Move closer. Don’t worry, we’re not going to take a swing at you.
So, are we fucking moving or what?
Everton at home. We all turn up. Romelu Lukaku scores. The Toffees take all the points. You know the dance by now.
Can you mention Romelu Lukaku’s ‘super agent’ without singing his name as the opening line of Heaven 17’s Temptation?
Except he didn’t err this week, did he? Quite the opposite, as the Toffees saw off the Baggies in a quite straightforward manner.
So long Alex Young.
Oh Gana Gueye, we’re glad you scored a goal yesterday…
It’s a results business, football. And results tend to form the prism through which you view your club and, in particular, its manager.
Well then, 2016, the year when loads of famous people shuffled off this mortal coil, the British public voted to cut off their noses to spite their faces, and not the faces of the ‘hordes’ of immigrants, as they had been led to believe, while over in the US the political landscape finally dissolved once and for all into a nightmarish bad trip scene from a 70s exploitation film, with some weird cunt running around wearing a blood-stained rabbit head and Donald Trump’s big orange face looming out of the shadows, lit harshly from below and laughing maniacally.
Boss, that, Everton. Boss.
Bit unfair that title, but if they go and win against Crystal Palace we won’t be able to use it.
It’s actually customary in fanzine-land to do an article entitled New Dawn Fades round about now.
‘Walshy. Walshy! What’s going on, lad? You’ve only got one job and quite frankly you’ve completely and utterly Clifford Finched it.’
That Diego Costa is now only a little pipe and a hat away from being the Sampdoria badge.
Or Yannick on the streets of London.
So then, Axel Witsel’s signing.
Well then, as ever when you reach the semi-finals of a tournament the whole momentum starts to slow down thanks to the increasing gaps between the games and the cagey nature of knockout football at international level, and unless you’re Welsh you are probably more interested now in the avalanche of transfer speculation from the Bestest League in the Whole Wide World.
Blimey, we take a few days break and that happens.
Sorry about the big gap in the updates, we’ve been off our barnets down at that Chessington World of Adventure.
After the infamous incidents, which will be come to known, Zaire-style, as ‘The Mither In Maseille’, it didn’t seem like this tournament could get more mental.
Struggling. To. Keep. Up. Now. Must. Type. More. Shite.
It’s not day two of the tournament, obvs, but you get the gist. It’s not hard to follow.
Obviously a diary implies that this will be updated every day, when you and I both know that simply isn’t going to be the case.
Or are we Danka?
Kent State it was not.
So all that remains of this disappointed and disjointed season is for Roberto Martinez’s future to be decided.
What we really, really needed this weekend was to go to the home of a struggling side and get a straightforward victory.
Sorry, it’s been a while again, but we’ve been working on our sitcom pilot about a colourful bunch of characters working at a car cleaning business.
In the words of Erik B and Rakim:
Something’s happening here. What it is ain’t exactly clear.
There’s been loads on the telly, radio and other media today, so we’re not going to try and say anything profound about David Bowie or quote any lyrics or anything like that here.
You would have taken a narrow defeat before the game, wouldn’t you? Just as long as we were left with something to go for in the second leg.
Well, what an advert for the ‘EPL’ that was, they said.
And so we said, what the Gordon Ramsey is the EPL?
There was a portion of play in the Stoke City game that pretty much encapsulated everything that is driving everyone crackers about this present Everton side.
Hey hey, my my. We can’t keep a clean sheet if we try.
‘Hi, hi, yeah. Is that you Brendan? Can you speak? It’s John Henry. You’re not driving? Ok, great. Well listen, I’ve got three envelopes here… Haha. Not really. You are sacked though.’
Hey, how goes it? Can we call you ‘buddy’? Or ‘bud’, even?
Everybody up in the place, let’s go.
All this back and forth between Roberto Martinez and Jose Mourinho – can’t do the accent – makes us recall that famous incident where Groucho Marx asked a lady at a dinner party whether she would sleep with him for a million dollars.
‘Maureen. Maureen! Have you seen this big string of piss? Drawing parallels between a summer hiatus in updating his little-read online blather-sheet and the 55 year wait for a follow up to Harper Lee’s seminal Pullitzer prize winning Southern gothic classic. The absolute nerve.’
It’s been written in instalments this, so the Stoke bit was completed before we went to St. James’ Park. Hopefully the tone is a bit sunnier at the end then, because after the defeat to Stoke it all started to feel a bit Ron Burgundy: ‘Well that escalated quickly’.
Oh Everton, your season has got one wheel in the ditch and one wheel on the track.
Oh you tricky Blues, oh you tricky Blues, you’re driving your mamas and papas insane.
What’s occurring, Dave? What? Not that great, what with the economy and that bug that’s been ‘going around’? Never mind squire, you’ve always got Everton.
Yeah, about that.
We keep toying with the idea of updating this thing daily, come what may, in the same way that comedian Richard Herring has with his blog.
‘What? Make a statement through a bloody solicitor? Are you daft lad? Listen, this is a storm in a teacup. I’ll sort this out with a bit of old-fashioned common sense.’
Hey, anybody there? Hello?
It’s good to see David Moyes back on telly, talking about how he’s ready to get back into management.
First of all a question. What’s so technical about the technical area? It should be called something like the ‘gobby box’ or the ‘Lucozade bottle zone’.
Over to you, Mr Blatter.