You only write when we’re winning, write when we’re winning.
It’s been a while. Moving house, having no proper internet and Everton generally being pretty, well, boring, to be perfectly honest, have meant there’s been no real urge to write any of this old guff about them.
What’s that you say? You’ve survived. Fine, be like that. You fat cow.
With league form patchy at best, that win at Selhurst Park – scruffier than both ‘mobs’ in that marvellous City versus the Urchins footage from Lime Street – looks absolutely priceless. The derby was beyond shite, from both sides, while Chelsea, the referee and the military industrial complex conspired to kick us out of the train carriage marked ‘valiant point’ at Stamford Bridge.
Just touching on those massive bell-ends on the Paris underground, is anyone who actually goes to the match in any way surprised? Bevvied shithouses in massive groups are hard to police – it gives them a small degree of power otherwise lacking from empty, thwarted existences and an opportunity to act out repressed urges. The bizzies just want them contained and not smashing the place up while the clubs are generally happy to turn a blind eye, especially if the majority of the cunty behaviour is occurring away from the ground.
Factomundo, fact fans.
Anyway, Everton’s performances in the league are scabbier than one of Mick Quinn’s horses, we’re out of the domestic cups and so all that remains of the season in truth is the Thursday night Euro Rumbelows Cup.
The Toffees went to Switzerland to face the apparently in-form Young Boys and things looked decidedly shaky when the home side took the lead on 10 minutes through the handy-looking Guillaume Hoarau. The Frenchman was given too much time 25 yards from goal and picked his spot, curling it past the rather dubiously positioned Tim Howard and into the bottom corner of the net.
Berne baby Berne never reckoned on a Lukaku inferno though. With Ross Barkley back in the side and enjoying arguably his best performance for about a year, Everton were undeterred by the early setback and pressed forward into the spaces afforded them by the overly confident home side.
The plazzy pitch certainly posed no problems for the Blues and by the time Lukaku scored the first of a hat-trick on 24 minutes they had already forced a ‘smart’ double save from Yvon Mvogo.
The Swiss defending was nothing like as insistent and decisive as that in the Premier League – Young Boys were essentially perfect fall guys for Everton’s walk-the-fucker-in style. Neat passing down the left followed by a Gareth Barry cross saw Lukaku hold off a defender and head home like Duncan Ferguson for the first, then four minutes later an even better move ended with Seamus Coleman sliding the ball home at the far post.
You could say it was like clockwork. Or that there were more triangles in Everton’s passes than in a massive bar of Tobler…
Alright, it’s been a while, ok.
Cue the sound of the needle being dragged across the record and the whole room coming to a nervous halt.
What the fuck-sticks happened against Leicester City?
Yeah, we know, we never finished writing the Young Boys report – Lukaku scored a blinder to complete his hat trick before John Stones proved that he is never more than one Cruyff turn away from calamity, conceding a penalty and getting sent off because of his own stupidity.
There was a real danger of Everton, well, ‘Evertoning’ the whole thing up, but Hoarau languidly blazed over and the Blues actually dominated the remainder of the match and should have scored more.
Anyway, back to Blighty and that absolute shower of shite on Sunday. Once again an Everton home game resembled an entire World Cup group stage condensed into 90 minutes.
The opening match is cagey, with lots of passing and probing but few risks taken – a point’s no disaster at the very start of the tournament; your destiny’s still in your own hands. The second game sees you open up a bit but things go wrong leaving you needing a result from the final match and hoping for a draw in the Croatia-Ghana game. By the end of that last one you are throwing on a striker who viewers might remember from a short spell at Bournemouth and Steve Claridge is declaring in his incredulous tones: ’If they’d played like this against the Ghanaians they wouldn’t be going out of the tournament. Unbelievable!’
That’s exactly what Everton home games feel like.
We start out doing all our training ground passing drills in our own half, while the opposition have a smoke and talk amongst themselves, then eventually some clown – hi Tim! – does something ridiculous and we concede. In the closing stages Martinez plays his patented ‘wingo bingo’, throwing on a random selection of jinky attacking midfielders, hoping for a ‘goal out of nothing’ and praying that a defender always manages to get back and scramble away the inevitable slew of breakaways that we gift the gleeful opposition.
For a manager renowned for his attention to detail and meticulous organisation, Martinez does seem to end a lot of matches like a monkey throwing shit at the wall and hoping to see a Rembrandt.
Thankfully Christian ‘you’d done the fucking hard bit!’ Atsu saved the Blues a point but not their blushes in the 89th minute of this one after a goal by David Nugent cancelled out Steven Naismith’s opener and then Esteban Cambiasso poked home following the grotesque misjudgement of a cross by Tim Howard. Atsu was a surprise substitute, especially with Kevin Mirallas left on the bench, and his woeful passing was only adding to the sense of Goodison frustration. However, he came up trumps in the end, bursting into the box and whipping a great cross into the six-yard box. It initially appeared as if Lukaku, guilty of missing some great chances earlier, had bulleted a header past Mark Schwarzer. He never though, it was Matthew Upson.
The bullocking Belgian then had a chance to win the match with a header from a corner, but saw it cleared off the line, while at the other end Howard attempted to put the Foxes back in front with a mad, flapping dragon punch straight to one of their players on the edge of the box.
U. S. A.
U. S. A.
When people are genuinely imploring that you be dropped for Joel Robles – remember the Krasnodar goal? – then you know you really are playing like a massive, bearded plum.
And that was that. It just seems to be all the same madness every week now, or at every home game at least.