Dave’s Ramblings – Everton

October 18, 2026 Admin

What a difference a day makes. Well, 210 of them to be precise. Back then, Everton battered us 3-0 and frankly, we were lucky to get nil. Had the referee awarded us a goal out of sympathy, VAR would probably have ruled it out for impersonating a football team. We were so bloody awful that even the Everton fans must have felt like ringing Childline to report what they were witnessing!

Today though, was different. Very different. For starters, the sun was shining. Unfortunately, it was shining directly into our faces, meaning I spent most of the afternoon squinting like a pensioner trying to read the small print on a Ryanair boarding pass.

We also appear to have acquired a coach who actually knows what he’s doing, which is a refreshing development. Now brace yourselves… WE KEPT A CLEAN SHEET! Yes, an actual clean sheet. No goals conceded. None. Zero. Zilch. I was beginning to think clean sheets were something Chelsea had stopped producing in solidarity with the hotel laundry industry. I nearly rang the Guinness book of World Records, but couldn’t see my bloody phone because of the sun.

The one downside, of course, was the injury to Emi Martínez. As I write this, there’s still no confirmed news, so fingers crossed it’s nothing serious. Hopefully, it’s just a precaution and he’ll be back before long. Because frankly, we’ve had enough medical drama to keep an entire series of Casualty going, and I’d quite like to watch a football match without wondering whether the club’s next big-money signing will be a consultant orthopaedic surgeon.

The first half, in truth, was about as entertaining as watching someone else’s holiday videos. Twice. There were a few smart saves from Martínez, who clearly hadn’t received the memo that we were supposed to be having a relaxing afternoon and an absolute thunderbolt from Caicedo that nearly snapped the crossbar in half. The poor thing is probably still vibrating and will need counselling before the next home game.

There was also a wonderful moment when half the Everton team suddenly transformed into a nursery full of overtired toddlers who’d just been told there were no rusks left and Peppa Pig had been cancelled. The reason for this spectacular outbreak of collective emotional distress? The referee had the audacity, the sheer bloody nerve, not to send Morgan Rogers off.

Outrageous! Cue the waving arms, trembling bottom lips and enough theatrical indignation to keep the Royal Shakespeare Company in business for a decade. I genuinely expected someone to throw themselves onto the turf, kick their little legs in the air and demand to speak to a responsible adult. Bless their cotton socks. Perhaps next time the referee could bring a few dummies and a nice colouring book to help them through such a traumatic experience.

Apart from that, there was precious little to get excited about. I’ve seen more action in the queue at the Post Office on pension day.

Thankfully, the second half was an entirely different kettle of fish. Less than a minute after the restart, Pedro Neto produced a lovely finish to put us ahead. Not even sixty seconds! Barely enough time to sit down, unwrap a half-time pie and discover that the filling is hotter than the surface of the sun.

This new Chelsea side certainly seems to enjoy scoring early goals. At this rate, we’ll soon be celebrating the winner while the players are still shaking hands in the tunnel. Personally, I’m all for it. After years of watching us spend 90 minutes passing the ball sideways like a group of confused crabs, it’s rather refreshing to discover that the opposition’s goal isn’t merely there for decorative purposes.

Just after the hour mark, a deep set-piece was launched into the penalty area, prompting Martínez to come charging off his line with the intention of punching the ball clear. Unfortunately, Branthwaite had arrived with the equally ambitious idea of heading home an equaliser. Neither appeared particularly interested in the whereabouts of the football, preferring instead to conduct a full-scale collision test using each other’s skulls. The resulting impact could probably have been picked up by the British Geological Survey, while the noise suggested someone had dropped a wardrobe down a flight of stairs. Both players ended up in a heap, with the paramedics rushing onto the pitch. It was the sort of coming together that made you wince, cross your legs and briefly reconsider whether football might be better played with a nice soft sponge ball.

Remarkably, Branthwaite managed to carry on with little more than a graze on his face, presumably because his head is constructed from the same materials they use to build nuclear bunkers. Martínez however, wasn’t quite so fortunate and was replaced by Mike Penders, who could now be looking at an extended run in the first team depending on the severity of Emi’s injury.

Nothing quite like being handed your big opportunity because two blokes have attempted to recreate the Large Hadron Collider using their foreheads.

You might have expected us to wobble without Emi, perhaps retreat into our shells and spend the remainder of the afternoon defending like a group of pensioners trying to keep a beach ball out of their greenhouse. But not this Chelsea side. Oh no. Rather than crumble, we decided the best form of defence was to go and score another bloody goal.

As the clock ticked into added time, Henderson and Palmer attempted to recreate their Bournemouth masterpiece. Unfortunately, Hendo’s effort went straight into the Everton wall which, to be fair, was the first time all afternoon their defence had successfully stopped anything without requiring medical assistance.

What followed was a glorious demonstration of pinball, with the ball bouncing around the penalty area like a drunk trying to find his hotel room in Benidorm. Eventually, it fell to Pedro Neto, who remained cooler than a penguin’s backside and calmly stroked it into the bottom-left corner.

2–0. Game over. Goodnight Vienna.

At this point, something truly extraordinary happened. Thousands of Everton supporters simultaneously remembered they’d left their ovens on. Either that or Goodison’s evacuation alarm had gone off, because the home sections emptied faster than a Wetherspoons when someone announces they’ve run out of beer.

I’ve seen fire drills conducted with less urgency. One minute the place was full of Evertonians, the next it looked like the stadium had been repossessed.

There were plenty of excellent individual performances today, but the real standout was the way we played as a team. An actual team! Eleven blokes who appeared to know each other, understood the game plan and, most remarkably of all, seemed to have been introduced before kick-off.

There was organisation, purpose and even the occasional suggestion that we’d practised something on the training ground. Revolutionary stuff!

It’s early days, of course, and I’ve been supporting Chelsea far too long to start booking an open-top bus parade, but I’m really liking the direction Alonso is taking us. For once, it feels like there’s a proper plan rather than eleven separate escape routes.

My takeaways…

By this point, I was happier than a happy thing that had just won the National Happiness Championships, married Miss Happiness 2026 and retired to a luxury villa overlooking the Bay of Extremely Happy Things.

Unfortunately, my mood was slightly dampened by the behaviour of a section of Everton’s finest, and I use the word ‘finest’ in much the same way you’d describe a motorway service station sandwich as fine dining.

There’s an unwritten rule in football. When a player is seriously injured and stretchered off, supporters put their rivalries aside for a few seconds and applaud. It’s called respect. Sportsmanship. Basic human decency. You know, those old-fashioned concepts that existed before social media convinced half the population that being an absolute bellend was a personality trait.

Sadly, a sizeable number of Everton supporters appeared to have missed that particular lesson, choosing instead to boo Martínez as he left the pitch. Perhaps they thought he was time-wasting. Perhaps they believed the stretcher was part of an elaborate tactical masterplan. Or perhaps, and I’m just throwing this out there, they were simply behaving like complete and utter weapons.

To be fair, some Everton fans did applaud, and good on them. Unfortunately, their efforts were drowned out by the sort of people who probably boo the ambulance when it blocks their driveway.

Everton are a proud football club with a long and distinguished history, and their genuine supporters deserve better than having their reputation dragged through the mud by a collection of individuals whose combined emotional intelligence wouldn’t trouble a garden gnome.

You can lose a football match and still leave with your dignity intact. Sadly, some of them managed to lose both.

UTC 💙

Dav