School of Science

             The Best of The School of Science from 2012 

 The New Year begins with a disappointing match at home to Bolton

Right now, if Forest Gump's mother told me that life is like a box of chocolates because you never know what you will get, I would affirm her suspicions by smashing her snotty little quaint-sayings yap all over her kitchen sink and then using the garbage disposal to grind her lips and teeth into nutmeg. Then, if she would stop her bloody screaming for one second I would explain to her that although she never knew what she was going to get just then, that I, as an Everton fan, knew exactly was I was going to get during the Bolton match; a mouthful of shit served up piping hot by an ex-redshite and the wrong Cahill, and that I would trade with her if I could, and if she could come back to life. 

A forgettable match at Wigan back in February

To be honest, I drink so much and remember so little. I remember hearing Wigan fans banging on pots and pans to either signify halftime, dinnertime, or to tell their player “Man on!” 

Chelsea at Goodison: Tim Cahill has seen better days

Everton began with Straqalina upfront, and the ever hopeful Cahill behind him. Tim Cahill has become like the wandering dingo that gets adopted by a jolly bunch of rogue fellows. It's all laughs and hijinks until the dingo becomes too retarded to even eat the food you stick into its mouth. (National Geographic Wind Flutes and Deep Voiced Commentator For This Part:) “The poor dingo wanders around, void of friends, holding the back of its neck, and with un-swallowed food particles stuck to its teeth. The dingo will not last beyond the winter.”

Spurs come to Goodison in March:

Harry Redknapp brought his bag of European dreams and his headful of England ambitions to Liverpool tonight, and dumped it all onto the pitch. The spilt ingredients stank of stale wine and old horse shit, but there was a game that needed playing.

I moan about never having seen Everton's prime: Sunderland replay: March

I didn't see Fred Geary, Dixie Dean, or Tommy Lawton.  I didn't see Dave Hickson. I didn't see 

Alan Ball. I didn't see the year that Latch scored 30 and got a free T-shirt. I didn't see Kanchelski 

or Reidy, and although I am able to enjoy their commentary, I didn't see Andy Gray or Gary 

Linekar. I didn't see the first half of this match either because I had the TV set to the wrong 

channel when I pressed "Record" and left for work. How lucky for me that when I came home

on break and noticed what I had done, a replay was showing, beginning with the second half, 

and I was just in time to record over Judge Judy admonishing two fat people arguing over a


Victor is tired of being called "Super Sub" Sunderland: April

Next, Moyes looked to his subs bench and spied Victor. Victor looked back at him and arched his 

eyebrows. “You remember my name yet?”

“Vic, get in there.”

“Hmm, hmmm, mmm, I'm humming a song, I can't hear you.”


“La la la, ooh, look at the bird in row C.”

Moyes rolled his eyes and exhaled. “African Mandigo Warrior Whose Name Means NOT A SUB 

in African, Get out there!”

Victor got up, and if my lip reading is what it used to be, he told his fellow subs, “Later, bitches.”

The Romance of Stoke: May

Stoke. The very name conjures up magical images and a promise of enchantment and delight. A 

night game in the land of Stoke, under the stars, is an event every person should experience at 

least once in their lifetime. Alas, this endearing memory would have to remain on my bucket list 

for the time being, as I missed my flight and had to tune into the match on TV, crumpled 

passport in my fist and tears running down the glitter on my cheeks.

August: taking the piss out of Manchester United:

With each move the cameras caught Ferguson chomping his gum, leaning forward, rubbing his hands and eagerly anticipating the rewards of his commands. When I am quite drunk, I will sometimes stuff a wad of money into my dog's mouth. I hook the keys to my truck into his collar, and I tell him: “Get in the truck, go to Pat's Liquor and buy a 12 pack of Coors. Coors, not Budweiser. Don't let the clerk short change you. If you have change enough, pick yourself up some sort of beef treat. Then drive back here, boy, and bring me my beer. Obey all traffic laws so you don't get stopped by the police. Okay, boy, go!” I tell you this because I believe I look less foolish waiting to hear my truck start up after the dog has left the house, than Ferguson does waiting for his moves to pay off.

Baine's slow goal against Newcastle: September:

The Newcastle goalie looked like a stretched-out cat in a beam of sunlight watching its ball of yarn roll past. Then, he rolled over, leaned his chin on his hands, and pondered how sweet life would have been had he joined the Chimney Sweepers' Union all those years ago.

Leeds: League Cup

Sometimes, watching Everton makes me wonder if I am, indeed, the subject of some strange government experiment.

September, Pre Match: Southampton come to Goodison Begging for points:

Their manager, Kevin Costner, then gave a stirring speech where he begged his fellow Premiership managers to donate as many points as they could to Saint Mary’s, and perhaps heave a biscuit or two in the general direction of Africa. He was applauded, presented with a wreath of flowers representing failure, and guided back to his place on the bench by Sally Struthers.

October: Liverpool are robbed!

In a strange atmospheric glitch, the onside Suerez was ruled to be offside, and the winning goal was disallowed. Had Suerez been clearly offside, of course, the goal would have been allowed, as per Derby Rules. The referee and linesman, confused by the legality of the play, mistakenly disallowed a good goal. 

Holiday Spirit: Everton at Reading: November:

In another holiday gesture, Reading allowed a child from the Special Olympics to take the penalty from the spot. Howard dove the wrong way, the ball ended up in the net, and the special ed. child flapped his arms and made loon sounds.

Everton's less than stellar finishing against Arsenal: Late November:

Everton, for their part, would show up in the penalty area like pushy customers at Starbucks who insist they are in a hurry, but then start rifling their pockets for money when it's their turn to pay.

Moyes and Everton arrive at Man City: December:

Champions Manchester City welcomed Everton the same way you welcome your wife's “slightly intense” brother to your home during Christmas. Everton entered the Stadium of Money and immediately stated that City should quit serving “pussy beer,” insisted on an arm wrestling competition, and remarked that their host's 12-year old daughter was “pretty hot for her age.”

Spurs: December, and I don't like bring Velios on as a sub late in the match:

Anyone who has ever killed themselves could tell you, probably through a gypsy or Ouija board or whatever, that the most important part of the act, next to the result, is the note. You have to name a protagonist besides just, “Cruel World.” The people you leave behind need to know not only why you are topping yourself, but who has pushed you to the bitter, desperate moment. As I watched the Everton substitute jog onto the pitch, I picked up a pen and scribbled “Velios” onto a sheet of tear-stained paper.