In the words of Erik B and Rakim:

Fish, my favourite dish.

And the other one about it being a long time, obviously.

We have to put a loaf on the table though, and so when the players’ own fanzine, the one they all carry in their little washbags, comes knocking, then you have to seize the opportunity. As it was, with hindsight, it was inevitable that editing such features as ‘Hate ’n Pains Indie Corner’ for Sick Kids Aren’t Just For Christmas was never going to work out for us.

There were some funny articles sent in, like Chris Kiwomya’s ‘Half Time Horrors’, (essentially the most Guernica-like scenes he’s witnessed after following a teammate into one of ‘the traps’ – Jason Dozzell and Ray Parlour, you dirty bastards!) but some of it was just too near the knuckle for us. Describing the affable Harry Redknapp as ‘more popular with the boys than Adam Johnson’s Nokia’ well, you know, you have to draw the line somewhere.

So here we are, back here. For a bit anyway.

And it’s been well mental hasn’t it.

For a start we’ve got a new owner and new members on the board and no one has got an absolute clue what it all means. Even the most cursory look at various open letters, speculative articles and the reams and fucking reams of comments hanging off the bottom of them like the swaying tentacles of a badly informed soccer jellyfish shows that it’s all an absolute mystery to everyone, even the people who throw in handfuls of buzzwords about ‘clear vision’ and ‘commercial savvy’.

Moshiri hasn’t actually said a lot, although was quoted as letting slip something about giving Everton ‘all he has’, and seeing as it’s over a billion quid, by all accounts, you can bet a big clock that almost certainly taken out of context little snippet is going to come back and bite him on his immaculately coiffed arse at some point.

On the subject of his stated wealth as well, when you read ‘£1.2 billion’ or whatever it is, did you have to stop yourself from sort of crinkling your nose and muttering ‘not a lot in today’s game, that’?

On the field, well, Roberto Martinez and his team continue to remind you of your Mum’s boyfriend who had been working on the oil rigs for ages but then he turned up one night honking the horn of his brand new car with the broken side window and your mum got you and your sister out of bed and he drove you all up to Blackpool to see the lights and he nodded off and you mounted the central reservation a little bit but then he woke up and you all laughed. He reached back and offered you a swig of Bells and your mum went mad but you don’t think she was really that angry and she was just made up that you were all together, and then he got out to get you all chips. and you wiped the condensation off the window and watched him queueing in the brightly lit takeaway and then apparently the fella behind the counter started shouting something and your mum’s boyfriend later said that he recognised his sort from the oil rigs, a bully, and there’s nothing he can’t stand more than bullies. Apart from coppers. Anyway, he kicked that bully in the head over and over again and you never did get your chips. But he did get you a massive jar of pickled eggs and a tray full of wooden forks. so it was alright really. He bet you a fiver you couldn’t drink all the vinegar out of the jar and although you tried you end up begging him to pull over so you could be sick, and that time your mum did look a bit angry. But still it was the best night of your life and just about made up for the time when he came home and stamped on all the Christmas presents and set the kitchen on fire making chips.

It is though, isn’t it? That’s what they’re like, aren’t they?