Suppose it’s a sign of how shite Everton have started the season when you approach a Bournemouth game at Goodison and consider it a “must win” in September.
Or maybe it’s a sign of the hyperbole and hysteria in the media slanting the view of dickheads like me to chat utter biscuits after just five league games.
In the most hurtful collapse seen since Tommy Cooper horribly stumbled into a curtain, Everton shipped three late goals to a Man Utd team they’d been pegging back, and typical of Everton to slash you where it hurts one of those goals was to Lukaku who then decided to shush the travelling away fans. As Sundays go it was a particularly shite one.
Then a midweek League Cup tie at home to Sunderland brought us welcome goals, clean sheet and an even rarer win. Go on and win it Toffees! Like fuck, you just drew Chelsea away in the next round you horrible downright hurtful shithouses. Fuck right off Everton.
So Bournemouth on Saturday at 3pm on St Domingo’s favoured patch of green. The south coast fucks are struggling like us and even below us in the league, the shit bastards, as Everton comfortably slot into the bottom 3.
There’s something fluffy and non threatening about Bournemouth – appropriate as Eddie Howe looks like a shaved Ewok – that endears Bournemouth to the wider Premier League audience. There’s no ambition other than establishing themselves in the cash cow of England’s top division, and no mega funding menace to creep on the teams above them, like Everton. A cosy ground and a family club banded around the place and it’s easy to see why Bournemouth – on the outside – would be treated with indirect affection.
If you’re a scouser and visit Bournemouth you maybe get a feel for the place, with it’s nice houses and relative lack of North Faced ninjas on the corners. Perhaps you’ll marvel at the fresh sea breeze coming in and stimulating your flake addled nostrils. The local shop owner not reaching for the shotgun under the counter when you walk in of an evening may seem strange, but pleasant nonetheless.
Both Bournemouth East and Bournemouth West continually vote Tory in the elections. Truth is mate, they fucking hate you and your type. Speak to the scousers that settled down there in the 1980s trying to escape the claws of Thatcher scraping their own city. It’s a facade mate. Scratch that surface and none of it is real. It’s a right of centre Truman Show, directed by Michael Grove and every single one of them is laughing their cocks off at you. They’re telling their neighbours that your kids have lice. They stand up when the national anthem comes on TV. They have savings accounts and upgrade on long haul aircraft to avoid being sat to close to you and your type. They can “see what Boris is saying” when he’s on TV and they nod every time he takes a swipe at Merseyside.
Fuck them and their comfortable, clean suburbia. Fuck them and the charade of their community. These are self serving lizards and they’re out to politely fuck Everton and our people over so we don’t feel bad about the privileged snaking us out of three points that belong to us. Fucking hurt these Everton.
What’s your favourite series of The Wire? Between 1 and 3 for me. Series 4 has it’s merits and Series 2 gets better the second time you watch it. Enjoyed Series 5 too myself but amongst Wire affectionados you show disconcerting taste by dismissing Series 5.
Eddie Howe is an Evertonian so we will lay off him and go straight to his squad of players for more of the usual shit.
Josh King – his mates called him “Jo” GREAT SITE LADS. I’d have him at Everton.
Defoe – what a striker he’s been, still banging them in. You could squeeze a hurricane between his front two teeth like, the wee dangerous goal-elf. I’d have him at Everton.
Ibe – it’s OK to sell Sterling, they said. I’d not have him at Everton.
Gosling – the peak of his professional career was shithoused by an advert. He was at Everton.
Arter – their central hub for most of their creative forces, looks like a yuppie, hurt him. He’s not Everton.
And some other players who I can’t be arsed googling.
So onto Everton.
Up front there’s somewhat of a quagmire. Only one person has scored for Everton in the league this season, yer man with the driving ban. Scored twice. No one else so far. This is our last league fixture of September. Sandro Ramirez understandably is adapting to his first foreign league, and seemingly the physicality of it. Our great saviour Niasse was photographed at Selhurst Park two hours before the transfer window closed so is some indication of lack of design there. Calvert-Lewin has a bright future in the game and is doing a fine job as our only big striker but it’s too much to rest on his shoulders twice a week the responsibility of scoring the goals Everton needs to improve. Barkley is injured and wants away. Lookman is incredibly raw, so too but seemingly lesser so is Vlasic. Mirallas wants to be in Athens.
Goals most definitely win games so it’s a grim picture filling that preferred front 3 with productivity until January comes around, and presumably there’s eyes on a striker but in a time period where proven high class strikers are generally not available. It’s a bit mad we’ve finished the transfer window like this.
The midfield is subject to chopping and changing as stale-cherry-blossom faced Ronko scrambles around for a system and personnel that delivers wins. Hope he finds one soon. In the meantime I reckon the resting of Gueye and Schneiderlin in midweek almost guarantees them a start for this. Someone else in there too, maybe Sigurdsson?
Jagielka twinged something so I reckon that’s a sure thing for Williams and Keane to partner again this weekend, whether that’s a good thing remains to be seen. Baines and Curacao’s finest probably at full backs. Pickford with his random eyes in the nets.
You know what? Sack the must win moniker or whatever. It’s 3pm at Goodison on a Saturday, nothing more, nothing less. And for such spectacles no matter the narrative or side story it’s the duty of Everton to get the fuck right into anyone who opposes them.
Let’s try and take it from there.