I like to have my dinner with my football. I eat and drink with great relish during the match, unless, of course, the camera zooms in on Sir Alex Ferguson. When that happens, I murmur an oath and take my plate to the kitchen and scrape it all into the rubbish. Who can eat while looking at that mess? His face looks like lumpy mashed potatoes, the veins that bulge beneath his flesh bag look like my strained beets, and his top lip looks like liver, and his bottom, a chocolate brownie. In short, looking at Alex Ferguson is like watching a DVD of a crack mother giving birth.
With that in mind, I sat down to watch this post FA Cup letdown match with a bag of sunflower seeds instead of Sunday roast, and I'd only cracked into a handful of them before noticing that Everton were the aggressors. “Whatever,†I chortled, as I fed the dog some husks. As if! However, I soon began to wonder if perhaps Ferguson had been buying his players from a different catalog than the one he buys his referees from. Everton were playing as though a game at Old Trafford was just a Sunday of gardening. Meantime, United's only threat was in the 18th minute when Rafael burst in on goal. However, he looked less comfortable with the ball than Titus Bramble, and in fact, acted as though the ball were a stubborn bumble-bee he couldn't shake free of. The greatest threat from United came when Ferguson broke away from his nurses and got hold of the referee's assistant. I'm not sure if my lip reading is as good as it used to be, but he appeared to be urging the assistant to, “Take me back to 1999, you son of a bitch. Do you hear me?†To add to the embarrassment, the cameras zoomed in on his orthopedic shoes peeking out from his six-hundred dollar Sans-A-Belt slacks.
In the 33rd minute Everton almost sent Ferguson back to the ICU when Tony Hibbert lofted a loaded butterfly that Jelavic nudged off his head, and sent floating into the upper right hand corner of the Manc net where it exploded into black confetti. I kept a close watch on Ferguson, because you never know when he's going to chip off another piece of his diminishing soul for the result he so craves. It is delightful to note that his demeanor is beginning to mimic, exactly, that of Arsene Wenger's when the results are not going his way. Five minutes later Rafael approached the penalty area again. However, this time, instead of taking the pesky ball with him, the wily defender brought a suicide note with him and then faked his death right at the edge of the box in a splendid scene straight from Othello. Play continued, and Rafael did not, and he refused to uncurl himself from his self-imposed fetal position. As the play moved up the pitch his eyes blinked, and when he realized that a defender would be needed again at the other end, he leaped to his feet and ran back to join his team, who were already gathering for a pre-halftime attack at the other end. Said attack ended with a deadly Nani cross that Rooney put his failing hair follicles to and the greasy ball ended up in back of Howard's net.
Halftime
In all my time all I ever knew when Everton played Man U was, “Brave Everton performance, capitulated at the end.†The second half saw Everton field a ghost team of Gough, Gemmil, Moore, Weir, Collins, Dunne, Watson, all playing brave, defending football with only one thought in mind; defeat, and United began serving heaping spoonfuls of it just the way Davey Moyes likes it from his pal:
57: Weldek scored when Pienaar went down. Everton sort of thought that since the same situation had thwarted one of their attacks in the first half, that this, well, maybe. Kindof, the ref'll do something, 'dunno what, like, but...(This sentence was as sloppy as Everton's tries at clearing the ball out of their own end, and it ended with Welbek slicing a ball just past the diving Howard)
By this time, if Everton's defence had been like a suit of armor, United were like a monkey hanging off the helmet and stabbing knives into the eye slits. Streams of crimson jetted from Everton's steely defence, and just a few minutes later Nani slashed at the soft white neck meat that Everton so prominently displayed, dashing in on Howard and scooped out some dark meat for himself. As the ball landed over Howard's shoulder and Howard fell to the grass, Nani took a moment to pray to the Rain god, or whatever, and the slaughtering of the sacrificial toffee was on.
Two minutes later, Moyes muttered, “Mulatto off, McFadden on,†and the match switched in a magical way not normally associated with a Scotsman. It took less than five minutes before McFadden hit the dashing Hibbert, who sent his second pinpoint cross in on goal that Fellaini blasted before the orb could touch grass. It did, however, touch net, inside the right post. This was the impetus Everton needed. Now, only down by three goals to two, they began—okay, make that four goals to two, as Welbeck and Rooney sliced the Everton defence again, with Rooney flinging twenty pieces of silver into Time Howard's net and telling him to, “keep the change, oh, and your Nan says 'hi.'†The guys in turbans, behind Moyes, held their hands to their mouths, pantomiming the, “Oh, no he DIDN'T!†expression.
United, up 4-2, at home, 21 minutes left, began to relax. Ferguson even had his nurse roll him over to the referee's assistant so he could put him in a playful headlock that had the assistant blushing like a school girl. Ferguson had given him something his family never could; love. Now United began turning the screws, but they forgot which way they go, and the match fell apart on them. Tim Cahill, naked, had wandered onto the pitch looking for scraps of meat and somebody to talk to when he found an interesting looking ball which got fed into the rabid Jelavic, who scootched it into the lower left hand side of the net. Before Ferguson could even gather his leaking, running face back up, Felani took a ball around the edge of the box, considered it for a few moments, and then sped it into Pienaar's warpath, and he sent a donkey up United's rectum, keep Everton above Liverpool, and drag United back into the muck of a title race.
However, there was still a trick left as United fans desperately tried to involve the referee into the match, with chants of, “Ref-a-ree! Ref-a-ree!†He responded by adding five minutes of stoppage time, which delighted demented Alex, and oddly enough, thrilled me. Hell yes, three points is what I thought, but one point is what everybody got, thanks to Tim Howard, who in the hectic last moments tipped over a rocket from Ferdinand, dated “1999.†Oh, Alex, so close, so close.
With that in mind, I sat down to watch this post FA Cup letdown match with a bag of sunflower seeds instead of Sunday roast, and I'd only cracked into a handful of them before noticing that Everton were the aggressors. “Whatever,†I chortled, as I fed the dog some husks. As if! However, I soon began to wonder if perhaps Ferguson had been buying his players from a different catalog than the one he buys his referees from. Everton were playing as though a game at Old Trafford was just a Sunday of gardening. Meantime, United's only threat was in the 18th minute when Rafael burst in on goal. However, he looked less comfortable with the ball than Titus Bramble, and in fact, acted as though the ball were a stubborn bumble-bee he couldn't shake free of. The greatest threat from United came when Ferguson broke away from his nurses and got hold of the referee's assistant. I'm not sure if my lip reading is as good as it used to be, but he appeared to be urging the assistant to, “Take me back to 1999, you son of a bitch. Do you hear me?†To add to the embarrassment, the cameras zoomed in on his orthopedic shoes peeking out from his six-hundred dollar Sans-A-Belt slacks.
In the 33rd minute Everton almost sent Ferguson back to the ICU when Tony Hibbert lofted a loaded butterfly that Jelavic nudged off his head, and sent floating into the upper right hand corner of the Manc net where it exploded into black confetti. I kept a close watch on Ferguson, because you never know when he's going to chip off another piece of his diminishing soul for the result he so craves. It is delightful to note that his demeanor is beginning to mimic, exactly, that of Arsene Wenger's when the results are not going his way. Five minutes later Rafael approached the penalty area again. However, this time, instead of taking the pesky ball with him, the wily defender brought a suicide note with him and then faked his death right at the edge of the box in a splendid scene straight from Othello. Play continued, and Rafael did not, and he refused to uncurl himself from his self-imposed fetal position. As the play moved up the pitch his eyes blinked, and when he realized that a defender would be needed again at the other end, he leaped to his feet and ran back to join his team, who were already gathering for a pre-halftime attack at the other end. Said attack ended with a deadly Nani cross that Rooney put his failing hair follicles to and the greasy ball ended up in back of Howard's net.
Halftime
In all my time all I ever knew when Everton played Man U was, “Brave Everton performance, capitulated at the end.†The second half saw Everton field a ghost team of Gough, Gemmil, Moore, Weir, Collins, Dunne, Watson, all playing brave, defending football with only one thought in mind; defeat, and United began serving heaping spoonfuls of it just the way Davey Moyes likes it from his pal:
57: Weldek scored when Pienaar went down. Everton sort of thought that since the same situation had thwarted one of their attacks in the first half, that this, well, maybe. Kindof, the ref'll do something, 'dunno what, like, but...(This sentence was as sloppy as Everton's tries at clearing the ball out of their own end, and it ended with Welbek slicing a ball just past the diving Howard)
By this time, if Everton's defence had been like a suit of armor, United were like a monkey hanging off the helmet and stabbing knives into the eye slits. Streams of crimson jetted from Everton's steely defence, and just a few minutes later Nani slashed at the soft white neck meat that Everton so prominently displayed, dashing in on Howard and scooped out some dark meat for himself. As the ball landed over Howard's shoulder and Howard fell to the grass, Nani took a moment to pray to the Rain god, or whatever, and the slaughtering of the sacrificial toffee was on.
Two minutes later, Moyes muttered, “Mulatto off, McFadden on,†and the match switched in a magical way not normally associated with a Scotsman. It took less than five minutes before McFadden hit the dashing Hibbert, who sent his second pinpoint cross in on goal that Fellaini blasted before the orb could touch grass. It did, however, touch net, inside the right post. This was the impetus Everton needed. Now, only down by three goals to two, they began—okay, make that four goals to two, as Welbeck and Rooney sliced the Everton defence again, with Rooney flinging twenty pieces of silver into Time Howard's net and telling him to, “keep the change, oh, and your Nan says 'hi.'†The guys in turbans, behind Moyes, held their hands to their mouths, pantomiming the, “Oh, no he DIDN'T!†expression.
United, up 4-2, at home, 21 minutes left, began to relax. Ferguson even had his nurse roll him over to the referee's assistant so he could put him in a playful headlock that had the assistant blushing like a school girl. Ferguson had given him something his family never could; love. Now United began turning the screws, but they forgot which way they go, and the match fell apart on them. Tim Cahill, naked, had wandered onto the pitch looking for scraps of meat and somebody to talk to when he found an interesting looking ball which got fed into the rabid Jelavic, who scootched it into the lower left hand side of the net. Before Ferguson could even gather his leaking, running face back up, Felani took a ball around the edge of the box, considered it for a few moments, and then sped it into Pienaar's warpath, and he sent a donkey up United's rectum, keep Everton above Liverpool, and drag United back into the muck of a title race.
However, there was still a trick left as United fans desperately tried to involve the referee into the match, with chants of, “Ref-a-ree! Ref-a-ree!†He responded by adding five minutes of stoppage time, which delighted demented Alex, and oddly enough, thrilled me. Hell yes, three points is what I thought, but one point is what everybody got, thanks to Tim Howard, who in the hectic last moments tipped over a rocket from Ferdinand, dated “1999.†Oh, Alex, so close, so close.
