School of Science

                      SOME ENCHANTED EVENING

                Everton at Stoke, 01-05-2012

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.

To make matters worse, I missed the first twelve minutes of this match as well, and I always 

like to see what mythical and enchanting animal has shat upon Scharner's head before kickoff. I 

also missed the home fans' presentation of “The Muppets Go To Stoke”. Also, a zombie with a 

bloodied head was lurching around the pitch. How I detest missing the first part of a match!

Well, Everton must have sucked the air and atmosphere out of the charming stadium, because it 

was silent as a broken music box and the football stayed on the ground at Everton feet. I kept my 

eyes on the zombie, wondering if the authorities were going to handle that or not. Then I saw 

Victor fall. “Get up, Victor!” I shrilled at my telly. “There's a bloody ZOMBIE out there!” Victor must 

have heard me, because he got up, but after years of simply walking around on a pitch his legs 

weren't up to the idea of running, and the monster overtook him and feasted on his brains. To 

my horror, this delighted the spectators and I felt my flesh prickle. For goodness sake, was this 

match in Stoke or Transylvania?

Despite Everton's total mastery of the game the only shot I saw was in the 28^th minute When 

Ossie tore through the Stoke line to unleash his dribbler in on goal. Stoke got a chuckle full of 

chances with Rory Delap and his freakish long throws on the short pitch. Watching Stoke perform 

this tactic is every bit as delightful as watching a fat boy throwing rocks at a squirrel on a 

telephone wire. However, none of the missives managed to bother Howard, and Everton went 

back to the business of playing football. An insight was gained into Jelavic's natural goal scoring 

ability, when at one point, Gueye sent in a cross that hit him unaware, and within the space of a 

flinch and the span a nano-second he recovered and nearly sent it into the net.

The commentators, to my child-like delight, are coming to grips with our French winger's name. 

They have gone from, “McGuy-gay” to “Gay-gay” and now, simply, “Gay.” I wish I was mature 

enough not to giggle each time the announcer said, “This is gay!” I'll tell you what wasn't gay was 

when in the 41^st minute, seconds after Pienaar forced the keeper into a save, our assist machine, 

Tony Hibbert LOL'd into Stoke territory and sent a laser cross off of Peter Crouch's idiotic head 

and into the net, and all the Stoke fans made collective “Oh...” faces. Halftime would be a 

celebration of silence and 'what ifs' served up amid the stilled confetti, chilled champagne, and 

caviar.

The second half saw Everton playing like KGB agents that were bred with wolves: knocking down 

doors, shutting down all opposition, taking what they want and attacking in packs. Stoke 

answered by taping the football to the feet of the zombie and sending him wobbling down the 

pitch again, arms extended in front of his body, tongue sticking out of his mouth, eyes bugging 

out, and his clodhoppers stepping on feet. He got close enough to Howard to try and detonate 

the ball into the net, but Jagielka headed the problem away.

In the 66^th minute, Stoke made a like-for-like substitution when they brought three failures off 

the pitch and replaced them with three others. One of them must have caught Tim Cahill's fancy, 

however, because he sauntered up to him, presented him with the football, winked, and said, 

“For you, love.” Well this tool's eyes lit up and he ran the other way with the ball, hinked and 

jinked Jonny and Jags into performing an impromptu version of Swan Lake, and sailed the ball 

past the bewildered Howard.

As the match wound down like a whirlpool in the centre of the pitch I became concerned. Where 

were our next three goals going to come from? Moyes, knowing he was in the land of glitz, 

glamour, and magic, blew on Faddy and tossed him tumbling onto the pitch. However, he 

created no memorable moments to cherish, and the match ended as a one-all affair. Around the 

Brittania, however, the air fairly crackled with Stoke's magical allure, and a quarter moon shone 

over the grounds as night birds sighed and the hometown fans sang, “Whoop, Dey it Is!”

              IT'S ONLY A MOVIE

                               Everton-Fulham, 28, April, 2012 

With the murmur for technology in football turning into a roar, this match could have taken the 

tech bit between its teeth, as Fulham's visit to Goodison Park today could have been live, via a 

teleconference in London. So useless were Fulham that it is surprising that their kit sponsors 

weren't Go To Meeting Dot Com. Fulham were led by a false manager who may have been 

pushing buttons from the conference room, but should have been pushing brooms through it. 

From the onslaught, Everton were the better side, and managed a promising free kick outside the 

area inside of five minutes. Jelavic hammered a wicked kick that deflected off a Fulham player's 

hand that he had raised when the question was asked if anybody wanted to leave the arena of 

battle for their home. A penalty was awarded. Jelavic, of course, smashed the resultant penalty 

shot through the wavering image of a diving Swartzer, and it was 1-0.

Howard made a few leaping saves in an attempt to appear as though he cared about the match, 

yet nobody seemed very interested. Indeed, David Moyes was caught by the camera writing out 

instructions for the new manager who would be taking his place next year. At one point the 

singing of “Come on Fulham, Come on Fulham!” rang around the park, but a video camera 

discovered that it was the Bus driver for the Cottagers blaring the plea through a bullhorn, while 

looking at his watch, holding the doors open, and revving the engine. At the fifteen minute mark 

Fellaini headed a Pienaar corner straight past the keeper. There was a holistic man on the line 

who waved his leg at the ball, and not surprisingly, the ball broke through the mirage of flesh 

and bone, and rippled the net, which stood rooted in reality. 2-0.

Fulham threatened to hit back after that by making a couple of courageous charges into Everton 

territory and passing the ball around a bit until they were hypnotized by another successful 

Operation Goodison exercise, and their fancy flights ended with them beating themselves 

senseless against the withering Goodison Park lights along with other futile moths and insects. 

Tim Howard urged the troops on, yelling, “Hey, if they're not (motherfucking cuntshit 

bastardwhore mopCOCKfuck) real, they can't hurt us!” He illustrated the point by leaping into the 

air, and then floating back to earth with his eyes gazing at the stars and his arms outstretched. 

Before he tenderly touched the grass, he blew a cannonball of a goal-bound shot over the bar 

like it was just a soap bubble. As if it were one of the little bubbles he used to blow after his 

momma washed his mouth out with soap, back before she found out he was special. And if the 

Howard family is being honest, even after his mother found out he was special, she continued to 

wash his mouth out with soap, because, how many free shots do you get in this life at one of 

your kids?

It was around this time that the camera showed Fulham's fill-in manager on the bench. The 

commentator politely said, “He's got some thinking to do.” I mean no harm when I say this, to 

anybody or their children, but I honestly think the commentator meant to say, “He looks like a 

retard.” In the meantime, on the big teleconference screen, it looked like the sneaky Fulham 

players were playing some sneaky football. They passed it around, passed it around, and all the 

time they were edging toward the tunnel, hoping to sneak out of Goodison without being 

noticed. Then a spotlight came on and the Fulham players froze. They looked like the Von Trapp 

Family when Franz caught them trying to sneak into Canada. The Goodison Park audience 

gasped. Then Sswartzer came after Jelavic, who had broken free and chased him around the pitch 

like a wild, hissing goose. Everybody screamed at Jelavic to just get rid of the ball. Jelavic closed his eyes and muttered, “It's only a movie, it's only a movie, it's only a movie, and then he did get rid of the ball. 3-0.

Goodison Park had never got to proper rocking during this match. It had been more like the constant happy humming from an electric razor, and the stubble slicing blades just rose a notch in volume. Then, Tim Cahill was coaxed out onto the pitch for one final tribute to David Moyes, and in the 60^th minute he thanked the man who gave him his chance in the topflight by touching a ball to Pienaar, and sprinting through Fulham's shadowy video defence. Pienaar lifted the ball like a man closing a smoldering oven door with his foot, and Cahill kept running, and before the ball could touch grass, it touched Cahill's boot and didn't feel the cool grass of the Merseyside until it nestled the back of the net for 4-0. I would like to tell you that Goodison Park erupted at this moment and shattered the sound barrier. Myself, my frenzied screaming was used up last week. This week each goal just produced a smile and a fist pump. They don't like you to get too loud at the movies, and though there were 30 more minutes to play, the match was over, and the Everton players exited the stadium, leaving Fulham's video feed still flickering, but only just. Tony Hibbert and Phil Neville left the pitch together, and it looked as though Phil was explaining to Tony how to perform a step-over. On the video screens Danny Murphy appeared and said, “Go to Meeting Dot Com. For when you simply can't be there.” Then the screen faded to black, and the Goodison ushers whisked about, cleaning up ashes that reeked of Fulham dreams. From the balcony, I made my way down onto the streets, into the night and whistled a tune. 

EVERTON FORCE UNITED TO FIGHT FOR THE TITLE

@ Old Trafford, 22 April, 2012

I like to have my dinner with my football. I eat and drink with great relish during the match, 

unless, of course, the camera zooms in on Sir Alex Ferguson. When that happens, I murmur an 

oath and take my plate to the kitchen and scrape it all into the rubbish. Who can eat while 

looking at that mess? His face looks like lumpy mashed potatoes, the veins that bulge beneath 

his flesh bag look like my strained beets, the bags under his eyes are as huge as watermelons, 

and his top lip looks like liver, and his bottom, a chocolate brownie. In short, looking at Alex 

Ferguson is pleasing as watching a crack whore giving birth.

With that in mind, I sat down to watch this post FA Cup letdown match with a bag of sunflower 

seeds instead of Sunday roast, and I'd only cracked into a handful of them before noticing that 

Everton were the aggressors. “Whatever,” I chortled, as I fed the dog some husks. As if! However, 

I soon began to wonder if perhaps Ferguson had been buying his players from a different catalog 

than the one he buys his referees from. Everton were playing as though a game at Old Trafford was just a Sunday of gardening. Meantime, United's only threat was in the 18^th minute when 

Rafael burst in on goal. However, he looked less comfortable with the ball than Titus Bramble, 

and in fact, acted as though the ball were a stubborn bumble-bee he couldn't shake free of. The 

greatest threat from United came when Ferguson broke away from his nurses and got hold of the 

referee's assistant. I'm not sure if my lip reading is as good as it used to be, but he appeared to 

be urging the assistant to, “Take me back to 1999, you son of a bitch. Do you hear me?” To add 

to the embarrassment, the cameras zoomed in on his orthopedic shoes peeking out from his 

six-hundred dollar Sans-A-Belt slacks.

In the 33^rd minute Everton almost sent Ferguson back to the ICU when Tony Hibbert lofted a 

loaded butterfly that Jelavic nudged off his head, and sent floating into the upper right hand 

corner of the Manc net where it exploded into black confetti. I kept a close watch on Ferguson, 

because you never know when he's going to chip off another piece of his diminishing soul for the 

result he so craves. It is delightful to note that his demeanor is beginning to mimic, exactly, that 

of Arsene Wenger's when the results are not going his way. Five minutes later Rafael approached 

the penalty area again. However, this time, instead of taking the pesky ball with him, the wily 

defender brought a suicide note with him and then faked his death right at the edge of the box 

in a splendid scene straight from Othello. Play continued, and Rafael did not, and he refused to 

uncurl himself from his self-imposed fetal position. As the play moved up the pitch his eyes 

blinked, and when he realized that a defender would be needed again at the other end, he leaped 

to his feet and ran back to join his team, who were already gathering for a pre-halftime attack at 

the other end. Said attack ended with a deadly Nani cross that Rooney put his failing hair follicles 

to and the greasy ball ended up in back of Howard's net.

Halftime

In all my time all I ever knew when Everton played Man U was, “Brave Everton performance, 

capitulated at the end.” The second half saw Everton field a ghost team of Gough, Gemmil, 

Moore, Weir, Collins, Dunne, Watson, all playing brave, defending football with only one thought 

in mind; defeat, and United began serving heaping spoonfuls of it just the way Davey Moyes likes 

it from his pal. In the 57th minute, Weldek scored when Pienaar went down. Everton sort of 

thought that since the same situation had thwarted one of their attacks in the first half, that this, 

well, maybe. Kindof, the ref'll do something, 'dunno what, like, but...(This sentence was as sloppy 

as Everton's tries at clearing the ball out of their own end, and it ended with Welbek slicing a ball 

just past the diving Howard)

By this time, if Everton's defence had been like a suit of armor, United were like a monkey 

hanging off the helmet and stabbing knives into the eye slits. Streams of crimson jetted from 

Everton's steely defence, and just a few minutes later Nani slashed at the soft white neck meat 

that Everton so prominently displayed, dashing in on Howard and scooped out some dark meat 

for himself. As the ball landed over Howard's shoulder and Howard fell to the grass, Nani took a 

moment to pray to the Rain god, or whatever, and the slaughtering of the sacrificial toffee was 

on.

Two minutes later, Moyes muttered, “Mulatto off, McFadden on,” and the match switched in a 

magical way not normally associated with a Scotsman. It took less than five minutes before 

McFadden hit the dashing Hibbert, who sent his second pinpoint cross in on goal that Fellaini 

blasted before the orb could touch grass. It did, however, touch net, inside the right post. This 

was the impetus Everton needed. Now, only down by three goals to two, they began—okay, make 

that four goals to two, as Welbeck and Rooney sliced the Everton defence again, with Rooney 

flinging twenty pieces of silver into Time Howard's net and telling him to, “keep the change, oh, 

and your Nan says 'hi.'” The guys in turbans, behind Moyes, held their hands to their mouths, 

pantomiming the, “Oh, no he DIDN'T!” expression.

United, up 4-2, at home, 21 minutes left, began to relax. Ferguson even had his nurse roll him 

over to the referee's assistant so he could put him in a playful headlock that had the assistant 

blushing like a school girl. Ferguson had given him something his family never could; love. Now 

United began turning the screws, but they forgot which way they go, and the match fell apart on 

them. Tim Cahill, naked, had wandered onto the pitch looking for scraps of meat and somebody 

to talk to when he found an interesting looking ball which got fed into the rabid Jelavic, who 

scootched it into the lower left hand side of the net. Before Ferguson could even gather his 

leaking, running face back up, Felani took a ball around the edge of the box, considered it for a 

few moments, and then sped it into Pienaar's warpath, and he sent a donkey up United's rectum, 

keep Everton above Liverpool, and drag United back into the muck of a title race.

However, there was still a trick left as United fans desperately tried to involve the referee into the 

match, with chants of, “Ref-a-ree! Ref-a-ree!” He responded by adding five minutes of stoppage 

time, which delighted demented Alex, and oddly enough, thrilled me. Hell yes, three points is 

what I thought, but one point is what everybody got, thanks to Tim Howard, who in the hectic 

last moments tipped over a rocket from Rio Ferdinand, dated “1999.” Oh, Alex, so close, so 

close.

  Those Who Understand Need No Explanation...

            FA CUP SEMI-FINAL, LIVERPOOL

I don't blame God when babies die. I don't rail against Him when a shooter runs wild on a 

campus. I don't shake my fist at God when earthquakes terrorize fragile cities like an invisible 

Godzilla. Loved ones have been taken from me, and so will they ever, and I too, will join them, 

perhaps before my time. I blame God for nothing, because it is all part of the plan. I know that if 

the good lived forever, and evil smothered itself to death in its own vile before it could ever 

spread, I know that it would mean we are living in heaven. I know that here, on earth, evil exists 

to separate the bad from the good. Evil reigns because Satan rules the earth. I learned it all in 

Sunday School when I was a child. When we get to heaven there will be no more evil, but in the 

meantime, hey, there will be sorrow, sadness, anguished tears, and no justice for the good. 

There will only be wickedness, sin, and death. Okay, I get that, but THIS?

In order to get inside Wembley, Everton had to pass a crippled beggar outside who pleaded, “It's 

freezing, and I'm starving to death. Just a farthing or a crumb would help...” Everton gave the 

wretched soul a steak dinner, twenty dollars, a lottery ticket, two pints and a tea with biscuits, 

and then passed by to attend to their business. Dalglish chucked his wheel chair aside, tore off 

his hood, snickered, and ran around the back to prepare his club for the match.

Everton began the match just a bit unsteady. For a moment, they forgot that they were the 

superior team. They forgot that they had the sexy streak going, they forgot that they sat above 

their overspending, befuddled neighbors in the standings. They forgot that they were the better 

team. However, that only lasted a few minutes, if that, and soon Everton were treating the red 

team as though they were a black team of cats. In fact, Everton were showing signs that this was 

not your father's Everton, but your grandfather's. Liverpool were acting like they wanted to shit a 

brick, and then they did. In the 24^th minute, Everton, still applying pressure, caused Dumb and 

Dumber to watch the ball with their mouths agape. Did the ball hold the secret for world peace? 

Dunno. Was the ball about to tell the pair how to achieve time travel? Dunno. Did the ball hold 

sacred scarab beetles that would allow mankind to live forever? “Argh, no more talk!” Jamie 

Carragher roared, as the demons leaped from his head and into the little rolling white ball. 

Sweating now, and speaking in tongues, Jamie kicked at the demons in the ball. Alas, it was

 just a little white ball. The swine were only in Jamie's head. The kicked ball smacked Tim 

Cahill, and flew into the path of Jelovic. He didn't take a touch, a moment, a beat, or ask silly 

questions. He just kicked the stupid ball into the kopites net. Wembly erupted, and even the 

kopite goalie didn't seem too upset, because just a few days ago he was a Starbuck's 

“Barrista.”

Liverpool responded by throwing the hapless andy carroll at Everton the way fleeing stage coach 

drivers used to toss boxes of women's undies from the stage coaches to slow down pursuing 

Indians. It worked for a bit: Carroll got the proper hat trick of misses. Missed open net with a 

header, with left foot, with his right foot, but indeed, Everton began to lose their momentum. 

However, halftime arrived with Everton just gaining the upper hand again. One began to wonder 

what the scoreline would be had the wingmen, Osman and Gueye, decided to take part in the 

match. Indeed, Baines was missing Pienaar, and this match was missing Drenthe. The match was 

proving to be too large for Gueye. It would be interesting to see if the second half contained 

adjustments that David Moyes was up to making.

Halftime. Everton were poised to break this match open. Who would make the adjustments needed for a date in the final?

Sometimes I think that we humans beat each other up so horribly, while God and Satan engage in 

“Gentlemens Agreements” over their quibbles. How else to explain Distin gifting a goal to a filthy 

swine like Suerez in the 62 minute? When Silvain poofed a gentle pass toward Howard onto the 

racing hoof of swinerez who knocked it passed Howard, the match turned from probable Toffee's 

romp, into a finger-gripping-hand dagger fight. As the match progressed, the managers' 

acumen was called upon as much as the players' stamina, and Moyes blinked first. 

He brought the overmatched Guye off for Coleman, brought Maro up behind Jelavic, and dropped 

Cahill deeper into the midfield where he could go from invisible, to completely invisible. The 

move made no sense, unless you heard Satan's clever voice saying, “Fair is fair...”

Before God could agree, Carroll skidded a free kick off his own horrible head, past Howard and 

into the net, and black flies burst forth from the skies over Wembley. Three-eyed laughter and 

strange music trailed behind the flies and into the skies. I curled up, and with my tongue and 

will, tried to control the sick that surged toward the back of my teeth. My flesh prickled, and the 

hair quivered on the nape of my neck. Then Dalglish raised his fists toward the London sky and 

the tidal wave of sick burst from its dam, through my lips, and splatted my TV screen. My eyes 

began bleeding, and I wiped my mouth and eyes with my sleeve. When I recovered, I raised my 

fist toward heaven, and without a though as to why,  I thanked God for making me a Blue.

               SUNDERLAND, LEAGUE, APRIL SOMETHING, 2012

Sunday was a celebration of Jesus's Resurrection, and Today was about a resurrection of a 

different kind. A rising unexpected, and possibly uncontainable. A resurrection that is ready to 

give Wembley a double-fisted rocking in the weeks to come. The dogs of War are snarling, 

straining at the leash, and there is only one thing standing in our way to the final, and that is a 

little red fire hydrant. After a match such as this one, where I am caught out sober, by 

circumstances not the fault of my own, similes and metaphors rain down on me like...well, never 

mind, plenty of time for that, later.

When Moose, off the LASH site, posted our starting lineup for this match, there was a remarkable 

lack of replies as we all pondered what we had just seen. Finally, a timid lad set finger to 

keyboard and asked, “Is that for real?”

“Yes.”

“McFadden?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

That was fine with me, I decided. I have a lot of projects to catch up on before going to work at 

the petrol station and verbally jousting with the Hostess Driver who is convinced that I am a 

retard, and I am convinced that he is quite old. I will catch the results later, and get busy for now. 

But I tuned in to the stream. There really is no help for us Evertonians. And then Everton got 

busy. Well, not right away. There was plenty of sky, and ball in sky, and long, lonely volleys from 

forwards back to their own goalkeepers. In fact, this match was like a lazy spring afternoon with two old dogs lazing on front porches in different neighborhoods, and once in a while one of 

them would bark, “Hey!”

(Long Pause) “What?”

(Long Pause) “Nothing.”

(Long Pause) “Okay.”

And then it was halftime.

Oh, I can't say I was glued to the screen for the first half. I got up, made some toast and bacon. I 

let the dog out. I returned to the screen. Put a pot of water on for coffee. Returned to the screen. 

I ate my breakfast and then began mixing baking soda with rock cocaine and took some huge, 

greedy riffs off the pungent clouds, scratched myself a few times and returned to the computer 

for the second half.

The swirling patterns of colour on the screen began transfixing my mind. It looked like blue and 

white weather patterns descending upon the Sunderland part of Goodison. Soon, little 'taking the 

piss' droplets began to fall. I went to the stove and turned up the flame and returned to the 

screen. Everton were at these fools! Maguye, Osman, Pienaar, McFadden...ha ha, as if, Neville 

doing step-overs again. And then I returned to the kitchen, and when I came back, exhaling 

smoke, I saw another little ball, but this one was on the pitch, not on my sheet of tin foil. A 

deflected Osman rocket rolled to Maguye who ran onto it from the left corner of a white line. He 

shot a dragon chasing trail into the top corner of the net. I sipped coffee, I needed caffeine. This 

was good. If Everton can make this hold up—Osman scored from the same spot into the same 

spot. I re-examined the contents in the foil on the kitchen counter. Who did I buy this from? I 

came back to the screen and Drenthe was in the match. He was sniffing the air, trying to find out 

where the smoke was coming from. I exhaled again. “It's coming from YOU, my man,” I told the 

black man on the screen. And then Drenthe began cooking up his own little somethin' somethin' 

down the middle, weaving like I do in traffic, down the left side and passed way over to Maguye 

on the right. Maguye passed to Pienaar in the middle at the edge of the area. Pienaar did not 

move. He looked at a spot beyond the goalkeeper, cocked his foot back, and kicked the ball. It 

sailed to it's chosen destiny, somehow surprising the keeper. That piss-taking downpour 

exploded from the skies.

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.”

“Victor!”

“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.”

Minutes later, Pienaar went skidding through about fifty Sunderland players at the right hand 

corner flag, ducked inside and found African Mandigo...Victor. Victors eyes became saucers when 

the ball came to him, and he stuck his tongue out, swung his leg and pegged the ball about a 

foot straight up in the air. Victor's momentum carried him around 360-degrees and his leg hit 

the ball again before it could touch the ground. This time the ball smacked some poor fool in 

black and red and ding-donged the net for the fourth goal. Vic unleashed his deadly and 

disarming smile, the sun came out, and “Tell me ma” blared from the sun system. In the 

background, on my stereo, Jim Morrison was singing, “Meet me at the back of the Blue Bus, Blue 

bus...” I headed back to the stove. Be right with you, Jimmy my man.” 

 'WE DON'T WANT NO WATER...'

                                                      Norwich, away, 7-04-'12 

This saber-rattling match began full tilt and ended super charged. It was like a couple of 

heavyweights began slugging each other while the referee was still saying, “Okay, gentlemen, 

now, when you hear the bell...” In fact, Everton were in Norwich's end so fast it made even Delia 

blush. However, Norwich flew straight at their aggressors and the goal mouth action at either 

end was like a strobe light display. Farm boy Gibson is showing a Scholes-like ability to pounce 

on loose balls and clobber them with his size-50 clod-hoppers, and Pienaar, Baines, Jalavic and 

Gueye played football like a rogue SWAT unit. All of this attacking left Norwich gaps to batter

through, but Howard flew at the ball the way his midfield was doing. Ruddy, for his part, dashed 

each Everton attack with his own scrambling sense of urgency.

In the 18^th minute, Baines, Pienaar, and Jagielka strung a series of passes together which 

produced a pearl that Pinaar rolled to Jelavic about fifteen feet in front of goal. He clicked the 

offering with his heel, like a pinball flipper, and the ball sped across turf and into the net. Two 

minutes later Hibbert hit the crossbar and Cahill slid into the rebound, albeit too late, and the 

desperate Ruddy snuffed out the threat. By now the spectators were like those at a tennis match; 

a missle tennis match. A scud from distance just eluded the far corner of Howard's net in the 35^th 

minute, but four minutes later a gang of Norwich looters smashed down fences, shattered 

windows, and one of the thugs rolled a stolen ball into the path of somebody named Howson, 

who was running riot in the mayhem. Howard was left to fend for himself, but the ruthless 

Norwich youth hit his target, and the Carrow Road boom box began playing, “The Roof Is On 

Fire”

Halftime came to restore order and the ref pulled the players away from each other.

The second half began like “Charge of the Light Brigade”, Coleman was on for Maguye, who 

seemed to be having a decent match, though not as dazzling as his display at Sunderland had 

been. Jelavic showed no quit on any ball. In fact, he even took a flying roundhouse with his boot 

at a goal kick. Howard and Ruddy were back to playing, “Dueling Goalies,” and Moyes showed his 

intent when he took Neville off for Fellaini at the 55 minute mark. Fellaini hit the field running, 

and five minutes later he was part of a raiding party that included Pienaar and the Croatian Goal 

Virus. The three of them were after the ball like the hounds of hell, but it was Jelavic who swept 

his leg into the ball, which went viral into the Norwich net. Norwich complained that they should 

have had a free kick, but referee Marinar just stared at them with his big, stupid, dead eyes until 

the players began to feel uneasy, and went back to playing football—which had ceased doing in 

order to complain about how unfair all is in love and war. Besides, their previous fifty free kicks 

had all been squirted straight into the Everton firewall.

By now, although body language was drooping, spirits were still high. As the sun waned and 

shadows grew, Wilbraham broke in on Howard, who saved, sending the ball back to the failed 

shooter, who this time sent it to a seasoned assassin, and Holt closed one eye and fired, felling 

Howard like a water buffalo as the ball entered the realm of the net, and touched the back. The 

two managers urged their charges on like crazed maestros demanding perfection from an 

exhausted and frenzied string section. Players trudged off, others charged in, yet neither side 

could smash the 2-2 barrier. Moyes finally looked at the bench, and if my lip reading is what it 

used to be, pointed at a player and said, “You, erm, Super Sub, get in there.”

There was no movement from the bench. Tim Cahill was told to come off, yet his replacement 

remained rooted to the bench. Players began to speak to Victor Anichebe, but he shook his head, 

eyes stuck to a nowhere spot beyond the pitch. It looked like, to me, that he said, “Hell no, that 

ain't my damned name. If he wants me to go in there, he can call me by my damn name, and my 

damned name ain't 'Super Sub.' He want a Super Sub, I'll give him a super sub, I'll give that man a 

super sub right up his arse. See how he likes his 'Super Sub' then. In fact, you can tell the man--”

“Victor, get your arse in the game!” Moyes growled, his fists balled.

Victor rose to go in. “That's what I'm saying. Just call me by my damned name, is all I'm saying...” 

he muttered.

Within moments the super sub clattered his way in on goal, uninvited, and roared at Ruddy, “My 

name is Victor Anichebe, and I am of African heritage. 'Anichebe', in African, means, 'He Who is 

NOT a Substitute' or something like that, now prepare to--” his shot was saved.

The action became more gritty than pretty, as the players' determination grew. Finally, the ref 

blew for 4 minutes of stoppage time and from both sides came the call to fix bayonets. The 

resultant clattering of steel and heaving of bodies produced a few more attempts at goal, and 

one embarrassing moment for Jelavic, who clutched his face, cried, “I'm hit!” and tried to crawl 

under a dying teammate. When the 4 minutes failed to produce anything more than further 

futility and exhaustion, the ref blew his whistle, which, apropos of nothing, made his eyes cross. 

At Carrow Road the lights came on and reveled a pitch strewn with dead horses, shields, spears 

and bodies, as the grounds filled with echoes. Long moments passed, and then the spectators 

quietly turned and filed out. It had been a splendid afternoon.

God love Tony Hibbert. This is nothing to do with the match, but I just have a feeling that he 

doesn't know that prem league footballers are paid to do what they do. I think that when Hibbert 

was a child he was kidnapped by Peter Johnson, and later added to the deal with Bill Kenwright. 

Kenwright has filled his head with things like, “If we win today and you play exceptionally well, 

lad, you will get quite a handsome prize.” Sometimes I watch Hibbert play and I think, 

“Kenwright's offered him a semi-gold chain today.” The lad has never put a foot wrong on or off 

the pitch and keeps his mouth shut and wingers shut down and seems to run off of pure Scouse 

pride.

That said, West Brom showed up at the door today. Oh, they were modest and all, playing down 

their role in the Premiership, just happy to be here, and all of that happy clap trap, but we have 

seen that act before, and they always seem to end with the commentator's voice crying out, “And 

West Brom have snatched a vital three points!”

Well if West Brom have snatched points off us in the past, we have been sucking points and 

places out of pitches over the last couple of weeks like we were shop vacuums set to super-

charge. This match, however, began as though the shop-vacuum was clogged up with a lot of cat 

hair, feathers, spurs and the like. In fact, after the high-powered performances of the last two 

matches, there was nothing worth noting once this one got underway other than somebody had 

finally scrubbed the unicorn jizz off of Scharner's head, and put a padded cell in the dugout for 

the West Brom manager.

Although Tim Howard had nothing to do, I began to fear that this was the sort of day that he 

would do nothing when he finally had something to do. While I pondered this, Leon Osman 

twinkle-toed his way down the centre of the pitch, passed to Jelavic, back to Leon, who let rip j

ust outside the area. The keeper dove to his left, but the ball deflected sharply off some baggie 

and into the net. Ossie tried to claim the goal, and Hibbert gave him the wink and nod, like, 

“Played, lad, that's a trackie for you.” However, the half played out the way a hint of rain smatters 

against a tin roof before finally unfulfilling the promise.

HALFTIME

The second half arrived and unfolded like guests who stay too long after dinner. West Brom 

passed the ball a little, Everton countered with a lone long ball, Brom played one out of touch, I 

yawned, Everton took out baby pictures, I sighed and began to wander around the room, and 

West Brom countered with love poems their fourteen year old daughter had written. However, 

Everton suddenly brought on Victor for Cahill, Albion gave up a free kick in Baine's territory, and 

I shook myself. Suddenly, I found the guests a bit more intriguing. But instead of Baines taking 

the kick, Jelavic got a try because “Leighton always gets to take them.” Leighton will be taking 

even more of them after Slavic floated the ball over the net like he was some sort of tart 

dropping a scented hanky for a rich bloke in the Street End to catch and return.

In the sixty eighth minute Pienaar went on another pitch-surfing safari and slid a ball to Vic, who 

happened to be moving at the time. Vic popped the ball low off the left goalpost and it 

ricocheted around the inside of the net. Vic celebrated by chucking rocks and shrunken heads at 

the Gwladys Street end. The West Brom fans then began singing, “Tell me ma I want, Some tea 

and some sympathy...” What they got was a near boxing match between their own goalkeeper 

and Odomwingy, younger brother of Whatchamacallit and Humdinger, oh, and the final whistle. 

Hibbert broke into a grin. He was going to get some Burberry and Rockport, deffo, lid.

Sunderland V Everton FA Cup Replay,27 March, 2012 

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

herron.

Second Half:

I was delighted that while I had missed Jelasovic's sweet side-footer from Guaye's cross in the 

first half, Everton were determined to provide me with all of the entertainment I had missed out 

on in the previous 120 years. At one point I checked the top of the screen to make sure I was

not viewing some sort of old highlight reel. This was not football, this was smash and grab. A

referee was of no use, this match called for a magistrate. The football was lunch money to the 

Everton bullies, and the flinching Sunderland side were only too happy to hand it over despite

Martin O'Neil licking his fingers and urging his players to fight.

In the 54th minute, the disgusted O'Neil decided that perhaps removing a Euro-hippy from the 

pitch and sending David Vaughn, a player with a proper English name, into the match would 

shake things up. The substitution paid dividends immediately, when Tim Cahill played Jelasovic 

in on the keeper, and Jelly played a sneaky ball to Vaughn, who guided it past his keeper.

Finally, in a desperate effort to slow Everton down, Sunderland accused Phil Neville of rape. Oh, 

the anger they showed in defending the honour of their fallen tart proved, indeed, that chivalry is 

not dead. However, Sunderland's dreams are dead as shown by the morose faces of their fans 

that had bothered showing up to Goodison Park tonight. Playful Everton pawed the Sunderland

players around the pitch some more until the referee called them off and ended the match. The 

fans at Goodison North roared their approval, stirring the echoes of the past at the true Goodison 

Park, and the Everton heroes basked in the adulation. The Sunderland players trod carefully 

SWANSEA V EVERON 24 MARCH,    

                         2012

         PASS, PASS, PASS, BABY! 

At Swan's today, David Moyes threw another tin full of washers and screws into the places 

where the nuts and bolts go in the name of chasing a Cup Final. You may have heard that the 

Swansea Swans play an exciting brand of passing football. Oh, my gosh, you have not heard? 

They love to pass. It is the philosophy that their manager has instilled in them from day one. 

Pass, pass, pass, pass, and pass. Pass, pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Their manager has 

also garnered respect from the pundits for never abandoning his footballing philosophy: pass, 

pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Although the Swans have not scored a great deal of goals 

since their opening day 0-4 loss to Manchester City, they jogged into Liberty...Stadium(?) today 

as favorites against the Mersey Millionaires, because, as you may have heard, they like to pass, 

pass, and pass.

HALFTIME

The same two teams emerged for the second half, which had to be discouraging to anybody who 

had paid good money for their tickets...or had just had their Direct TV turned back on for the 

match. Whatever, we can only watch what is thrown at us. When your wife is furious at you and 

throws a brick of charcoal onto your dinner plate, and the charcoal looks like it may have once 

been something like a chicken, you don't protest, you just keep your mouth shut, start picking at 

it and begin opening beers. Well, I kept opening beers and I let my eyes pick over the waste on 

the pitch for anything that may have resembled palatable.

For the most part, Everton had been like a FIFA 2012 game by EA Sports. The players on the pitch 

were an odd fit, played at around a 64 rating, and didn't seem to know what strange force had 

placed them where they were. However at the 52 minute mark, Gibson, seemingly bored by the 

constant grazing of tasteless grass, stumbled upon a bumbling ball and drove his huge-assed 

foot through it. This created shock waves in front of the Swan's area, and Jellavic and Cahill each 

pounced gleefully upon the rebound, but to no effect.

This bit of action, form and bravery seemed to suit Pienaar, so he braided up his hair, painted his 

face, and went on the warpath. Historically, swans do not fare well in the onslaught of warpaths, 

and Everton bullied their way into a free kick just outside the area, point blank, in the postal 

code of Leighton Baines. Moyes took this opportunity to yank Cahill from the pitch and threw 

Fellaini out there. Then, Baines stood over the ball. I doubt that I was the only Evertonian who, 

without being psychic, already knew that the ball was going into the net before it was kicked. 

Upon impact, the goalkeeper barely moved more than me. The ball tucked itself into the 

top right corner, and I nodded my head once in acknowledgement of the obvious. To cheer 

would be to make me as crazy as a loon who screams at the moon, or cries because the sun has 

risen.

The Swan's manager tried to rally the troops by singing a show tune: “Pretty, I feel pretty, I feel 

pretty, and witty, and wise!” But while his pretty players paused and swooned, shouting for an 

encore, Pienaar was busy feeding Jelavic about fifty times in front of a practically unguarded net 

before the Croat finally managed to boot one past the keeper. Everton peppered Swan's goal with 

about a million more shots before Swan's manager cried out to his players, “To the BBC Pass 

Shield, lads!” and Swan's fled the field for the comfort of the football pundits who smoothed their 

ruffled feathers and told them how beautiful they were.

       EVERTON 0--ARSENAL--1-- 21 MARCH 2012 

High flying Arsenal swooped into Goodison Park tonight for the final spot in the Champion's 

League, and saw only one thing in their way; a blue smudge. Everton, for their part, took the 

pitch with seven things blocking their path: Stoke, Fulham, West Brom, Norwich, Aston Villa, 

Blackburn, and QPR.

With Sunderland on the horizon, it was amazing that Moyes had the audacity to field a squad of 

first-teamers, but there they were at kickoff, our best eleven, and so the match began. With 

Goodison Park rocking, it was no surprise that Everton took complete control of the match for 

the first minute and fort-seven seconds. Then, the football match turned into a chess match, 

with Everton only moving one space at a time. Arsenal turned over the chessboard and began 

playing LOLZ football, and only needed five turns; or six-minutes, forty-seven seconds before 

declaring, “Checkmate.” This occurred when Arsenal took a corner and some joker with the 

unflattering name of “Verminillian” on his back rose above the Everton pawns surrounding him 

and rolled the ball off the back of his head into the net.

If you are a whoring, pimp-cheating-cheapskate with a love of booze and drugs, you will 

understand how the rest of the match unfolded. After the goal, Arsenal were like the guy who 

finds himself with two baggies. One is filled with money, and the other with cocaine, and he 

rents a good hotel room, orders Jack Daniels and a couple of hookers sent up, and he 

rubs his hands together thinking, “Oh, man, here we go, party, party, party!”  However, at the 

first touch of flesh, he overfills his condom, flings it into the corner, and then, giggling, takes out 

another one, but it will never feel moisture for the rest of the night.

If you are a badass, bitch-slapping pimp who just found out where the punk with his bitches and 

money is, you will know how Everton responded to the Arsenal goal. And so the first half 

unfolded. Now, If you are a low-life, cock-sucking faggoty-son of a whore you will know what it 

was like to be a linesman during this match. This one single linesman, who looked like Tony 

Hibbert would if he had AIDS and rats feeding and pissing on his head, called offside on 

Drenthe's goal, and all of the rest of the Everton moves inside of Arsenal's box. The 

commentator's were to the point of outrage with this poltroon, and the more incompetent he 

proved to be, the more incompetent he tried to be, in order to try and justify his own 

worthlessness. Well, a bullet to his skull could have done that.

HALFTIME

The second half kicked off, and kicked off again. Everton were all over Arsenal, and Arsenal, not 

liking it, were diving in retaliation. A few of Everton's newer players showed that they could dive 

with the best of them, and then boots were kicking mouths, elbows jabbing throats, and 

shoulders barging into shoulders. Lee Mason and his befuddled assistants looked as though they 

were trying to referee the Normandy Beach invasion, yet if these tools just had a clue, we could 

have had a great match to discuss, rather than a great deal of match points to debate. It does not 

help that Mason, with his frightened eyes and shaved head looks like a pussy posing as a hard 

man.

The last fifteen minutes ended as the first fifteen had begun. Arsenal on the ascendency, Everton 

on the back foot, and the linesman with a little smudge in his pants. Get these tools sorted FA, 

you fucking weaklings.

FA  CUP  QUARTERFINALS  EVERTON  SUNDERLAND        

                            17 MARCH 2012

     THERE WILL BE BLOOD! 

Everton and Sunderland sank their teeth into this FA Cup quarterfinal and didn't release until the  

final whistle, and even then, just. The Match was brutal and beautiful; horrid, and exciting. The 

opening kickoff was more like a touching of the gloves, and then they were off and running, God 

knows where, but I was willing to let these two teams take me there.

It took only eight minutes for a kicking to knock over Drenthe in the box, no whistle by ref Andre 

Mariner, and for Phil Neville to see a flash of yellow at the other end due to a simple foul. 

Mariner... I haven't seen him ref in a long time. My mind quickly ran through its Cunt-O-Dex 

under the M's. In the meantime, the only M to concern myself with was the delightful mayhem on 

the pitch. This was end-to-end stuff, like anvils and sledgehammers flying prettily through the 

air.  Just a moment after his penalty appeal, Drenthe blasted from distance, a miss, but a good 

sign.

At the twelve minute mark Sunderland gained a free kick, which isn't hard when the match is 

flying along like trees passing by the window of a speeding car. Fair play to Mariner, he could 

have ruined this match with a frenzy of whistle blowing, but didn't. Anyway, this free kick was 

too far away to trouble Howard, and GOAL! Bardsley's kick hopscotched through a sea of legs, 

deflecting off Cahill, and past the helpless Howard.

However, Everton were everything in this match that they had not been on Tuesday night. The 

Sunderland fans were just as sonic as Everton's, and if jets had flown over The Old Lady, it's 

doubtful anybody would have noticed. The noise ratcheted up even further when Jelly and Cahill 

played a double donger off their heads, with Cahill, the one who would be punching flagpoles. 

The commentators were even awed by the noise, with one of them saying, “And you can really 

hear the Evertonians singing that What the Fuck? song now!”

A Sunderland player finally got dealt a card when T. Bettner was booked. Though he protested, 

the cameras saw the ref telling him, “I saw you there, and there, and there, and there, and there, 

and there, and there, and there.” Yeah, so behold this card you disgusting mask-faced-fiend.

Oh, this match kept going, trust me. It was like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland. And fair play 

to Cahill, and not just for scoring. He wormed his way inside, bicycle kicked, nearly got punched 

a few dozen times, headed, drove, bobbed and weaved and kicked, and basically did everything 

to make opponents hate him again, rather than being a whisper on the pitch that his own fans 

have come to detest. Halftime drew near and neither players nor spectators cared. Coleman 

ding-donged between two Black Cats to draw a free kick that Drenthe pinged the top right 

crossbar with from distance, Ossie broke into space to force the keeper into a save, and then it 

was corner-for-a-corner at either end, and the ref blew his whistle, allowing the fans to exhale, 

and for some, to retool their pacemakers for the second half.

HALFTIME:

 A lad wearing a number 17 jersey with “McBain” on the back was taken into custody for running 

onto the pitch and helicoptering. Probably worth it, poor devil.

As the commentators were discussing how hard it is to keep a frantic pace up in the second half 

after a torrid first half, the two teams were at each other like wild black cats and toffees. Really 

aggressive toffees. Yellow cards pattered from the heavens like raindrops, penalty pleas were 

plead, turf flew, mud flung, lungs ached, free kicks filled the sky, players panted, and alliteration 

abounded. At seventy-five minutes, Moyes warmed up Jagielka, and signaled Heitenga to come 

off. Jony made more gesticulations toward Moyes than VDM used to make to a cocktail waitress 

on a night before the match. He turned away from Moyes, waved the back of his hand at Moyes, 

made thumbs up gestures as to his fitness, and sit back down gestures to Jagielka. He shook 

his head back and forth—OK, VDM never did that at a cocktail waitress—then he waved the back 

of his hand, and then he closed a nostril and blew a stream of vile out toward the bench. Moyes 

told Jagielka to sit back down, and the other subs began taking the piss out of him, and Jonny 

continued to take the piss out of Sunderland. He even pulled Drenthe away from a volatile 

situation and had a word in his ear in a way that had me thinking, “Next Captain.” Some more 

subs were chucked into the melee on both sides, yet no further advantage could be gained. The 

match wound down by heating up even hotter, with Heitenga heading a wicked shot that 

Sunderland's goalkeeper just saved, and Jelly barely booting the rebound into the side netting.

Laws dictate the natural order of both nature and man. The laws of nature dictate to the beast 

when the time is to bed, to rise, to feast. The laws of man ordain that order be maintained in a 

civil society, and those laws decree that social and sporting events have a limit as to their length. 

I sincerely believe that without those laws, Everton and Sunderland would still be playing. To the 

north, then.

                     'AVE IT 

                                David Moyes's Ten Year Anniversary Gift To Himself 

Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, and Moyes gotta manage. Well, tonight he managed to get a derby named after himself by gutting a team on a nine game run for the most important match of the year, in order to save it for the next most important match of the year. How curious that the day he outright admitted that he believes Colima had fixed the Villarreal match, he himself, would throw a derby. Maybe Moyes was tired of hearing about how he doesn't know strategy or tactics. Maybe he was tired of being considered unimaginative. Okay, Davie lad. For the love of God, stay unimaginative, because you imagined your arse off for this derby and served up a Steven Gerrard hat-trick that will snuggle up with all of the Ian Rush Derbys till the end of time.  In short, you outsmarted yourself.

As I settled in to watch the match I honestly thought to myself, “This is just crazy enough to work.” Unfortunately, only the first four words of that sentence were validated by the match. I must admit that for the first half, the pipe fitters and chimney sweepers Moyes sprinkled onto the pitch played with an intensity that matched the buzz of Anfield. It may have been the fastest first half of football I have seen in a long time.

Liverpool, instead of being intimidated by our exotic team selection, the way a thug runs away because a wimp strikes a karate pose, decided to just punch us in the nose. That was within the first four minutes when Howard was forced into some nice saves, and Rodwell showed up to make some timely clearances and blocks as well. After that, all hell broke loose and it was windmills, haymakers and sucker punches all around, and up and down the pitch. In fact, this strange team Everton had rolled out, as if for a mini derby, performed like heroes, and the Everton fans sang the Zed Cars theme so loud that Ian Darke had to comment on it.

The next thing Ian Darke commented on was the Liverpool goal. The Everton defence was shaky, and the midfield was not helping it much either, when in the 34^th minute Howard made yet another fine save, but the rebound fell to Gerrard, who dinked it cross-cut, from right to left, and slowly arced over a host of Everton players straining to reach it. Gerrard celebrated like a twelve-year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. He was finally handed a paper bag to breathe into for a moment and the match resumed.

Three minutes later, Kelly missed a wide open far post, and then Everton were back the other way with Baines working his way inside, crossing to Straq who knocked a sharp header down that Reina just got in front of. The one minute of stoppage time found Everton on the attack again, and then slowly working their way backward away from Reinas goal when the whistle blew before they could take a shot.

The second half provided plenty of fireworks, but none of it from Everton. In the 51 minute Liverpool were attacking again. Swinerez was lurching left just outside the area when Gerrard relieved him of the ball by kicking it into the top of the Everton net. This is when Moyes decided that he should at least put three of the six players who should have been on the pitch to start the match onto the pitch. Straq, Vic and Coleman came off, and Ossie, Drenthe and Jelly came on. They trotted onto the pitch like Dorothy, and her companions in search of something that didn't exist; an Everton goal, although they did manage to set up Jelly with a shot into the side netting. Apparently Liverpool had a player named “Henderson” who had been on the pitch. When Dalglish finally found out, he had him taken off and put a fistful of consonants on in his place. There was one moment of mirth when Phil Dowd was seen laughing and shaking his head when the Kop end bayed for a ridiculous penalty. Another funny moment followed after that when Gerrard ran through Everton's midfield, played some touch and go with Suerez, before netting again into the top right corner of Howard's net, for a hat trick, in the Kop end, game over, and game over is how this match report should have begun.

         CROATIAN EXPLOSION! 

          EVERTON 1 SPURS 0 10 MARCH 2012

This evening's match at Goodison park saw a team coming together, pitted against one coming undone. The 

little engine that could, facing the locomotive that couldn't. 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.

Fortunately, Drenthe was still in the starting lineup, but the cameras caught David Moyes speaking to him 

just before sending him onto the pitch for the kickoff. If my lip-reading skills are still up to snuff, David

was saying:

"Royston, look at me. No shootie shootie tonight. Passie passie passie. Capiche?"

"C-a-p--WHA? NO MORE TALK. NOW TIME FOR FIGHT!"

With a deft move, Moyes ducked under the roundhouse, turned Drenthe toward the pitch and gave him a 

shove. There were screams, a general parting of bodies, the ref chucked the ball over his shoulder and fled, 

and the match was on.  Well, sort of.

If you have ever seen a cranky old blind man in a restaurant, sitting by himself, and becoming so annoyed

because his order is taking too long he goes "looking" for the manager, tapping his cane and bumping into 

tables, people, and knocking over wine displays, you have an idea what the first fifteen minutes of this match

looked like; no, not funny and entertaining, but futile and clumsy.

All this was swirling around my head when in the 22 minute, Osman broke through the bumbling 

Tottenham ranks like a fire walker who just discovered that fire burns. This caused a massive gap 

in front of the Spur's net which was quickly filled by Jelavic. The frantic Osman sent the ball 

bouncing across the pitch to him, and without hesitating, Jelavic filled the Spurs net with ball.

The ensuing celebration was so huge that Moyes even let Tim Cahill out of his little wooden box 

to run about the pitch and party with the players. This gave the Spurs the slap in the face I wish 

I could give them, and they responded with a few long balls and through passes that created 

calamity around Everton's net, but Tim Howard used his new contract like a diner uses the menu 

to swat flies away from his soup. Then it was halftime.

***Interesting that Everton have replaced "Forever Everton" with "Dream of the Blue Turtle" by Sting.

Well, well, well, the second half arrived and guess who was on the backfoot? Everton, that's who. 

But this time they moved on defence as they had on offence in the first half. Each Spur's move 

was met by sliding defenders, quick boots, solid headers, jarring tackles and firm shoves. Under 

the lights the hovering Spurs' players resembled quivering black and white moths, flapping

about and waiting for something to happen, but nothing more did. Moths are attracted to light,

and for the last twenty minutes Spurs slammed themselves into the Everton net to no avail. In the 

76 minute Defoe broke through, but he was offside. 

Everton made some subs, bringing on the old and taking off the new, Jelavic was gassed, Straq

was gassed up, but did little more than create a few cheers from the Fellaini fans is Straq wigs. 

The match wound down, but the ref wound up five minutes of stoppage time and the match 

became a real firefight, with most of the flames scorching Everton's net. However, neither 

corners, free kicks, nor Saha hitting the post could cause Everton to come apart as the match

came to an end. The Londoners filed out, Cahill trudged past the corner flags, and Saha slinked

off the pitch, his hands on his hips.

                                     AT QPR 4 MARCH 2012 

Boobs, tits, vaginas, and John Terry. There, search engine keywords sorted, as well as Tim Howard's first outburst. Everton stormed the pitch at "This is Loftus Road Park" with Pienaar on one side, Drenthe on the other, and Straqualursi up front. Tim Howard was between the pipes despite his recent goal drought that is reaching Cahillian proportions. Oh, and Tim Cahill behind Straq. Game on...I guess.

Five minutes later Drenthe dealt a crunching tackle to the QPR chairman's son-in-law which so outraged the chairman that they stormed out of their "jes' plain folk" seats and back to the chairman's box, dislocating the lounging Scousers who had found the liquor cabinet. The resulting free kick saw Bobby Zamora scare the ball into the net with his face. It was Everton who found themselves with a free kick in a great position minutes later. However, the QPR fans tossed a mystic squirrel onto the pitch to hypnotize Pienaar, but the rodent only managed to put the ball under a spell, and in a stupor, the ball roamed the air until the keeper gathered it safely into his hands.

If you have ever seen one of those old films where a little guy is trying to hit a big guy, but the big guy just pushes the palm of his hand against shrimpy's forehead and laughs as the little guy windmills the air with uppercuts and roundhouses, you will know how the second half played out. Fellaini was like the big guy, laughing and stepping in to take the ball away from QPR every time they tried to attack, and sending it to a teammate who would bollox things up.

At the 63 minute mark, Moyes tweeted to Straq: "gerroff pitch U suck 2day #waste of space" Jelly came on for him, and then Moyes had one of Drenthe's handlers go out to remove the goal scorer from the pitch. Drenthe chainsawed his way off, and Osmand was sent on in his wake. Both subs played like lovable puppies, but created nothing but doodies on the pitch. Boobs, tits, vaginas, and John Terry.

IT WAS during the pregame show, while Warren Barton was telling Eric Wynalda that Everton were going to have their hands full with this Blackpool squad today, that Royston Drenthe scored. Gueye had rambled down the left side of the pitch with the ball, found Fellaini in the box, and sent him the ball. Mauro held it a moment, amid a tangerine cluster, before spinning it out to Drenthe, who was clanging down the right hand side with his mechanical maw gleefully snapping open and shut, while his flaring eye sockets locked onto the ball.

Silence gripped the fans inside of Goodison, and froze the Old Lady, herself, and silence sucked the sound from the studio's sound monitors. The only sound was the THUD-thud, THUD-thud, THUD-thud, of a strong heart pumping goal-scoring juice into a left leg that was cocking back from twenty yards out to greet the little rolling ball on a one-timer into Blackpool's net.

The crowd leapt, the Old Lady bounced, the sound monitors in the studio exploded, and somewhere in the stratosphere, a roaring jet ripped the sound barrier. On the pitch, the Blackpool goalkeeper carefully disengaged the football from his net, and Eric Wynalda said, 

"Yes, Warren, Blackpool are certainly on a roll right now,and are rocketing their way up the Championship table. Everton are going to have to take them very seriously if they are to progress today."

That was when Straqualursi scored off a wicked Drenthe corner from the right flag. The ball dipped like a guided missile seeking heat and found a perspiring goalkeeper and a hot-blooded Argentine. Straqualursi kicked at the ball, but stumbled backward. However, the ball was locked onto him and his second smack found the back of the net as the G-forces knocked him to the ground.

"Eric, this promises to be an exciting one. I'm Warren Barton, sitting in with Eric Wynalda. Now let's take you out to Goodison Park, in Liverpool, England, for the start of our match."

 I'm not exactly a rocket scientist, or even a science major. You probably won't be surprised to discover I was a very poor student in English, as well. In machine shop I melted things that weren't supposed to be melted, and in wood shop I scorched what had been beautiful, and gouged what was perfect. In short, I'm more stupid than that plank who wrote the song about not knowing anything about algebra, trigonometry, the middle ages, or the french he took. What I do know, however, is chemistry, and this group of young lions is passing that test with flying colours!

EVERTON  CHELSEA  PREVIEW: WHAT YOU ARE SURE TO SEE SATURDAY 

Chelsea Football Club are a snowball that has begun chasing those who rolled it uphill, down the hill, and at the bottom is Roman Abramovitch staring at it wide-eyed and slack-jawed, hoping his dwindling cheque book can save him from the inevitable wreck, and subsequent flattening. This rolling disaster arrived at Goodison Park this afternoon and had the cheek to tell the bus driver to leave the engine running. The players exited the bus, packing the various hair gels, perfumes, blow-dryers, and lip gloss they would need in order to dismantle Everton.

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.”

Although Everton's dingo is dying, spring is arriving and the Toffees' dolphin was in full-blown frolic mode. It took Steven Pienaar five minutes to break though the Chelsea line, chest down a fumbled Cahill ball, and burst the roof of Pete Check's net.

The atmosphere, of course, was brilliant tonight. Not only was the singing loud, but each Everton build up of play coincided with a roar of anticipation I have not heard in ages. Of course, no amount of crowd enthusiasm could drown out the ear-cringing screaming of Phil Neville, who sounds like an enthralled crow that just discovered an unguarded bag of Cheetos. I have to say that Chelsea opened the match showing a 4-3-3 formation, but they played like a bunch of empty sandwich bags getting whipped around the park by a light breeze. At one point I double checked my TV screen, thinking that I saw “Dominos” on the front of their kit. No, this was Chelsea, and any Dominoes on the front of their kit was the result of them puking their lunch onto themselves as a result of nervousness. In fact, after Pienaar's goal I relaxed, unclenched my fists, cracked open a beer and let my mind wander while my eyes did sentry duty on the TV.

When my mind came back from where it was wandering, with a peanut shell in its cheek, a bra strap clenched in its teeth and a golf ball in its ear, my eyes reported what they had seen while my mind was gone: mostly Pienaar and Baines taking the piss and Cahill doing a walkabout while kicking at grass and glaring at the corner flags that mocked him. When the ref blew for halftime, the commentator asked his co-commentator, Trevor Francis:

“What do you think Chelsea will take from this first Half?”
“Well, Steve, they've already taken twelve inches of South African Cock, mate. What more do you want them to absorb?”

Halftime: John Terry. I mention him just so I can add his name to the tags on my site and get more hits.

Chelsea came rolling out of the tunnel after the half like the black knight in the Monty Python Holy Grail movie, and the more they played, the more they bled. I like to poke fun at, but for the life of me I can't remember a more gutless and clueless performance by an Everton opponent since Newcastle, that May when we clinched Fourth. Well, there was Man City a couple of weeks ago. All I can remember about this Chelsea side is the fellow with froompy hair, and Torres. OMG, the man police need to pull this guy over and ask him for proof of orientation and ID. All day long the only thing he provided was poof. He mud wrestled, slap fought, foxy-boxed, and hair pulled with Everton players all match long. Finally the ref showed him yellow for all his menstruation rage. The card gave the big hussy more cards than goals for the season.

Although Torres did manage to blow-dry a couple of fluffers over to Tim Howard, the only thing he did all match was to flounce around and huff when the catcalls rained down on him. In the 70^thminute Neville made a tackle that sent the ball into the path of Landon Donavan, who fed the ball into the path of a rampaging Straq. Denis let the speed of a heartbeat pass before burying the ball past Check. With five minutes left in the match the commentator summed it up better than I could: “The engine on the Chelsea bus is running, and they can't get out of here fast enough.” Is right. Roll on Sheffield United. I mean Blackpool.

                             DID YOU KNOW...? 

       Wigan  Everton  02-04-'12 

Wigan's DW Stadium is just a short burst from Goodison Park if you take the Optimist Taxi there. However, Everton, though full of optimism after their last two matches, chose to hop Wigan's Midnight Express for the Three-O-Clock derailing, and they arrived just in time, as far as the home team was concerned. Certainly David Moyes rubbed his hands together as this match approached and the transfer window closed. He had just bought the top scorer in the Scottish premiership and traded his out-of-gas striker for the return of Steven Pienaar, Stracqualursi had the love of the fans behind him and goals in front of him, and Drenthe was both healthy and foaming at the mouth. If you add to this the fact that Wigan City had lost their last thirty-seven games in a row without scoring a goal the odds were in Everton's favour. Thus buoyed, Moyes put Drenthe on the bench and fielded a 4-5-1 formation.

This match almost didn't take place because snow was threatening to fall. I have no idea why snow should halt a football match when the yellow ball was invented for just such a purpose. However, there was no snowfall for the match, although sleet was falling. I have always lived in Southern California, so I don't really know what sleet is. I did take a moment to google it, though. So with ice-flavoured Slurpees gooping down from the skies onto the players this match kicked off. While it is no secret that I pop a few pills and slam a fair few beers, it was hard to tell whether the heavens were plopping on the pitch or if indeed, the players were the plop.

I sat down to watch this match with an eagerness I had not experienced in a long while, and now I fear I will not experience again. Fellaini was playing, I remember that. I recall Tony Hibbert saving a goal from a cross. 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!”

I ask you: what is there really to tell you about this match? You could set off every bomb known to mankind and after the fallout, if you asked the survivors how their day was, this is what they would tell you:

“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”

“Tim Howard, Tell me about Wigan's first goal.”

“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”

“Gibson, how do you feel about your performance?”

“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite and then vomited up my testicles.”

“Landon Donavon, you're returning to the states soon. Did that have any effect on your performance?”

“Woke up, put on my toupee, some face lotion, prayed for powder, then woke up for real and had to go play soccer. Kind of a drag, whatever. Hey, are we done?”

“David Moyes, could you tell me about your team selection?”

“Woke up, face full of puss, the sky was white, drawing a breath made me scream, had a bite, vomited up my testicles, told the lads to go out and get a point.”

Stracqualursi finally managed to create the void that was filled when Saha left, and Cahill returned to walking around the pitch like an accident victim trying to draw a whip-lash settlement from the ref. In fact, almost the whole of the Everton team resembled tumbleweeds blowing aimlessly across the pitch.This match, in fact, should lay to rest the wretched argument that it is the fans' responsibility to bring the players into the game. This is because the only sound in the stadium was made by Everton fans, and it was raucous, boisterous, and so loud that I almost left the house to run laps. Everton players seemed bothered by the noise. However, Fellaini, for his part, spent the afternoon tackling without getting carded, taking the ball from the opponents and giving it to his teammates, who would respond with a snarky, “Gee, THANKS.” and then mope around with the ball until it was taken from them. This match was so dreadful that at halftime the studio crew didn't show any of the highlights, choosing instead to show National Geographic clips of elephants “Doing it.”

Halftime

The second half was more lively with wasted shots, corners and free kicks from Everton. Straqualursi was so vile that Moyes replaced him with a player named Jelly, who spent the rest of the match living up to that name, and oh look, here's a goal from Phil Neville's backside that back spun its way across Howard and into the Everton net. For some reason the match was stopped while the city of Wigan put on a production of “Everybody Polka!”

When the music died down, the dancing stopped and the lights came back on Victor had replaced Hibbert on the pitch. I don't know what is wrong with Victor, but he scored again. Baines took a free kick from the right corner that was blocked, the rebound coming back to Baines, who moved in closer and put another perfect cross into the area that Victor rose for, turning it off his head perfectly for a picture book bullet header into the net. A jaunty accordion tune began playing but quickly died out when the rest of the band just stared at the poor fellow.

I suddenly knew, knew in my heart of hearts, in the secret, quiet part of my soul, that Everton were going to win this match, and in fact, when Jelly fell over just outside the area and Baines stepped up for the free kick I broke into gooseflesh as the DW stadium hunkered down, hushed. 30,000 pairs of hands clenched in prayer. Half for “Please, dear God...” the other half for, “Please, dear God, no...” Then Leighton slammed the ball over the net and an accordion broke out into the “One Point Shuffle” that got half the stadium dancing. I turned off the TV and walked outside. I took a drink and looked at the sky. It was white. I touched my face with my hand. God, I felt sick.

                   EVERTON MAN CITY PREVIEW:

The posers in pale blue did what any masked dandy would do when thrown into such a circumstance; they pissed themselves and tried to flee. However, thanks to Operation Goodison, all the exits were barred, and urged on by their cowering flounce of a manager they ran around the pitch screaming like coeds in a horror movie. Everton chased after them, except for Gibson, who, surprised by City's reaction to the big game stood around with his hands on his hips and his mouth agape for the first 18 minutes. It wasn't until Drenthe took a bite out of his ankle that Gibson finally began to jog about the pitch to see if he could catch a blue fairey for himself. Tim Howard's role in this match appeared to be just to toss the City players back into play whenever they showed up at his goalmouth quivering for shelter.

If you have ever watched a lion tamer in action, it is not until the lion has worn himself out that the lion tamer finally puts down the whip and chair, pulls up his panty hose and takes a peak into the mouth of the lion. Everton, disgusted by the cowardice of the “League Leaders” and exhausted from the hunt, soon lay down in the tall grass, panting. Oh, didn't THAT bring out the bravery in these prancing ninnies veiled in fainted blue. They even dared to take the football from Everton and possess it at a 70 percent to 30 percent clip. A few of them even approached Howard and took a shot at his goal while the others leered at him, laughed and threatened to scratch out his eyes. This brought the other Everton players' heads up, and they rose from the grass and into a crouch. Suddenly, Bill Kenwright, seeking his own sanctuary from the Blue Union rushed the pitch and handcuffed himself to Howard's goalpost, swallowed the key to the cuffs and chased it down with a handful of Big Macs and Chicken Nuggets, and puffed pastry and a jug of whine. The ref blew for halftime and the City players stood back and watched warily as Everton strode to the locker room.

Halftime

City took to the pitch for the second half inspired by their managers stirring rendition of “Oh, Solo Mio” during the break. However, Everton responded by slapping them around like they were Harry Redknapp's saggy, excessive jowels. Phil Neville was repeatedly kicking the ball into City players' faces and out of touch, Fellaini walloped Davy Jones, from The Monkeys, in the penalty area, no call, and Tim Howard punched Lescott in the head, explaining to the ref that he thought it was one of those “spikey voodoo dolls” The ref listened to Lescott's complaints and then yellow-carded him for having an illegal bulge in his face.

In the 59^th minute there was a sudden buzz around the stadium. When people looked around to see what the cause for all the commotion was, they saw that Drenthe had gotten hold of a football. Oh, he was so proud of himself! He kicked it about, strutted, pranced, and pawed it, and asked the City players if they would like to try and take it from him. They responded with a mass quivering of the lips, and the show of cowardice so enraged Drenthe that he raced the length of the pitch with his prize. The City players bravely tried to stop him by playing dead, and when Drenthe finally got near City's goal he became bored with his new toy and gave it to Leighton Baines. Baines sent a long cross to Donavon out of the right. For some reason Donavon seemed puzzled by the ball so he passed it to Gibson. The look of triumph that creased the ugliness in his face would wound a grizzly bear, and Gibson gave the ball a tremendous smack. The ball flew at the net, gave an insulting slap to a City player and then clocked the back of the net sending alarm bells going off around the City of Manchester. City responded by taking off their best players and putting women and children onto the pitch for the remainder. Mancini's head drooped, and he muttered “No mas.” (But in Italian)

Goodison was a bright light of lit torches, feasting and singing. As the City players clumped toward the tunnel, one of the stewards told them, “Nice costumes.”

     EVERTON ON TO THE NEXT PHASE!

Fulham, Round 4, Friday Night, 27-1-12 

18-1-12

 

Everton - Blackburn Match Preview: WHAT TO LOOK FOR:

 

Saturday's match is unusual in that it takes place on a Saturday at around 3 pm. Don't look for too many goals in this fixture, or very many serviceable parts on the subs' bench. However, you can bet that Moyes is going to finally scrap "Operation Goodison" for this match by benching Saha and Cahill. The picture to the left is of Saha after he is brought on as a substitute.

                   Rovers, Home 21-1-2012 

Words are very strong. One single word can conjure vivid images that sail away with your imagination. By simply hearing the word, “ocean,” for instance, I can smell the salt air, hear the sea birds, feel the sun and wind, and see exotic ports on the globe. In fact, two words would double this sensory sensation. For instance, if you were to say the words, “Aston Villa” to me, I would immediately think: dog shit. Well, Everton waded into Villa Park today hoping to take points without stepping in anything.

When I saw Drenthe on one side, Donavan on the other, and new arrival Gibson playing in the middle, my optimist gauge inched toward the right. Then I saw Saha and Cahill up front and the gauge sagged back to where it's been since August. The match began as they all do, a ball bouncing and skidding, and players jogging and sprinting, and beer bottles falling off tables and onto my living room rug faster than I could pop them open. You may have heard that Clattenburg was in charge of this match. He wore his hair in one of the gel-fag styles the FA requires shit refs to identify themselves with, but did little else to stand out.

Gibson started strong, knocking the snot out of Petrov, yet taking only ball, and ireland got dropped like a parolee getting tazed in front of his trailer park home. In fact, Ireland looks like a parolee who should get tazed in front of his trailer park home. In front of his bleeding-from-the-nose-wife. While wearing extra baggy shorts that show all his underwear. Bare-chested with crappy tattoo caricatures of his ex-children staining his sunken chest. That's what Ireland looks like. Whatever, it didn't take Everton long to take hold of this match and do nothing with it.

Everton passed, passed, passed, passed, passed, until Tim Howard Finally told the cunts that he was not likely to score again, and that they should venture forward to see if they could create anything. Well, what do you know? They could! Chances, I mean, not goals. In the 17 minute Saha got a terrific free kick from Baines and headed it to Limpville. A few minutes later Donavon, finally starting to get his British feet under him, stormed the right side and sent a lethal cross into Villa's box that knocked Saha and three Villa players into the net while the ball stayed out. The commentator and the co-comm said it was a clear penalty. Saha was content to lie inside the net for a few minutes sleep. Clattenburg's vision was obstructed, to be fair, but fortunately, he brought along linesman just as stupid and inept as he for this match.

Shane Given was having quite a game, meaning that Everton were, as well. In fact, even Warnock tried to score on him with a wicked header off a Drenthe cross, but could not. Speaking of Drenthe, he will never take another corner or free kick, and if he puts in another noodle performance like today, he will never put in another shift. Suddenly, Drenthe fell to the ground from the shame of his performance. He made the “I want to come off the pitch and go home to drink whiskey” motion toward the pitch, but his plea went unnoticed. With five minutes to go before halftime, the Villa fans began to make their way to the bogs. When the whistle blew, I went in search of glue to sniff.

Halftime***

Apparently, the Villain fans had decided to use the bogs at home, because they never returned. The stadium was as noisy as a gust of wind, save for the full-throttled voice of the Everton fans. However, at the fifty minute mark Marcus Bent found a bobbling ball in the Everton area and he kicked at it like he was kicking racism out of football. While Louis Saha twittered to confirm that racism has yet to be kicked out of football, the ball Bent kicked bounced high into the corner of Tim Howard's net. Saha put away his phone, because he didn't want to talk about black on black crime. Bent almost knocked another one past Howard straight away off a ball by Ireland.

Drenthe was so bad today that after awhile Moyes simply had him towed off the field. Moyes then lit a match under Vic and tossed him onto the pitch like a Molotov cocktail, and strangely, he exploded on Villa, rather than in Moyes's face. Landon Donavan—do you remember him? He's an American who played here once before, played a sublime ball through to the burning victor, who shot through the Villain's defence and shot the ball on the run. The ball launched itself past O'Shea. 

Just minutes after this moment, Victor, thinking he still had a lit fuse, chased a ball out of touch the way a stupid child chases a butterfly in order to make it his special friend. Well, the ball told Anichebe to fuck off, and Victor, devastated, crashed to the ground and grabbed for some random appendage to hold onto while he grimaced. The cameras caught Moyes talking into his phone, saying, “Get hold of Norwich and see if they need another striker.”

In the meantime, Gibson came off and Bily came on. That's when I kicked in the face of my TV set and wished that it was Moyes. Or Kenwright. Or the bank chairman. Whatever, I just want to kick in somebody's face who is involved with Everton. I want to smash teeth, crumble bone, stomp fleshy parts of the body, gouge eyes, slash throats, eat tendons, stab, murder, torture and kill these pieces of shit. When the police take me away I will sing about what a grand old team it is to play for and to support. I'll get out of prison before Everton win fuck-all again. 

Villains - Toffees Saturday Preview 

          Probably a lot of this bollox. Stay home. 

WHO WANTS TO SCORE A GOAL...? 

All you need to know about David Moyes, Bill Kenwright, and Everton Football club is that Moyes took one of our top goalscorers of this campaign and stuck him back between the sticks for this vital match in London. Moyes then left some of our more creative and aggressive players to gather splinters while the usual dead meat from the glue factory lined up for the kickoff to see if anything could be squeezed out of them before they were canned and jammed into cans of dog food.

Surprisingly, Everton started out aggressively, but after a few thrusts in the Spur's end they withdrew like a sated penis, and seemed satisfied to see how many goals the Londoners could score. However, once Tottenham showed that they, too, lacked the testosterone to do anything to a goalmouth, Everton began another more tentative foray into Spurs territory. After 13 minutes, Victor won a corner. If I knew then what I know now I would have gone outside to water the plants, and even watch them do a bit of growing. Ah, if only. Watching Everton take a corner is like pulling your pickup truck to the corner where all of the day “workers” are waiting for jobs. They piss in the plants, drink beer, ogle women, and talk about how badly they need a job, but as soon as you pull over and tell them you need some workers they withdraw into the shadows, mumbling about soreness, or some other such excuses. Well, the ball from the corner arrived into the penalty area and the Everton players withdrew into the shadows, faking injuries, nursing soreness, and complaining that they had to get back to Oxnard.

In the 20^th minute the match suddenly opened up and both sides raced up and down the pitch, until Everton, after a moment of excitement, clutched at its side, complaining of cramps, and saying, “Let's slow it down a bit.” Its players quickly agreed and hands went to hips, sprints turned to limps, and heads lowered and points began to drop. The Spurs' Lennon took this opportunity, along with a long diagonal pass to barge into the placid Everton penalty area. This woke up the Evertonians like outraged honey bees, and they swarmed the startled Lennon, who had only wanted to score a goal. He mis-kicked the ball in his haste to flee, and Howard, positioned for a rocket, fell slowly to earth with a sad look on his face as the ball bumbled along the grass to the near post and nuzzled the back of the net. For Spurs it was game on for the game in hand. For Everton it was time to suck wind until the halftime whistle blew.

Halftime

The second half unfolded, revealing things that neither I, nor the Everton players wanted to see. I didn't want to see them play anymore football, and they didn't want to see any more of the football. We both got pretty much what we wanted. Moyes did use one of his substitutions to bring on a female spirit medium to conjure up the soul of Louis Saha. Well, this is what she managed to conjure: ball wide, ball over, ball out of touch, bad pass, missed ball, ball side, ball too fast for player. Undaunted, she tried to recall Tim Cahill's career from the dead, but like anything that happens with the black arts, whatever goes right, comes at a cost. Assoma-Ekoto, or whatever, blasted a 30-yard rocket at Howard that Cahill managed to deflect past his goalkeeper. The spirit medium then demanded payment for her services, which Moyes refused to pay. However, when she threatened to sue, Kenwright coughed up her thirty-quid.

This match was almost over when Moyes finally brought on a couple of players who should have been on the pitch before the match was begun. Their names aren't important, because they exude ambition at a club with none to offer. They will soon be gone. In the 82 minute I awoke, startled to hear Tim Cahill's name mentioned. Ah, it was only for a booking. No matter, I am sure that I will continue to hear Cahill's name, and others like him, long after the names of the talented, aggressive, goal-scoring players have become whispers in the Manny Ferndandes Hall of Echoes. 

NEWS 9-1-2012 

Louis Saha saId he was racially abused on twitter...

1. Louis, you and co-dud Cahill have footbally abused Everton all year long.

2. It's TWITTER, Louis. Did you think Mother Theresa was your only follower? If you lack the fortitude to read your twitter account how are you going to do anything on the pitch requiring courage? Screw it, you're not reading this. I'll add you to my twitter list so you can read it. If you're not curled into a little mewling ball in a corner somewhere.

Clattenburgh is set to ref an Everton match for the first time since '07. Just when I thought I would never have any use for all these sharpened pennies laying around...

07/01/2012

Congratulations, Everton, on your HAMMER OF POWER* Performance Versus Tamwhatever in the FA Cup!

* HAMMER OF POWER line stolen from the LASH website

                             I LOVE YOU EVERTON

Bolton, home, 4-1-11

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.

By the way, if you don't think a yank knows what the definition of irony is, I will now correct you. I missed seeing the starting lineups of the match because when I exited the liquor store with all the beer I would need to survive another Everton match, I found a beer truck blocking me from leaving while the driver made his delivery. After an animated discussion with him he decided to move his truck, and I raced home to the match, already three minutes old.

I hate trying to decipher what our starting lineup is while the match is already underway, but after eight minutes I was able to figure out that it consisted of at least Baines, Tim Howard, and the Argentine. As I began to tear into my beer and valium with the restraint of a hissing raccoon, the commentator filled in the blanks for me: it was windy on Merseyside and Donavan was playing, and Everton were in a 4-4-2. I would have to take his word for it on the later two statements. Donavan's presence was confirmed for me moments later when a ball hit him in the head and ricocheted out for a Bolton goal kick.

With the fury of the wind came more clarity. I could see Saha and Ossman edging into the match, and that Phil Dowd was the referee. Although whip and roar the wind would, it could not coax any of the stubborn goats on the pitch into any action, except for Phil Dowd, who carded a couple of Bolton players just to stay sharp should he need to show red to anybody wearing blue later on.

Oh, the match had its moments as Everton began stringing little passes together here and there, but it was like watching your children decorate a Christmas tree without any supervision. The oldest sister strings a thread of popcorn together, the middle sister lovingly lays a glittering set of lights upon a set of branches, and the little brother inhales a handful of tinsel and begins choking to death. However, around the 31 minute mark good things began to happen. Osman and Baines began working the left side of the pitch, and shortly Saha and Donavan were included on these little plays and ploys. However, each time the ball left the ground the cruel wind would snatch it away from the midget donkeys, leaving them pawing at the sky with their hooves while the little ginger keeper for Bolton laughed at them.

Now I will be honest. After all the drugs and alcohol I injest during an Everton match I can't tell who is coming, who is going, and who is Greek or Argentine. What I do remember is that right about at halftime, and just after, Moyes began making substitutions as though he were snarking down peanuts and playing Parcheesi. Rodwell and Guaye blew onto the pitch and by the second half, Tim Cahill would be the final chunk of coal in Evertonian stockings this day.

Second Half

Although Louis Saha wasn't one of the players that Moyes took off the pitch this day, he did manage to finally disappear through one of the holes in the number 8 on his jersey. It was a marvelous bit of creativity on his part that has been lacking all season long, and his disappearence was a welcome site for all Evertonians.

 However, the rest of Everton's wasted chances once again threatened to return like a loan collector, and Everton's defenders began playing as though they were dodging the doorbell or the phone call. Each time Bolton knocked on the door Everton's defenders squeezed their eyes shut, tried not to piss themselves, and waited for the threat to go away, which it would, each time, thanks to Tim Howard. Howard was left to jump and leap, and slap and kick away at balls that flew at his net like stray bullets in a crappy Lancashire drive-by. 

Everton finally managed to break down the Bolton defence when Tim Howard scored on a goal kick. Of course, he was too disgusted with his teammates to bother celebrating, so he spit into the pitch, muttered an expletive, and tried to return to work while the Everton slugs clung to him and slimed him with their tongues. It is worth nothing that just a minute after this event, Tony Hibbert found himself racing down the right hand side of the Bolton end and dancing closer to goal. The noise around Goodison was immense, and Hibbert, feeling the renewed pressure, chipped a ball in that the wind nearly stuffed into the Bolton net.

That was to be the last happy moment of the match, however, as an ex-redshite wormed his way around two defenders to quick-shoot past Howard, and in yet another perverse moment of this match, the wrong Cahill bounced a long, wide shot past 20 players, which finally ended up just past the wonderful Tim Howard's desperately reaching hand. The evening ended with a Leighton Baines free kick that struck under the crossbar and bounced away with three points. The wind howled, and blew ripped up pieces of season tickets across the darkened Goodison Park pitch.

                      THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT! 

The match began with Everton signaling their intent from the start, with Cahill taking the kickoff and launching the ball straight downfield to his own goal keeper. Captain Phil Neville intercepted the ball, and in a move straight off the training pitch launched a dying duck far up the pitch that the sleepy Saha felt obliged to jump at, to no effect. Gravity is always the winner when two titans such as these lock horns and this match would prove the theory over, and over, and over again as the ball went up and the ball came down, the ball went up and the ball came down. At one point I realized that ten minutes of the match had passed by without my being aware of it as I had been fantasizing about oatmeal. In fact, if these two teams had been firing squads, the condemned man would feel obliged to commit suicide. Before halftime the com said that perhaps the crowd was watching the match in a haze, and that, “perhaps that is the best way to watch this game.” With those words the referee, not arssed, waved the players off for halftime rather than blow his whistle. The players didn't have to be asked twice.

Halftime

The players all must have received a good slagging off from their respective managers during halftime because in the second half their thoughtful musing and meandering turned into ferocious half-speed jogging. Moyes decided to send a Frenchman onto the pitch to give Saha somebody to talk to because Cahill had decided to spend the match on the left side of the pitch launching in crosses that could charitably be described as 'ludicrous.' Hodgson responded by rubbing his chin. I decided that brown sugar and raisins, with a pinch of cinnamon is the best way to enjoy oatmeal. Suddenly, the referee, in a desperate effort to stay awake, yellow-carded Leighton Baines. Oh, it was SO not on...

As the match wore on like a lazy September day Moyes brought on the Greek, whom the com referred to as “The Argentinian,” and then, in a like-for-like swap brought on Anichoebe for Neville. Five minutes later this swap would provide the most deliciously futile words ever uttered by a commentator: “The ball falls to Hibbert...Anichoebe waits...” However, just four minutes from the blessed end of the match that combination would provide the key to Everton's bedeviling “Locked Vault of Three Points” as Hibbert sent a cross into the box. The site of a football in the general vicinity of the goalmouth caused panic on both sides, and they began a furious bout of “Hot Potato” with the unwelcome visitor until Anichoebe, in an attempt to kick the ball away from himself, accidentally sent it into the West Brom net. This was good for two reasons: one, Everton would probably win, and two, it brought Hodgson out of his chair to entertain us with a zany dance. Not a minute later the camera caught him slamming the back of his head against a wall like some demented character from a Doestoyevsky novel. I had to smile. Three points, free entertainment, and it was time for oatmeal.

A harsh wind blew sandwich wrappers, paper bags, toilet paper and a ton of Martin O'Neil resumes over the awkwardly named “Stadium of Light” this Boxing Day Afternoon. The match began and the plastic wrappers and bags acted as though they had as much right to the pitch as did the Everton players, and by the performance of the boys in blue, the scattering trash had a valid point. Cahil played behind Saha, and the two have become their own support group that just says 'No' to scoring goals. In fact, Cahill headed his first chance somewhere in the direction his career had chosen to escape to, and moments later Saha headed a ball that veered far away from an open net and ran, barking, after Cahil's ball, disappearing as well into the ether of "Over the Hillville".  Saha and Cahil spent the rest of their time together wandering the pitch wearing mittens connected with string.

The ill winds blew colder for Everton when Titus Bramble limped off with an injury to his Own-Goal-scoring foot. They grew to howls moments later when Distan ironically tipped in a shot past his own goalkeeper. This caused some little ginger twat to dash about the pitch as though he'd just won the 'Fan for a Day' award. Tim Howard picked the ball from the net and scratched at the beard on his chin that he is growing for Drenthe to rightfully harvest someday. It was interesting to note that before halftime, Larson was awarded a free kick. Larson stood over the ball for the right angle, another villa player took the left angle, and to confuse Everton a bit more Howard Webb—I swear, stood a few paces behind the ball flexing his leg and lining up as though he were a third option. However, nothing became of the kick except that it smacked Heitenga square in the face, dropping him as though it had been a firing squad lined up by Webb. When Jonny came around, the disappointed Webb blew for halftime, and the wind moaned, and began whipping for the half yet to come.

The second half began with Bentner making a strange backheel, almost like he was auditioning for “River Dance”, and sending Seasayyong (whatever) in alone on Howard. Howard, alert, confronted the little fellow, taking the ball from him as well. Leon Osman had threatened to reward the praise Moyes had heaped upon him the previous week with confirmation this week several times over in the first half. However, Osman finally came through by taking a ball outside the area, then waltzing into it surrounded by an air pocket made of defenders. Once Leon found himself within the spectre of the goal he cocked his leg and buried his foot into the ground, falling over as the ball bounded away from him. The incompetent Howard Webb walked over to his line judge, flipped a coin and the judge called heads. Webb nodded and pointed at the spot. The Black Cat's goalkeeper, Westwood, did his best impression of a Navajo Shaman while Baines stood at the spot waiting. Westwood continued his gyrations, shouting, “Now I'm an armadillo! Bla! Bla!” and Baines, losing patience, fired into the right hand corner. Westwood, no longer an armadillo, but an average goalkeeper on below average team, walked inside of his net and picked up the ball. Baines was already gone, and Westwood, left with nobody to pay attention to him rolled the ball to the referee.

The match wasn't over yet, though, but then Moyes brought on Gueye, Velios and McFadden, and it was. Everton were left one last shot into an open Sunderland net that Distan banged over the crossbar, and it too, was gone with the wind.

 The problem for Everton is though we lick our chops at the various relegation fodder coming to play us at Goodison, those teams happen to be the very ones above us in the table. Could this be a mirror world where the shit teams drool at the thought of playing us? Indeed, are WE the shit team? This match answered a resounding...maybe.

These matches are becoming all too predictable, so it was no surprise when we started out the match by slamming Norwich into their own end and setting up a toffee shop. Unfortunately, the toffee shop attracted many interested visitors, yet zero takers. As each goal scoring opportunity slid down the embankment of the Premiereship table I noticed that I am beginning to resemble Walter Smith: arms crossed, head tilting down, and “Come on, Everton, disappoint me,” look on my face. For their part, Everton lived down to expectations beautifully, with the zenith of disappointment coming with Saha rolling a ball across the face of the Norwich goal so slowly that the defenders made a science experiment out of it. They took notes, eyeballed it, studied it's southern migration patterns, put a micro chip inside of it and then gave it its freedom, out of touch for a goal kick.

I checked the clock and noticed that the match was almost twenty minutes old and Everton were completely in control. Well, that is around the time that Everton get burned GOAL! Okay, then. Everything according to schedule. Some guy named Holt scored for Norwich. He took Heitenga down the left side, turned his back, and worked closer to the goal as Heitenga tried to check him without getting a penalty called. Holt, who has a face that looks like it was carved from a frozen block of Stupid, shimmied, back-heeled the ball to himself, spun around Heitenga, and scraped the ball against the grain, and the ball rolled past Howard, and then past Baines, and died a slow death inside the net. Holt clapped, sported a huge grin, and then ran around seeking something to set fire to or pull the wings off of.

Everton awoke from this bad dream the same way they do each and every time it happens: Cahill slid onto nothing, Saha swatted bugs with his feet, Fellani withdrew into his own end, Ossie tried to make something happen, couldn't, Hibbert found acres of space, caught a huge bass and had his picture taken with it, the flavor of the week on the outside ran away from the big, mean, round rolling thing, Neville screamed, Howard swore for no reason, Cahill headed over, Saha did something, I'm sure, and Everton took loads of corners and free kicks the way crazy people swat at flies that don't exist. The halftime whistle blew and the camera caught Holt blowing a huge sardine out of his nose onto the Goodison Park pitch, which the halftime television crew chose to show as a way of summing up the first half rather than having to talk about it themselves.

Second Half

As always, the second half drained away at the same rate that Everton pissed away chances. In disgust Moyes threw his ice cream wrapper onto the pitch. It took the form of Straggawhatever, who immediately caused havoc, against the other team, and then became withdrawn. Saha was demanding fouls to be called upon the years that kept dragging him down, and then Moyes, in a blind rage because he was cursed with the red hair threw Drenthe onto the pitch and shoveled Magaye off like so much dog shit, and a pack of dingos rushed the pitch and ate what was left of Cahill after the opposition, again, were through with him. Drenthe tore the pitch apart like a tasman devil.

Drenthe likes Tony Hibbert. How else can you explain the fact that Hibbert is always the first person Drenthe looks to set up for a shot? He even had Tony in on goal once, (week shot off the wrong foot) but at the end it was Drenthe who had to do it himself. He bullrushed the Norwich defence, tricked them, and shot. The ball headed for a lot of Norwich bodies, but Leon Osman tipped the ball against the slant of canaries and into the net. Oh, it was SO game on that Moyes brought out the famous # 43 shirt next. The #43 shirt was always around the ball, kicking it, deflecting it, barely missing it, and then the whistle blew and another beautiful Saturday turned into sawdust. With just a pinch of sugar added. I wonder what Drenthe and Donavan would be like in the same midefield?

This match began with a tremendous celebration for Arsene Wenger's 125^thbirthday, which he celebrated before the match by turning green. Everton, for their part, had the corner flags painted to look like a whispy Swedish goalkeeper, should Cahill get uncorked. Saha was upfront this week as a reward for the Greek's performance last week. One imagines that the Greek will be up front on his own next week as a reward...anyway... as the match began to unfold the commentator said that Everton were playing a very unusual 4-2-4. The midfield would consist of two men, and two wide men would be playing in support of Saha and Cahill, acting, so to speak, as two extra strikers. Uh, huh. I yawned. So 4-5-1 it is again.

After a few minutes of watching Arsenal ripping straight through the Everton midfield as thought the freezing Tierry Henry was using his shivering eyes to do some kind of voodoo against us, I began to think that maybe the commentator was onto something. Or that he was full of shit and that voodoo is real. Well, whatever it was, this match was beginning to look like Barcelona against the Ventura County Fusion (if I knew how to do keywords, there would be some local hits there) I cannot begin to use words to paint this match, so I will try to use a painting to illustrate my words: watching this match was like staring at Van Gough's Starry Night while frying on acid, and all the stars are footballs, and Tim Howard is gnashing at them all with his swearing face, and offside flags flicker like cheap porno films at the end of the reel and songwriters from the seventies are singing about severed ears and then last night's moon eclipsed in totality which brings us back to Everton's "4-2-4"

In the first half alone, each and every Arsenal player found himself alone in front of the net while all of Everton's “STRIKERS” gasped, out of breath in his wake. Hell, even Wenger broke in on goal and tried to suck the blood out of Tim Howard's bulging, obscenity-filled jugular vein, but he too, got swatted away. Walcott began the whole shebang by streaking down the right side and getting Howard got out of position, so Walcott fired the ball into the middle, instead of at goal, startling the Arsenal players who had made the run in case of a rebound. What followed was, in old west terms, “a steady diet of lead” But the Arsenal “gunners” were more like old west gunfighters, aiming their six shooters at the sky, firing at the moon's eclipse and yelling, “Yee-Haw!” because Everton and Howard should have been killed a million times, or even more than seven, but still they stood, thumbing cartridges into their guns-- guns they would never fire, and mocking Arsenal with an “Is that all ya got?” look. Arsenal responded with their own raised eyebrow look when Everton's best chance came off a Tony Hibbert cross that found nobody, although it kept drifting toward the net, almost dipping under it before the Arsenal Keeper woke up and snared it.

Halftime came and the cameras found Henri, sitting there, freezing, with one of those “If they take that camera off me, I'm out of here,” looks on his face.

The second half began with an embarrassing incident when Theo Walcott and Tim Cahill came out of the tunnel drunk off their asses. Walcott staggered around the pitch a bit, and then just fell over. A steward came out to 86 him from the park, but he was waved away. Then Everton finally went on the attack, played a bit of position passing until Cahill fell out of his shoes. He tried to continue, but Howard Webb, for some reason blew the play dead and turned the ball over to Arsenal. The Gunner's more sober players launched a furious assault, again, breaching the defence time and time again to get at Howard, and when The Arsenal weren't cocking up the shots and passes, Howard was massive, blocking up his goal most of the time, and kicking and deflecting the shrapnel from the heaviest bombs

Everton's next rarefied  chance came when Neville ripped a shot just over the net. I was adding things up in my head, thinking, “Okay, so our best chances today have come from Tony Hibbert, and Phil Neville, but at least...” Arsenal choked off the rest of that thought when Van Persie took a lengthy pass from Song just outside the box, and instead of bringing it down with his boot he fired it straight off the pass and the ball never touched the earth until the back of Howard's net stopped rippling, and Howard picked up the spent ball. The commentator took this moment to give us one of football's stupidest statistics ever. Did you know that Robbin Van Persie is going for the “Premiere League” record of goals scored in a “calendar year.?" 

What they should say is that he is going for a record that is significantly less than Bob Latchford's, and devastatingly less than Dixie Dean's. If I had been in the commentator's booth I would have been happy to add that "Robbin" is a girl's name, and "Percy" isn't so hot, either. Why does his name not have "Bruce" and "Gaylord" in it?  Whatever. The com did mention that Everton were taking off some deadwood and adding some green wood onto the pitch. Guyee and some Liverpool kid in a 43 shirt that his dad lent him made their way to the pitch and disappeared. In the interim, Heitenga knocked Roziski on his ass, Howard Webb blew his whistle, and Heitenga never turned around, but made a dismissive gesture at Webb with the back of his hand, as if to say, “I've had enough of your shit for 2011, you massive bald Fuckatossi.” Howard glared daggers at the back of Heitenga, but dared not reach into his pocked for a card. Not enough people were watching. Suddenly, the number 43 shirt found a ball that was about to bounce and drove it at Arsenal's net before it could hit the earth. But It did what Van Persie's shot did not do. However, only by about a foot. Can't even remember the kid's name. I hope I hear it again, soon.

 A youth movement is great, if you let the youth DO SOMETHING. David Moyes may have begun his tenure here intent on making Everton younger, but in the process he squandered the youth of Leon Osman. Heck, even fellow Youth FA Cup winner Tony Hibbert's hair is receeding. Fortunately, for today's testimonial match against Bolton, Moyes honored Leon by finally, after ten years, playing him in his natural central midfield role. In another tip of the hat to the youth of yore, Moyes gave Tim Cahill one last run out, and dumped Louis Saha onto the pitch, as well. Saha, unaccustomed to being on a football pitch, lay inert, moving only his eyes, left and right, to track the movement of the running legs around him. This match got off to an ugly start when hundreds of Bolton fans, all of them children, rushed the pitch thinking that Saha was a Pez dispenser. The stewards had to forcibly remove the children, who had crowded in on Saha with their hands cupped in front of his mouth, screaming, in Scouse accents, "Gizza candy, bitch!"

When this match finally got underway, the cameras shot up to Bill Kenwright, who was sitting among other injured players. Rain was pissing down on his head, although the sun shined around everybody else. Bill, amazingly, was grinning like a Christmas tree with all its lights. In the meantime, his team was playing like kittens who had found a ball of yarn, but didn't know what to do with it. Bolton played like dogs, that would like to show them what to do with it. The dog and cat show came to an end when Bolton's David Wheater, who has the face of a crowbar, tried to plug his studs into Bilyletdanov's legs to drain all the pretty out of him. This brought a whistle from the ref, and when Wheater jumped up to face him, the ref shielded his own eyes by blocking out the ugly with a red card.

Everton knew that this was their chance, so they pissed themselves. Players would break in on goal all alone, and instead of shooting, they would pass into phalanx of footballers. Instead of passing to the open man, they would kick at the ball as though the fault of their own suck-ness lay within the ball, rather than themselves. I even saw coleman play a sweet back heel to Tony Hibbert, which is like picking daisies for a cockney whore. Hibbert responded like any respectable cockney whore would: he sniffed the ball, made a face, then launched it as far as he could on top of the shit heap which is Everton's season.

HALFTIME:::::

For reasons known only to them, Bolton's halftime show was a tribute to giant hamsters and their play wheels. For the Bolton faithful, that was as good as it was going to get.

Although David Moyes, at halftime, probably told his team that they had a man advantage, the players began the second half as though they doubted the voracity of his words. After awhile of monkey business, however, for whatever reason, Bilyedtdov suddenly decided he wanted to be a footballer. Like a chimp escaping the testing facility he suddenly broke free, splaying open Bolton's left side, and drove an angry ground-eating cross that the charging Fellainie popped into the top of the net. Oh, it was SO on! Bolton responded by evacuating massive amounts of fans. Moyes countered by going off with the old and on with the new, and replaced the Pez dispenser with Velios, who responded by shoving a gigantic Pez up Bolton's ass. Moyes, in his delirium, brought off some older players we probably have seen enough of, and in their place brought on some youngsters we don't see enough of. If only they were older, wouldn't it be nice?

I always thought that was a stupid song sung by a bunch of Canadian fags. Here it is, the weekend, again, and I'm still working, so why are these guys getting their jazzercise all up and running? Whatever, I have a VCR machine and will watch this match when I get home from working ON the weekend, not, FOR. Idiots.

Wolves crept into Goodison Park today, snooping around for empty sandwich wrappers to lick, or a point or three to nick. What they got was a face full of relegation dung to sniff on, and they got a huge whiff of it, indeed. Distan was out for this match, Neville was out for this match, Heitenga was in defence, and the commentator spoke about the injections Jagielka had to take just to numb the pain enough to play. I clucked my tongue in sympathy, slapped my veins a few times, tied my arm up tight, and jabbed my own, “Everton Watching Injection” into my veins, and thus calmed, watched the match unfold.

The FA had a new referee busting his cherry for this match, so they demanded that the home side sacrifice a virgin, as well. Leon Osman came off the pitch and the match got underway like a ping-pong ball in an air storm. The ball finally settled down upon Wolves half of the pitch, and rarely glimpsed the Park End after that. In fact, one almost would think that Mick McCarthy's pre-match chalkboard was a diagram of half a football pitch. One half showing the Wolves section of the pitch, and the Everton half just a drop off into the sea with the frantic words, “Here Be Monsters!” scrawled in, and a cartoonish image of Tim Howard in the water, going mental in his  full-blown Tourette's frenzy, and his snapping jaws gnashing out from the water's surface. 

Well, the Wolves players didn't want to get gobbled up by the “Fuck You!” monster, so they splashed around their own end and tried to deal with creatures like the rabid Drenthe, and the Saha Freak with his hoopity-hoo shots. By the 23^rd minute Drenthe and Baines were running down Wolves on the left, and Hibbert and Coleman were snapping at their heels on the right. In the meantime, Cahill finally connected with something, even if it was just the head of a Wolves player, who went down like a sack of crap. Cahill had crazy moths, or something, stapled to his head and we got on with the match. With Everton running rampant like this, any Evertonian could have told you that it would be just moments before Wolves scored. Well, as this match began heating up, so did the new ref's Cunt-O-Meter, and it blew a gasket in minute 36 when Wolves player, Edwards, fell over in the area while trying to memorize his navel. The startled referee pointed to the penalty spot, instead of the short bus, and the singer for Lover Boy adjusted his hair band, and converted from the spot.

Once Wolves had figured out how to get to the Everton part of the pitch, they bookmarked it, *liked* it on facebook, and began to have at it. Unfortunately for them, a bulky black man with the name of Drenthe took the play away from them and tilted the match back in the favour of the blue. Drenthe resembled a huge cheesburger rolling down hill and seeking out Whimpy's gaping mouth. However, he usually just found Wolves and lazy Everton fools who couldn't be arsed getting into the box. But on the 44^th minute, Baines was afforded a moon shot of a free kick from up on Mars, and Jagelka ran onto the fallout and popped it into the net with his head. His milk-stain-mustache celebrated the goal by pinwheeling around his lips like a cut-out scene from "The Yellow Submarine."

Halftime:

Wolves began the second half like they began the first, and Everton thanked them by smashing the Wolves net with everything they had. The sad fact is that the Wolves had replaced their gawky goalie at halftime, with “The Tumbling Wallenda Brothers” who formed a spinning human shield in front of the Wolves net. Drenthe ran wild and fed the front of this spinning vortex, Coleman raked the right flank, feeding Hibbert, who kept popping the ball into the swirling maze of saves. Cahill was pulled down in the area, and the only thing that happened was the ref's Cunt-O-Meter rose another notch. Nothing Everton did could get through this matrix. I looked at the clock. I was going to need another injection if I was to make it through this match. In the 79^th minute, Wolves made a substitution: Cunt on, Cunt off. In the 80^th minute Everton rocketed the Wolves net with more shots, and in the 81^st minute the ref brought his meter down a few notches when the Greek substitute, Velios, burped, and Everton were awarded a penalty. Wolve fans booed. Not really, though. I just said that to make it sound like there were some of them at the match. Baines stepped to the spot and set the ball down. The wolves goalkeeper took his mobile phone out and dialed the emergency number, saying he was about to get raped. Baines poofed a slow roller into the left hand corner of the net. The goalie hung up, telling the operator, “Too late.”

Drenthe was brought off after that because Moyes will do what Moyes does. A russian banker came on in his place, and wolves cashed that in for one last chance. A free kick within distance. The ball was whipped with fury, beating Howard, who dove across the net, but the ball sailed into the sky and crossed the moon, and the match was over. Nicky Hunt will have to work for the weekend, again, next weekend...faggot.

Everton traveled to Fulham today to face the Cottagers, who greeted them by disguising themselves as Leeds United. David Moyes, coming out of his Cahill haze, replaced Tim and had Phil and Drenthe in the starting lineup. He also punished Velios for scoring last week by beginning the tried and true process of starting him up front on his own.

The game started out fairly brightly – goal, by Drenthe! As I was saying, Everton were passing the ball at will in Fulham's end when Drenthe thought he saw Jose Mourino's head rolling around from well outside the area. He ran up to it and buried the head like a rocket into the Fulham net for a special goal, indeed. Drenthe had a serious scoring jones going and evertime he saw the special one's head he fired it goal bound. Fellaini, for his part, was of no more use than a traffic cone. Just some big, stupid object that useful people had to keep going around, and Drenthe, at one point screamed at him. Fellaini motioned for him to just go around.

Drenthe, playing on the right side was taking the piss out of that cheap son-of-a-whore, Danny Murphy, constantly tricking the sub-IQ'd piece of crap by feigning right, and dribbling left. Velios spent the match doing nothing, as per Moyes's “Operation Striker Kill” demanded, when a brilliant cross came for him which he buried into the stands.

Moyes, frustrated by Drenthe's goal, switched him from the right side of the field to the left, where his soul withered and sputtered like a pilot light on a windy day. Fulham began to finally get a grip, and in the 24^th minute Howard made a brilliant save on a blistering shot by that cheating dung heap, Murphy, tipping it over the net.

A save on the hung-over looking clint Dempsey.

Another tip-over.

A save off a stoke-like throw in.

And again on Dempsey, when he broke through alone on goal, but Howard rushed out, grabbing the ball and sending Dempsey hurtling through space like a drunk getting tossed from a pub.

Halftime came just in time, and Fulham's coach gathered his frowning, jowly face from the ground, stuffed it into his pocket for his Harry Redknapp mask on Halloween, and slouched to the locker room while his necktie tried to flee the horror that was his being.

When Everton came out for the second half the cameras found Moyes talking to Drenthe, and if my lip reading is as good as I think it is, he was saying, “I was having a dizzy spell earlier, but I've taken some dramamine and I want you to go back to that side of the pitch where you were doing all that good footballing.” However, Everton seemed to be finished with all of their “good footballing” for the day. Drenthe had scored and now wanted somebody else to try it, but it is hard to score when all of your players' hands are on their hips and they are moving slower than Wayne Rooney at a vegetarian buffet.

Danny Murphy has the face of a jack-o-lantern that was carved by a demented child. The stewards finally had to have him removed from the match because children were being traumatized. Murphy was none to happy about coming out, and excreted bitter glands from his eyes, blinding the ref who was unable to see Cahill getting gay-raped in the penalty box by some ginger who had yet to be neutered. One of the Chilean miners came on for him, and crossed himself as he ran onto the pitch. Yeah, I think you already exhausted that avenue, buster.

In the 67^th minute the Chilean miner found himself with plenty of space on the left, and ironically, buried the ball. For the next twenty minutes the match was a bunch of hullabaloo until God suddenly invented some bald prick, named him Andy Johnson, and put him on the field. This guy put Zamora through on goal, and this is what happened: 

bumbely, bumbely, and Howard fell prone to pray to Mecca. Bumbely, net wide open, bumbely, Zamora, the ball, the open Everton net, bumbely, and Zamora tapped it home for the goal—except he didn't. He put an exlamation point on his shot that would tear off the roof of the net, and a couple of fans put their hands in front of their faces to block the shot from hitting them. Then the ball bumbled back down the stadium stairs back to the bottom, just like a slinky, until it landed in Fulham hearts like a lump of shit. 

Some of the fans got up and left. A couple of them turned around, but became pillars of salt when Saha chested down a loose pass in the Fulham half, barged past a defender with his broken body, and then feathered the ball across the grain, and the goalie, and into the net. The Craven cottage emptied a bit more. Of course the camera immediately showed Zamorra, and when the camera panned back to the pitch we were treated to viewing one of Rodwell's, “the match is already over, now is my chance to score,” goals, and he did and the ref blew his whistle and a vacancy sign went up at the ticket window in West London. Rodwell was seen putting his arm around Zamora at the whistle, and if my lip reading is up to snuff, he told him, “Funny ol' game, innit?”