kenyon ledford





 West brom came to this match following a thunking by Wolves. How surprised they must have been to find Wolves waiting for them once again this week. However, there was no need for concern. These were merely sheep in Wolve's clothing. I settled into my chair a few moments late, and heard the commentator say, "...has gone ten years without scoring a goal for Everton." How time flies! I could not believe that Anichebe has been with us that long. 

As usual, unless we're in a cup final we are destined to lose, nothing much happened early on. Moyes spoke urgently to Steve Round, Steve Round tried to appear to listen urgently, and Roy Hodgeson was seen trying to pick the stink of Liverpool FC off of himself. Oh, then in what was to be a familiar site, I saw a ball, I saw an African running after it, and I saw Distan running after the African, yelling, "Halt, Offsides Police!" The African paid no attention, and skipped by Distan. Then, Howard came out to try and talk him out of the ball and the African danced around Tim Howard, as well. By this time he was running out of stadium, so he passed it to another African, who had come by to investigate the empty net. What he found was a ball, so he put into the net. It has been a long time since a goal in May at West Brom didn't matter, so the fans clapped, and the match moved on.

Albion Keeper, Howard Keel, was hardly bothered until the fourteenth minute when he was surprised to see Leon Osman in his area causing all manner of disruption. When Heitenga suddenly headed wide at the near post, why, the keeper's mellow was nearly harshed. At this point I noticed Mikel Arteta moving cautiously about the pitch, hording his perspiration.

This match began to resemble the 1966 movie, "The Naked Prey," with the ball starring as the prey. Sure, Everton had chances, but, "Accidents Will Happen." Looking back, all I can remember are hordes of Africans in bright garb, yelling and chasing a ball, over-running the Everton Defence, and their faithful guide, Distan. When they all were slaughtered, the West Brom Africans, with wild yelps, tried to place another ball into another empty net. However, lone survivor Tony Hibbert arose and knocked it away. 

     "Not on MY watch!" Hibbert shouted.

     The Africans watched the ball bounce harmlessly away. One of them clucked his tongue in a series of noises that translated to, "Fuck off, lad. You look like a fucking shoe!"  At that point, halftime settled down around the pitch. The everton players hunkered down to wait, while the Alboinites returned to their huts.

Well, the second half finally began, and guess what? Everton were at these fools from the get-go. We were attacking like...oh, I forgot we changed sides after the half. Okay, so we were still running away from the angry horde, running, fighting, standing, running. Brave Phil Neville took a plucky shot at them that was saved. Then, the Africans were after the ball again. Neville cried, "Here they come again, run in the opposite direction!" Which Everton did. Why, those black devils even had a white man with them who had obviously been taken from the cradle. He attacked and flapped about in his loin cloth like the rest of the bastards, his hair painted in wild, foolish looking colours.

From out of nowhere, a new skirmish developed when some Swede caught Phil Neville by the arm, and said, "Yorda, yorda, yorda," or, whatever. Phil was angry, and snapped at him, of course he did, the route was on. It could have been ten-nothing, theoretically by now. Finally, Moyes tried some manoeuvrings. 

     "Victor!" He cried. "Get out there, Beckford is shit!"

     "I AM Beckford, sir," 

     "Damnit, that means I've got millions tied up in a five-year bag of shit!" He shoved Beckford. "Go!"

The wild screams were unbearable. Still, the score was only 1-0. Moyes threw a sack of Russian shit onto the pitch to slow the black demons down, give them something to rip into, tear apart. The sack of shit quickly turned red and was tossed back at Moyes. Out of sheer desperation, Moyes turned to someone he had forgotten about, Jack Rodwell, and took off somebody I had forgotten about, Anichebe. However, by then it was all too late. The match ended and Everton's three points, and dignity, was once again, stripped from them by an opponent they failed to take seriously.

As the smoke of a season in ruins filled the black country with bitter soot, a wild group of warriors danced into the night, and ran victory laps around their stadium. Trailed by a silly looking white man with painted hair, trying to keep up.

 How does "Fourth-Place Runners Up," sound? It sound like "Almost, kind of champions," in a way." Did you get the shot? My hair? Okay, ciao, baby.

 Lately, I've  been looking forward to Everton matches with the same excitement I get when I see mashed potatoes. Maybe it's because our team selection is spooned out onto the pitch the same way potatoes are plopped onto cold platters in rescue missions at dinner time. Well, I tuned in to this one, just the same, except with the smug confidence that comes when the opponent is Manchester City.

Before the match Phil Neville urged the Evertonians attending the match not to boo J. Lescott, but to lob cue balls, fling sharpened pennies and spit poisoned darts, instead. City are a treat, are they not? They are a millennium of failure that were given a bazillion dollars out of nowhere. They started buying players the way a drunken homeless person spends money when he wins the lottery: "Gimme fifty-thousand chicken mcnuggets, a billion books of matches, and two-thousand bottles of your finest 'Red Dog!' Instead of hiring a real manager, they put the poor-man's Jose Mourino in charge, and after spending all that money they are now crowing that they have a chance to finish fourth and reach a cup final. Sorry, fods, been there, done that, and on less money than it takes to feed a cockroach.

Speaking of cockroaches, Jolene, quit telling that story about the knife fight. The truth is you had plastic surgery to make you look like Dionne Warwick, and when your face began to melt you made up a dodgy story about Indians, women, and knives.

Well, this match started out with tuber-like intensity, and it wasn't until the 25 minute mark that City decided they would take the three points if Everton didn't want them. Everton shrugged, so a fellow named Tourre took a pass at a tight angle and shot neatly and firmly into Everton's goal.

Everton responded like bemused, patient fishermen, lobbing the ball quietly up field without any hope of really catching anything. Oh, Rodwell let a couple get away, which is the only way to tell if he is still out there. Oh, question: What happened to Victor? He played as though City had cheated him out of an apple pie and he wanted it back! It was almost as though he drank Yakubu's patented lion blood concoction.

Well, halftime came and the sound system, as has been a tradition, of sorts, replaced "Grand Old Team" with boos.

Beckford came on after the half. Moyes stood in his way and said, "Where you think you're--" but Beckford just bumped him aside without a word, much like Heitenga on Cole during the pen shootout. Moyes tried to act like he had intended to put him on all along, mumbling, "Oh, right, I penciled him in, I see here on my notes..." And of course, once the wonderful Beckford came on things began hopping. Not for Everton, though, what, are you high?  No, things began popping for City, and they held their "Festival of Corners" at the Street End, but Howard turned the motley crew away at every turn, and they faded into the evening like shriveled little Pac Man ghosts.

Finally, Everton got hold of the match and began a dangerous set of runs and passes at the City end, which Victor ended with a neat little pass to a City player who set Touray loose and it was left up to Howard to Smash a cold toilet seat down upon Touray's one-on-one scoring hard-on.

Things het-up in earnest when Tim Cahill was brought on. The difference was immense, like the difference between somebody just taking a warm bath, and somebody taking a warm bath with plugged in toasters and radios thrown in. After a little scrappity-do-dah, we got a free kick from a fair piece away that Arteta floated up like a child releasing a prayer. Distan tot into the air, and whipped the side of his face into the ball and whumped it into the net. The Poor Man's Jose Mournino barred his glistening white teeth, and flexed his dimples, but stood back as Moyes celebrated.

As we have learned, once the testicles of Manchester City have been chomped off and flung around in the air like a child's whirlie bird, it didn't take long for our next goal to cauterize the bleeding wound and end the match. Neville floated in a long, dainty, 'maybe it will, maybe it won't' cross, that Osman, from about fifteen yards out, leapt up at, and caught his head on. Leon's head hit the pitch harder than it had hit the ball, and while Leon lay face down counting stars, his header headed for the Milky Way, changed its mind and took a dump into the City net. Mancini looked as though he were about to take one of his own while Moyes made obscene 'wanger' motions at him. Not really, but it would be cool. Even more cool than the three points we took away from City's "Dream of Fourth place." When Stoke tromp them next week maybe they can have T-shirts made: "Participants, FA Cup Final, 2011, Almost Fourth, League" The slump shouldered lot of their exiting fans looked like they would take that right about now.



This match at Wigan saw the season winding down without hardly having wound up at all. In the end, Everton managed to wake up, grab a cup of coffee and take a nap. That explains both the season and this match. Everton welcomed back Arteta and Cahill from injury to resume their midfield roles. Rodwell was back in midfield again, in his customary invisible man position. Vic was tossed up front on his own as shark chum.

The match began with Wigan breaking in on Howard twice with no result and Arteta through once, ditto. In fact, Everton were directionless until Phil Neville pointed toward the Wigan area, and the players, thus clued, began jogging in that direction, sometimes, even taking the ball with them. In fact, for the first twenty-one minutes this match was for the faint hearted until some Wigan fellow got the ball at Everton's goal line. He ran in a tight circle around Distan, then Howard,who looked like a farmer trying to catch a loose chicken. Then, said Wigan player fired a perfect shot into the corner of the net at an acute angle. The Wigan crowd reacted by throwing tumbleweeds onto the pitch for the moaning wind to celebrate. In a week or so the fans would have a rugby league match that they could go bat-shit over.

At the other end, Osman immediately tried to answer N-zogs goal with an echo, but a top save by some fellow in a green jump-suit muted Everton's own celebration plans. In fact, Osman was like an electrified spinning top that some prankster released onto the field. A spinning top that both mystified and alarmed the naive Wigan players so much that they deified him and begged Leon not to take their premiership status from them. Then, they offered the small god a sacrifice: Leon looked up to see the cameras showing Sammy Lee in the crowd. He was stuffed into a pink shirt. His head looked like a canker-soar, and his mouth looked like a gnashing hemorrhoid. 

So enraged was the god, Leon, over this insult that he tore a swath like a hurricane through the crumpling Wiganers, all the way through and into the penalty box until the ref calmed him down with the offering of a penalty.

Arteta stepped up and said, "I'll handle this. It's what I do."  Then he placed the ball just so. He placed his hands upon his hips. He drew a deep breath, and then he launched the ball. The ball stumbled toward the keeper like a drunk lurching toward a cop to explain his situation and the cop just slaps him away. The aimless bouncing of the ball might as well been the Everton players heading off at halftime.

The highlight of the first half for us telly clappers* was the writhing Wigan player on the ground near the half. The microphones caught the ref telling him to "just roll to the touchline"

The second half began and two things were certain. That Osman and Howard were waging their own hellish battle over who would get MOM. Howard saw more shots and made more saves than he did against Brazil in the Copa Retardo a couple years ago. And what saves! And at the other end, what moves! Although Leon was starting out wide, he played like the inside talisman he can be. He was a possessed maestro, willing Satan away, dancing with gravity and making the ball do his bidding. 

However, without darkness there is no light, which brings me to Vic. He fluffed, he chuffed, he whiffed, he turned the wrong way, he got his head onto good air that trailed the crosses whipped in for him. He stumbled, he kicked, he missed, he ate somebody's baby, then, sated, lay on the pitch and dozed, as play went on around him. He wasn't alone, though, as Rodwell lay down and spooned with him.

Then, Baines made a lazy clearance, and Howard made three quick, 'whack-a-mole' saves in succession, and when the moles were dead, Everton took flight up the pitch and attacked so vigorous that it took a Wigan player with the Mayan calendar weaved into his braids to stop the attack. But if he was such a fan of "Tha Maya" why would he use his hands? Well, he didn't know, either, but with Arteta off the pitch, Baines stepped up to take the resultant penalty. It was done with the ferocity of a mob hit and the speed of a lethal injection's heart-stopping poisons.

The Wigan fans began to rise, and sat down, staring like their eyes were stuffed with ashes. The Wigan coach ran his slender fingers through his thick, black hair. His necktie fluttered like a nerveless football team. Then, from the away end, voices began singing, "It's a Grand Old Team." The lyrics found their way somewhere into the beyond with the tumbleweeds, and to be honest, my mouth tasted like ashes. I wonder how many more Evertonians have the same taste in their mouth? I think of Kenwright and wonder if it's possible for ashes to taste like champagne?



 Heath Newton was a nice little club until they got Sky money and started calling themselves "Manchester United," buying all

the pricks in the world to play for them and put a red necktie on a purple grape to manage them. But, here we were, at Old

Trafford and the comms lamenting about what a good chance this would be for Everton, since United were only using their

reserves. Really? Really, you Stretford-end sex slaves? Half Everton's squad haven't even busted their cherrys yet, but United

is at a disadvantage! Okayyyyy....


This started out on a one-way street with United's players running at Everton like Jai-alai players. Tim Howard was pelted

by more balls than Steven Gerrard ever swallowed in lock-up. What didn't get to Howard was due to the good graces

of the best defencive performance since the Anfield nil-nil six years ago, or so.  On the attacking end Everton reminded me

of an over-matched "Special Education" group of kids playing against the local varsity. Each time the ball touched one of

Everton's players he would trip over himself, mystified by the spinning orb. Every time a United player brushed an Everton

player with the ball, the Everton player would wobble, then fall over, and a concerned teammate would cry, "Man Down!"


Worse, was the unfortunate Jermaine Beckford, whose name really should just be an acronymn for that: TUJB. A great player

who get's crap service and then gets yanked by Moyes. OMG! Play this kid into space and enjoy the carnage, but, no,

The Everton Players lobbed balls at Beckford's face like villagers used to chuck rotten fruit at crimminals locked

up in stocks in the village square. When halftime arived the comm said to co-comm, "So, what will Moyes tell his players

at halftime, more of the same?"  Freaking quote, un-quote. Yeah, because that's what we wanted more of the same of.

It's a bloody good thing this idiot wasn't around during the holocaust to ask, "So, if you're Jewish, do you want more of the



The second half arived and Moyes started looking at his watch. United, in a touching gesture, brought out Alex Ferguson's

father to inspire the reds with a talk. However; after a little confussion, it was discovered that it was actually Michael Owen

and he was being asked to get a goal...and, well, why not? He's already got one this year!  Well, TUJB came off for Victor.

How I hate that name, that face,  that chugging-do-nothing body, that man. Except he did do something. With Everton on the

ascendancy, Victor ran with the ball into the United penalty area, where he ran out of gas and got caught and pushed down

by a white guy!  The referee was so old that hair left his scalp like autumn leaves, fluttering without question  as to why, onto

the pitch. The referee stooped to gather them, that he might add them to his grief album, and in doing so, neglected to

notice the penalty. Did you know Man U once went eleven years without conceding a penalty at home? The comm brought

up this fact as though it was a wonderous thing, and not at all an indictment of both crooked and chickenshit refferees.


The match wound up even as it neared the end, and Tim Howard, who had pulled off more miracle saves than Billy Graham

on Easter Sunday finally found a ball his swift hands couldn't touch and Chicharito, the flea lost in the fur of the dogs

of war hopped around the pitch in blood lust. Five minutes extra time were added to the six minutes that already remained

but all that remained was nothing at all. The warm spring Lancashire afternoon grew as cold as a flea-bitten dog's supper









Blackburn was on tap Saturday and they showed up to Goodison Park sporting their traditional black and red. They had a tribute to Sam Alerdyce before the match and a retarded donkey was forced around the pitch in honor of Big Sam and all he has meant to football in Lancashire.

The match was delayed three or for days while they tried to force the stupid jackass off the pitch, but he brayed, he sprayed and he dropped big steamys and I decided that if Sam is looking up from hell he must be proud. He is dead, isn't he? WHY ELSE WOULD THERE BE A TRIBUTE FOR THE OFFENCIVE LOOKING BASTARD? (Appologies if, indeed, he is dead. Thoughts and prayers.)

Ah, yes, the match. Due to my late reporting my recollections are a bit hazy. I remember there was a kick-off, followed immediately by the entire squad in red and black falling over and grabbing their ankles and making little 'show the card' gestures. The referee was a little glossy half-pint who looked like Freako Marx, or wichever one of them had slick hair and always wore a stupid expression. He smiled at the Blackburn players and honked a horn. Maybe he was Cheepo, I don't know, anywayyyyys...

The Mighty Substitutes of Everton were at these pricks from the get-go which left Tim Howard with plenty of time to work on his freindship necklace he is making for Landon Donovan.

This Blackburn team wasn't as physical as I seem to remember. They seemed--okay, they were pussies. They complained to the ref of how mean Leon Ossman was to them. I swear, one of them saw an advert for a kidney pie and fainted--oh, he peeked while he was on the ground to see if he got he got the foul, alright.

EPOTS, Leon Ossman, (Everton Player Of The Season,) finally got sick of watching the Rovers cry and hold hands after each unsucessful Everton attack that he stuck a fuse on the ball, lit it and watched it explode off of about five Blackburn players and into the top corner of the net from a neat little angle.

Well, this lit a fire under the boys from Blackburn and a slapfight broke out among them to see who would get credit for the own goal. Not long after play resumed Everton were awarded a penalty when a titanic blow up likeness of Big Sam's head, left over from the tribute tumbled onto the pitch and creating panic among the players who had a phobia of 'fat faces spitting when they talk'  (On the sub's bench Vic crossed himself and then stabbed a rooster in a sacrafice to rid the area of evil spirits)

Leighton Baines minced up to the spot, cocked his hip and swished a ball into the right hand corner of the net.

I began calculating how many goals we could put past this lot when the ref blew the whistle because one of Blackburns players went into labour. I was left to ponder:


* Why is our patchwork group of children, felons and cripples garnering more points than the first team nancys ever dreamed of?

*It warmed my heart to see the great ovation the chubby-cheeked Ghyee recieved when he came off.

All in all I had a great feeling that I wish Alerdyce was still alive to suck on. I wonder what happened to that wind-chased head?






             2011--2012  SEASON TICKET 

     Come see the (future) stars at Goodison! 

I'm trying my hand at graphic arts. How do you like my season ticket design for next year? Well, Everton traveled to the black country to play wolves. Wolves needed points and Everton needed money and if they ever devise a "spend points for money" system in the premiere league you can bet Bill will have us just north of the Championship every year until they pry the chairmanship of Everton from his "cold, dead fingers."

Our list of substitutes for today's match looked a scrabble board presided over by two-year olds. Had they known how to use the vowels they would have found a handfull of those on the pitch. I'm also pretty sure our staring lineup from today is going to be our starting lineup on opening day next season From the kickoff Wolves were at us, firing forty-seven shots at Howard in the first five minutes, most of them hitting our defenders with about twenty richocheting off the swearing lips of Howard.

Savvy Everton fans like me licked their chops and rubbed their hands together. Oh, yes, it was playing out just the way it was planned. After Wolves (huffed, and puffed--sorry,) but failed to blow down our goal, Everton played them for the chumps they were, counter attacking like a waitress grabbing her tip from the (thrifty) Kenwright.

First through the doors was Beckford, attacking a cross from wide right and burying it savagely with his head. Next, Neville took a rebound from well outside, and pissed off that the only people yelling "Shoot!" was the Wolves goalkeeper, fired a screamer that the keeper stood and watched, hands on hips as it scorched the air by his ear on its way to the back of the net. The keeper remained frozen except to ruefully shake his head at the sneaky Neville.

Phil, so surprised by the result ran in circles buying time for himself to figure out a goal celebration before finally giving up and borrowing Cahill's. The site of Neville telling the corner flag to "Have some Lancashire sauce you little tart!" and delivering, will make a tape of this match a cherished collector's item for years to come.

Next down the pike came Bilyletdinov in his best imitation of Manny Fernades as he let fly on the run from three light years away to possitve yield. Halftime came with the boos hitting the Wolve's players from all around like a ton of bricks.


The second half began with Gyeye yelling,"Me next, me next!" and the obliging Wolve's players got out of his way to see what the chubby little french lad could do. Gyeye ran in on goal for fifty yards by himself until Moyes snapped his fingers at Gyeye, and said, "You! Stop playing now and sit over there." the ball fell to the Wolves Keeper. Then Moyes looked at Steve Round, and I kid you not, I read lips, said, "Is Victor still here? Get him on." Moments later, Moyes, who had been barking at Beckford about his work rate flagged down a vendor and bought a program. He thumbed through it, ran his finger down a page in the middle, then said to Round, "Here, this might work, get this one, number twenty-six out there, and get that goal scoring piece of shit out."

Beckford was very upset about coming out, and was speaking to Gyeye about it on the bench. Gyeye got up and moved away from him. (Not really but that would have been boss!) Everton, to my surprise, kept going at the Wolves until their fans began singing, "Hey, you mean guys, leave 'em alone, they weren't bothering anybody!"

And Everton realized they were right. Wolves weren't bothering anybody and so the lads held out their hands and shook with Wolves players. No hard feelings and the ref blew the whistle. And the happiest boy in all the Wolve's frenchy sounding named stadium was Bill Kenwright who realized that he could pay next years opening day squad out of change in his sofa. He got a little chubby going in his pants and ran home to work on his next epic play, for he could now afford scenery.














The England National Team--sorry, I mean Villa,  came to Goodison today hautighly displaying their blue and red colours and subperb league position.  Moyes, for his part, emptied out his doghouse for this one, and Heitenga, Bily and Beckford spilled onto the pitch in ecstasy. Everton's bench consisted of a plywood cutout with painted headless players on it with large, round holes cut into it where the heads should be. Moyes then had fans stick their heads through these holes to fill out our bench.

When Everton began the match flying full bore at Villa you knew it would be just a matter of time before the villains scored. Indeed, the feeling of it being one of those days intensified with each strong save the Bald yank Keeper made. (The Villa one, I mean.)  Villa weathered the storm of course and lay seige to the net of the other bald yank keeper, (ours,) and the Villa fans were in fine voice, sininging, "You've Got A Funny Accent!" 

Back and forth, with little to show except when Villas' Collins got injured nutmegging himself. Finally, in the 38th minute Leon Osman dribbled and danced into into the Villa area like a child who needed to use the restroom and for all I know, he did because he scored in a big hurry and then ran the length of the stands looking for a restroom while making flushing signs with his hand.

At this point, Beckford, fresh off his injury lessons Saha had been giving him pulled up lame. He hobbled around to no effect as the half limped to a close.


I watched Kenwright in his box at Halftime. He had his arms folded, legs crossed and was chomping gum. Then I saw Bill Gates, of all people, walk up to Bill and say something. Bill didn't even look at Gates and by reading Kenwright's lips I saw him say, "Piss off." Curious.


The second half kicked in and before Everton could get the hang of things again, Darren Bent sidefooted a plate of spagetti past Tim Howard into the top of the net. The goal celebration took a bit of time as an enraged Captain Ahab burst into Goodison with a harpoon and chased the fat son of a bitch all over the park.

The two sides were still going at it like Greyhounds chasing a rabbit when the wonderful Beckford found a ball wandering into his path like a three a.m. drunk waddling toward a speeding car. Beckford crushed it and the happless ball's soul flew to heaven, leaving its corpse to smash the crossbar and land inside the net before spinning back out. The linesman, not being very religious or bright ignored the goal and told the furious Everton players to go back to their places or they were going to miss the next goal. By the time they figured out what he was talking about, they had. The giddy linesman leapt for joy and through peels of laughter gestured at the Everton defence while making rapid stroking gestures with his fist. (which, of course, was missed by the ref)

Moyes finally decided to try and pronounce the word, "Aguaye" and before he could get it out of his mouth correctly the little Frenchman shot past him and onto the pitch where he delighted the crowd with his activity, passing and free kicks and corners. Moyes was enraged that a new player had got loose onto the pitch and before he could call security, Jagielka distracted him by drawing a penalty. So amazed was Moyes that his team, the only team in the league not to be awarded a penalty this year had just been given one he calmed himself and watched Baines step up and shoot straight down the middle.

Some tall Greek kid shouted, "Me next!" and did another pitch invasion past Moyes, and looked very able and confident. Suddenly, a bulky shaved headed man with "Van der Meyde" on the back of his shirt chugged from out of nowhere and toward the pitch. Moyes was cat-quick, though, and hauled him down from behind, cuffing him about the ears a bit for good measure. "No!" Moyes scolded. "Bad! Bad dog!" and the strange intruder was led away.

Moyes watched him go and said, "This place is mad, I tell you, mad, crazy." And as if to prove him right the ref began blowing his whistle in a non-stop flury of crazy decisions until the players, tired and confused just left the pitch. Poor Leon Osman. He looked as though he never found the key to the restroom. The fans stood up to leave and in Kenwright's box Bill stood, snapped his suspenders and smiled. "Game over," he said.








 I want to ride my bicycle!  I want to ride my bicycle!

It was "Fan Appreciation Day" at Goodison today  and Bill Kenwright was sat in the Boys Pen hoping to win a bicycle. Fulham provided the competition for the evening match. Fulham are interesting in that they are owned by a poor shiek. When TV hosts "Ultimate Premiership Owners' Death Match" Fulham's owner and Bill Kenwright will be the two owners sneaking around the edge of the ring, folding chairs at the ready, greedily watching for pocket change to clang to the mat while the other owners batter each other in the centre.

Fulham, of course, with Mark Hughes in charge started this match in "rope-a-dope" mode. Everton, not wanting to be 'dopes,' warily watched Fulham friskily pass the ball around their own end of the pitch and waited cautiously, in their own half,  for Fulham to attack. 

When "Water World" first came out some friends and me rented it one evening. Halfway through, one of the ladies got up and announced that she was going for a walk. She returned an hour later, looked at the TV screen and said, "Ah, how sweet. You paused it for me this whole time!"

There came an awkward silence followed by, "No, we didn't pause it. It's just still all that 'water' thing." Well, now you know what the first half of this match was like. I went to check my emails. I re-set my clock for daylight savings. I pulled a steak out to defrost. I cleaned my fingernails. I checked the dog for fleas. I began a load of--Coleman scores!

Archeologists would later discover that Leon Osman, using dazzling footwork, had brought a Trojan Horse into the Fulham End and left it far out to the left. When The Cottagers went to sleep a ball popped out of it and sailed the air currents to the stealth Irishman, who took his time, closed one eye, put his head to the ball and the Londoners burst into flames and lost their women.

During the carnage the cameras found Mark Hughes, looking, in his special way, into space. It looked like his eyes were fighting each other for control of the territory at the center of his forehead.


Halftime:  If you set fire to ET's scummy little terrestrial face he would look like Danny Murphy


Mark Hughes put the fear of Mark Hughs into his players because they began the second half by giving a free kick to Everton that Baines rolled to Saha who hit a screamer so hard that the Fulham players all parted their legs quicker than Dotty Cotton at a book signing, and the ball sailed through to put a bulge into the net.

That got Fulham's attention right quick and they began to play football. Everton wasn't used to this and reacted as though wasps were assaulting them. They slapped at their own heads and ran around like immigrants at a pizza party.

Fulham was relentless and all of Goodison felt the turning of the screws until the camera crew, out of 38,000 people, found the one scouse bird with gigantic pink rollers in her hair. Whistles and catcalls sounded around the stadium and the high-pitched noises caused Louis Saha to have an epileptic siezure.

The (sturdier) Beckford came on, Everton went into their own 'rope-a-dope' Five minutes stoppage was added, Fulham singed our net but it never burned, and some lucky boy won a bicycle with a basket and a bell.