Well, what was you expecting? The sun was shining on St Domingos and you, I, got caught up in the fallacy of happy Everton weekends.
Getting played off the park by an already relegated, 9 game losing streak team managed by Scott Parker and his increasingly Del Toro eyelids was – in many ways – just Everton. The universe conspires to taunt us all. When NASA revealed that first photo of a black hole last week I stared into it fully expecting a speedo adorned Mike Walker with a Pina Colada to be waving back at me from Bellefield 1994.
It’s by the same token of unpredictability that many will be expecting us to turn over Man Utd this coming Sunday. You’re not in this for the easy ride, amigo. Freud would have a fucking ball with you lay on his couch.
That there is Everton for many of us, an object of frustration to unload on when they continually let us down. That level of resentment between fan and club and willingness to robustly criticise is the easiest way to tell the difference between an Evertonian and a kopite.
Not that you’d be so desperate to read consecutive previews but last time out I did caution that the best way to approach Everton is never get too high or too low so I’m not going to let an off day at Fulham disregard all that, but seriously Silva you best get rid of fucking loads of them.
Onto Manchester United who have enjoyed a few decades of the type of stuff I daydream Everton will do. Then we went and Evertoned them by giving up our Manager to them, and it’s been a load of meh – relatively speaking – since. I say that because if Everton won the Europa League like them I’d still be drunk on it now.
Their latest gamble is on Solskjaer who with each passing year looks like more like a FaceSwap taken round the Christmas table between uncle and youth. The impact of Solskjaer turned around their season to be fair but if you’ve been following modern Premier League Football management like I clearly haven’t then you’ll notice a worrying trend between short term impact performance “bounce” and subsequent demise. This more recently has been known as the marcosilva.
Now for some clubs this “bounce” is lusted after as their ambitions are short term in the Premier League, on a season by season basis. For a club the size of Manchester United the challenge will come not this season but when he hits a dip next season, how deep that dip is and how effectively he can steer the club out of it. You effectively hire the knowhow of this when you pay for proven big lights management, but United fans are probably happier with this current strategy after enduring the dinosaurs they’ve had as their previous 2 Managers. The modern fan “has a right to be entertained” and share prices can be compromised during a barren run, after all.
Not that I’m going into a critical monologue about Man Utd fans being the epitome of modern commercially exploited fans, a club of that size will certainly attract plenty but at the centre of Man Utd always has been a passionate hardcore of working class Mancunians, and a notable strong loyal red army in London. Traditions are important to them and there’s a certain way to go about obtaining the necessary success. Well, until Moyes fucks you deep.
There’s a big chasm portrayed between mancs and scousers but take footie out of it, and then both off their native soil and you’ll find they generally get along together over a pint of warm Spanish piss. I’m sorry if this is making for a dull preview but I don’t think I need to go deep into their obsession with really shit facial hair, male earrings and jarg Geordie jeans. Manchester after all is the Mecca of Woolism so we should expect an overpowering of Jazz aftershave in amongst their males, and a perma state of letch after five pints if the unfortunate attached female is not in the vicinity.
It’s an unfortunate trait of DNA programming that every Mancunian is destined to turn into a variation of Bernard Manning if they live beyond 55 years old, absolutely every single one of them are on the Bernard Spectrum and you should adjust interactions accordingly. Gravy stained stone washed jeans and large loop laced shit trabs are utterly irresistible to any Mancunian milf, so it would appear.
Sound then we will continue. Some of their players who may or may not play against Everton as like fuck I’m researching who gets a game for them these days.
Lukaku – oh fucking hello.
Actually gonna hit you a paragraph on him, not because he’s that important to us but because he does something to our fans which I take a macabre delight in. He polarises the fuck out of us and pretty much all Evertonians shun the middle ground as a passage of rite. A twenty goal a season young ambitious striker can also have trampoline shins, be “lazy” and into himself not us. Which in fairness is most footballers now but the big Belgian bitch tongue wagged too much on international break and the rest is history.
You’d think someone would be getting a grip of his penchant for weight lifting not being in tune with peak Premier League performance, but every lad got a right to look good in vest at least once in their life for those summer Ushuaia photos, so who am I to judge. Make sure you tag him in Pogba. Fuck him anyway, he doesn’t play for us no more.
Rashford – really good this lad and I don’t understand why some of my United supporting mates doubt him so much. Maybe because they’re not unlike Evertonians?
Pogba – he’s a tremendous footballer but anyone over the age of 16 inspired by his haircut, lifestyle or indeed anything he has to say is on a straight path to lifetime virginity.
Lingard – the finest export out of Warrington since that one shelf yer dar successfully managed to put up from Ikea. Just the one though.
Fred – why are so many Brazilians named after people who stand at the bar of your local Catholic Club?
Jones – as our mothers warned us “if the wind changes your face will stay like that”, really miss you girl.
I’d normally go through who Everton may play at this point but you are well versed in the squad right now and those who previously had a jersey to keep through summer just shit it somewhat at Fulham. I think we will see a few changes, and perhaps it’s last chance saloon for a few.
So it’s in the embers of another meh season that some of us break from our slumber in hope of some air siren inspired shithousing of the those who have the temerity to be above us.
It should be more, but that’s a task for those they pay and trust this summer, not me, as I can almost taste the Pina Colada now.