And we’re back in the room. With Everton, sat there twiddling our thumbs and wondering if winning three league games on the bounce was real at all. Or if next time you hear Z Cars you’ll get up and bodypop and not be able to explain why you did it. Suppose we’ll find out.

Also suppose we will find out what this apparent new Everton are made of over the next few games with the most tasty of all bait for Everton meltdown – games Everton are supposed to win.

Been here too many times to get too enthused so read on to find a general synopsis of stuff you’ll already know and for a quick samey jibe or two at the expense of our next opponents.




Last game out was away to Palace and one of those games where if you study patterns and that’s your thing then you’d have been astute to back Palace scoring a late set piece and Everton lamenting through a prolonged break about what should/could have been. Except that didn’t happen. Robles saved it. Then Coleman scored in the 87th and the away end went mental. And Everton held it.

So here we are sat 5 points off United and how many off the shite? 9 is it? In a season where for the most part we’ve been dogshit and yet swollen teste faced Ronko’s USM 5-3-2ers have stumbled upon a system and players that reels you back into thinking there may – just – be something to play for.

Not that any of you will fall for it because, well, Everton.




In fact out of the shittery of a 94th minute loser to the shite just before Christmas there’s been something of a renaissance of Everton, save for shitting it at home in the cup v Leicester. Some fresh young players, three scousers wearing royal blue, a team full of hard pressing & ill intentions, and some first class snaking shithousery which warms the cockles of many a blue.

But can they do it on a cold night away to Stoke? Let’s find out.

Midweek in the wilderness of Britain can be a bleak place and the Stoke cliche is peddled by the footballing purist taegs who narrate top flight football for you and I. Usually condescending ex kopites with a personality vacuum and am ambitious ‘slim fit’ shirt trying to goad you about what your life could have been. Not to worry as they’ve done that much cocaine that their heart will give out before they’re 60 and they’re only two stressful days away from an anxiety attack. Who’s the winners now, suckers?




Point being that it’s shit on Stoke to suggest that the present team has such a limited game for any cunt to sneer at, and even when it was the days of long throws into your box then if the football was so basic then why the fuck couldn’t your team overcome it with ease?

So you’ve got all these small town and city clubs laughing at Stoke but when it comes down to it the places they’re from are worse shit tips and their club hasn’t got a history as consistent and proud as Stoke’s. Far from these previews defending any opposition – they can all get to fuck every single one of them – there’s far less to sneer at over a place which is comfortable in its own skin. And that’s exactly what Stoke is. Stoke folk know that it’s shite where they’re from. They know that there’s little elegance or beauty about a place which is for all intents and purposes the unwashed navel of Britain. It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere and local dentistry is largely a miss but Stoke knows that. Stoke also knows that gypsies wouldn’t lay a caravan anywhere on their land as the good travellers themselves know they can’t out gypsy Stoke. As soon as the the first rays of spring hit the gardens of Stoke there’s minty sofas pushed out onto the lawn and Now 27 belting out from an old midi player but Stoke are cool with that. Or that the most potent aphrodisiac in Stoke is a Ford Cosworth XR4i with full spoiler kit. You won’t get Stoke pretending that smelling of hamster shit is anything to boast about but do you hear them boasting of smelling of hamster shit? Course you don’t. They’re fucking Stoke and they know what they are and are sound about it so get the fuck off their back and go after utter fucking texans like the geordies, Villa or Southampton who have zero fucking awareness about what absolute rotten sphincters they all are.

Well in Stoke, you’ll do for me.




Of course we have to deduct points for their current manager being Mark Hughes with his hair like a winter Hebrides sea crossing. He’s a horizontal chinned cocksplash. And for that Stoke must be defeated.

They’re only 8 points behind AFC Tom Davies and are struggling to find consistency in the league this season after fits and starts of results smattered amongst some dreadful dirge. Sound familiar?

There’s absolutely no tactical insight other than they’ve some decent players and can play some very decent togger. They were a bawhair away from beating Man Utd at home last game out until Rooney delivered supposed world peace with a late free kick. This won’t be an easy game.




Here’s a list of some of their players:

Peter Crouch – will have a humpback in later life but out of all the recent kopites he seems one of the rare affable ones so I’ll give him a pass, right up until the point he crawls all over a flat footed Funes Mori and nods the equaliser.

Arnautovic – barnet on him like a Birkenhead mother buying ten Lamberts in the morning.

Berahino – making his debut after titty lipping for a daft period of time at West Brom.

Shaqiri – goblin legged street soccer skilled Swiss lad who with a scouse spray tan and white gloves would be right at home tending a river of chocolate in a weird factory, while shitting Double Deckers.

Joe Allen – surprisingly adept at football.




Glenn Whelan – the beating heart of all things Stoke.

Shawcross and Martins Indi – should be making passes at unambitious semi pretty girls and scrutinising the footwear & pants of teenagers lining up in the cold hoping they don’t get asked for ID as they’ve grown sideburns, instead will be pulling Lukaku’s shirt in a manner that the referee hopefully can’t see.

Glenn Johnson – was earning double what Lukaku earns now but ten years ago. And they wonder why?

I think they’ve got some young lad in goal as they have a keeper injury crisis so don’t be surprised if he has a stormer before disappearing to Macclesfield in 2 years or Everton fire Leon Osman powered shots right at his midriff for ninety minutes.

So, Everton then.




Lukaku is the best striker your Dad has seen for thirty years so tell him to shut the fuck up with his “doesn’t put a shift in though” and “gets bullied too easy” the daft arl fuck. Wranglers and Adidas Samba beyond the age of 50 look fucking awful too. Tell him Gansgear said he can have it’s clearance stock back the utter fucking stig.

Playing in and around Lukaku will be Mirallas, more hot and cold than the Greggs-pasty-at-3.45pm-lottery but when he gets it right he’s safe until summer. Also Barkley will be in there somewhere and it’s good to see some consistency and genuine sweat pouring off him effort but too early to state the penny’s dropped that he has more talent than anyone on the same pitch as him at least half of the time. Maybe understated Barkley being more our Osman than Gerrard acceptance will provide some breathing space for him to flourish. I reckon everyone’s bored debating Barkley so I’ll move on.




Central midfield is turning into a dilemma as our beautiful little Sengalian Power Ranger is back in town but in his absence he’s returned to an Everton central midfield fucking oppositions at complete will. I can’t look beyond Barry, Davies and Barkley staying in there until we dip to someone or the likes of Schneiderlin, Gana Gueye or McCarthy does something pretty fucking special off the bench to edge one of them out. A nice problem to have. Watch Stoke walk right the fuck through the middle of us now for even typing that.

The 3 central defenders thing is working through personnel as much as system. Williams is quite happy organising stuff and not being exposed by pace through the channels against him. Funes Mori’s mad as fuck style is secured by the extra defender behind him and Mason Holgate is developing into a very fucking sound central defender while everyone watches on. Baines is somewhat rejuvenated and Coleman enjoying the opposite flank. In amongst all of that back five there’s some decent balance. Joel Robles comes and takes crosses in a comfortable manner which staggers thousand of Evertonians anxiously waiting for the norm of him getting beaten on his line at corners or having a forty yard shot fly arc over him at an inopportune time. Weird shit this goalkeeping proficiency. Robles has a run until the end of the season to determine if he can step up or if he’ll be drinking awkward bottles of red wine thirty years from now trying to drop into the conversation he won the English FA Cup to a load of Spaniards rolling their eyes in the village bar.




So as the sound of a finger click in front of your face ends this underwhelming preview you’re invited to return to your seat tentatively to see if this Everton thing of late was indeed all real. Or just more of the old Everton. No Zcars just yet, man.

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