That’s your preview opener, but how else can you describe Everton’s season lunging from shite to shitter? Read on to not learn anything much. Or better still go swerve anything Everton related and make a start on all them things you procrastinate about.
The Southampton game was an abject crisis ridden Everton shouting for help. This isn’t deserved on David Unsworth however it’s the big boys league so there’s not much room to cry about it, but instead to find some sort of never-to-be-forgotten formula to stop Everton being relegated.
When it’s all said and done though let us never, ever forget the shithouses wearing the badge of Everton out there. Some (OK, me) have long cried about the balance of power swinging too firmly to the players and our current malaise bears testament to it. Some of them clearly don’t give a fuck and there’s little comeback. After all if we sink there’ll be some other tragic bastard ready to launch a new signing on fee and riches upon their grandchildren through the means of some hideous trickle down economics.
Try finding a redeeming feature in this Everton side right now. Something to cling to. Nah, me neither.
We’ve been in this position before but buried it deep. You’ll maybe recall two particular seasons in the nineties. Also maybe 2001/02, when were sinking fast before we were rescued by a fresh faced new manager.
That fresh face has turned into a perma-frowned leathery moon, and is back with his awkward unconvincing smile that reveals easy incisors, but this time he’s here to fuck us over.
Not that it’s the first time he’s fucked us over. After been giving a generous see off with full guard he then turned around and tried to snake two of our best players at the time on the cheap. That wasn’t it for me, I mean everybody has their fall out of love moment with David Moyes. What was yours? Mine was him playing a reserve team at Anfield while just behind them in the league and shipping an easy hat trick to that fucking cocksplash Gerrard. Back in those heady days of only conceding 3 at Anfield.
I was reading loads tonight about the rivalry between Crystal Palace and Brighton, and how it come to pass. I didn’t see a mention of our weird little rivalry with West Ham – maybe because I suppose it’s only really one way distaste from their side. And how our illusion of amicability was crushed by an alright tackle from James McCarthy on some little French blert they were in love with, who then promptly fucked them right off. That tackle promoted their collective mask to slip, and while every club has it’s blerts on social media (@thechicoazul mate) there was a fucking avalanche of cringe pointed in our direction from their little pie mash eating weasels. Certainly took me by surprise as prior to that I’d seen a really proud club with ace local support trying to go about things in the right way, as much as modern footie will allow you.
I’m willing to put this aside if they pipe down and just come and watch the footie without trying to “banter” us. They’ll probably beat us anyway like so there’s no need for one more set of mouth breathing bellwipes playing us in England.
No one gives a flying fuck if you are the second cousin removed of the Krays lads. But then there’s that air of overcompensation with a lot of West Ham fans. Maybe it’s size anxiety, maybe it’s the acute parochialism that engulfs the club. We’ve got some of that at Everton but we’re not trying to make out that Purple Aki rocks up at our family christenings. It’s also a fact that there’s not a single West Ham fan who is over 5 foot 9 inches tall. Check it out tomorrow in and around the ground. Also pay attention to how they can’t walk normally, how their stride has feet pointing 10 to and 10 past. Smoking that bifter all the way to the fucking tip. Landan innit mate. Salt of the earth. Absolutely reeking of Vosene and Joop.
The shit bastards think they invented football because they had a couple of players playing for England’s solitary tournament win, which was achieved by playing every game at home and aided by an incredibly fortunate referee’s decision. It was as though Frank McAvennie played 1 to 11 that day. Not that you’d hear them chatting about it, like the lad who’s just got a Range Rover on lease and can’t wait to get the branded keyring out and on the table before he’s even sat down.
Then along popped Gold and Sullivan, genuinely odious little creeps and none more so than the weird little smurf one with his Soviet hat. If your mate turned up in that before the game there’s no pride amongst your bunch if you hadn’t got him so para he’d flushed it in the first pub. Then the pair of them blagged an all paid for stadium and started doing cross armed gestures for photos. Some project director marketing hyper twat then convinced them to put LONDON in their badge and because they finished top half that season they started thinking some sleeping giant was awoken and Zidane was licking their door. All this despite them never ever winning even one league title.
All things considered these little chimney sweep fucks have to be crushed. It’s just a shame they’re playing Everton or we would get to enjoy it.
Some of their players who may or may not make it on the pitch against us:
Carroll – Imagine paying £35 million for a fat Pontin’s Chippendale seven years ago.
Chicharito – he’s a little shithouse, something dead snide about him that I’m paranoid only I can see while everyone thinks he’s alright because he’s only wee and it’s a well known fact that all Mexicans are sound. Because there’s no better social profiling of 110 million people than the barman on your all inclusive keeping the bright blue cocktails coming for the occasional one dollar bill thrown his way.
Lanzini – I’d have him for driving our promotion charge next season.
Noble – little pumpkin headed shithead who can’t wait to swing 40 yard nothing balls over to his full back and take the applause. Leaves his captain armband on in the shower. One little distasteful afterbirth who needs a much worse tackle than the McCarthy one that spawned all this needless partisanship.
Collins – swerve the hard man act if you look like Richard from Guess Who.
Reid – why the fuck didn’t we buy him?
Hart – even if we do get relegated with Pickford punching the vital goal into his own net then I will still hold zero regret that we managed to swerve this repugnant bass voiced sneering blow dried shithouse.
Now’s a good time to play them as they’re still celebrating the royal engagement, the southern tits.
Genuinely can’t be arsed talking about our bunch but in a nutshell what an underwhelming sack of spanners. I’m gonna give the young lads a pass as they deserve so much better to look up to when learning the ropes in the top flight.
It’s not a good combination when you can’t score goals unless they’re exceptional or lucky, and when Charlie Austin – the fat slag – makes the same near post run and scores twice with it in 5 minutes. What did Einstein say the definition of madness was? Tell Michael Keane and his mates that. Anyway, fuck them.
And so it passes that 5,737 days from David Moyes’ debut as Everton manager that he returns hoping to put the sword into the man who gave him the perfect start with a goal after 30 seconds. Another man tasked with saving a listless Everton heading for relegation.
And here we are.
I didn’t even mention Sam Allardyce and Sammy Lee.