T'wasn't brillig, but Everton ponged this footballing match by a score of three ring-dings to one Zamora pop. While Harry glowered his face and his subs bench made do the same, Everton were flacking less celubub than A night at the museum.

It was all vanderbaubs and frupwinks as usual for Everton, leaving knowing fans knowing that this was going to be another third-world uprising, with Everton, again, tossing the cakey dokes to the snap jaws. Back Everton went. Back, back, back. Oh, so all play and nil aggressive they dimmed.

However, after twelve minutes of booble ball, Everton played a kabob from their half that got misplayed into an attacking move seeing Naismith whooking across to a sliding Lukaku, whose extended toe wilted from the want of ball. Message sent!

As Lili Tomlin used to say: “One ringy dingy...”

Barklay bounced around the clock in minute 33 to fire a pilsner off the knob off one of...OH, WHO THE HELL WERE WE PLAYING? Palace? Hull? Brighton? Mortimer? Finglsy? I just can't remember. All these crumpets pile up in the haskervat until you can't tell 'em apart, but the ball hit some disjointed lad and zagged past his goalkeeper and Everton were all sunny-side up with hashed brown potatoes.

So spilt out and power boned were the boys in blue after this that they backpedalled like Ali, and floated like a bee and stung like a herd of butterflies.

“Two ringy dingy...”

Outside the area Everton grew up from the ground and hailed the free kick. This occurred in minute 42. Baines hooled over the ball, frosted and losted. Gazed as though in yesterdays when Manchester Red came calling and he hid behind a Spaniard. Finally, he whispered to a Belgium, “Oh, I just can't. Maybe a nibble.”

The Belgium cursed and with a boot swing jack, winced a ratchet off a Ranger and the ball played saxophone while the goalkeeper wailed. Everton followed up this sakatay by sucking yet even harder off the futility bong and watched with arched brows while the mighty Zamora bucked and banged the gate of the substitute bench, but all the air wilted as the whistle blew.

Second Half:

“Three ringy dingy...”

At about toasters into two-time, McGeedy Jigged, crossed, Naismith! Not exactly Reid's cross Gray! But the old porpoise poked off another Ranger and slap-handed the back of the net while the Queen's Park muffin grumbled.

Commentator: “I have to say QPR are the better side despite being down 3-0.” Would have sniggered, twere a lie.

Finally, Harry snidey eyed Zamora:

“Warm up.”

“I am warm. Got me parka, woolie hat...”

“Get out there.”

“Then I'll be cold.”

But out there he got, and from cold went to hot, pied a side of fries past Timothy Howard whilst Howard's defenders whispered tips of hedge funds and hogs. Zamaros jaws snapped and sang, Commentator raged, oh, Everton such lucky days and undeserved! Aye, t'wasn't brillig, but tough tits. 

Do I smell goat? 

It's Enough to Make Your 

Heart Feel 


At Spurs. 30 November, 2014

Everton make me sad. They are a hamburger without salt. (saying without the sizzle would be too exciting) They are Poon without the tang. A shopping cart without the insanity of a homeless man attached to it. They are...mid-table and going nowhere. Before this match against Spurs, the commentator spoke about Everton's excellent run of form the past five games. Sure, if you consider 11 of 15 possible points taken off Villa, Burnley, Swansea, Sunderland, and West Ham excellent. I call it...sad.

I didn't expect much from this match, to be honest. Spurs have been as spotty as us, and were at home. They also had a striker named Soldadao, who hadn't scored since March of 2013.

In the 15th minute Mirralles lolled around with the ball on the outside of the penalty area like a woman trying to decide between salad or brisket. I thought, just take the salad with a lemon wedge, you tart, and we'll go home with a point. However, he well decided brisket, and stuffed some beef into Tottenhams' faces like he was feeding Liz Taylor a freaking goat.

In the time it took me to lift my head out of my hands in order to show some optimism, Tottenham had equalized. To be honest, if I had been at the match with a can of pepper spray, I would have full-on maced the entire Everton team, bench included, right then and there. Toffee lady, too, if we'd been at home.

The match teetered back and forth without any scoring until, you guessed it. Right before halftime, when, you guessed it, again, Soldado scored and then acted like a ninny because he knew it would be another 16 months before his next game against Everton. Sol, by the way, means sun in Spanish, and dado means given. Given of the sun. Cunt, you play in England!

I have a huge, big-screen TV these days. It faces the bathroom. With the bathroom door open, I was able to take a shower while watching the second half ratchet up the fury. I turned the hot water up. Everton turned the screws. My cat pawed at the shower door. Spurs swatted away a sure goal with a hand ball. The referee swatted away the appeal. My cat battered the shower door with his paws. The whistle blew. Good. The hot water was gone. I turned off the shower and I shivered. Lukewarm trails of water dribbled down the the glass. I reached for a towel. I felt sad.

I really don't want to waste your time by writing about this match. If you saw it, you have suffered enough. Watching this match, I found myself feeling envious of jurors at an insurance trial. Not insurance fraud. Just insurance. I have no idea what a plain insurance trial would be like, but I bet it would have lots of through balls with nobody but the goalkeeper on the end of them, and plenty of corners to nowhere and free kicks to elsewhere.

The first half was like watching an American collegiate marching band filled with anarchists struggling to spell out the word “Chaos” in the middle of the field. Everton, still feeling the effects of being gassed by French cops the night before, and missing the magic elephant on their shirt, began the evening in a 4-4-fail formation. They played side-to-side football, mixed with a bit of middle-to-back. Lille played well up top and seemed to dominate possession, yet had little clue with what to do with it. Whenever the referee sensed any football was about to be played, he blew his whistle.

Also in the first half, Barklay had some cosmetic surgery performed on his hideous face, and then had it covered with bandages. Well, it was also fun listening the American commentators. Each time they said the name “Balmont,” they used a strange and affected, almost comical French accent. “Bhallcrmoant!” I would have to say that them's there your first half highlights.

The only other entertainment this match offered was after halftime, when Barklay came back out without the bandage on his face, which sent the French fans screaming for the exits. I honestly don't want to waste your time by trying to give you match commentary and visuals where none exist. Everton played as though they didn't need to win, and the French played as though they were on the training ground. I wished I was a juror in an insurance trial,


It's a good thing Everton decided to invade Russia in late summer! God knows what would have happened had this match taken place in January. Ask Napoleon. Anyway, Gibson was back for this match, which was great to see. Also playing were the final two players of Everton's Golden Generation, now gone gray, Ossie and Hibbert. It was nice to see that Tony, at age 47, has finally grown the tender beginnings of a beard.

Speaking of tender beginnings, Everton played as though this was a sweet, young adult coming of age story. They retreated often, and their advances were both awkward, and swatted away. The Russian team, which I still cannot pronounce, much less type, began as though they had to score a goal and catch a flight out of Moscow, or whatever cow patty from which they were based. In the first fifteen minutes, they had 147 corners. However, it wasn't until the 16th minute that Howard made his first real save, and it was a gem. Some random shot was fired, maybe another assassination attempt by Putin, and the big Hebrew pinwheeled to slap it away with his palm.

Have you really watched Martinez on the touchline? He always looks like a man who is desperately, yet discreetly, trying to signal the waitress that he wants a huge shot of vodka jarred into his orange juice without his wife noticing. However, he actually was frantically trying to tell his team that they were about to get a beefeater shoved up their arsses—oh, it happened! A defencive cockup, led by derby hero Jagielka, allowed Ari to run onto a bouncing ball with only Howard to stop him. So, goal.

The half ended with Howard running out to claim another threat before the ref, in his snazzy Portugal retro kit, blew for halftime.

When the TV came on for the second half, Howard was making diving save after diving save. Right side, left side. He was peppered from all angles and saved each one! That was the warmup, though. Then, the whistle blew for the kickoff.

Lukaku came on, and the commentator, an American, said that he would “severely help Everton.” That was welcome news, because until now, the players on the pitch had severely hurt Everton. This made no difference. Look, have you ever kicked an anthill because you're a sick pud? You stand there, watching the ants. They aren't doing anything other than going back and forth, and in and out. You decide to make something happen by kicking the crap out of their hill. They respond by going back and forth, and in and out. Watching Everton was exactly like that! However, there is always one ant that takes a grain of sand, sets it down just right, and makes the difference. (I once had an ant farm.) Well, in the 83d minute of Everton's useless wandering, dainty Leighton Baines made a lady-like cross that was bounced in by Eto'o. The match resumed to its scattered anthill antics until on the death, Howard saved a wandering ball. 

September 27 next falls on a saturday in 2019. You know the Anfield derby will be scheduled for that day so that Sky commentators will be able to tell everybody that it's been 20 years to the date when Everton last beat Liverpool at Anfield. But for today, it's only been 15 years of crooked refereeing decisions, bizarre red cards, mystifying penalties, and drunken singing in the putrid kop end. So, who's up for some Derby action? Stephen Pienaar?

“No, gaffer. Still got a touch of the redenightess.”

Tony Hibbo was out there, and I would have taken Alan Stubbs on a one-day contract. However, John Stones played in the centre, and was often the conduit that shut off the flow of electricity whenever the reds started getting hot. So, to the match:

The first eight minutes featured more action than Stephen Gerrard's lips used to get in lockup. There was yellow card, Barry; wrongly denied penalty for Everton, and a probable penalty claim for Liverpool denied.

Tim Howard was sporting his big boy pants today, which was fortunate, because Liverpool had 16 first half shots. None of them slapped net, although Howard's palms slapped ball about 5 times. Everton held a good shape and managed to rip into Liverpool's defence a few times until Mirralle's torn hamstring, which occurred while he was spinning Gerrard around like he was a dupe in some shell game. Moment's later, Skirtel went down, but before I could finish praying, the face that launched a thousand nightmares was back on its feet again. Everton weathered the squall, and then paddled about in Liverpool's end for a few minutes before the halftime whistle blew.

The second half was a blur of red. That is, a blur of red players throwing themselves onto the pitch as though this were some kind of spinoff called “Britain's Got Diving Talent.” One of the players even threw his hands in the air before falling and yelled, “Don't taze me, bro!” Even more dramatic than the players were the goons on the red's bench, that, after each dive, would jump up like excited jurors in a Stephen Gerrard trial. One was left to ponder how much acting the referee could take before he finally started awarding plaudits and free kicks.

In the 63rd minunte, Ballatelli, back from his stint as a woodcarving on the bow of a viking ship, fell over. The ref, mistakenly figuring that the odds of one of these actually being a foul, gave a free kick. Steve Gerrard, who looks like he should be sitting in the stands with Ian Rush, Kenny Dalglish and the other various Liverpool has-beens, gouls, and fired managers, huffed out a blood/alcohol level that blew the ball past a sober Tim Howard.

Everton almost fired back immediately when Lukaku looked up in front of goal and found what he thought to be a huge dropping from the Liverbird falling onto his head. He ducked away from it, but alas, it was a football begging to be headed past the red's keeper. Liverpool almost punished Everton for that fay display with a rocket fired at Howard, who, dropping, managed to get a fingernail on it causing a harmless careen off the crossbar.

After that, it was just a matter of being entertained by the Kop's vocal chops and song skills. That is, until 30 seconds were left in stoppage time and Jagielka happened upon that blue dildo from Sky Sports, but instead of jamming it in their ears, he slammed it into their mouths from 30 yards out, and bug-eyed, they had to suck it while Evertonians danced and sang. February 17th 2015 falls on a Saturday. 

I just got a new kitten from the Humane Society. Since my dog only cost me 75 bucks...hold on, I have to go slap the kitten down from the blinds he's slaughtering. Anyway, I figured the kitten would cost me about, what, five dollars? Check this out; $120.00, bitch! I made a mewling sound in my throat, but the lady at the counter was kind of hot, so I didn't want to seem indecisive, like a certain goalkeeper, so I shut my mouth and ponied up the money. Now I have a kitten that breaks things for no reason other than he is a kitten. What he doesn't break, he shreds. Don't ask him why. Hell, he doesn't know. He's a friggin' $120.00 kitten. He does whatever the hell he wants to do.

Anyway, so Crystal Palace had a pop round Goodison on their way back down to the Championship. It was nice to see them, but in their light blue shirts and socks it looked as though they were bedecked in 1980s stonewash Levis with holes around the knees.

As the game kicked off the commentators spoke about how Palace have parked the bus, and asked how long will it take Everton to unlock the Rubik's cube of the Eagle's defence. Eight minutes, that's how long. Ossman slipped a glider to Lukaku, who didn't puzzle over what to do with the ball. Without breaking stride he sent the pass into Palace's net. That's number one, you relegation fops.

It is often said that Tim Howard has the reflexes of a cat, and the brain of a kitten. Okay, I added on that last part, but tell me; am I wrong? After 28 minutes of undistinguished play by either side since the goal, Tim Howard certainly distinguished himself. A Palace player, not meaning any harm, lost his bearings, and found himself in the vicinity of the Everton goal with a ball at his feet. Quick as a kitten, Howard was past his defenders, and clattering the poor Palace player over for a penalty. Out of habit, I smacked my own kitty on the nose and scolded him, and out of habit, Howard yelled, “Fuck! Shit! Cunt rabbit bitch fry!” And then the ball was in his net.

What happened next? Well, Howard saw a ball in the air and jumped up to play with it. However, he missed it. A couple Palace players were loitering in the area, not doing much, when they noticed a football rolling freely around an open net. Ooh, how Howard wanted that ball! Laughing, the Palace players rolled it into the net for him to fetch.

What happened next? Well, Ossie was playing some keepie uppy, seeing how long he could keep the ball on the ground at his feet. In his own end. Not long is how long. The fans yelled, “MAN ON!” but Ossie wasn't sure how that related to him. A second later, he looked around, and whaddya know? There was a Palace player behind him taking his ball away. Balasi sent a long slow diagonal ball into the net for the eager Howard to pounce upon once it stopped rolling around at the back.

With the score Everton 1-Relegation Fodder Palace 3, Everton picked it up a notch and jogged around the pitch trying to find the same exits the fans were using. Baines was the last Everton player to find his way out, but he drilled a penalty into Palace's net, in defiance, before skedaddling himself. A couple of the Palace players whistled, and threw sticks at the fleeing boys in blue. A few of them tried to tie tin cans around Timmy, but he was quick as a cat and skidded into the changing room. I downed a beer and shut off the TV. “Tim,” I said out loud. “How could you have made such dumb mistakes?” From the kitchen came the sound of shattering glass.


Germany sure had some great ideas. WWI, WWII, Zeppelin, the Berlin Wall, and the VW Thing are a few that spring to mind. Showing up at Goodison Park tonight was another stroke of genius. Tonight, Wolfsburg FC rolled into town in a hippy-packed sputtering VW bus with a flubbing tire.

Um, is it absolutely necessary for a Wolf's manager to look like Lon Chaney in full moon makeup? I didn't expect him to manage and make substitutions as much as I expected him to run the pitch on all fours licking the grass before escaping into the upper regions of the Gwladys, where he could hide undetected.

Oh, and is Kevin Mirrales wearing a mohawk toupee? Did a stripper slide down his head and leave her beaver behind? Look, the world has gone wild. NFL players are beating their women and children. Terrorists are beheading westerners the way migrants knock oranges off of trees. What the bloody hell is going on in Belgium that makes THAT look okay?

Anyway, the match kicked off and Everton were like the particles settling to the bottom of a shaken snow globe, and Tim Howard was the sea monster at the bottom swatting at the flakes. 12 minutes of this passed by before McCarthy, Baines, and Naismith played some ding-dong-ditch on Wolf's front porch. Naismith placed the bag of dog shit just so, and lit the match. Satan burst out to yell, “You kids get off my porch—!” but then he saw the bag and stomped the burning pile of dung into his own net.

What is funnier than Satan complaining about mean people? Nothing, that's what. However, that's just what happened after the goal, when the Wolf's keeper told the ref that Everton fans were lobbing stuff at him. The ref told him to calm down, because he is Satan, and can make almost anything happen. The goalie seemed happy with this, and suddenly, bombs began raining down on Everton's goal. However, Everton's Anti-Satan, Tim Howard, kicked, caught, and punched all the shrapnel and flaming embers.

Just before halftime, MOM Kevin Mirrales shot a pocket rocket that The Prince of Darkness palmed back down to the earth. However, the flaming mass landed in front of Leighton Baines, who foot-slapped it onto the plate of the diving Coleman, who head smacked it into the open gates of hell.

Right after that, Wolfsburg made a pass in their area that was like a warm summer breeze. McGeady embraced it but was tripped outside the box. The ref awarded the penalty because he likes confrontation, which Wolves did not offer. By the time the commentator finished saying, “Baines has never scored in Europe...” he had.

At this point, Everton began to play poorly just to hear if Tim Howard had come up with any new swear words. Howard, though, was too busy palming away sure goals and near goals to let his F-words fly. He did, however, make a save with his middle finger. It is curious that a team leading three nothing—make that four, Mirralles finished on a through ball, could have a goalie mounting up a save tally almost equalizing Bendtner's IQ total.

Just before the whistle blew for full time, Everton gave the Germans a free kick within range, and told Howard not to move, just to see if they could make it in. They did, and then goose-ran out of Goodison. In his bunker, hitler came back to life and shot himself again.


I was about to watch this taped match today, when a chance Internet encounter told me that there are horny singles in my area ready for sex RIGHT NOW! Well, it's married women I crave, so I kept surfing, and then, BAM! Another random Internet encounter hit me right in the face: “Chelsea Beat Everton In Nine Goal Thriller.”

Knowing the BBC, I was all, “Great. We lost 9-0.” My only option for the rest of the day was to either play with my dog and kitten, or check out hot singles in my area available for sex. Twenty minutes later, with my credit card maxed out, I was still waiting around for the sex. Then I looked at the dog humping a pair of shoes, and the kitten slapping around an invisible angel, and with a sigh, decided to watch a match of which I already knew the outcome.

I flicked on the TV, pressed “Programs Recorded”, clicked “Everton-Chelsea”, and pressed “Play.”

“You have selected Everton-Chelsea for Viewing. Are You Sure?”

click “Yes.”

“Really? You Want To Watch That?”

TV was so much easier in the 80s, but I finally coaxed the match from the Teevo (?) and sat down to see how it unfolded. The dog came up to me and lay down. The kitten trotted over with its purr on overdrive. The dog looked up at me: “Can you make him go to the other room?” The commentator said, “Oh, and what a start for Chelsea! Up one-nil at Goodison and we've hardly started!”

The kitten batted the dog's ear. The dog raised an eyebrow at me. “I tried to lock him out, but you were all, 'Ooh, kitty, kitty, kitty? Where are you? Kitty, kitty, kitty?”

On the TV, Tim Howard tried to dive in three directions at once, with neither and the other achieving ball-saving status. The commentator roared, “And now it's two-nil to Chelsea!”

The kitten stood and reached up at the TV screen with the tips of his paws. He tried to swat a couple of players in blue. The dog snorted, turned his head, and spread out on the carpet with a final, subdued, huff. I chucked a shoe at the kitten, who leaped up ten feet, and then scrambled, in the air, into the other room. “Oh, and Everton have answered!” Mirrales ran around, forehead throbbing from the ball smack, but the ball was in the net just the same and halftime spread over my TV screen with alcohol adverts.

Halftime, and KNOW THIS:

Chelsea had about two offside goals allowed, and we had a bunch of onside attacks whistled dead and an onside goal disallowed. This was to even out our one break in 73 years that we received last week on a non-offside call. Did the commentators know it? HOLY BEJEESIS, did they ever! Every bad call against us had them reminding the world, “Well, Everton had that offside goal last week, so things have a way of evening out...”

In our bastard history of cheating refs, coward refs, spiteful refs, and mentally retarded refs stealing games from us, this one freaking call last week evens it all out?

John Terry was ugly in his prime. Now, with age, his face is struggling to stay as handsome as a WWII veteran's scrotum. He made a sagging header to start the second half that drooped into Tim Howard's hands and offered me an excuse to compare his face to a ball sack. Jose Mourino strutted up and down the touchline, pilfered sandwiches in his hobo pockets. Yes, hobo! Look at that son of a bitch! Everton have his team on the ropes, and Mourino's youth is on the railroad tracks. Speaking of cocks, this match was turning into a gory rooster fight with feathers flying, faces jawing, bones snapping, and goals scoring.

Naismith, get in there, goal! Eto'o, goal! And then the fairies with their Putin dust clattered back in a handful of goals that caused my dog to look at the TV screen askance, before flopping back down onto the carpet while making subtle growling sounds. From the bedroom came a loud purring sound, and I found the kitten with a mouse by the monitor. My credit card was in his paw and he was clicking the mouse. And clicking. I hope our defence can soon start clicking.


When your team sucks, the full time whistle is like a relief-giving anti-acid. When your team is great, the full time whistle is a signal to party. When your team is Everton, the full time whistle is like a punch in the throat.

This game started out like a day at the beach for Everton. At the beginning it was all beach balls, sun, and fun, but by the end, it was darkness, whispered what ifs, and quiet sobbing in the night.

Kevin Mirrales and Stephen Naismith were the two diodes that fired all the works today. Pienaar left after 8 minutes with a (choose one)

  • Sprained Ankle

  • Broken Back

  • Displaced Meniscus

  • Ruptured Disc

  • Torn Rotary Cuff

  • Ruptured Achilles

  • Missing Spine

Ossie came on for him, and the old gray man sent a thrill through the old lady with a deft through pass to Mirrales that came up just short of setting off the fireworks. For the rest of the first half, Everton did as they pleased, and before savvy fans could dread the dreaded goal against the run of play, Gareth Barry, floating alone in outer space, orbited a ball over both Lukaku and Coleman. Coleman, running fast behind Romulou, popped it into the net with his head and the Toffees were up, 1-0.

This really set Arsenal off. In fact, you would have thought they deserted the pitch when Lukaku robbed an Arsenal player of the ball, and wheeled upfield with it. Dribbling like a Disney donkey, he threaded the ball like seamstress onto the just offside boot of Naismith, who fired home for 2-0 and the three points. Well...

In the second half, Arsenal just sent a trojan horse onto the pitch and then their bus left. Everton, overjoyed at this capitulation began working on delightful training ground moves that awed the spectators, and left the commentators nothing more to talk about except what the world would be like if talking giraffes ruled.

Finally, worn out from all their horseplay, Everton packed up and left for holiday. Then, the trap door in the wooden horse opened up. Arsenal, like a thief with bulging eyes looking around to make sure the people really had left their home deserted, took a couple of test runs into the Everton end that went unchallenged. Then they checked the bedrooms...nobody. Then they checked the six-yard box. Nobody. They sent in a test cross to make sure, and Ramsey put it past Howard. “Hey,” someone whispered. “The fridge is bloody full!”

By the time the homeowners remembered they'd forgotten to lock the house and rushed back home, it was too late. Their house was full of Arsenal monkeys. They were swinging from chandeliers, wearing Distin's underwear on their head, clawing stuffing from the sofas, and for good measure, at the 90th minute they flung a bit of equalizing dung into Everton's net as Distin and Jagielka stood aside, scratching their heads.

After that, Everton did little more than file an insurance report, speak with the police, and then, when the final whistle blew, Arsenal started shrieking like a bunch of monkeys, and Everton walked around looking like they had just been punched in the throat. There was nothing left to do but get the luggage out of the cars and start searching for the missing four points.


What a day for David Moyes! Before his golden falsetto had stopped singing at the end of the Manchester United-Swansea match, he changed over to watch Everton against Leicester, who are back in the Premiership after finally leaving the one place they truly belong. 

Everton strutted into Leicester's stadium with the swagger only Champions of Fifth Place can boast. They scanned the crowd menacingly, and more than a few of the Everton Eleven pawed at the pitch and muttered, “Yeah, that's right, bitches. Fifth place!”

When a circus opens, there is a parade of fire eaters eating fire, sword swallowers swallowing swords, and bearded ladies growing more fur. Today was no different, as the showcase league of the world kicked off. Headers of the ball bounced it around in the air, dribblers dribbled, and substitutes, wearing their vests of shame, sat around not making eye contact with people, except the gaffers, who were busy not making eye contact with the substitutes. However, despite all that action, it was the referees with their deft use of the cans of Silly String that really brought the crowd to life.

With all of this festivity going on, it would be a shame not to have a goal on display, and in the 19th minute, Everton's Aiden McGeady stole the spotlight from the aerosol cans. He took a low, wicked corner that was deflected to Leighten Baines, who was loitering about 15 yards out in front of the box. Baines ran onto the ball and fired a shot that deflected out to Distin just outside the left corner of the goal box.

Distin wound up for a shot, and the goalie crawled out toward him and raised up with his hands in the air, like an old, lost desert prospector begging for water. What he got was a smack in the face from the ball. No water, old timer! The face ricochet came back to McGeady, who measured twice and cut once, the ball hitting underneath the right hand crossbar-goalpost, and rolled dazzlingly around the inside top of the net before succumbing to gravity.

Everton quickly followed up that goal with another, but this one was produced at the other end after a bit of clown-like defending. Leicester had a corner. Everton set up for it in their panic mode, which worked out perfectly when the ball came to Distin in front of the net, and he sent it all the way up the pitch, fifteen yards, and into the body of a spelling nightmare named “Ulloa” but pronounced with J's instead of L's. Tim Howard began swearing, but with good reason, for he was watching the end of his clean sheet whiz past him straight into the net.

Everton would do just enough to regain the lead at halftime. Baines chased a ball down the left hand side to the touchline, and sent a pass out to Lukukau, who slipped and fell as he kicked it. The ball limped over to Naismith at the top of the box, and he was ruthless as he one-timed it underneath the top crossbar. The ball boinged around the inside of the net for half an hour before the goalie could finally get his hands on it and send it back up the field with a dainty kick. Everton had a 2-1 lead and it was halftime.

This must have been the halftime talk from Martinez: “Well lads, 2-1 should be good enough to beat these pricks, eh? Oh, and Barklay looks like he's out for zee next 5 months. Now, spend the next ten minutes with your eyes closed and envision not defending.”

Well, Jagielka must have envisioned his arse off, because he played as though he were captaining the England squad, instead of Everton. The rest of the team, for their part, loped around pondering what they would do if Baines tried to make them all listen to the Cranberries again on the bus ride home.

In fact, they played like dogs trying to walk with socks on their paws, as Leicester ate huge, greedy gulps of grass in wide open spaces for the rest of the match, and having ripped open Everton's soft underbelly, could easily have cracked the match wide open if they...well, weren't Leicester, the Champions of Twenty First Place.

If Jagielka looked dazed on the pitch, he certainly became so, after he leaned his head into Sub Chris Wood's boot in an effort to ascertain what would happen if he did so. A harsh boot to the face was the answer, and a well deserved reward for his lackadaisical play. Then, in minute 86, Wood used his boots one more, but this time on the ball, as the unmarked player clenched his jawline and sent a shot straight at and by Tim Howard, who had used up all his saves against Belgium, back in June. 

What a day for David Moyes! He karate-kicked his TV off, punched the air, and his golden falsetto sang out again: “Are you watching you fat Scouse bastards...?” He then ran around his living room giving the double Vs to the blank TV screen, before settling down and pulling out his iPhone to watch the blank screen and wait for messages from his agent to light it up. And wait...


Holy Crap, that came out HUGE! Whatever, I'll see you back in August for our FOURTH year!














































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