Dave’s Ramblings – Everton
Well, the positives… and yes, there were some (I checked)… the weather was absolutely glorious. Proper sunshine. The kind that tricks you into thinking we were somewhere nice. Not a cloud in sight. For once, we could say with confidence: no rain. In the UK. I know, write it down.
I even unleashed my legs on the general public. A bold move. Some would say reckless. But sacrifices had to be made in the name of vitamin D.
It was also our first visit to the Toffees’ new stadium. And, credit where it’s due, it’s actually pretty decent… once you ignore the fact it currently looks like it’s been dropped into the middle of a live episode of Grand Designs: Industrial Edition. Cranes everywhere. Mud. The general vibe of “this’ll be lovely when it’s finished in 2047.”
Now… just a small heads-up before we continue.
Up to this point, things have been suspiciously positive.
Don’t get used to it.
The game actually started ok. We kicked off, completed a pass, and for a brief, shining moment, I thought this might not be a complete disaster.
And then, out of absolutely nowhere, we unveiled our bold new tactical approach: Operation: Generously gift Everton a goal. A daring strategy. Very cutting-edge. Really pushing the boundaries of what counts as defending.
Honestly, it was like watching a team-building exercise where everyone’s been told Everton are ‘Make-A-Wish’ kids and we’re legally obliged to help them score.
Of course, it didn’t exactly help that Rosenior decided to spice things up by playing what can only be described as Defensive Russian Roulette. One central defender. Just the one. And that was Fofana, standing there like he’s accidentally turned up to a five-a-side while everyone else is playing a completely different sport.
Meanwhile, on the bench? Oh, just a casual collection of central defenders. Three of them. Sitting there. Watching. Probably as confused as the rest of us. At this point, I can only assume Rosenior thinks centre-backs are like batteries. You keep them in reserve for emergencies, such as actually defending.
I would absolutely love to know what goes on inside his mind. Is it tactical innovation? Is it performance art? Is he just spinning a wheel before kickoff that says things like: No midfield, Keeper up front or one central bloody defender!
Because right now, it feels less like a game plan and more like he’s trying to unlock an achievement on FIFA called “Win a Match while making absolutely no sense.”
33 minutes in and, surprise surprise, the inevitable finally happened. Everton got the goal that their effort and our enthusiastic commitment to absolutely nothing fully deserved.
And who pops up? Beto. Yes, that Beto. A striker so underwhelming that, based on our recruitment history, we’ll probably slap in a £150 million bid for him by Monday morning and call it a statement signing.
He managed to beat Fofana to the ball which, to be fair, is less of a footballing achievement and more of a light jog past a man who’s clearly questioning all his life choices, and then just casually lifts it over Sanchez. No panic. No pressure. It looked like he was gently placing a parcel over a sleeping dog.
1–0.
At this point, we weren’t so much playing football as we were staging a live demonstration of what happens if eleven blokes forget they’re meant to care.
Not too long after that, Jordan Pickford produced a worldy to prevent Enzo from equalising.
Half time came along meaning we could all breathe a sigh of relief. The tactical genius would sort it out and sanity could be restored… Yeah, don’t worry. I’m only playing with you.
Gusto off, Garnacho on. So now the master tactician has decided no to right-sided defender and yes to someone legging it down the left like he’s late for the last bus. Tactical masterclass. Not!
62 minutes in and Beto’s celebrating again, his shot somehow oozing through Sánchez like it had a VIP pass. At this point, Beto’s market value had skyrocketed to £189 million, while Sánchez is being listed on Facebook Marketplace for 45p, a packet of out-of-date crisps, and buyer must collect immediately.
I’ve got no idea what injury Estêvão supposedly had. Mystery illness, light breeze, hurt feelings, who knows. But if he was fit enough to sit on the bench, I’m pretty sure he could’ve survived at least 30 minutes without needing a full documentary crew and medical team.
Instead, we’re 2–0 down, the game’s basically on life support, and he finally gets thrown on with 20 minutes to go. Like some kind of last-minute side quest. What exactly was the plan there? “Go on lad, just score a quick hat-trick and sort this mess out, cheers.”
Six minutes later and it’s 3–0. Against Everton. Everton! How have we managed to speedrun our own downfall like this?
And just when you think it can’t get any more inspiring… two minutes later: tactical masterstroke, Tosin on for Caicedo. Incredible. Visionary. Truly playing 4D chess while the rest of us are watching a house fire. Clearly the plan is to protect the three-goal deficit like it’s a family heirloom. “Don’t let it get any worse, lads. We’ve worked hard for this humiliation!”
At this point, loads of our fans headed for the exit. Strangely though, even more Everton fans started leaving. Maybe they felt awkward. Like when you accidentally witness a public breakup and don’t know where to look. “Right lads, 3–0 is enough… let’s give them some privacy to process whatever that was.”
Then at the final whistle, the players came over and got a warm reception which, all things considered, is either incredible loyalty or mild concussion from watching the match.
As for the Tactical Genius… yeah, he got booed so loudly, I’m pretty sure it registered on the Richter scale. Somewhere, a seismologist just wrote down: “Unusual activity… possibly caused by substitutions.”
My takeaways…
The difference between us and Everton was pretty simple: they moved… we didn’t. They pressed us like their lives depended on it, while we politely gave them the freedom of the stadium like we were hosting an open day. “Feel free lads, have a wander, try a shot, the goal’s just over there.”
When they had the ball, they had options everywhere. When we had it, we treated it like a priceless antique. Just gently passing it sideways and backwards so nobody accidentally did anything exciting.
No doubt the Tactical Genius will be along shortly to tell us we had 63% possession, 487 passes, and a really nice shape. Brilliant. Frame it. Hang it in the Louvre. Personally, I don’t care if we’ve had 90% possession. I’d settle for one shot that doesn’t need a permission slip.
That’s now four games without scoring. Four. At this point, goals are starting to feel like a myth. Kids in the crowd are asking their parents, “Did we used to score?” and the parents just stare into the distance.
The positive? Well… we definitely won’t be losing next weekend. Mainly because we’re not playing. Massive result for us, that.
Port Vale next, and on current form, they’ll be licking their lips thinking it’s their cup final. Honestly, fair enough.
But hey, this is football. We could suddenly go on a mad run, win the FA Cup, and finish comfortably in the top four. I mean, I won’t be holding my breath, I quite like oxygen, but stranger things have happened. Just… not recently.
Onwards and upwards. UTC 💙
Dave M
