‘Not laughing now are you, cunts?’
M. Cyrus, December 2020
In their own inimitable style, Everton reserved their free-scoring scintillating South-American sexy soccer for the empty stadiums of Boris-ball and look set to ‘welcome back’ a handful of supporters just in time to get booed to all fuck.
You can imagine Carlo Ancelotti nervously peering out of one of them weird little windows in the Main Stand, through the stacked up pots and pans, and seeing a few hundred fellas walking down Goodison Road – all looking like the baddy out of Robocop in a Peter Storm fleece – and whispering, in Italian, ‘Oh fucking fantastico, get on the angry kippers on this lot, son.’
The injuries to the fullbacks have been a blow, as Seamus Coleman is still a dangerous outlet for us, while Lucas Digne is one of the best full-backs in the world. And the lack of cover, given the amount of money that’s been spent on the squad, is puzzling. But even worse – and surely the biggest problem the Toffees have – is the lack of a decent centre-half.
The move to three at the back, to try and compensate for none of them being better than average, clearly disrupted the shape of the team. Allan and Abdoulaye Doucouré, who looked incredible in the first few games, have been hung out to dry in midfield, and it was no surprise when, against Burnley, after an enforced switch to 4-3-3, they looked far more effective.
There’s another one as well. For a team that’s supposedly spent so much money on ‘number 10s’ how come we are still so reliant on Andre Gomes, playing in a calliper, to get a grip on midfield?
Cartoon-reindeer-looking Ben Godfrey has been unlucky coming into the side and having to ‘deputise’ at full-back. For the money they paid for him you would hope that he’s meant to be the long-term answer in the centre, because every decent side has some big hard lad playing there who takes no fucking messing. We’ve got Michael Keane, who looks like he’s nervously waiting for his prom date and making small talk with her dad, played by Brian Dennehy or Robert De Niro, wearing that one cardigan and brown plaid shirt they all share, who wags the little pipe cleaner he’s using to clean his service revolver – sorry, I never said, he’s an ex-copper, the arl fella – and says ‘So, you think you’re going to finger-bang my daughter in your car tonight, do you?’ to young Michael’s horror, but before he can answer, his date comes down the stairs looking radiant and it brings a tear to de Niro’s eye and he pulls that dead weird face he always does in comedy roles that reminds you of when he’s stamping on Billy Bats’ head in Goodfellas and Michael gives her that weird flower they always have and then as he leaves holding her hand and with the mother fussing and dabbing at her eyes, looks back over his shoulder at the dad who raises his middle finger while slowly shaking his head and gesturing theatrically at the greased pistol lying on a newspaper on the coffee table.
That’s who we’ve got.