kenyon ledford



                                            20 - 08 -2012

                                Everton V Manchester United

There is a feeling of awe when the League Runners-Up take the pitch for the first game of the new season. Everton fans did not need programmes to spot the legends of the Red Devils gracing the pre-match Goodison pitch; the names fairly jumped out at them: Anderson, Vidic, Cleverely, 

Lindgaard, Kagawa, Scholes, and the roster of greats rolls on. United also were parading their 

new keeper. He is a wispy fellow who looks like a bit of sperm disappearing down the bathtub 

drain. His name, unlike the immortals mentioned above, reads like a vanity license plate one tries 

to puzzle out when they spot it on the road: De Ga 1. Everton, however, despite the task of 

facing such daunting talent, took to the pitch in great spirits and were snorting and pawing the turf when the opening whistle finally blew.

It took two minutes for a yellow card to flash in front of Nani's bulging, meth-addict eyes and ten 

more minutes for Scholes to finally get carded. It also took a while for this match to take shape, 

although it was hardly boring. The teams felt each other out like virgins experimenting with S&M 

before getting to the sex. It wasn't pretty, but it was riveting, and Mauro Fellani was proving to 

be quite adept with a whip. His afro distributed the ball abundantly in the United end and mostly 

to the advantage of the unlucky Ossie who had a wicked shot wrong-handed away by the keeper. 

Gibson is taking corners from the right side this year, and his offerings were 'keeper-seeking 

missiles. However, just before halftime it was a Baines free-kick met by the keeper's finger tip 

that sent the two clubs into the break. The United players no doubt hoping hair dryers were 

unavailable in Goodison Park's changing quarters.

The second half picked up without a hitch. However, Everton did allow United a few turns with 

the ball to see if they planned to use it in combination with all of the possession the halftime 

statistics said they had been enjoying. However, United, much like the old Tom Hanks movie, 

Castaway, took the ball to their own end, named it Wilson, and began spooning with it. Oh, 

several Red Devil rebels stole Wilson and tried to force him into the Everton net, but when Tim 

Howard wasn't knocking the shots away, Phil Jagielka was tackling United players from behind, 

inside and outside the box, and the referee, Mariner, incredibly, had the brains to see the tackles 

for what they were; precise. Around the 57 minute mark, Wilson drifted back to the United end, 

was placed just so for a corner by Darren Gibson, who then smashed Wilson's head in with his 

foot. Wilson arced across the Liverpool skyline and frowned down upon the grinding bodies 

below him before being headbutted by Fellani into the United net. Goodison exploded, and a 

legion of flying monkeys took to the sky from United's sub bench but only one of them made its way onto the pitch: Robin Van Percy, in the 67th minute. This move changed the match 

completely in that eleven minutes later, Tim Howard had to come out and make a save, and he 

didn't seem all that happy about it, either.

If football is a chess match, Ferguson began playing checkers. Random fools...I mean Legends, 

came off the pitch and were replaced by various other squatters. With each move the cameras 

caught Ferguson chomping his gum, leaning forward, rubbing his hands and eagerly anticipating 

the rewards of his commands. When I am quite drunk, I will sometimes stuff a wad of money into 

my dog's mouth. I hook the keys to my truck into his collar, and I tell him: “Get in the truck, go 

to Pat's Liquor and buy a 12 pack of Coors. Coors, not Budweiser. Don't let the clerk short 

change you. If you have change enough, pick yourself up some sort of beef treat. Then drive 

back here, boy, and bring me my beer. Obey all traffic laws so you don't get stopped by the 

police. Okay, boy, go!” I tell you this because I believe I look less foolish waiting to hear my truck 

start up after the dog has left the house, than Ferguson does waiting for his moves to pay off.

The match ended with United camped in the Everton end and afraid to attack. In fact, I half 

expected the fans to begin shouting “OLAY” with each attacking United pass. Mariner finally blew 

the whistle. Ha ha, I finally figured out the name puzzle on United's keeper's shirt. “Dey Got 

One.” Yes, Everton did get one. But it feels as though they have laid claim to much more.




               AT WEST BROM 01-09-2012

     'Ave Some! 

Remember how Everton seasons always begin with complete darkness? With no signings, but just injuries, sold players, boardroom rumors, and the dreary prospect of Moyes walking? This season began, however, bathed in brilliant light, with exciting new signings, a satisfied Moyes, a new attitude, and six points in two games, including an easy win over United. Everton fans filed into Baggy Stadium with high expectations. Face it, although West Brom has begun the new campaign with four points over a couple of nobodies, they are led by a middle-school vice principle, and their captain looks like a roller-blade enthusiast from Germany. I figured Morrelis hat-trick, Jelavic and Fellaini brace, Osman for one, Hibbert hitting the crossbar and a Jagielka OG, 8-1, thanks for coming, roll on Newcastle.

The week was rife with rumors of Essien coming to Everton, which didn't happen, but I was mildly pleased to see Guudjohnson on the pitch for us instead, although I didn't notice him until after about fifteen minutes. In truth, Guudjohnson looked a bit out of it, which was okay, because I thought he had retired about ten years ago. In fact, the entire Everton squad played as though they had retired about ten years ago. Indeed, the way they roamed the pitch with such great reluctance, one would think they had just been dragged out hot tubs in the Playboy Mansion in order to play football in the black country.

The West Brom players got together and decided that although there was no competition on offer for the day, that they may as well play some football, since they were getting paid for it and all. West Brom, after the first fifteen minutes, spent the rest of the half hitting crossbars, forcing corners, having shots saved, and doing everything but having their way with the wives of the Everton players...and who knows what the Baggie players are up to at this moment. It wasn't long before Darren Gibson faked death and crawled beneath some other Everton corpses in order to save face on this dreary day of sunshine. This caused Moyes to move Neville to the midfield, where he failed to take the game by the scruff of the neck, and bring Hibbert on. This encouraged the West Brom players, who ended the half by splitting the Everton defence and forcing Tim Howard to make an amazing palm save on Morrison while falling backward into a pile of mess left by the defence.

When the second half began I rubbed my palms together and said, “Okay, just score a couple of goals and we'll slink away with a bit of pride still intact.” The Everton players looked at me through the TV and said, “Who, US?” and then West Brom's Odomwingy slithered the ball across the goal mouth onto the boot of the on-rushing Long, who slammed it past Tim Howard. This happened with almost a half hour left to play in the game and I already knew we would not get that goal back, let alone two goals. However, I continued to watch. I watched with all the joy of a tramp watching diners eat at a plush restaurant. Then, suddenly, Everton needed two goals just to get a draw and there were ten minutes left in the match. With a sigh, I murmured at the players, “Don't even bother.” And for the second time today they answered, “Who, US?” and then the TV turned them into a little blip, and once again there was complete darkness. 


                 VERSUS "LEYTON ASIAN"


This was a match I was not destined to behold. Unlike Villa last week when my finger was too weak to press the record button all the way down, this episode was not even on streaming, let alone regular TV. However, due to the miracle of internet football forums, and LASH in particular, I am able to piece this match together for you thanks to the chiming commentary of various drunks, thieves, and louts with internet audio access.

I began searching a stream for this match with a simple post on LASH, entitled: “Streams: I Can't Find One” The lone, helpful response was: “In fairness, Kenny, it's a surprise you can find your way home of an evening, let alone a fucking stream.” And with that, we kicked off against Leyton Asian at home.

In fact, this match was postponed until 8 pm due to the number of people searching for a working stream.

The match kicked off with a goal by new-boy Miralles, assisted by new-boy Naismith, and all around me in virtual land people were saying, “Sound. We can fuck that Jellavic lad off now.” This brought about an argument punctuated with insults by a couple of drunks. One said “You'd never say that to my face,” and the other replied, “I WOLD AND I WILL” However, calmer heads prevailed, the caps lock was undone, and we got back to League Cup Football with Miralles trying to provoke the drunks again by scoring again, and then Osman, the Great Scorer of Great League Cup Goals knocked one in.

Baines was next up on the shot roster, and he tried one from about 25 yards out, which was saved. He was promptly told to “Fuck off from trying that noise again, lad.” However, Victor scored, and suddenly all the keyboard warriors were mute. When it dawned upon the LASHERS what had just occurred, it brought about a virtual pitch invasion of: “YAY” “OMG Victors scored” and “Its good, that. People might have started thinking he was shit otherwise.”

After the half, with the score 4-0, Duffy, Barkley And (Garbutt?) came on for Baines Jagielka and Osman. Some drunk next to me in computerland muttered, “Here's where we get four injuries and lose 5-4.” It was also remarked that Coleman is getting good at doing “footbally stuff.” At this point the two drunks again began arguing, but this time over how cool Barack Obama is and who has the more clean kitchen. At the end, somebody posted a vid of all the goals, which was akin to watching men punching babies. Is there a website for that? A friend of mine wants to know...







Home to Newcastle
                                                                                   17 - 09 -'12



    No Goal! 

Fortress Goodison, locked down for a sure-thing Monday night three-point grab against our usual patsies, Newcastle, was infiltrated by a trojan horse, or more accurately, a bald, sweaty telletubby in gay, yellow garb. The fiend appeared on the touchline as the match began. Where did he come from? Nobody knows. Where will he be after tonight? The Coca Cola Championship.

Newcastle arrived with a depleted squad. Cry me a river, sweetheart. Everton began the match with a thriving, yet, threadbare squad. So sparse, in fact, that Victor Anichebe had again wormed his way onto the substitute's bench, where he spread out with his headphones, bag lunch, and 40 ounce malt liquor, leaving precious room for any of the other subs to sit.

The match kicked off and the ball popped about the pitch like an aimless lottery powerball, just waiting to land upon the boot of some lucky player. For the first 10 minutes of this match, however, it seemed as though nobody had bought a ticket, and the ball continued to careen about the pitch in search of fame, fortune, and perhaps a goal—well, aside from the goal Jelavic scored as he smashed the side of his knee into the goalpost, but was found to be offside. This burst the seal, and the Everton style of play began to flow. In the 13th minute, after a few practice runs at goal, Baines found Pienaar, who one-timed a back-heel back to Leighton, who drove forward across goal and power-rolled the ball across acres of open goal space. The Newcastle goalie looked like a stretched-out cat in a beam of sunlight watching its ball of yarn roll past. Then, he rolled over, leaned his chin on his hands, and pondered how sweet life would have been had he joined the Chimney Sweepers' Union all those years ago.

It was at this point that Newcastle's coach cried out, or texted, from his seat in the Family Enclosure, “All men to the pumps!” A purple Oompa-Loompa screamed at the players, and they responded as thought John Cleese had just shouted, “Run away!” and run away they did. Everton chased these fools into the corners, into their bench, into their dressing room, into bushes, nooks, and alleyways. Anyplace that could absorb a cowering Newcastle player, absorbed him. Watching the carnage, I half expected Jonathan Woodgate and Titus Bramble to run onto the pitch and start boxing again. The half ended with Everton shooting, Newcastle flinching, Victor Anichebe coming on for the limping Jelavic, and the commentators pondering the following question: why is Leon Osman not in the England squad?

Speaking of smoking something, Newcastle made the following changes at halftime: they smoked PCP and snorted crystal meth. One for energy, and the other; concentration, and the results showed right away. First, England man Leon Osman was raped for the ball at midfield, and the rapist popped the ball over a mile of space and into the path of Ba, who, tripping out of his mind, beat Howard at the far post.

Everton replied with a goal of their own, when Fellaini burst through and put the ball past the keeper. The linesman ruled offside. Cameras clearly showed he was onside. By this time, the match had fled the boundary of normalcy, and leaped into the stratosphere of surreal. The teams traded blows, close calls, breakaways, saves, and fouls. On Everton's left, Baines and Pienaar, sublime, complimented on the right by Hibbert and Neville, who played like puffy college blokes pillow fighting. Newcastle played as though grooving on angel dust and bitchin tunes. Victor played as though he'd had a few too many malt liquors, and Moyes began screaming at him.

In minute 88, Everton won the match when Victor took a hard pass in the area from Pienaar, controlled it, turned, and grooved it past the goalkeeper. Newcastle responded by spewing another long ball out their arse that bounced in front of the fortunate Baba. Tim Howard tried to scare Baba by rearing up like The Creature From the Black Lagoon. Baba slapped the ball on the bounce with his studs and it bounded between Howards legs and into the net for their second, well-earned goal. It should have been nothing more than a minor boost to Newcastle's goal differential. However, with the incompetency and weakness in the refereeing ranks, it was good enough for a point.







      @ Swansea, 22-09-12 

David Moyes looks like a man who has, unsuccessfully, been planning an evening of sex with his wife for a long time. It is seen in the grimace, the creases in the forehead, the bulging eyes and straining veins. It is said that a football team is the mirror image of its manager. The last couple matches have shown players who are unlucky, hesitant, take wild shots or don't shoot at all. Their play has not been “esprit de joy,” but rather, “stench of despair.” They barely poked their heads from their turtle shell against West Brom, and against Newcastle, they pushed the Geordies all around the pitch on an evening that ended with a sisterly kiss.

Moyes must have received a special text from his wife this Saturday, because the Everton bus pulled into Wales, the Toffees double-timed it out the doors and into the dressing room where they tore their clothes off, hurried into their kits, and took to the pitch firing balls at Swansea as though this match was one of those, “First-one-to-10 wins” affairs. Before the game clock could even mark two minutes, Victor Anichebe had headed just wide of the net. The two minute mark had yet been breached when Miralles had a header saved as well. By the time this match was finally two minutes old, Anichebe had forced Swans' Williams into a yellow card when he had to take down the (speedy?) Victor, who was over halfway home, alone in on goal.

If Coleman or Mirales seemed missing in this match, it may have been because Anichebe had a crazy notion in his head that he deserved to be a starter. No move on Everton's behalf took place without Victor's manic presence being involved. Countless times I spoke aloud to nobody: “Is Victor that fast? Is Victor that strong?” and countless times came Victor's wordless answers as he spun away from defenders, broke free from defenders, beat everybody on the pitch to the ball, sent clever passes through to other players breaking free. Victor back-heeled and headed, out-paced and out-passed the defence. It was like watching the fat, homely spinster sister learning how to wink, and looking fetching while doing it.

Everton's randiness paid off when Baines took a longish free kick toward Fellaini, who ducked his head and covered his face to keep from getting a defender's boot in the nose. The ball appeared to hit his arm and bounce to Anichebe, who one-timed it into the net, setting off explosions of ecstasy within the Everton ranks. The Swansea supporters, meanwhile, sat behind Tim Howard and sighed to the echoed marital sounds of ticking clocks and clacking sounds of Tim Howard banging his studs clean on the goal posts.

The Everton crowd sang out again in the 42 minute when Neville took an attacking pass near his own touchline, and rather than booting it upfield, he tapped it to Mauro, who sent a whizzing ball along the ground for Pienaar to chase down. When Pienaar caught up with the ball, just ahead of his pursuers, he kicked it centre to Mirales, whose saved shot hit the crossbar and bounced back to him, and he buried the rebound with his head.

If you thought that Tim Howard had nothing to do during the entire first half, you would be wrong. There were numerous times when Everton were caught watching themselves in the mirror performing their gavotte. During these moments of foolishness, Tim Howard performed like a man who became large in pressure-packed moments. He slapped at balls, dove at them, and kicked them away, and each rejection came as quick as a cat changes her mind.

The cliché is that football is a game of two halves. Sadly, for Swansea, so too was this one, only the second half was even worse than the first half. Needless fouls, a red card, and a final Baines free kick which Fellaini ricocheted off his 'fro for the third goal saw Moyes whistle his heroes off the pitch, march them back into the bus, sans shower, and steaming back to Merseyside where the champagne on ice, a wife, and some Barry White awaited a man who was ready to party.




                                                            @ Leeds, League Cup. 25-09-;12  

If you watch Everton alone, inside of your home, for a long enough time, you will begin doubting everything you know. In fact, what do I know? I know I hated soccer, and then one day I awoke in a sweat, and I loved soccer. Do any of us truly know what happens to us while we sleep? Sometimes, watching Everton makes me wonder if I am, indeed, the subject of some strange government experiment.

Today my television was tuned to a place called Leeds. For years, as I seem to recall, they vied for the European championship, and then disappeared. How reassuring, then, to see them once again playing championship football. I find myself lying on the couch for this match. I am on my side. My mood is apathetic, although I do anticipate an onslaught of goals. I notice that Tim Howard has become a white, is the goalkeeping sub, Mucha. I see other faces I don't know. I recognize the referee for the match. He is Lee Mason. He has the face of a collapsing Moon Pie. I hear a whistle and I focus. I focus for the blue. Let's go Everton! The home fans are singing a song. I think it is an old song by Perry Como, entitled, “Olay, Yada, Yada, Yada, Olay.” I believe it is on my I tunes.

The images flicker. Blue and white. Everton are in blue, and they are laying down on the pitch. I am laying down on the couch. Everton and I are one. Do you remember those old spy movies? There was always somebody being brainwashed. Pain and pleasure. Pain and pleasure. I watch the team in blue: pain. Pain. PAIN. Everything collapses in the middle. Everything collapses inside me. Inside the empty Leeds bowl voices echo in failed song. Yada, Yada. I push my fists into my eyes and grind my teeth. How long have I been watching this now? Three days? Five? A month? The clock tells me five minutes.

I scream. I stop. I scream again. Memory suppression? I see a horrible black man with a mouth like a white bowling ball. He is grinning. He looks like the consolation prize dad won at the gypsy carnival once. He brought it home and put it in my room...I don't know how much time has passed. I have been watching the fish in my aquarium. I love my fish. Graceful, dart, move, grab a bite and move again. A voice tells me to focus on the match. I do and Leeds score again.

I must go, I cannot watch anymore.

But there is a pleasant surprise...

No, the only thing possible is pain and more pain and...the ball bounces upon the heads of two people in blue. It sails delightfully, landing safely under the canopy of Leeds netting. And then there is nothing. Just a 16 mm film reel spinning backwards from ten with the loose frame ticking against the projector.

Do you feel anything?


Good. Watch the fish.

Yes. The fish are beautiful. See them dart about with not a trace of lethargy! 


29, September, 2012: Everton V Southampton  


GIMME BACK MY SON!                                       gimme back my three points


 That last slice of pizza is FOR THE CHILDREN!


     lol, this is bloody great! 


The Saints of Southampton plodded off their team bus and clomped through the tunnel and into the Goodison sunlight today to take part in a touching pre-game ceremony where they set a basket laden with three points onto the turf at midfield before mincing back out of the stadium. Their manager, Kevin Costner, then gave a stirring speech where he begged his fellow Premiership managers to donate as many points as they could to Saint Mary’s, and perhaps heave a biscuit or two in the general direction of Africa. He was applauded, presented with a wreath flowers representing failure, and guided back to his place on the bench by Sally Struthers.

After the applause died down, his team re-entered the stadium for the traditional “Have Some of This, You Southern Nancies” Kickoff, and the game was underway. Everton fired the first shot, an effort by Mirrales that smacked a top-row pensioner in the mouth. The commentator said, and I quote, “That should serve as a warning shot.” Bloody hell, grandma, don't make Kevin come up there with a crowbar next time!

While Everton spend the first five minutes assaulting their fans with errant shots, Southampton went about the business of defying gamblers' odds and footballing gods by popping in a header from a corner that Tim Howard and his fellow employees shied away from with a collective purse of the lips. On the touchline, Costner leaped to his feet and began fighting a mascot over the basket of three points before getting tangled up in his ego and falling backwards. The basket went flying and the three points were up for grabs. Sally Struthers managed to snatch a packet of gourmet crisps from the basket and curled into a corner, growling and barring her crumb-packed teeth at children passing by.

Everton, for their part, went into the part of their game plan for when they fall behind in a match; they began to jog around the pitch aimlessly without bothering to take the ball with them. I half expected them to start doing that skipping and twisting thing players do while warming up.

In the 24th minute I began to wonder what was on the Cartoon Network. But as I picked up the remote control, Mirrales fired an airborne pass to Jelavic, who, surprised by a scoring opportunity, fell on his arse. In 2004, Leon Osman was the last Everton player to score against Southampton, and today he became the latest to score against them when he charged onto the errant ball and drilled a mortar shot into the right hand roof of the netting.

Oh, well, once all the other Everton players saw how easy it was to score against these Saint Mary's Fairies, didn't they just ALL want to line up and score! The second goal began in the best way possible. Everton took the ball in their own end, and instead of kicking it far, Fellani passed it to Mirrales, who ran to midfield with it and found the speeding Jelavic in open space. Mirrales pooched a long, equisite pass that hydroplaned downfield where the ball caught Jelavic's toe like a London train on time, leaving the goalkeeper tumbling in the wake of the ball. He had a little “Oh...” frown on his lips.

In minute 37, Coleman raked the right side of Southampton, and then beat the laws of physics. He sent the ball to the right, around his man, while slipping past him on the left. The ball veered back into Coleman's path and Seamus knocked it straight at Jelavic's head. The keeper saved the header into the net for goal number three.

Halftime came but did little to halt the time bearing down on Southampton's stay in the Premiership, and the second half resembled the first, but with less result. Everton passed, moved, passed and shot. Southampton players huffed without nary a puff, save for their glam coach who strode up and down the touchline screaming out the movies he had almost won an oscar for.

Moyes finally motioned for Victor to come in for Jelavic. In an interesting moment that the TV cameras caught, Victor took off his headphones, screwed the cap back on his bottle of J&B, then before leaving the subs' bench, took a sidelong glance at Shane Duffy, and then with a Magic Marker, drew a line around the bottle at the fluid's level. Duffy's face screwed up with hate and resentment, but by then the cameras shot back to the field where Tim Howard made a brilliant two-handed save at his top left corner to preserve his—well, to preserve Everton's two-goal differential. Costner, for his part, stormed into the dressing room, got all drunk and started screaming profanities about Jews. Wait, that's Mel Gibson, right? Ha, whatever, let's dig into the gift basket before Sally Struthers finds it.


Everton @ Wigan: 6 October, 2012


Saturday afternoon is a time for either movie matinees  or football matches. There was an old west style barroom brawl on offer in Wigan, during which a football match broke out. Amid the madness, a feckless man in yellow pranced about, hiding behind tables, his badge, throwing participants back into the fray, and blowing his rape whistle when threatened. Be assured that when the football commentators utter the referee's name more often than those of the participants, it is clear that the Football Association has hired yet another ref by stuffing a body into their fart cannon and blasting him onto a football pitch and into our living rooms. Hello Kevin Friend.

However, Mr. Friend is not the reason Everton lost this match, and face it, a point at Wigan, for this team, is a loss. Friend was not playing in defence for the first half of this match when 10 minutes into it, some fellow who looks like a root-beer float popped up offside to boing a ball past Howard. Thankfully, Jelavic bopped in a dying duck off the foot of Pienaar to even things up as much as possible when a dunce is huffing about the pitch with his quavering lips on a whistle. However, nor was this awkward pud at fault when in the 23rd minute, Dezi Arnez Jr. rocket-blasted Howard from Distance. However, this imbecile flashed enough yellow cards to write, “I'm a piss-poor referee” in the snow job that was his performance on the day.

In fact, all that is left in my mind of this match is the tortured collage of crap decisions by this fop who refereed a football match while on an IQ strike. Those decisions fly about my head the way the wicked witch and her monkeys buzzed wickedly about Dorothy's head in the Wizard of Oz. I mean, did you see the way, after he carded Baines for trying to avoid contact, that he glombed his hand onto Leighton's chest as if to say, 

“I'm going to get you my little pretty! You and that big furry-headed Belgian of yours!”

“He's not a Belgian, he's Toto, a terrier!”

“Whatever. Eee heee hee hee!”

And then she flung a flaming branch at Neville too who caught fire and had to be stamped out and replaced later in the match. Her monkeys flew about the penalty area, swooping down on Mirales, Jelavic, and numerous other potential penalty calls. She laughed and danced and screeched and whipped up the Wigan faithful into a lather until with five minutes left she gave out and a penalty was called.  Judy Garland crept up to the spot, Toto in hand, and flung a cold bucket of reality onto the Wigan dreams of victory.  This caused the furious and disgusting bitch to cry that she was melting. As she swirled about the centre of the pitch, her grasping claw-like fingers tried to snatch Everton's single point back into hell with her. Then she was gone and the sky blew all the monkeys over to Anfield. The commentator screamed about what an entertaining afternoon of football it had been. The Wigan fans, not sure what they had just seen, began a tentative round of applause. The Everton Fans filed out en masse. They'd seen this movie before.



A taping snafu caused me to miss the QPR match. Was the result a surprise? Ha. 

         When you suck, the whole world knows it


Tim Howard demonstrates how a deaf person would sign, "I can't keep a clean sheet."




   LOL @ Neville

  tricking some

  dim-witted ref

  into forming a

  two-man wall!

Little London snots mock Pienaar as Moyes glares at  him. 



 Leighton Baines asks flesh eater for his ball 

back, but gets taken for a zombie ride


Bizarre moment when Hughes mocks Everton Penalty claim



 Moyes uses psychic intensity to force the ball to bypass his midfield


Mark Hughes mocks Everton, ala  Andy Johnson, versus Liverpool

Everton's potential investor waves at David Moyes


Goodbye, Godspeed sir. When will we see you again? 




              Luv you, buh-bye! 




Derby Day. Love it or hate it, it rolls on, as Bob Dylan would say, like a rolling stone. It conjures up so many memories for both Blues and Reds. If you are a Liverpool fan, you probably have fond recollections of cheating refs, diving gays, and lucky plays. You remember Anfield awash in both sunshine, and a sea of red, and you remember laughing at the fans in Goodison Park. You recall the hat tricks, the short-handed wins, the big wins and the last second victories. You also remember all of that singing; all afternoon and into the evening. Evertonians remember rain, missed busses, piss, hangovers, and humiliation.

Of course, today was going to be different, wasn't it? Everton had the superior team. Can you remember the last time that happened? Sure you can. Last year, when Moyes tossed a handful of mangoes and grapefruit onto the pitch and a Gerrard hat-trick followed. Well today was going to be different, because Everton were favored, and Liverpool were starting a handful of youngsters mixed in with their usual ghouls.

I mean no offence when I say the Liverpool squad is full of ghouls. It's just that this is Halloween. And that Suerez looks like one of Matt Groenig's characters from his “Life in Hell” comic strip. And that Skirtel looks like his mouth has been ripped out and replaced with thumbtacks. In fact, the entire Liverpool footballing team looks like they just crawled out of that sick pud's toy box in the first “Toy Story” Movie.

So, Everton were favored, but they didn't have Pienaar. This is like being at a restaurant and the waitress tells you that they just ran out of prime rib, but they still have plenty of gummy bears available. Everton had Naismith available.

The match started out as a swirling mess, just like the weather. However, Suerez began gnawing his way through the Everton defence, and on the other side, Mirales was body-surfing down Liverpool's left flank. The match figured to belong to anybody, except that the pre-pubes and strangers on the Reds' roster were slicing Everton's defence to (sick looking) doll ribbons. Everton, for their part, were trying to put their stamp on the match, when in the 14th minute, Enrique passed hard across the Everton goal and found Suerez and his eager-beaver chompers snapping at the pass. They knocked the ball onto the leg of Baines for an own goal. Suerez celebrated by diving in front of David Moyes in the best Derby goal celebration since Fowler snorted the goal line. I take this opportunity to note that Jose Enrique looks like his name should be Clem Hatfield.

Have you ever seen a cock fight? Well, you hear a lot of horrid noises and you see a lot of colored feathers flying, and blood splattering. That is the visual for referee Andre Mariner's performance. Why did his name sound familiar, and why did the sight of his face bring back a bad memory? Whatever, this cock was losing control faster than a 17-year old on prom night, and six minutes after the first Liverpool goal, he set up the second by awarding a free kick due to his own incompetence. Well, wouldn't you just know? Gerrard free kick, Suerez goal. Liverpool were ahead, 2-0, and the match was barely warm.

I will be honest. I almost shut off the TV in order to go take up soap carving. In fact, while pondering where I had left the soap on a rope, the generic Red goalie punched an anemic ball out of his area. Leon Osman gathered it in with his boot and bashed it low past the keeper. In minute 35, Naismith decided that it was time he finally did something while wearing a blue shirt, so he charged into the area to slam home a ball Fellani had smacked into the path of any interested parties. It was game on, and the ref took up the challenge. He yellowed and blew at the Blue, and coddled and coo'd at the Red, and had the bottle to book Neville for diving. Try as Mariner tried to hand the match to Liverpool, nothing more was gained and the half arrived with the 2-2 scoreline.

In the second half Mirales was replaced by Gyaye...............(I'm just letting that soak in.) However, it was not as bad as you would think. The match began to resemble one of those gypsy knife fights where the combatants bind their left wrists together with a scarf and carve at each other with the knife hand. Each team barely missed slashing open the jugular until in the very last second when Bucky the Beaver burst the dam by kicking a rebound at Tim Howard's head and into the roof of the net.

In a strange atmospheric glitch, the onside Suerez was ruled to be offside, and the winning goal was disallowed. Had Suerez been clearly offside, of course, the goal would have been allowed, as per Derby Rules. The referee and linesman, confused by the legality of the play, mistakenly disallowed a good goal. I held my breath until the broadcast went off the air, fully expecting them to come back onto the field to reverse the decision. Liverpool fans can howl like the wind in their demented heads, but in my lifetime, this was the first time Everton were ever benefited by a horrible call in a derby match. Do I feel we escaped with a point? No. We deserved a great bad call, and now the universe only has about a million more of those to withdraw from their bank account of justice until the score is even; just like this one ended. Ha. Ha. Ha. HOW DOES IT FEEL?


                         @ Fulham, 3, 11, 2012 

            same as it ever was 

When your life isn't going according to plan, you often look at the skies, blow a stream of air through your lips and say, “How does this happen?” When you find yourself locked up, drunk, and with piss in your drawers and vomit on your shirt, you ask, “How does this happen?” When you oversleep, miss your buss, and find yourself back in the unemployment line, you puff out your cheeks and blow air through your lips: “How does this happen?” The fact is that most of us find ourselves in a place in life we never dreamed we would be in. David Byrne, in a Talking Heads' Classic, answers that question, "How does this happen?" However, let's look at the match.

Everton had Pienaar back for this one, and Miralles was back as well. Craven Cottage, until the last few years, has been a tough match, so I was under no illusions. 3 points and one goal added to our GD would do me fine.

Everton began the match as though angry that it was only 0-0 to start, and desperately attacked Fulham to right that wrong, and perhaps the prettiest play was at the four-minute mark when Everton allowed a double dummy to slide from right to left across the Fulham area before the ball hissed away back up the pitch and fizzed out for a Fulham free kick. The ball was placed outside the area a bit, and Brian Ruiz faced a solid wall. His kick bypassed the wall, but not Tim Howard, who dove and slapped the ball onto the inside post. The ball rebounded off Howard's back for a goal that left one player celebrating, and the other player despondent. How funny that the despondent player was the one awarded the goal.

Any true Everton fan with a working memory of the old Everton ways knew right there that this match would be a loss or draw for the Blues. It doesn't matter how great an attacking side Moyes has built, this match was bound for Dudville. Fortunately, these Everton players can't remember the old days, and they don't care, either. They slapped Fulham around the pitch for the next 42 minutes and only God and Fulham's goalkeeper kept the match at a goal deficit when the halftime whistle blew.

The second half began the same as the first. Everton attacks beginning like ripples in water and increasing into swells, but instead of roaring and crashing, the swells returned back into ripples, the same as they had started. Same as it ever was. In the meantime, Fulham returned the fire with a few chances of their own, and perhaps the best was in the 50th minute when Riise placed a delicate little roller across an open Everton net. The Cottager's were so surprised by the trick-or-treating jack-a-lantern dressed as a ball, that they stayed out of its path so it could find safe passage home to an Everton boot.

It was only minutes later that Coleman whirled around the right side and found Mirales to extend the ball's journey. Mirrales popped the ball across the path of the goalkeeper, who was of a mind to gather it up until Fellani roared in and smacked it into the roof of the net. Just two minutes later, Howard preserved Evrerton's hope of three points by leaping to his right and palming away a ball that was destined to spoon with the back of his net.

As the match lurched into the minute 70, it became apparent that not only are Everton's defensive players capable of creating goal scoring opportunities, but that their creative counterparts are just as lusty at snuffing out chances by the opposition. Speaking of scoring opportunities, just a couple minutes later, Fellaini took one of those famed long balls, bounced it off his head to the ground, bounced the rebound off his chest, took a step, and then cool as a gypsy, knifed the ball under the keeper's soft, fleshy underarm into the net, ripping Fulham arteries and unleashing Evertonian celebrations.

In the minute 79, Moyes brought Mirralles off, and Naismith on. Everton continued the attack, and Naismith was on more than a couple of missed opportunities.

In the minute 90, Moyes brought off goal-scoring threat Jelavic, for a big defender, Distain. And Fulham scored the equalizer. Moyes puffed out his cheeks and blew out a stream of air. I read his lips: “How does this happen?”

Same as it ever does, same as it ever was. 





       SUNDERLAND, 10 November, 2012

This Remembrance Day match started out with a moment of silence while Sunderland fans tried to remember the last time they crept out of Goodison Park with three points. The correct answer is 1996, and after Saturdays' match there would be no statistical change. Water drizzled from the sky on Mersyside as Everton lined up to try and take their first three points after the last three ended in onesies. Today, against their usual patsies, they would need all three points, and a good bump in the goal differential as well. The commentator said that it takes a while for the “Martin O'Neil magic to begin working.” For the Sunderland fans, that means that it will take a few years before they get relegated again and O'Neil leaves town with football pundits laying rose pedals in his path.

This match began pretty much the Everton Way: (This Everton way, not the Everton Way of the last 25 years): Everton playing the ball along the floor like it was a match of table fussball, missing a few opportunities, the opponent ripping them apart on long passes up the middle and barely missing their opportunity, Everton having five penalty appeals ignored, Kevin Mirales going off injured, and the opponent scoring. That brings us to halftime.

Because Everton allowed the first goal, I knew that a two-two draw was the best we could achieve. I also knew that Everton would wait until the last second to score the goal that allowed them to draw in order to trick me into feeling good about it. I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned back, scowled, and said, “Go ahead, Everton, impress me, but no cookie for a draw.” My dog, misunderstanding, put his pen and pencil set down and trudged out of the room.

Without Mirales, Everton were left playing more like Arsenal than Barcelona. However, in the 75thminute, England skipper Leon Osman—it's the next step—found Fellaini, who passed to Naismith who passed back to Osman, who found Jelavic, who passed to Pianaar who gave it to Coleman who sent it through to Fellaini, who shot the ball through O'Shea's legs and past the keeper into the low end of the net.Two minutes later, Fellaini sent a cheeky back-heel to Jelavic who ended his two-game goal scoring draught by driving the ball with ferocity past the Sunderland keeper.

With Everton having come from behind late in the match to take the lead, there was only two things left to play out, and about ten minutes later Moyes took care of the first part by taking his goal-scoring attacker off, and putting on a central midfielder or defender. This time it was a German midfielder with one of those burger-type Germanic names. All that was needed to secure the deal was the final Sunderland goal and, oh, lookie, it's minute 89 and—Oh, a great commanding grab by Howard of the last bite of the cherry for Sunderland, and Everton have their three points. O'Neil hissed, and disappeared into some dark basement to power up his dark magic for the Black Cats. Shame, really. I like Sunderland.


       Everton Holiday Points Drive in Full Swing


    Everton At Reading: 11 November 2012


The holidays are upon us, and Everton Football Club, teamed with the FA Referees Association once again visited the poorer regions of the Premiere League to hand out points. If you enter “Everton losing to shit teams” into google, 10, 300,000 results will come back to you, and that number is sure to click over by one today, after the Reading match. In fact, I wonder if you change “shit teams” to “shit refs” what the number would be? Let's find out: Ah, only 3,160,000. Okay, make that 3,160,001, because today, Martin Atkinson was the ref.

First, you will already know, even if you did not see the match, that Everton dominated the first half. Every time Reading tried to touch the ball, Everton snatched it away, as though it were a ball of rat poison, and Reading were retarded siblings trying to stuff it into their mouths. Everton would then taunt them with the ball by doing tricks, such as scoring a goal. They even managed to do this latter part within the first 9 minutes of the match when Fellaini found himself, the ball, and the chubby-faced Reading goalkeeper together in one big pow-wow. While Fellaini bobbled the ball and pondered his future, Naismith tore onto the scene and smacked the ball into the net. Did I jump up and down and scream? Did YOU? If so, then you may not have quite grasped Everton Football Club just yet. After the goal, I clenched my jaw, nodded my head, and said, “Don't screw this up, Everton.”

Only a minute after their goal, Tim Howard, in a desperate attempt to lose his clean sheet, came a mile out of his own area to challenge a bewildered Reading player who had found himself alone with the ball behind the entire Everton team.He sidestepped Howard, and from twenty yards away, with an open net, lofted the ball out of touch. Everton responded to this close call by shooting off rapid-fire chances at Reading like popping corn. Naismith began ripping Reading's left hand side to shreds and was finally kicked down inside the area for a nailed on penalty. Except that Martin Atkinson was the ref. And his referee's assistant somehow missed it too. Are linesmen trained to jut out their eyes like nervous little Boston Terriers with glaucoma while their Adam's apple bobs up and down after bad calls?

Everton dusted themselves off and kept hammering away at Reading. The problem, however, for Everton was that killing off Reading was like an old N64 boss battle. The Blues ripped the defence and took a million shots only to see Readings “Life Bar” fill back up with green. It did not help that just before halftime, Fellaini, using delightful skill, danced into the penalty area, got knocked flat, and, well, Martin Atkinson was the ref.


After the break, neither side made a change, and why would they? Both sides were slicing the other to doll ribbons, but in the 50th minute, the kind of free kick that gets awarded when the ref has a bet on the match was awarded to Reading in good range. a bricklayer with the surname of an Elvis impersonator skipped the kick like a stone upon a pond, and the ball took a bounce off a Reading head and to absolutely nobody's surprise, it landed inside Tim Howard's net.

Well, Everton hammered away at Stoke, or whoever this bottom-feeding club was for another twenty minutes or so until The ball came up for breath and landed in Everton's penalty area, where Seamus Coleman and Martin Atkinson produced a gift basket for Reading. In another holiday gesture, Reading allowed a child from the Special Olympics to take the penalty from the spot. Howard dove the wrong way, the ball ended up in the net, and the special ed. child flapped his arms and made loon sounds.

Everton, trailing by a goal, wandered around with a pot and a bell for the next twenty minutes looking for additional points to hand out to Reading. However, when the whistle blew, the three points were all Everton were able to donate. The kids from the Make a Wish Foundation, however, seemed plenty pleased with them and gathered in the middle of the pitch to jump up and down and applaud the wonderful Everton and Martin Atkinson off the pitch, even as Scouse kids shouted, "Fuck off!" at them. Happy Thanksgiving, but Everton, please, no more turkeys.





24 NOVEMBER 2012 

What goes through the mind of a condemned man once the slam of a judge's gavel sentences him to death? Does he think of his family? Does he think about how he will be judged by history? Or more likely, does he hear the sentence and the gavel and begin to think about the time he has left? How many days? How many hours? How many minutes, and finally, how many seconds? How long until the inevitable actually becomes the moment and the man becomes a pile of waste?

I ask these questions, because I, myself, am doomed. Allow me to tell my story: The day began like any other day. Sunny, chance of showers, and I had the world in front of me. I was making huge jack at a prestigious convenience store in town, running the numbers, running the cash register, and keeping the ice machine clean. When my shift ended, I hopped on my bike and headed home. Everton were at home against Norwich, and I couldn't wait to watch the match.

I knew that things would be different for Everton today, because once again they had a garbage team to play against. Things usually don't go too well for us against lames, but once in a while we tack a 7-1 hiding onto a team like Sunderland, or...could it be Norwich today?

I sat down, like I always do, opened up a beer, flicked the DVR to the match and settled back to watch some proper Merseyside football. Everton seemed to know what I wanted. I wanted beautiful football, and I wanted lots of it, and Everton seemed more than eager to run up the market in that area, but something stank. The commentator said that the ref was Mike Jones. Mike Jones...I ran a hand threw my hair. Mike. Freaking. Jones. My minded wandered off to a Monday night against Newcastle a couple months ago. I leaned forward in my seat.

A condemned man will tell you that his situation is due to a moment of insanity, and my situation is no different. Everton began bossing the match, nothing new, I've seen it before, and then, after just 11 minutes, what-do-ya-know, they score. It was the usual thing, same situation, different players. The Costa Rican greaser was playing, and he took a long delivery and kept his cool. He sent it sideways into the path of some crazed tow-head who buried the bullet into the back of the net. There you have it. One moment of insanity and I was suddenly a condemned man.

The first thing I did was look at the clock. Eleven minutes had passed. I was asked what I wanted for a final meal. I wanted to vomit. How many more minutes until the end? I watched the match a little, I heard the people cheering and the commentators making small talk. How nice would it be to be able to be free and enjoy those little things in life? I looked at the clock. Minute 24, and this Holt guy had bludgeoned his way through Everton only to blow chunks when it came time to shoot. I looked at the clock again, leaned forward and hugged my knees.

Everton had more chances to score, but Norwich, combined with a hapless ref, gave as good as they got. Halftime came. I looked at the clock and knew: 45 minutes to go.

The second half began and the clock kept ticking. Everton played as though they, and not me, were condemned, and watching time tick away. Howard made saves. Heitenga cleared shots off the line, my pulse quickened, my heartbeat echoed in my head and I watched the clock. In the 73rdminute, Baines bullied his way past the Norwich defence from the left to the inside. Leighton made a few more moves, and then took a hard shot that Naismith would normally have put into the net...had he been where the ball was.

The clock continued to tick and I feared my nerves would fail me. To be honest, all I wanted was a reprieve. I wanted a last minute whistle to blow. I wanted to feel the same fresh air that free people breathe. I craved freedom. I needed release from this hellish clock watch. In minute 89 I would know whether or not I was pardoned or doomed. Norwich was granted a soft free kick, but miles away. A cigarette was jammed into my lips. I protested. I don't smoke. A match was lit. Sulphur burned my sinuses. My heart jackhammered. Where was that reprieve? I watched the kick sail high into the late evening air. Where was that blindfold? The ball ricocheted off the head of some Norwich player who buried the bullet into my heart. 




                                 Arsenal Visit Goodison Park Wednesday night, 28 November


                            In Bizarre Moment, Walcott Celebrates Everton's Equalizer 

I was fixing my second drink when the first goal struck the back of the Everton net. Lime juice dribbled inside my clenched fist as Theo Walcott celebrated near the image of Tim Howard, who was, himself, green and squished, when he should have stood high and blocked. I tossed the lime at the sink, left the drink, and snatched up the bottle of Beefeater. Tim Howard got to his feet like some tomato can in a back alley brawl who is used to picking himself up off the pavement. I knocked back some straight iced vodka and nodded my head. The first shot always calms the nerves, and Everton began to circle Arsenal, looking for their own opening.

At the ten-minute mark I noticed that Pienaar was in the starting lineup tonight, and it wasn't long before he was rushing at Arsenal players and they were smacking into each other and falling down. In fact, Everton began jabbing at all Arsenal's arteries and it didn't seem like it would take long for the London giant to bleed to death. In the 22 minute, Pienaar donned some plugs and extensions and became a reality from his former shadow when he stormed up the pitch in the kind of run that people pay good money to view in person at a footballing match. His assault ended with a blocked shot as he ran out of gas, but he took the subsequent couple of touches, and losing pace he found Fellaini with a dying pass. The Belgium took the ball at the middle, and far outside. He wound his left leg back once, checked to see if his agent was watching, and sent the ball around a splayed defender and past a lunging goalkeeper to even up the match.

I am certain that Arsene Wenger was a high school girl in his previous life. Not just because he still retains that girl's name, but because he gesticulates like a high school girl who just got an * unlike * on facebook. Well, he certainly hit Mauro's goal with a huge * unlike *, but credit due, his team didn't fall apart. Even Theo Walcott, when punished by Darren Gibson, managed to finally dry his tears, get up, and continue on with the match. However, as Gibson told him, he would do no more of that, and I quote "goal scoring shit."

The only thing that was certain at halftime, was that the rest of the match was going to be a cliffhanger, and the players did not disappoint. While Pienaar and Baines continued their own personal game down the left hand side, Jelavic kept ending up on the right side and passing to Naismith on the inside. This combination trip-hopped a couple of times to short circuited misses.

I had been fixing my twenty-second drink, okay, shot, when the second half began. However, the referee must have been on his twenty-third shot, because he totally lost the plot to the match, and ensured that Everton's untouchable record of games without a nailed-on-penalty streak since the beginning of the Premiership continued for at least one more game when Arteta tried to rip Pienaar's birthright from him in the penalty box.

This match of football continued to be waged at break-neck speed, with Howard having to do the majority of the work between the two keepers. Everton, for their part, would show up in the penalty area like pushy customers at Starbucks who insist they are in a hurry, but then start rifling their pockets for money when it's their turn to be served. The barista's defenders would then usher them out the door. Ovieda and Phitzelburger both came on, but did little to force me to learn to spell their names correctly. The match was good to the last drop, however, and the two quality teams had throughly entertained the Goodison Park crowd when the referee finally managed to blow his whistle without fucking up that part of his job.

Howard: 6. He is both the reason that we got a point, and the reason that we got a point

Hibbert: 6. Arsenal seemed to enjoy the left hand side of the pitch last night

Jagielka: 6. Ditto

Distain: 8. Arsenal nancies bounced off him all night long

Baines: 8. Hard to remember he's a damn good defender. I'll miss him.

Pienaar: 6. Started slow, became possessed, but never really did anything for all that

Gibson: 6. Didn't add anything going forward, but didn't have a 'mare defence wise

Fellaini: 6. Thanks for the goal. I'll miss him.

Jellavic: 4. Will probably take the free kicks when Baines is gone.

The Blond Guy: 6: Shows signs of what he can do.

Osman: 6. Seemed swallowed up in the midfield


            Everton Struggle Unsuccessfully to Hold Onto Fellaini


                                                                 Manchester City host Everton Football Club

                                                        Saturday 1 December 2012



                     Don't try serving me any of that pussy beer 


Champions Manchester City welcomed Everton the same way you welcome your wife's “slightly intense” brother to your home during Christmas. Everton entered the Stadium of Money and immediately stated that City should quit serving “pussy beer,” insisted on an arm wrestling competition, and remarked that their host's 12-year old daughter was “pretty hot for her age.”

City responded in the same manner you probably would: awkward silence, awkward throat clearing, and awkward glances. After about 33 minutes of this, the family cat walks into the room and the “slightly intense” brother says, “I hate cats!” and kicks it off his knee into the goal for an Everton lead.

Your wife finally stands up, puts her hands on her hips and demands: “Are you going to take this lying down?”

No, you are not. What you do is fall over in the penalty area allowing Tevez a free shot at all the crystal in the kitchen. Carlos surveys the area. A little clawed hand tries to push its way out of his neck. Then he shatters all the fancy kitchenware that is reserved for when guests arrive.

“Whoa!” shouts the “slightly intense” brother. “What's his problem? Hey, buddy boy, don't go thrashing my sister's kitchen 'cause your mad that you're not a man. I'm right here. You want some of this?” That's when your wife hitches up her tube-top, blows her whistle, and drags her brother out of the room for halftime.

During the next fifteen minutes you can hear your wife shouting at her brother in the living room while you paw and snort in the kitchen. You're thinking, “I should have told him this, I should have done that,” and you're not punctuating your thoughts with your pussy beer, but with some of that Wild Turkey your brother-in-law insisted on breaking out. It is now quiet in the living room, but not in your mind, and you kick open the swinging doors from your kitchen to your living room and stagger into the room.

Your “slightly intense” brother-in law is sobbing on the couch, and your wife is rubbing his hair, shushing him, and telling him he can spend the night. That's when you hurl the Wild Turkey bottle at the wall behind the couch and stomp over to the startled siblings.

“Roberto!” your wife cries. “You need to calm that passionate Italian blood of yours!”

“My name is Carlos,” you remind her. And I'm from Argentina, you strumpet!”

She shrinks away, but licks her lips. Her brother dares to come at you from the sofa. “Hey, man, I'm sorry, man. I'm trying to work my program but my” his lips tremble and then you start smacking him around. Mostly backhands, but you mix in a few good closed-fist shots as well, and then your wife is screaming loud enough to bring the police. However, your wife's “slightly intense” brother has had enough: He wipes his big bloody lips across his tricept. “I ever tell you I like it rough?” he says. You try to recall if he ever mentioned anything about that to you, but suddenly he's bull-rushing you and there is enough blood in his eyes to match the rest of his face. Then a whistle is blowing and the police are breaking in and telling everybody to break it up, that it's over.

You're brother-in law saunters up to you, drapes his arm over your shoulder and whispers, “Hey, I got another pint.” You feel sick, but you manage to smile and say, “Yeah, so did I.”


11 From 10, and Two in 88!

 spurs @ Goodison: 09-12-'12

                 "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"


I would like to thank the Evertonian who finally stabbed a rooster, drank the blood, and brought the beak along with an apology to whatever gypsy he or she offended at a carnival so the curse could be removed and Everton could hop back up on the track toward the League Title. However, any more games like this, and “Alcoholic Ginger” is going to be more than advertising at Goodison Park, it's going to be fact.

Do you remember the sixteen years before Moyes took charge? All Everton matches began the same. The other team would be all over Everton, and you would think, “Uh, oh, here we go...” These days, the match starts and it is Everton who are all over the other team, and we mutter, “Uh, oh, here we go...”

I hate long match reports, besides, you know the drill: Everton attacking and controlling the ball. Everton's shot-missing meter going from green to yellow. The other team's rollicking attacks  ending as though that team were but tubby hamsters being flung from their spinning wheel and into a fist. Everton attacking again, and their shot missing meter rising again as the halftime whistle blew. When the teams left the pitch, Everton's shot-missing meter was on orange. We know too well what happens when that needle hits red.

Second Half

Kevin Mirales came off at haltime, and Naismith dutifully trotted on. Of course, there was no reason to wonder if the change was tactical, so the commentator needlessly informed us that Kevin's hamstring had begun twinging again. My left eye began twitching, and the second half kicked off. I may have mentioned that I hate long match reports, so have this: Osman miss, Osman miss, save off Osman shot, Osman miss—I eyed the meter and it looked like the pressure gauge on my old Ford Truck—Osman over the bar, RED RED RED RED! The meter was pulsing and warning bells were clanging, and then, right on schedule, in the 75th minute, Clint Dempsey seemed to know our meter was full, because he took a “what the hell” shot that would have spanked the ground before getting slapped by Howard, except the ball hit somebody's boot and took an extra large bounce Howard was not prepared for. As Howard fell, arm outreached, the ball looked like the moon jumping over the cow before landing in clover.

If this was a highlight video, sad music would be playing while various Everton players were highlighted in moments of misery with their hands on their hips and their heads bowed down. A cold wind blew through my living room and I grabbed the Jim Beam, turned up my collar, and began playing with a loaded handgun. But then, Moyes made another substitution.

Anyone who has ever killed themselves could tell you, probably through a gypsy or Ouija board or whatever, that the most important part of the act, next to the result, is the note. You have to name a protagonist besides just, “Cruel World.” The people you leave behind need to know not only why you are topping yourself, but who has pushed you to the bitter, desperate moment. As I watched the Everton substitute jog onto the pitch, I picked up a pen and scribbled “Velios” onto a sheet of tear-stained paper. Bringing Velios into the game is like adding more grass to the pitch, or worse, it's like brining McFadden in, only more swarthy. With a sigh, I gave the cylinder a spin and pulled the hammer back. (It's a Colt 45) Goodbye, cruel world, goodbye, three points. The final whistle was on the way, both literally and figuratively. Then Jelavic scored. I don't know how, because my eyes were squinted shut and I was whimpering. The replay showed Velios releasing an overhead kick into the area for Jelavic, who didn't consider it, but buried it. I shouted “Yeehaw,” which is also, “Howdy” in Chinese, and fired off the Colt as though I was at a Muslim wedding. One point against this team was better than—and then Coleman sent a cross in the box to Pienaar, who dove at the top of the box to touch his head to it, burying the ball like one of Joey Barton's cigars into Spurs' eyes.


                  ha ha, thas is entertainment 


       At West Ham 22-12-2012


Evil visited West Ham's Upton Park yesterday in the guise of a wispy linesman dressed in black. Nobody knows where he came from, and his name cannot be found in google. I am sure he will not appear anywhere again for at least one-hundred years, and then, who knows where he will show up next? However, with his pasty countenance and vampire hair, he bent referee Anthony Taylor to his will all match long.

The match started in the normal manner when Victor plays. After about ten minutes, I stopped the tape and rewound it. “Funny,” I muttered. “I thought I saw Victor's name in the starting lineup.” After reviewing the pre-match lineups, I was satisfied that Victor was indeed on the lineup sheet. I just must not have noticed him for the first ten minutes. I wonder if his family does the same thing at the match? 

“Where's Victor? He said he was starting today?”

“Oh, there he is! He's just been flagged for obstructing the goalkeeper! Hi, Victor!”

Indeed, the first sign of Victor was the first sign of life by Everton as Leon Osman Cahilled a corner kick into the net. However, a bat flitted across the sky and the referee looked to his mysterious assistant who ruled the goal not to count. Referee Anthony Taylor gazed across at him with a questioning look, and if my lip reading is up to snuff, he asked his assistant, “Are you taking the piss? I was right there watching, and I didn't--”

Taylor made the fatal mistake of looking into the linesman's eyes. Taylor's own eyes glazed over, and he confirmed. No goal. Does one death satisfy the ghoulish hunger of a horror writer? Does it sate his audience? West Ham ripped that spike out of Everton's slaughtered heart, marched down the field and scudded a low shot against the grain and into the wrongly-diving Tim Howard's net. The camera's caught the linesman smile, before shielding his face with his arm. The rest of the half involved two things happening: West Ham slicing Everton's defence open like a gut-ripped fish, but then missing the net or having the shot deflected away from an open net, and the other thing was watching Everton players racing to see who could be the first across the offside line. Jelavic took the honours from Victor, and the teams fled the field so that the groundskeeping staff could perform an exorcism to try and rid London of the evil stench.

In the second half, Everton were determined not to let evil unchecked check their run to the top of the table. Osman, proving that he can make a difference out wide, drove Everton forward, while Pienaar and Baines finally began clicking on the left. A Pienaar cross forced the referee's assistant to turn away, allowing Victor, facing the other way, to beautifully flick the ball off the back of his head into the deep of the net.

The next thing anybody knew, the ref was showing a red card to West Ham's Cole for getting in a high boot. The crowd howled, and the players raged, and Leighton Baines blushed. Referee Taylor looked toward his linesman, who had a yellow glow in his eyes. Taylor nodded his head, and I thought I could read his lips saying, “...must. Obey.”

Not long after this incident, Osman took the ball near the goal, and to the end of West Ham's touchline before sending a Crap-O-Gram across the box that the unsuspecting West Ham goalkeeper accepted. To his utter surprise, a football sprang out of the Crap-O-Gram and scuttled at him like an angry lobster rushing the cook in a crab shack. The keeper backpedaled away from the ball before Pienaar showed up and lay claim to the goal by waving some rosary beads at the ball as it crossed the state line into the net.

This brought about the next random act of evil when Darren Gibson played a ball in the same way Cole had earlier. There was a crescendo of menacing music. Referee Taylor looked at his linesman. His linesman's eyes glowed. The hypnotized Taylor nodded his head, and in a daze, pulled another red card out for Gibson. Upton park went mental, Taylor blew his whistle, and like a zombie headed for his own locker room to face both a personal and professional hell. On the touchline, a mysterious linesman faded into the night and disappeared along with West Hams' points.



Everton and Southampton Protest Nigel's Firing by Staging Massive Goal Strike

New Saint's Boss Hunkers Down Under Rain of Chicken Cacciatore From Stands 

        Tense Moment for Both Sides as Ball Nearly Finds Open Net! 


Moyes Urges His Troops Backward 


Happy Faces All Around As Operation 0-0 Begins to Look  a Success! 

"Nil-Nil! We can do ANYTHING! SI, SE PUEDE!"




Bunch of twats...


                     FA CUP 



 Victor reacts to another Jelavic miss. LOL, 

what do you imagine he's thinking?





  Pienaar (sort of) drives home  Everton's first goal! 





Mirrales applaudes his hamstring off the pitch 


Can you guess who scored the winner at the death? 

Great, nice job Jonny, wonderful, good on yer etceteras. see you at Finch Farm. 




                                          WEST BROM AT HOME: 30-01-'13

Excitement for a footballing match runs in five levels:

 *Live: You are going to see the match in the most exciting atmosphere possible

 *TV: Not as good as being there, but the bathroom facilities are a little better

 *Radio: You can't see the action, but your imagination can

 *BBC Live Text: Written updates every five minutes punctuated with an “!” if a goal is scored

 *Streaming: Put a poster of your favorite player on your wall and stare at it for 90 minutes

Because my option was the one on the bottom, I missed Baines's goal. However, I almost got to see his penalty. My stream worked well enough for me to see Victor go down in the area, and Baines approach the spot. Then, Leighton stood at the spot with his hands on his hips. And stood there, and stood there. Suddenly, from my speakers, the crowd went wild, but on my monitor Baines was still standing there with his hands on his hips. The action finally resumed by taking me to halftime, but not before the commentator described Leighton's first goal for me: “His first goal was a--” and when the stream resumed, I was watching zit commercials.

Halftime: “Moose,” from the LASH forum, overcome by my bitching about the stream, provided me with one that worked perfectly. That takes us to the second half.

Everton picked up, amazingly, where they left off, and that was attacking West Brom. Miralles took the piss down the right side, and Pienaar took the mickey down the left. The match was free-flowing and clean until West Brom's Yacob knocked Steven down during yet another spell of left-sided foraging. Pienaar was up and in Yacob's face instantly, jawing and gesturing. From my screen it looked as though Steven was saying: “You need get right wit God in big hurry, cause he da kine savior and you plenty pilaki.” Then, Phil Neville stepped in to translate, the ref admonished Yacob for misspelling his surname, and the match continued with Everton still showing the impetus to score boatloads. However, some players began to tire and Albion began to get their teeth sunk into the match.

I was surprised in the 77th minute, when the ref's assistant suddenly held up a board showing 79 minutes of stoppage time. After a little bit of detective work, however, I was able to ascertain that West Brom had merely made a substitution. Everton responded in kind and took Mirrales off and put ham-faced Gibson on. This slowed down West Brom the same way it slows down an old man in a car who thinks the pedal on the right is the brake. Everton were suddenly like the crowd at a farmers market on a summer sunday when said old man comes ploughing through wondering why the brakes are causing more carnage than they are preventing. When that huge-assed sedan finally made its way toward Everton's clean sheet, Jonny Heitenga was the only person who could save the day and be a hero. He responded by taking a mincy kick at the car, putting his hands in the air like a fag aerobics instructor, yelling, “He's crazy, run!” and wiggling out of the way as West Brom rocketed into the net as people screamed and sirens wailed in the distance.

Everton had two choices: Capitulate, and then during the post-match press chat focus on talk about how disappointing the result was, or they could stand up, attack, and miss piss-loads of goal scoring opportunities. They opted for the second choice, but as it turns out, goal scoring opportunities take time to create, and the match finally flopped onto the beach and died. The old man got out of his steaming wreck of a car, picked up the match, and wobbled home. He named the match "Bunny." The police are still looking for him.

             ZOOPLA, BITCHES! 


              Them Dad-Blamed Villains!

         Villa @ Goodison, 011-13


Over on the LASH website, me and the boys was sittin on cracker barrels and whiling away the time talking about the upcoming hoopty-bah against Villa. Of course, after all the jabber settled down, the boys all turned to me and said, “Well, what do you think, Kenyon?”

“Well, boys,” I said, leaning back and snapping my suspenders, “I reckon it'll go somethin like this:”

They all lean forward, mouths even more agape.

“For the first dadburn ten minutes, we'll be all over those Villa boys.” A mass nodding of somber heads. “Then, Villa are going to get a silly goal against the run of play. Probably be an African fellow, too!”

Snorts, and mass clucking of tongues. “Then,” says I, “Everton are going to play to beat the devil, and I hope to holler if they don't get a goal too late and end up with a dad-blamed draw!”

Mass grumblings, shakings of heads, and murmurings of “No sir!” Then, the fellers wives started hollerin for them that it's time for them to make tracks home, which they did, and I was left alone with a 10cents plus two-bits tab for sodie pop that them polecats had forgotten to pay, so enthused, as they were, to do whatever it takes to keep their wives silent. For my part, I didn't care much. I may have got stuck with the bill, but my match report had just got written. Why, all I gotta do here is add that it was 3-3, not 1-1, and that Howard- Heitenga are the new Baines-Pienaar when it comes to goal scoring. Let's hope next week's competition is a bit more stiff. The lads might even manage a couple extra points. I'll have to check my Pepsi-Cola Everton Calendar to see who's up next. 


Once Spiderman's Out of Ammo, He Can Only Shoot Balls 


Villa sub unhappy with Goodison

Ladies' Judging 

Kenwright and Accountant share a moment at the math (Freudian Slip)


           And the Figures Flee


 Man U V Everton: Filtered Through my Fever: Sunday, 10 February, 2013

It was SOMEBODY'S anniversary today at Old Trafford!


Moyes's Mind tumbles through the formations 

Heitenga given surprise last-minute start 

                      Ryan Giggs scored first! 



      He scored their second goal just before Halftiime 

                 Tim Howard 



Moyes Brings on a Sub. Ignore the "Picture Unrelated" caption. It lies. I don't.


          Vote For Pedro 


             That didn't happen 





??? Who photoshopped Sasquatch? WTF?


Oldham, FA Cup, Saturday, 16   February, 2013 



                                     Moyes Continues to Elude the FA Cup



that the last time Everton defeated Oldham in the FA Cup, gay marriage was legal???



Goal Number One Earns This Fellow... 



   A Vigorous Unlike on Facebook

         (sent from his Iphone)

         A Fan's Reaction to Everton's Equalizer  


The President and *Friend* Recreate Jagielka's Go-Ahead Goal


The Matches Final Minutes Will Require 

Bold Thinking...











                                                                        23 February, 2013

Writing about this match, after watching this match, would be like fantasizing about sex after being raped. Everton let a team of plumbers and pipe fitters, dressed in yellow, green, and showing their ass cracks, cover them in excrement. Or were Everton the excrement? As dour and dire as Lee Mason was, why was David Moyes accosting him after the match? That Moyes was upset his team let the point slip away is embarrassing enough. Everton should have buried this bunch of misfits out in a backyard, or perhaps it is Everton and their manager that should have cats scuffing sand over them in a huge box?

The mark of a David Moyes team used to be toughness. You had to play Everton hard the whole match because they never gave up. If they had a goal lead, they held onto it. If they trailed, they came from behind for the win. Now, the sign of a David Moyes team is simply to make a good showing against better teams, and to drop points against cat shit.

The match started on a bright point. Victor, dressed in street clothes, was beckoned to by his mates on the subs' bench. Vic sniffed the air and refused to look at them. At one point, I read his lips and he muttered, “As if, bitches, I'm a starter now.” Then Lee Mason fastened his adult diaper and the match started with Everton, again, showing themselves to be the superior team. In other words, a loss was on the way.

The only negative in the team was that Naismith was trying to hide. While Jelavic, fresh from his manager's admonishments to play as though he couldn't stop scoring, played like that, Naismith played as though Moyes had told him, “If the ball comes to you, for God's sake, pass it to a footballer and get out of the way.” If, indeed, those had been Moyes's instructions to the tow-head, he carried them out perfectly. Even when he had clear paths to the goal, he would retreat, sending the attack into a grinding reverse.

Tim Howard also played as though someone had spoken in his ear. He claimed balls with reckless abandon all day, never causing skittishness or confusion among his defenders. When Ossie dipped his head to a corner kick in the 39th minute for a bullet goal into the Norwich net, things looked bleak. Well, I bet I wasn't the only one who was un-nerved by that up-beat start.

At halftime, a sloshed Delia had managed to get hold of a microphone and slur her way through “Born This Way.”

At the second half, Norwich managed to find a hungry footballer to toss onto the pitch. He landed on his feet and scored a header off a corner, marked by a fey Fellaini. All the fans around Carrow Road began singing, “Si Se Puede” and formed a conga line tribute to Obama. The fight didn't go out of Everton at this point, it just got infused into Norwich. Everton still attacked and toyed with Norwich's goal area like an experienced man toying with his lover's erogenous zones, but like many relationships that are over before the couples know it, the passion was never fulfilled and the lust went to waste, out of ammo before a shot could be fired. Moyes tossed a Spanish fly onto the pitch along with a randy Turk, but it was the dumpy, pasty white guys in uniforms that looked like they were stolen from a yank AYSO child's team who scored next...again. For their part, Everton did what they always do at the end of a match against inferior opponents; they walked off with their heads down, probably being told by the Norwich players: “See you on the flip side.” 


Everybody hates me, I don't care. 


       I saw Lon Chaney Jr walking with The Queen




What has six arms and used to score goals?

              THESE GUYS 



"Yes, Russian Meteor?"

"Follow me."

"Where to, Russian Meteor?"

"Away from losers and to Champions League!"

"I hear and obey, Russian Meteor."


Good Bye, Oldham. Don't Let the Door Hit You

                                                               FA Cup Replay, Goodison Park. 26 February, 2013


Well, this certainly looked familiar. A bunch of blue and white thingies advancing a little white orb and being snapped at by clusters of nasty little orange buggers. However, I was not watching VD underneath a microscope...this time, but I was watching our Everton lads taking the match, sort of, to the Oldham Merseyside Destroyers. To be honest, over the last couple of weeks Everton have thieved precious time from my life watching them choke games away, when I could be taking care of the many accomplishments awaiting my care. This time, I decided to take care of business and peep in on the game once in a while.

What I saw seemed about right. Everton were acting as care-takers of the match until Oldham could rise up and slurp it off the silver plate Everton were sure to offer them. I marveled at the side-to-side motion of Everton, and their aggressive use of the backpedaling motion. However, with a sudden heroic heave in the 13th minute, Tim Howard lobbed a ball for Pienaar, that he chested down in the area before being knocked down.

Now, If you have the sort of wife who won't have sex with you unless she's sloshed, you may want to try playing a drinking game with her during Everton games. Tell her she has to take a drink each time Everton are due a penalty, but are denied. Well, the referee pointed at the schnapps instead of the spot, but he did give them a consultation corner which they wasted no time in wasting. However, A minute later, Gibson danced about the frontier of enemy territory before lobbing a ball toward the Oldham net that Mirralas popped in off the bounce for the first goal. Seasoned Everton supporters, taking their cue from David Moyes, grit their teeth and began making nervous glances at their watches, urging on the passage of 90 minutes.

Your wife was probably getting a little sloppy by now, because Everton had about ten penalty claims ignored by the ref, sandwiched around a Jose Baxter shot that blew past the defenders, Tim Howard, and rocketed the post. In the 34th minute, you probably snatched at your girl's hand to lead her to the bedroom after Jelavic was mugged in the penalty area going for a cross.

“Not sho fasht, you clever li'l boy,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

On the TV screen replays showed that Oldham had to actually double-dip in order to draw the penalty. They knocked Jelavic down, and then handled the ball. You're amazed when you see the ref point to the spot, but not when you see Baines nail it...sort of. The keeper guessed right and slapped the ball, but the motion took it into the net.

Just before halftime, Osman was knocked in the head while going for a ball in the air. The ref pulled him aside and told him, if my lip reading is still spot on:

“I saw you get knocked down over there, I saw you get hit over there, and over there I saw you get held back by your shirt. One more time lad, and it's a booking.” Then it was halftime, and a group of orphans broke free from the Gwladys and sang a tribute to Kenwright, called: “18 Years of Failure.”

In the second half, Everton had a game to give away to a bunch of dirt farmers who had tossed a couple of tall lads onto the pitch. However, when Pienaar sent a ball in that Ossie rolled off the back of his head for the third goal, I knew it was time to go into the office to play “Words With Friends” on Facebook. Moments later, 3-0 became 3-1, when the ball nailed one of the farmhands from Oldham in the face and ended up in the Mersey Millionaires net. Apparently, “Same-Old-Shit, Different-Day” isn't a word, and I sat at my scrabble board, stymied. Oldham, too, seemed to have run out of ideas, and I managed to build a spice rack and clean my refrigerator while the sun set on Merseyside and dragged Oldham's pain-in-the -ass ambitions with it. “Ha,” I told my on-line scrabble friend. “Quarters. That's 20 points for me, plus bus fare to Wembley."


                                                       Hey, Mauro, just do like as me do!

What happend next? 

The bloke on the left certainly knows...lolz

The Winner of the "No Longer Relevant" Award Makes His Acceptance Speech at Halftime




Good Lord, I can see it...after all these years! 







In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream... 

When you're tripping on acid and begin to fly, you are told that the only way you can hit the earth is if you start thinking about the fact that you are flying, rather than just enjoying the fact that you are flying. Yes, flapping your arms furiously does have something to do with it, but mostly, it's about not thinking about thinking about it. Flying near the top of the league is the same way, as is goal-scoring, and keeping clean sheets.

Everton have not been taking hallucinogenics this season, unless VDM has become their personal trainer, but they certainly began tripping when the top of the league was within their grasp. Once they realized how high they were, and the press began talking about Everton's rare quick start and the Champions League, they stopped flapping their arms and started putting out their arms to ward off the ground. Once they began worrying about the ground, they began worrying about conceding goals, rather than scoring them. Free-fall was inevitable after that and they would still be falling this minute, had the schedule makers not unfurled a Reading safety net in Goodison Park this afternoon.

The first thing I noticed was that Vic was back on the sub's bench, but he sat alone and none of the other subs were allowed to approach him. Apparently, Victor has enlisted a steward to keep the other subs from interacting with him while he is on the bench, and his agent has made a cap for him that the camera caught him wearing that read: STARter. So the other subs mugged for the cameras behind his back as he worked out Sudoku puzzles in the paper and shot dirty looks at David Moyes.

Once the match started, it was me handing out the dirty looks, because Everton appearred exceedingly willing to lose this match, as per my prediction earlier this week. In fact, while the midfield held together, the defence held hands and quivered their lips, while the attacking part of the team played as though there was a restraining order against them from being anywhere within 20 yards of the Reading goal. Everton did little apart from crumple under the lack of pressure from Reading. Tim Howard's replacement did do a nice immitation, however, of getting caught out of his net and crab-crawling around the ball carrier, who fortunately couldn't control the ball into the open net. A moment later the defence and keeper were caught napping again and a wicked shot pock-marked the top of the crossbarr.

Everton's attacks, for the most part, seemed to consist of breaking into discussion groups whenever the ball came near them in enemy territory, Osman's refusal to take part in the match, and the rest of the team getting Jelavic chances to score so that he could either head the ball away from his ego and the keeper, or poof a shot right at a vulnerable keeper. The one thread of consistency were the two Belguim players. One had to figure that these two were doing their damndest to play their way off of Kenwright Island, because when they weren't creating scoring chances, they were breaking them up at the other end. Just before halftime, Colemen joined the proceedings and drove all the way to the touchline before delevering a fantaxtic ball that Fellaini climbed into the air to ping off his head and into the back of the Reading net.


After halftime, Everton seemed to return to the pitch with a firm grasp of the concept of flying without wings. Pienaar became involved in the match along with the Belgiums, Coleman took a more active role and even Leon finally got dragged into the match. At minute 57 there was a mad series in front of the Reading net. It involved a myriad of chances revolving around Jelavic, who resembled a crazed golfer slashing at a ball in the water with his driver. A moment later, Pienaar attacked the goal down the right hand side, skipped to his left, and then sprinted sideways with the ball leaving a wake of defenders behind him. He finally found space and let fly from distance and straight into the net for a goal you will probably see all week long.

Less than ten minutes later, Pienaar, who had totally taken over the match, sent Miralles through, and Kevin didn't waste the opportunity, he popped it in low via the left side of the net. Throughout this wonderful evolution of football, Mucha was making some great saves on the other end of the pitch and it became riveting wondering if he could keep a clean sheet where Howard never could.

What followed were more missed chances for Jelavic, and in the 81 minute Reading crossed in the area and it was met with a bullet header that Mucha had no chance on, but the defence did, but did nothing to stop it. When the whistle blew, it was hard to tell if the screaming sound was the whistle's blast, or Jelavic falling to earth, furiously flapping his arms.





If sex really does impede athletic performance, then it is high time Everton stay away from the whorehouses before matches. This shamed group of players clodded into Goodison on legs that newborn colts would laugh at, wobbled around for a while, huffed with hands on hips, stumbled, and watched with mouths agape as a superior Wigan team walked onto their home pitch and gave the home team a backhanded bitch slap that most prostitutes would have laughed at, but knocked Everton to its shaken knees.

The only Everton ball that found its target all day was the one that smashed Paul Scharner in the mouth. Alas, coming off an Everton boot the ball was not struck hard enough to keep him out of the match for more than a few minutes. Wigan watched the Everton players' woeful attempt at projecting some semblance of manhood for a moment with disbelieving eyes. Once they were satisfied that Everton's spirit was dead and the team was ill-prepared, they waded in swinging both boots and landed a right, a left, and a right to drop Everton. The Everton players didn't even have the steam to rip out their mouthpieces to mumble “No mas,” however, there was no need for Everton to let those two words crumble from their quivering lips, because actions speak louder than words. 



A couple of bitches are overcome with emotion when Justin Beiber is spotted in the family enclosure.  


STOKE @ GOODISON PARK Saturday 29 Feb 2013 

Even more amazing than Everton's third win on the trot was that this was their first match in seven seasons without their having a nailed-on penalty appeal waved away by the referee. After a touching of the gloves and a brief feeling out period, it didn't take long for Everton to spike a nail into Stoke's coffin. Tim Howard punched a free kick out of his area, and it landed at the feet of Kevin Mirallas.

Mirallas raced up the pitch, dusted off a defender, regained his balance, and continued his sprint. Nineteen players were left in his wake leaving a lone defender to intercept Kevin's run. Kevin turned him around and raced in alone on the keeper, dooping a left-footer under the keeper's flapping hand to put Everton in front.

For the rest of the match, Everton resembled birthday boys riding little red and white-striped ponies around their yard. For their part, Stoke played like a drunk at a barbeque trying to stab meat off a wildly flaming grill before it was fully cooked. Jelavic was aggressive in missing numerous headers and Howard was sharp in his return. The match ended on a horrendous call against Everton which awarded Stoke the ball at the edge of the area with extra time running into extra time. The kick was wicked and true, but batted away by the gods of fair play. The only troubling parts of this match was Shawcross not taking another header to his head, and the fact that Baines was letting everybody short of the toffee lady take free kicks. The schedule has laid out a series of road matches against tough opponents, and the points-picking will be sparse. The lads should have thought about that when they were coughing up points against possums and rodeo clowns. 


Tim Howard Goes For the Mucha Spare 

         Imploring Former Teammate Suarez to "Hook me up with some spare teeth, bro." 

  The "Stupid Wagon" has pulled over and oh, look! They have a fare...




EVERTON-MAN CITY, 16 March, 2013 

Back in the days before this website began making money, I couldn't pay my bills. I recall one winter when my gas was shut off and I had no heat, including hot water. I had to wash by using my coffee maker to brew enough pots of hot water to dump in a bucket. I would take that precious bucket of hot, steaming water into the freezing, icy shower cubicle and scrub myself with dabs of water and soap while my teeth chattered and my “unmentionables” shriveled. I would rinse the soap of with bursts of icy streams from the shower head, but then came the best part ever. I would finish the shower by dumping the bucket of hot water over my head for milliseconds of the greatest rinsing and orgasmic joy ever. The end of this match felt just like that; a joyous cleansing. 

This match had a special feel about it when you suddenly realized that we were back to calling Everton players heroes, and referees shithouses, instead of the other way around. If you are wondering when we ever called a referee a hero, I certainly felt the geezer who blew his whistle to end the Wigan match was a hero. Anyway, Everton started the way you hoped they would, at home, to “Man” chester City, Elbowing pussies out of their way, and getting to the goal like a crack-whore racing to the midnight subway. It took 12 minutes for Kevin M to knock a spectacular goal into the corner of the City net and one second for the linesman to rule him, erroneously, offside. 

Despite the best efforts of the lesbian-looking referee to foil Everton, the Blues rocketed ahead when Leon Osman took a ball that Coleman popped toward him from the Last Chance Saloon. Ossie gathered up the ball in Birkenhead, and with his left foot Fed-Exed it into the left hand corner of the City keeper's net. Joe Hart, who looks like a prize you would get at a circus for not knocking down enough bowling pins, picked his own prize out of the net and sent it toward the midfield in the most dour manner possible. The match moved on toward halftime in its carnival of Everton dominance, City fey, and ref ineptitude.

The match became interesting in the second half when referee KD Lang, tired of watching his bet turn bad, showed Steven Pienaar a second dubious yellow. The ensuing red card led to my three favorite moments of the match:

1—City flowing to the Everton goal like water to the ocean...and receding like the tides due to every man-jack in blue and Mucha too, 2--Ref not giving a penalty to City when Fellaini slapped at a goal-bound ball with his arms two yards inside the box, and 3--When substitute Jelavic got booked for ripping off his shirt after knocking City's manhood into their net with a beauty of a left-footed smash. It was just like a cleansing bucket of steaming water washing over me, and washing away the stench of last week's performance. 



Oh, come on, guys, get it right! 


Joyous fan gets loose on pitch 

Players tackle the naked pitch invader. Everton dropped charges when they remembered who he actually was 

              Mucha is placed back into storage  


 SPURS, 7 April 2013 

My dog, in an attempt to tempt me into playing with him when I come home from work, will bring a variety of prized items in through the open back door. He wags his tail with the item in his mouth, daring me to chase him. He will show up with a toy squirrel. If I ignore him, he will drop that, and show up with an old shoe. Still no response from me? No problem! He will come back and woof at me around a mouthful of a gigantic dead rat. If I still take no notice, he'll show up old school with a tennis ball. 

Surely, one of these to-die for items, literally, in the case of Mr. Rat, are going to cause me to give chase and play with the dog. However, after a long day of saying “Paper or plastic?” the couch is the only place I want to be, facing the TV screen. I do not want to be lurching after my dog and clomping around a grapefruit tree just to prize a stuffed leprechaun away from his jaws.

So today I flick on the much anticipated Spurs match. I put on my glasses, open a bag of sunflower seeds and a light beer, sit on the couch by the back door, and get into my “coaching Everton” leaning forward position. The match kicks off, I kick off my shoes and crack open the first seed from a large pile. 

My dog shows up at the door with a shoe. I see the reflection in the TV. I don't turn around. Everton don't look interested, but the match just started. The dog leaves the shoe and returns with a rubber starfish. The dead rat. A sock. The squeaky ball. The stuffed monkey. He shakes the toys furiously back and forth, growling, daring, waiting, anticipating, Spurs score.

 “Okay, boy. Bring the dead rat.”

Oh, it is so GAME ON for him! He shows back up with the rat, smelly, festering, he (my dog) is kicking his back feet in the air, bucking like a bronco. Woofing, brash, wild, growling, Everton score. A corner that appeared to pass by everybody but the Google Earth cameras. Jagielka rose up and headed down. The ball bounced through goalkeeper legs and spun up dust in back of the net as Spurs' defenders fell over in slow motion in an attempt to mimic the final moments of Elvis Presley.

“Hold on, boy,” I tell him. (my dog) I had almost left my seat. Now I settle back in. My dog wanders in and plops down beside me. His chin is on the floor. Spurs' chins are on the floor. The ball is on the floor and at Everton feet. Moyes is strutting along the touchline and then the half ends with an Everton free kick popped at the goalkeeper.

I could fast forward the DVR to get to the second half, but I'm taping it for a fellow Evertonian, and I know he likes the halftime shows, so I leave the TV going and come into my room and log onto facebook to see what's going on. Do you know what was going on? Evertonians talking about the 2-2 draw. I recoil, but only halfway. 2-2 at Spurs? Hmm, I'll take that. But how to fill the last 45 minutes that would have comprised the second half? My dog has an idea or two... 

      Department Store Dummy; Or Ross Barkley?

  **** weird! **** 

      Spurs' Manager Does Possum Impersonation 

 *** CREEPY! *** 



              THANKS, CRAIG!



Today, as I was watching my DVR'd Everton pre-match show, the geniuses at FOX had the final score scroll across the bottom of the screen. There is my match report. Here are some pictures.




                Gibbo wants goal. 



Gibbo gets goal. 

    'Arry wants 'Do-Over' 


Let's all form the GOAL Samba Line! 


                 LOL, 'Arry no samba! 


One man's relegation is another man's championship... 




Arsenal Cougars - Everton: Tuesday 16 April 2013 

Often, by looking at an old woman you can still see traces of the beauty that she used to be. She, too, can hear the echoes of the whistles that no longer follow her as she sashayed about town. Arsene Wenger and his footballing club remind me of such a forgotten beauty. Arsene's players stop the minute they feel a hot breath upon their neck and wait for a whistle that doesn't sound. Arsene struts along the touchline outraged that he does not warrant one single whistle. In fact, Wenger acts as though the referee just snapped his ass with a wet towel. “Oh, I'm so outraged!” (Strut, strut, strut) Interesting was the commentator calling Arsenal one of the “Original 'Big Four' clubs.”

Well, if any justice was going to be dealt here, Everton would have dispatched it in the first fifteen minutes when they controlled the match. Unfortunately, while Arsenal players fell down, waiting for the whistle that would have come back in their younger “Big Four” days, Everton were not able to produce the goods. The fans, so frustrated by Arsenal's lack of enemy pitch time, began shouting and pointing, “This way, Arsenal, This way, Arsenal.” Tim Howard made several marvelous saves in this match, and new captain Jagielka played in a manner befitting his captaincy. Everton, for their part, showed hesitancy in unleashing shots. They would often pass and retard the attack when a wicked shot was at their boot. Everton finally forced some saves upon the Arsenal keeper, but at the end of the evening his name still had more consonants than Everton had shots and the game had less goals than a slacker sleeping on his sister's couch.





I knew without a doubt when I sat down to watch this match, that not one goal would be scored after the first fifteen minutes. That is because my dickhead friend came by work this morning, a guy who ONLY watches baseball, and gave me a shit eating grin. “Well,” he said, “I came across the game while Chanel surfing, and after fifteen minutes, they're still kicking the ball around and there're no goals.”

I glared at him. “Are you talking about the Everton match?”

“Yeah!” Still grinning. As though he had brought me some dire news I craved. Like a shit-eating dog bringing you a dead rat for you to eat.

“I was taping that. Thanks a lot.”

“Yeah, no problem. Hey, I just saved you fifteen minutes of your life.”

Suffice it to say, the first 15 minutes of this match passed as though I had been watching it on Fast Forward. I saw a blur of corners before slowing it to “Play.” How ironic, because Everton were just beginning to play it to “Slow.” In fact, watching this match made me think of only one thing: “SUNDERLAND were able to get a new stadium?”

Both teams seemed to be just jogging conditioning sprints, and I was shocked each time I saw the ball pop up somewhere. In the 28 minute, Danny Graham was shocked when he didn't get a penalty call when someone fell on him away from play. He decided to do an “Occupy Penalty Area” style demonstration. He showed no desire to move from his seated spot near Tim Howard until Jonny was finally sent in to dislodge the freeloading toad. That was the last thing Everton did all afternoon with any authority.

Everton were so slow and soft that a moth floated down and took a gentle kiss from the boot of Baines, which turned it into a cocoon. The cocoon fluttered to Sessegnon, who, being a footballer and not a pansy, kicked the thing, sending it toward Tim Howard. The poor, startled thing fluttered and bumbled along the grass—I'm talking about Tim Howard, but the cocoon landed behind him and turned into a butterfly in the back of the Everton net. Baines had a chance at the death of the half to atone for his mistake when Everton were afforded a free kick in good position. He took a rain check and tucked the ball safely away from Everton players and the half came to a close.

After halftime, the Sunderland players pressed Everton, and what do ya know? A good defence is a good offence. Everton players reacted to the ball the way a bunch of debutantes would react to a used, gooey condom getting tossed at them. I would mention the Everton substitutions, but since they were as woeful as what they came on for, I won't bother. In fact, you shouldn't waste anymore time reading this than I spent writing this. The irony of this match was that the player who supposedly wanted to leave Everton so he could play Champion’s League football was the only player who performed as though he wanted to stay. The rest of the players played as though they were the ones who wanted to be somewhere else; like the beach.

The clock wound down nine ways to a hundred, and Everton played as though trying to lower their heart-rate. Even in the 78 minute when they were afforded a back-pass call, the subsequent free kick was performed as though from the bottom of an underwater dream. I watched the clock tick down on this match, and I hoped my dickhead friend would call me and blurt out the result. He could have saved me ten more minutes of my life.


 "C'mon, Jewboy, you want some of THIS?" 


"Listen, dammit! Black is better than Jew. Now, go get a goal!" 



No, not Jew! Just want to play Champion's League



 Goodison Park, 27 April 2013


     Everton-Fulham: It's Only Words...Ooh, JO for 9! 

The football season is a long one; just ask the players. However, sometimes even us fans could use a break. Especially if your team is chasing a place in the CL and only manage a draw in a “Performance of the Dead” against Sunderland. Sure, Everton were tired. You know what? I'm tired. I spend 8 hours on my feet at work. I don't get a halftime or a break. I would look silly if I suddenly fell to the ground and clutched at my eyes, writhing in agony just to get off my feet for a few minutes. Everton were tired against Sunderland? I'm tired. Tired of working all day, walking 10 miles (maybe blocks) back home in the blistering (75 degrees, Celsius) sun just to watch turds in blue roll around the grass awaiting the pooper scooper.

Fulham showed up at Goodison today, but you know who didn't? Me. We were out of the CL, probably Europe altogether, Fulham didn't need a win, so I decided to sit at my desk and play “Words With Friends” on Facebook. The game is much more addicting than watching millionaires sucking time out of my life and money from my wallet. I kept the match on in the background in the other room.

Did you know “Fulcra” is a word? Certainly is. Sounds almost like Fulham, but is worth more points. I took 47 points for its usage. The hum of the crowd and patter of the ball took my attention away, so I wandered into the other room to gaze at the TV. Watching the team in blue, it was obvious that they had all had a rest and some Sun Capris, because they were playing pretty damned good. In fact, while I stood there, mouth agape, they strung together two backheels played forward, and two straight forward passes, and Pienaar wasn't even involved! That is not until the fourth pass placed the ball on a path to Pienaar's boot. A journey of a thousand miles starts with one step, and Pienaar stepped into the ball and sent it rocketing into the Fulham net, with their goalkeeper lightyears out of position.

I lingered a few more minutes and watched Fulham chugging after the Everton players like puffy extras in a zombie movie who are paid not to catch up with the good guy. Then it was halftime and I found that my opponent had played “Peonages” (!?) for a mere 172 points. I watered flowers and mumbled to myself, which was probably what Fulham's manager was doing for his halftime talk.

Did you know “Xis” is a word? Neither did I until I flipped it out there in despair and it brought back 55 points for me! Hearing a distinct lack of excitement from the crowd after halftime, I checked back with the TV to see if the match had been postponed. No, but Everton looked like they were suffering from White Line Fever. No, VDM hadn't returned as the physio, WLF is what truckers experience after watching the white line on the highways for too long; it hypnotizes them until they drift off to sleep. Well, the match obviously had infected both Everton and myself with this fever, because when I awoke, it was the 90th minute, the score was still 1-0, Barkley was playing, and my “Words With Friends” opponent was leaving “I HATE TO WAIT” messages.

Stupefied, I watched the last of the match. However, it was not one of those 1-0 cliffhangers. The only drama was if Everton could better their goals for tally, because Fulham certainly were not going to impact it in any negative manner. What do you know? Everton couldn't get more than the one goal, but do you know what? It was good enough for a W-I-N and that spells out three points! You saw that coming, huh? Whatever. We are 3 points out of the CL—minus the goals against differential. I hope to be a bit more interested by next week's match. I wonder who it is against? 


And God looked down and saw one thing:FAIL





     ANFIELD DERBY: 5 May 2013 

If you watched this match, you have wasted enough of your time, so don't waste anymore of it by reading about it. This match may have started with a kickoff, but it never kicked off. It was sex without orgasms. It was a pub crawl without the pub. It was a chess match without any of the pieces from the back row. It was a match report without an end. It was also, from what was on view in the stands, smoke without the fire. The cameras showed Everton fans setting off smoke bombs inside Anfield and then desperately trying to fan away the smoke that the wind blew in their faces. The only problem I had with that was that the cameras went back to the game. Whatever; the only smart people at this derby probably were the ones shown leaving in the 80thminute, but if they had been really smart, they would have left before the opening kickoff. Here is a bullet list of what they would have missed:

* Everton's players playing tentatively

* Moyes managing tentatively

* Gibson plonking free kicks in scoring territory while Baines looks on in admiration

* Everton getting their first penalty at Anfield since 1935...just kidding, the streak continues

* Gerrard crying to the ref

* Liverpool whinging aggressively and playing tentatively—in fact, the match was five minutes old before I knew what color uniform Howard was wearing

* Brendan Rodgers looking hatefully at his pocked skin

* Moyes looking furious that his timidness wasn't reaping rewards

* Everton goal off a corner disallowed because Victor was being mugged inside the box

* 20,000 television shots of Suarez and his teeth watching the match next to some hired tart and a couple of brats

For those of us who watched, it was as though Everton's skilled players were told not to use their skills so as to make the match fair. Two arch-rivals who desperately needed the three points today played as though they desperately didn't want to be there, but had to be. After the match, the fans desperately wished they hadn't of been there either, and I wished I hadn't paid my satellite bill.


                Dunc, Weir, Myhre, Ball, Unsworth, Kilbane make surprise appearance  

                   Children, unable to bear watching the shite on display, leave Anfield.

                                                   Ha ha! You paid to watch this! 

                   5 May 2013


singin' in the rain, life's a bloody game! 

       West Ham: 12 May 2012




How long did it take Everton to prove that there would be no letup after the Big David Moyes Announcement? About as long as it took David Moyes to skip purse-lipped into the arms of Manchester United. Everton played this match like singing children auditioning for Maria to come and nanny them while cruel father Von Moyeses was off skiing in Munich or United, or whatever. The players, fresh off their derby holiday, ran the pitch so aggressively that Big Sam was forced to throw his players back into touch when they ran to the bench to cower. It took David Unsworth 47 seconds to score the opening goal in David Moyes' first match in charge, and Kevin M barely needed 5 minutes to bookend the feet after the BDMA.

No less than three players passed up shots while siphoning the ball down the line towards Mirrales. It looked like a fireman's bucket drill, and when the bucket came to Kevin he one-timed a bucket of ice water into West Ham's face to set off fire alarms all the way to London. So rampant were Everton that at one point, Seamus Colemam, chasing a ball, fell atop a skidding defender and rode him out of touch like he was on a ride at Dolphin World. The defender got up and whinnied for some oats, fish, or whatever the hell a dolphin eats, but Coleman was already headed back upfield. There was more business at hand.

So dominating were Everton, I half expected West Ham's defenders to start heading the ball into their own net just for the relief that a midfield kickoff would provide. Comic relief was certainly provided by Phil Neville, whom the cameras caught delightedly telling knock-knock jokes to some poor bloke behind him while Neville's wife looked away in irritation. In fact, if Phil so craves a job after playing football, he should become a department store Santa. He looks perfectly happy smiling idiotically and waving at strangers.

This match began to resemble a “Dancing With the Stars” episode with West Ham's players being the enthralled judges. Ossman darted down the centre of the pitch with a pilfered ball, and slowed as he expected to be shut down. When no resistance came, the poor befuddled fellow darted the rest of the way up the middle and took a shot, which, however, found the keeper. There was a midfield waltz involving a group of Everton players playing swans, and they danced past West Ham players who were playing trees. That move ended in a lovely sonata of missed opportunity. Moments later, Victor delivered his own “Holding Up the Ball Cha Cha”, turning and firing just wide. The inevitable announcement for the West Ham fans to remain in their seats came over the PA, however, they weren't standing, they were just getting up to leave. The camera managed to find a couple of other curious moments in the stands. One, when the corpse of Nikita Khrushchev was discovered in the West Ham's director's box. The other showed Duncan Ferguson sitting next to David Moyes's father. Dunc pulled a box of mints from his pocket, asked Moyes Senior if he would like one. When David's father reached for one, Dunc laughed and put the packet back in his pocket.

Finally, the commentator was able to announce, “This is better by West Ham” as the two teams trotted off the pitch for halftime.

In “The Sound of Music”, the final scene is the children singing “So Long, Farewell” to the Nazis. Each time one of them would sing, he or she would totter offstage to the waiting car. Soon, there were no Von Moyes—er, Trapp family members left on stage...they had fled! This is how the second half played out. One by one, West Ham's players disappeared from the pitch until only the goalkeeper remained. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have a chance to sing, “...auf weidersein goodbye,” because Everton were raining shots off his head like duck hunters shooting cuckoo clocks. However, he, too, managed to sneak off the pitch once Phil Neville began making a speech.