School of Science

                          At Wolves, 2011 

             2011--2012  SEASON TICKET 

     Come see the (future) stars at Goodison! 

I'm trying my hand at graphic arts. How do you like my season ticket design for next year? Well, Everton traveled to the black country to play wolves. Wolves needed points and Everton needed money and if they ever devise a "spend points for money" system in the premiere league you can bet Bill will have us just north of the Championship every year until they pry the chairmanship of Everton from his "cold, dead fingers."

Our list of substitutes for today's match looked a scrabble board presided over by two-year olds. Had they known how to use the vowels they would have found a handfull of those on the pitch. I'm also pretty sure our staring lineup from today is going to be our starting lineup on opening day next season From the kickoff Wolves were at us, firing forty-seven shots at Howard in the first five minutes, most of them hitting our defenders with about twenty richocheting off the swearing lips of Howard.

Savvy Everton fans like me licked their chops and rubbed their hands together. Oh, yes, it was playing out just the way it was planned. After Wolves (huffed, and puffed--sorry,) but failed to blow down our goal, Everton played them for the chumps they were, counter attacking like a waitress grabbing her tip from the (thrifty) Kenwright.

First through the doors was Beckford, attacking a cross from wide right and burying it savagely with his head. Next, Neville took a rebound from well outside, and pissed off that the only people yelling "Shoot!" was the Wolves goalkeeper, fired a screamer that the keeper stood and watched, hands on hips as it scorched the air by his ear on its way to the back of the net. The keeper remained frozen except to ruefully shake his head at the sneaky Neville.

Phil, so surprised by the result ran in circles buying time for himself to figure out a goal celebration before finally giving up and borrowing Cahill's. The site of Neville telling the corner flag to "Have some Lancashire sauce you little tart!" and delivering, will make a tape of this match a cherished collector's item for years to come.

Next down the pike came Bilyletdinov in his best imitation of Manny Fernades as he let fly on the run from three light years away to possitve yield. Halftime came with the boos hitting the Wolve's players from all around like a ton of bricks.


The second half began with Gyeye yelling,"Me next, me next!" and the obliging Wolve's players got out of his way to see what the chubby little french lad could do. Gyeye ran in on goal for fifty yards by himself until Moyes snapped his fingers at Gyeye, and said, "You! Stop playing now and sit over there." the ball fell to the Wolves Keeper. Then Moyes looked at Steve Round, and I kid you not, I read lips, said, "Is Victor still here? Get him on." Moments later, Moyes, who had been barking at Beckford about his work rate flagged down a vendor and bought a program. He thumbed through it, ran his finger down a page in the middle, then said to Round, "Here, this might work, get this one, number twenty-six out there, and get that goal scoring piece of shit out."

Beckford was very upset about coming out, and was speaking to Gyeye about it on the bench. Gyeye got up and moved away from him. (Not really but that would have been boss!) Everton, to my surprise, kept going at the Wolves until their fans began singing, "Hey, you mean guys, leave 'em alone, they weren't bothering anybody!"

And Everton realized they were right. Wolves weren't bothering anybody and so the lads held out their hands and shook with Wolves players. No hard feelings and the ref blew the whistle. And the happiest boy in all the Wolve's frenchy sounding named stadium was Bill Kenwright who realized that he could pay next years opening day squad out of change in his sofa. He got a little chubby going in his pants and ran home to work on his next epic play, for he could now afford scenery.




Wigan Home

5 APRIL, '09

Well, it was Ladies Day at Goodison Park and the Old Lady was awash in a sea of orange 

awaiting Steve Bruce and Wigan. The day got off to an auspicious start when the Wigan 

players refused to leave the team bus and Bruce was forced to play a team of stewards and 

some cunt with a painted head. Everton, thankfully, went back to a five man midfield, which 

is more vibrant than they are with a two man strike force.

So, Cahill, interestingly, was the stolid midfielder while Fellaini played in just off Jo, which is 

proving a pretty damn good tandem, although from a distance it looks as if Groucho Marx's 

eyebrows were chasing each other around the pitch.

Everton began slowly, as though trying to remember how creativity works after the dank 

team assemblies of the last couple matches. Thankfully the stewards were short on ideas and 

began to content themselves looking up into the stands for birds with great big gomblies. This 

sort of play suited Everton to a tea and it wasn't more than halfway through the first half that 

Jo, realizing that his ratio demanded a goal delivered, taking a pass outside the box, touching 

it through his legs with a heel and turning to deliver a low, diaginal daisy cutter into the 

corner of the net. The Steward's got all snarky about it and began to glare at the ecstatic 

Evertonians in the crowd.

Halftime came as time crumpled in on itself due to lack of activity on the pitch. Let's pick up again at the second half, shall we?

Vell, (as the recently fired Sven would say,) this would be a good time to mention MOM Leon 

Ossman, who, for once refused to let his position on the outside screw up his game. From the 

outset he kept going inside, allowing Cahill to defend or dissapear, depending on your point of 

view, but causing havoc with the Stewards who pissed themselves trying to stop his 

rampaging skinny boy style, and pointed at him numerous times to the ref who ignored their 

demands to remove him from the stadium. This lead to the second goal which Ossie did some 

stuff and crossed it from the right side over to Fellaini, at the edge of the box. He reacted like 

any turk does when a large round mouse attacks him: he shrieked and kicked it on the volley, 


It wasn't a moment later when Hibber, racing down the right called for the ball. However, 

Osman ignored him and found Fellaini who smashed a point blanker at Kirkland, who saved it 

right into the path of the rampaging Jo; 3-0.

It was beyond sad at this point and I began to colour in my "Drinkers Big Book of Serenity." 

when I heard a noise and saw Ossie running at the Stewards again, creating another chance 

and this time smashing the again-bobbled save home for the fourth and final goal. It was at 

this point that Moyes began looking around for subs to put into the match. He looked at VDM 

and said something, but, VDM, who appeared to be twittering, just shook his head and 

mouthed, "Not even." No matter, three went out, three came in, nobody was hurt, much, and 

Fellaini wasn't booked, again. Moyes raised his fists into the air and Steve Bruce's jowels got 

into a slapfight.


Stoke Home '08 - '09 



Everybody has their vices. Some can't keep away from drink; others go crazy without a smoke and some have chained their souls to crack cocaine. Well, I like a bit of acid now and then and with Stoke and their fans coming to town it was a perfect time to fall off the wagon and break out a couple nice hits of purple microdot.

At first I thought I'd been given bum acid and nothing was going to happen. then I saw Fellaini 

with his hair in corn rows. Despite the fact that he looked like an exotic waitress I'd once dated, 

he proved himself very capable in Cahills role backing up the lone striker, as Cahill was dropped 

deeper. Indeed, Jo thrived with the sexy Maria--er, Mauro playing in back of him, and so would I, 

OOH LA LA! It didn't take long, (or did it?) for Everton to score from the style of football they 

were playing and Jo, taking a nice sideways backheel from Pienaar scored on a fairly hard, low 

shot that burrowed under the stoke goalie like an underground donkey. I raised my eyebrows: 

Yes, more of THAT, please, and I wasn't talking about the goal!

Well, the CIA was after me again and the next thing I knew Somebody in blue took a hard shot right at stoke's goalkeeper, who batted it away from him in anger right into Lescotts rampaging path and 2-0.

Halftime came and I noticed two things: Some stoke fans broke onto the pitch and performed "selected scenes" from "Deliverence" Even the lids behind me commented, "Eh, lad, wot is e doin there? That's proper sick and me little brover is watching, lol!" The other thing I saw was VDM sitting on the touchline in a little red wagon waiting for someone to give him a push, or pick up the handle and pull him along.

Second half. Well, Moyes must've snorted his own kind of 'sumpin sumpin' at halftime because he changed what was working and made it stop working. As Stoke battered us and we played comical football, even to a sober person, the comm said, "I understand Moyes's substitution was tactical." I howled with laughter and threw freshly peeled banannas at my TV. Right away Stoke scored on a headed cross that traveled so slowely toward Howard that it unnerved him and he reacted like winnie the poo on ice skates trying to catch a butterfly. Well the butterfly sailed into the net and died. Howard yelled at his defenders, probably because he likes butterflies.

You don't have to be on hallucinegetics to notice that with Arteta out, Pienaar is creating all our chances, though Osman got into the game more than he usually does from the right. Moyes put Maria back where he started the match, and soon we were taking the piss again. With four hours of stoppage time added, Fellaini bounced a ball into their net off a deflection. The whistle blew, the pie was ours, Moyes raised his arms in victory and little black worms crawled out of my fingers.



At Birmingham, First Win: October, 2010

This season makes me think of the floating leper boats back in the day. Always looking for a place to get supplies, a home to rest, a port to dock, a new start, a place to bury Yakubu, yet always being turned away with curses and threats of police action or shared stadium compromises. Today, our ragged, diseased and unwelcome ship landed in the “Cauldron of Silence” known as St. Andrews.

Once again, our boys were up for it–the passing part, not the goal stuff, and we had our way with the brummies. We attacked so hard and shot so often that I rubbed my hands together and thought, “This may even get to halftime at 0-0, God willing." Ossie was played out of position times two, which may prove to be the answer because any chance we had came from his aggressive left sided play. Play him in the wrong position on the wrong side and we may have something.

Yakubu was the real goal scoring threat, however, but his chances all kissed the air in front of the goalie, who blew them back as gently as a lover’s sigh.

Halftime gave me a chance to reflect on looks. Like Alex, Brummies manager. His head looks like it sprouted Cheetoes that got attacked by seagulls. Stephen Carr looks like he is photo shopped–all of him, and in our disgusting uniforms, fellaini looks like hes missing his matching purse and Yakubu looks like the mother from, “Good Times” God help you should you google it.

The second half started no different than the first and we almost had “our goal” but Yakubu strangely foiled Cahil at every turn; I was surprised Distan didn’t show up to clear it as well. At one point Distan and Bower collided and it looked like Heske statues falling down. By this time I began wondering why the white ball isn’t just used all the time. If there is actual snow on the ground a yellow ball can then be used, but, otherwise–that was when I saw the ball I had been pondering go into the brum net. I arched my eyebrows. Interesting. Was that us? Replays showed that, indeed, it was. Ossie passed a lethal ball into the box that the goal keeper and defender mistook for a snake. One kicked it, the other leaped out of the way and it was 0-1, to US!

I kept watching that scoreline in the corner of the screen, so strange and wonderful it was. Then I curled into a little ball of pain and began rocking back and forth hoping nobody would take it away from me. Tim Howard punched the ball a lot, today, and he kept punching it, and it worked so much more than his usual getting out of the way technique. Then, at the other end, Cahill ducked to head home rather than leaping–such is the ravages of age, and I burst into tears. The comm said, “Everton’s season begins today!” And a ship found a port.


 The Cup, Away. January, '11

This pratfall certainty got underway with the commentator saying that Scunthorpe's manager had told his players to just go out and have fun. Then Saha scored. Scunthorpe's players didn't look to be heeding their manager's advice.

I wasn't having much fun either, because the ghost of Walter Smith, from when he dies and comes back like, was perched upon my head and thieving peanuts from my hands while complaining about the ale.

My sexual escapades--stay with me--usually begin with the woman telling me to have a good time. Of course, by the time she says that I've already had the good time. Then she goes like this: "Oh..."

I'm reminded of that because J. Beckford started this game up front with Saha, (who has started scoring again) and I thought, "this is Beckford's wheelhouse. Easy pickings" and then Beckford was alone on goal, and I went, "Oh..."

Fellaini missed over an open net and then Beckford broke in alone again and i said, "Oh..."

Then the chants of "Come on, Scunny, these are shit!" started and I smacked Walter Smith upside the head and told him to shut it. With a screech he flew off into the night in search of aged scotch.

Everton played as though they just had some things they wanted to work on--Fellaini played a brilliant back heel that went wasted, and then Ossie crossed a ball that Beckford got onto with his head. Goal!

Halftime****** If Bily could develope a really strong drinking problem, he could be our next VDM.

Well, with us nursing our 2-1 advantage Scunthorpe came out and played a long ball over our top that got first-timed past Howard and The Stadium of Golf almost came to life. Not long after, though, Beckford found himself with the ball and nowhere to go so he crossed to Coleman who headed it home.

Then Fellaini scored, then Baines scored . From a hidden spot Yakubu licked his ample lips. Would there be carion crow to feast on? Then a Scunny player waved the ref over and said, "We are not having much fun." The ref agreed and blew the whistle. 


                                  West Brom, Home  


Oi, Gaffer, my head feels like somebody broke into my garage. 

West Brom Home

A home game against Manchester United saw us with a lone striker--Florence, the maid from The Jeffersons--and Timmy backing him up. Even without Rooney, Ronaldo and Scholes, United's class shown and they were at us from the start, pinning us back, and whatever possesion we did get was quickly squandered, as per usual when playing against United--Oh, but it wasn't United, was it? It was FREAKING WEST BROM, arrogantly parading their bottom spot around goodison park while our boys stood around muttereing things like, "wow, they're good." "Yer, can't believe they're bottom of the table."

Finally, Moyes had had enough and took Hibbert off and brought on Osman in his place. Nigel Winterbourne commented that he'll probably take over right back. Yeah, you brilliant man; that is what will happen. And maybe Tippy-Tip, the singing orangatang will will drive the West Brom bus back to Crapville. The camera panned around during the substitution and 
caught VDM and our substitute goalkeeper passing a paper bag between them and smirking.

Well, it was no accident that we began to play attractive football once Ossie came on and Pienar looked as though he was playing to impress PSV Locomotion, or whatever. The brummies began playing Whack-A-Mole with Cahill until in the 32nd minute Timmy popped up, un-marked and headed in. West Brom turned into toothless Pumpkins and then halftime came.

The second half produced the usual headlocks, suplexes and piledrives by our opponents and yet another booking on one of our players for being ethnical and large-haired. One of our other negroes came on and we began to take the piss, and in the sixty-somethink minute, said negro, Louis Saha--I just remembered, short term memory, i think I've mentioned that--turned on a ball from outside the penalty area and shot low and slow and the ball found the bottom corner of the net. The camera caught West Brom's manager's face just then, and if my lip reading is as sharp as my mirror tells me it is, he was saying, "Right, I'm bringing scotch home and beating the misses."

West Brom then brought a bookkeeper on who beat Howard from a hundred yards out but hit the crossbar, then beat Howard about fifty more times, but without result. When it became evident that Brum wasn't going to score even if Tim Howard ran out of the net to chase swear words all over the Goodison pitch like they were butterflies,  the ref got bored and blew the whistle. Moyes raised his hands over his head and VDM fell over into a pile of his own sick.




Anfield: '08-'09 Season. Dragnet's Jack Webb Reports 

Liverpool Away (League)

It was cold in town and I found myself in the place I'd least like to be; Anfield. The match kicked off and right off from a block away Victor took a shot that Benitez had to make a save on. Everton looked darn comfortable and so I settled back and looked for a waitress to get me a hot cuppa joe. I had a little hunch that Cahill just might grab a goal in the 87th minute off an Arteta cross. We'll see.

8:15 pm. Liverpool were getting frustrated and took to randomly flopping about the pitch with fake epileptic siezures and trying to get a penalty. Referee Web said, "No way, sorry fellas."

8:33 pm. Liverpool began trying to fool the crowd into thinking they had control of the match by passing the ball around and not letting Everton touch it once. This didn't bring the desired shouts of 'Ole' from the crowd as it was still 0-0 and Liverpool were in their own end.

8:47 pm. I looked around a bit and noticed Hibbert was having his typical match, killing off scoring opportunities at both ends. Victor looked handy on the right hand side and I was beginning to think we might just have us a game of football, here.

Second Half.

9:14 pm. Steven Gerrard, frustrated, yells at Howard Webb: "They're twatting us--his words, not mine--all ovefr the pitch, do something!" Mr. Webb, no relation, mouthed these words: "Use your hands." Gerrard proceeded to pick up the ball and march himself over to Tim Howard. He then threw the ball into the net and Webb gave the goal.

By this time it was so cold that the spit was turning into snowflakes. I looked around wondering where that waitress was with my cuppa. I saw a sign in the crowd that said, "Om nom nom nom" I smiled. That J. Macca; quite a charachter.

9:30 pm. The Liverpool fans began singing, "We're fat murderers from Iceland, gizza pie," so confident they were.

9:45 pm. That little hunch of mine paid off as Cahill equalised off an Arteta free kick from the left side. I smiled and made my way for the exit. I came across my waitress on the way out. "Say, honey," I said. "No java, so here's your tip; stay out of trouble tonight. I'm back on patrol." She told me to go fuck myself. I smiled at her. "Class act, sweetheart, class act." A wad of gum hit me in the back of the neck on my way out.