useless bag of balls and chucked them back into the bus. The sprinklers came back on.


Oh, on a side note: David Moyes was one of the linesmen!




 

          @ Westham 21-9-13 


               in Picturescope!





 



 

 






 




 


 





 




 



"Fuck, shit, tits, piss, there goes my clean sheet. At least I'm not white."

Marouane Fellaini: 'Manchester United training better than Everton' 


Breaking Down Fellaini's Mind:



             


            Fellaini Awaits a Thought 



 

         And waiting 



 Thought Arrives  

Is it just me, or is the Manchester United manager much better than my old Everton manager?

  




          DOGS OF SCIENCE! 

Jose Mourino is a paradox, no? The older he gets, the more he resembles that baby on “Family Guy.” The more he resembles that baby, the more I think, Hey, this is a guy who may actually benefit from a face lift or two to make him look younger. Talk about face lift! Couldn't Chelsea use one? Their squad is like that expensive car your crazy uncle bought, and then ran out of money and started using tape to replace freeze plugs, and sporty, silver spray paint to cover over rust spots. But I didn't come here to talk about paradoxes, there was a football game to be played between Mourino's Blues, and Martinez's Blues.


Let's talk about Everton. They lose the dour Scot, replace him with the dapper Spaniard, and then they go out and dour their way to triple draws on the trot for three points and go on to lose the popular Belgium to the hated Scotsman. The American Coach in London guy could have done all that!


Whatever. This is Everton's first match since that exciting transfer window. The football under Martinez has been interesting. I will admit that by having a huge-haired dog in the middle of the pitch with his head up his arse and his tongue up David Moyes's, Everton have struggled to implement the Martinez style of walking the play from the back, to the middle, to the front, with the defenders doing that overlapping thing and the scorers doing that non-scoring thing. With these things in mind, Chelsea came to Goodison as League Favourites. I came home from work, opened a beer, slumped into my couch, and flicked open my DVR menu. Against my better judgement, I pressed Play.


The match began with the sort of ebb and flow of a patient man painting his house with a brush. Or is that Mourino creating his masterpiece? Back and forth, slow and steady, stroke, stroke, stroke. Okay, it was Everton building up the play from the back and moving to the middle and poking their heads into the final third. Chelsea seemed content to trot about the pitch wondering when the three points would come. Mata looked to Mourino on the bench. Now? Mourino shook his head: Don't look at me, the referee will give you the points.


As for me, the game was starting to captivate. Everton would work their way to the Chelsea area, Chelsea would panic, send the ball out, and Everton would start again. It was like watching waves lapping against sandcastles. I pried a fleck of crystal meth out of the bottom of an old coffee cup and ground it between my front tooth. I smacked my lips while my brain buzzed. Since Breaking Bad, meth is once again gaining a certain level of acceptance in society. Actually, since kickoff, this Martinez shit is starting to look pretty good, too.


Despite the fact that Jelly and Naismith were in the lineup, Everton were organized and steady, and Chelsea had neary a sniff of the ball. In fact, is it just my brain, or have Everton's first three chances come as results due to Naismith's feisty play? Pretty much, boom, boom, boom, but without the lights going out.


It was at this point the commentator decided to inform the audience that, “Everton are unbeaten on this, their home ground, since 1892...” I cocked my head. I could swear I'd seen Everton lose at Goodison at least once since just 1997. However, it quickly became apparent that he had placed his verbal commas in the wrong place and was not through talking. He then went on to say that Martinez had told his players “The season starts today!” before the game. Well, I don't mean to be picky, but had he told them that a few weeks ago, the league table might look different today.


In the 28th minute, Garreth Barry won me over when Tim Howard almost lost the match. Howard passed a ball to some Chelsea flump, who pounced on it in front of an empty net and the flopped Howard, but Barry was like a cork shot out of a champagne bottle to smack the ball away from the lonely goal mouth.


Chelsea was finally beginning to sense ink in the water. Around the 28th minute they started probing their mental tentacles around the Everton brains. They squeezed and probed for weakness, and nearly caught hold of a stem, but the offering was wanting and wide. A few minutes later, Howard made a brilliant save—OMG, HAVE YOU SEEN THAT BEARD? Howard looks like one of those freaks with bees all over his face! And then on the 45th minute, Barkley gobbled down on the ball in the Chelsea end, kicked it to Leon, who crossed it wide to Jellavic. Jellavic headed across goal, and the leaping Naismith met the ball head on and past the amazed Czeck. Oh, look. Halftime!


You have seen a bully with a bloody nose looking for someone to take it out on? And then not seeing any viable options, he runs to an ant hill and kicks the hell out of it? Chelsea came on after the break windmilling their fists through their tears and blood-red snot-bubbles, and then scattered the Everton ant hill. This caused mild panic among the Everton gentlemen, but they waited a beat, and then once again went back to the business of building from the back and moving through the middle until they reached the front. Chelsea countered by doing a lot of passing themselves. However, this passing seemed more the sort of, No, I don't want it, you take it.


In minute 56, something interesting happened. Frank Lampard invaded the pitch in his LA Galaxy uniform. In a like-for-like move, Martinez brought on one of his Wigan duds. This one is named, McCarthy. I don't know what he did, apart from looking like Ralph Malph from Happy Days.


With Chelsea growing desperate for a point, and Everton desperate to hold on to the three, Everton turned a cool shoulder to the heat turned up by Chelsea, and began piddling all over their foes's aggressive movements. Every ugly attack by Chelsea was countered by a beautiful defensive move by Everton. They would then wobble the ball through the Chelsea attackers like it was an egg, before they burst it up the pitch. There were some other substitutions that landed like splatted yolk, or were tossed into the mix like peanuts to pigeons, but the final whistle told the truth: In the Moyes days, Everton attacked the same way they defended, and they won ugly, or they lost ugly. Mourino lost his job at Chelsea for winning championships ugly.Now, he is back with Chelsea. In sticking with the paradox theme, Martinez won the Everton job by winning the FA Cup and getting his team relegated. Everton have now shown that they can win by playing pretty, and defending beautifully, but with dogged determination. Oh, and Mourino looks creepy, no? 

Leif Garret Frowns at Blondie's Comeback Remake of, "I Was Made For Dancing" 



        HA, HA, HA, ALL NIGHT LONG!






"I have no problem scraping, eh, that off of my zapatoes." 

  

I HAVE NO REGRETS ABOUT LEAVING THE ICE BERG BEHIND 





Indians? I won't miss them. Why do you ask? 



 




Here's a tidbit, lad. I won't miss King Arthur and his men. Hey? What do you think about THAT news? 




Well, I get to see the Chelsea match. Lucky you! YOu get to read about it. Also, my dispute with Direct TV has been settled, and they will come out in October if I disarm myself and chain the dog. Hurray for all of us. 

 

Dropped Points Counter! YTD: 

6 as of third Match...Stay Tuned...




 




 



Moyes? Party of one? Moyes?






 

Excuse me, coming through, pardon, David, just clearing some things out me office 







 




Everything is bien. (Everything is fine)



 





That's the spirito! Even Mejor


(That's the spirit, even better!




 

hahahaha, suck it, Manchester United! 





Meanwhile, the Spiral of Doom Begins to Swirl...


What Everton Player Will Be the Next Victim of This Footballing Devil's Triangle?

 



 




 



Moyes? Moyes? Party of one? We're ready for you, now. Moyes? Mr. Moyes? Are you ready? 






 

       @ Cardiff, 31 August, 2013 


buffering... 


Buffering... 



        HELL YEAH, BUFFERING, EVERTON. SUCK IT! 






I will get to the match report, but I want to make a few observations first. Okay, when Moyes took us over, he lifted us out of relegation and passed us into annual European expectations. He turned one of Everton's biggest work horses, David Unsworth, into a working class hero, coined a wonderful catch phrase, then pissed into a jar and turned it into, "Lightening in a Bottle."  


Poor Martinez. He stuffed his pockets with relegation-style players, leaped into a saddle, grabbed hold of the reins and shouted, "Hi-yo, Silver, away!" Now, he can only stand there and pout as his horse is bogged down in a river while wondering what the hell that "Hi-yo," shit was. Well, it's not Roberto's fault that Moyes shot up the best remaining horses with “Champion's League Thought Injections” before he left, and blew Martinez a good-luck kiss that would have withered red roses in June.


However, it's the end of August and our creative Spaniard has Everton playing beautiful football. Sort of. In all reality, beautiful football should include a football ruffling the net's nylon web. I think this sort of thing has happened twice in our first three league games.


Well, a visit to newly promoted Cardiff allowed Martinez a chance to really let down his hair... and unleash his nearly brand new Everton club upon Cardiff. Well, here is a note: You cannot "unleash" a team that has Jealavic playing as the lone striker. That is like throwing a squid onto the pitch and waiting for the goals to come rolling in. All the more ridiculous watching Martinez on the touchline, with the excited look of anticipation on his face whenever the ball rolled anywhere near the floundering sea creature. Roberto! Stop expecting good things to happen. It's a SQUID, and it's dying on the grass! You couldn't even toss it's flopping, gasping body at fishermen for shark chum.


Oh, and YOU CANNOT UNLEASH a team whose best two players don't even want to be there. It looked like Pienaar felt jilted, and didn't want to play anymore with Baines. You cannot unleash a team that has Osman in the midfield. **Scout's Honour** as halftime was approaching, I tried to figure out who had taken Osman's place in the midfield, when I suddenly spied Leon!


Oh, and what happened to that 'keeper who was supposed to push Tim? Looks like he needs to “push” him a bit more. Whatever. Here is the match report:


Sylvain Distin, and Ross Barclay. The rest of Everton's team can get to fuck.


But Kenyon! Surely, there was a match report you could string together!


You know what? I love that you're reading this. I REALLY DO! But a match report out of this? Sigh. Gizza moment: checking...buffering...buffering...nailed on Everton penalty, claim denied...buffering...buffering...Kone on for Jellavic...buffering...buffering...buffering...Colman shot! Side of the net. Buffering...buffering...Argentine Dayo Fayo on...buffering...SHOT! SHOT! SHOT! Buffering...buffering...buffering...


Then, the whistle blew. How did Baines and Fellani look? Buffering...buffering...buffering... 

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"Gets weirder by the game does this blog.  Not sure what to say about it other than it makes me feel 

uneasy and a bit voyeuristic, like I'm not reading about football but stepping into the mind of a man 

high on mescaline and televised soccer."


 




 
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