I sit here tired. Life has been a bit of a slog lately.
Of course it’s nice also to have a pleasant weekend distraction like, let me think for a mo, a football team that does ace stuff and makes you get excited about the journey they’re on but like fuck there’s much of that over the past season, a season that started way, way back in July.
Tired. Need a break. It’s not you, it’s me.
Mad typing that really on the back of 2 wins in 5 days but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere and this season was meant to promise so much more. There’s a reluctance from these parts to get behind any sort of run because around the corner there’s likely to be insipidity waiting to pounce on any stardust we’re sprinkling in hope of better times on their way.
Huddersfield was one of Everton’s best performances of the season and yet it felt it was nowhere near 2 halves of good football from Sportpesa’s great scouse hope.
When you’re tired it’s scientifically proven to alter your view of the world, perception becomes laden with doom and anxiety. So maybe a summer’s rest from Everton will give us all some respite and a chance to miss them.
Ok I know what you’re here for, yes they are toe curling south coast flutes who can recite Green Street word for word yet have more in common with the Inbetweeners. They’re Southampton, mate, and their only claim to fame was sending a Liverpool launched ship to an icy end on its maiden voyage across the Atlantic. But maybe that’s part of the problem?
For life must be beyond tedium in Southampton. Like a Soviet 1950’s factory town what is there to do? Any local identify to inspire pride and belonging? Like fuck. There’s no Stalin, there’s Matt Le Tissier and even then the turn toothed dimwit twatter of many a fine goal is a product of somewhere with even less note than Southampton in Guernsey, for all intents and purposes the Malvinas of France. And even Jacques don’t want it.
One dull civic centre and a marina for the local inhabitants of Soton to aspire to live on. It’s a Tory breeding ground of a superficial society. Fancy a pint? You’ll have to endure a barrage of banter obsessed Dereks and Justins scrambling desperately to project a personality that cannot be organically found in Southampton, ever. Find a girl, settle down, if you want you can marry. Buy an XR3i, wear Jacamo, life is crappy.
There’s also the Rugby League crowd element to the fans down there, it’s awkward football experience with Dads and Lads in replica tops trying too hard to bond. The referring to themselves constant as the “Saints” thing too, absolutely reeks of gelheads, low grade steroids, shite Japanese goth tattoos, eating chips walking down the road at 12.15pm, teenagers wearing baseball caps and not being bullied for it, Kickers with trackie bottoms and passive aggressive mobility scooters scuffling for position in Home Bargain. Southampton could be twinned with St Helen’s but I infinitely prefer the good simple farmhands of St Helens any day of the week. Only messing wools, big fan of Sintellins here. Rainford can get to fuck for voting tory though.
It didn’t have to be this way at all but Soton fell into that most stupid trap of finishing above a shit Everton for a season and believing this reversed over 100 years of football order, and that they could sneer at Everton. They most definitely fucking did. I was aghast at all the Saints Brendons and Phillos proclaiming a top 6 finish at the foundations of a new footballing Empire. And then Everton casually took their best ever Manager off them with consummate ease, and here we are not much later – with them scrambling for relevance at Goodison against a pitiful Everton managed by Allardyce, but still considerably better than a desperate #saints outfit. Beg for it you bitches. Beg for end of season mercy from us, and make it look like you really mean it. We don’t need the points. Maybe we will stroll around in flip flops and help write one of your greatest victories ever.
I reckon they’ll leapfrog Swansea to stay up. But if they go down, again, I really hope for a moment of hyper realisation of their role in football as a bastard yo yo club who are alien to success and relevancy.
And yet despite all this I feel pity. Despite a policy of obnoxiousness to their fans on twitter it’s really evident that there’s loads of decent fans down there. Just normal people supporting their local club staunchly and here they find themselves with elevated blood pressure, mildly obsessing over points and goals that will probably not come, to enable another season of weekend distraction. And the game is rigged against them. Footballers who come for a paypacket and one more lilypad on their way across a self absorbed pond, with millions of instagram followers and brand endorsements for those who make it across. One flash of red thong and their players fuck any progress Soton are making to go to Liverpool. It’s an existence of feeding those who the game is rigged for. Aspirations blighted by a game that is eating itself from the inside, and the millions and millions of ghouls who watch waiting for a story to develop that they can point at and be glad it isn’t them.
Because for as long as you’re treading water, and I firmly include Everton in this, you’re waiting your turn to make the wrong managerial appointment, sign the wrong players and be sucked into a void that leaves your fans crying on the last day while simultaneously a few dozen phone calls are made to agents to manoeuvre a payday away from the scene of the crime. There’s been little in these players wearing their heart on their sleeve trying to turn a turgid season around, but then who are we to criticise anyone else’s sleeve when ours has Angry Birds cringed all over it.
There’s an argument for Everton effortlessly taking Koeman being the catalyst for how Soton find themselves visiting Goodison this weekend scrambling for their lives. Yet was their 4-1 tonking of us back in November that was the catalyst for making changes to stop our own relegation spiral. One fucked up spider’s web this.
Mark Hughes is their Manager so everyone’s fave bingo barneted Lescott patroniser can get to fuck really.
Some of their players:
Austin – ex labourer who is closest they’ll get to heart on sleeve. Keep him fit and he will slot more than a visor wearing Vegas Granny. Hard luck stories r us.
Tadic- great wee player but he can’t be if they’re starting down the barrel of parachute payments, where the fuckhas he been?
Long – wee stoat necked channels botherer who some of you wanted to sing. Calm yourselves.
Romeu – decent on his day but I can’t get over the impression he should be engaging in high jinks on Tony Hart’s desk, the plasticine fuck.
And some other assorted dogs.
For Everton I can’t foresee too many changes. That means scud footed hunky shit scalped of the Bosphorus will receive shit service up front, flanked by maybe even Vlasic again and Walcott – who I want to score the winner for max Soton heartbreak, then refuse to celebrate and patronise them right up.
Maybe Rooney is jibbed for this after a shite second half of season and the legs of Davies will be in there with Gueye and a pleasingly improving Schneiderlin. Who’d be my second choice for winning goal, but fist pumps to the Park End from him please.
The usual back four of late and your player of the season Pickford in goal.
Then sleep, and hope it was all a shit dream.