CaptainMoose
Player Valuation: £25k
It doesn’t take long to realise – behind the new licks of paint, some backroom reshuffling, and an unexpected amount of guile in our transfer dealings – that something very special is happening in L4. Okay, so there’s no bowler-hatted governor outside the Wimslow and the pies still smell like the reheated leftovers from the Saturday morning dog walkers but, and let’s be honest here, I wouldn’t queue up for 20 minutes to tickle Bobbie’s coin purse, never mind waiting for the £5 culinary equivalent of being bent over the boot of Anton Rodger’s car. Would you?
Christmas Day was sufficiently lubricated; the old man ignored the pretender perched on top of Sky Sports’ tree. What did he get me this year? Out of bed on Boxing Day to watch eleven blokes with turkey-hangovers waddle around. Maybe we deserved a good stuffing. There’s nothing wrong here, no gifts to return, no novelty socks, unless you count Anthony Taylor. He could have done with pulling his up a bit, but I’m guessing he drew Mason in the PGMOL Secret Santa – what better present to get him than a big fat finger to the laws of the game. Onwards and upwards; I wouldn’t want to seem bitter. I might put on this season’s DVDs to cheer myself up. That’s a bit of satire, just in case we’ve got some slow kopites hiding in the closet – about as genuine as a Suarez apology.
Maybe I should apologise for that. There are reports that his missus has threatened to leave him, so he’s turned over a new leaf. Let’s hope this side has the number of a decent orthodontist – I wouldn’t want those two front church-doors under my tree. Perhaps it’s the festive spirit hanging around Stanley Park that got carried down the M6, but there was something a bit too loving and giving at Stamford Bridge; never mind, we’ll just swap gifts and have a laugh. Right? My routine’s the same: swap the t-shirt for the blue, knock a few pints back, and grab a sarnie from the Church. Bish bash bosh.
Matchday stomach linings aside, this season is shaping up to be a real corker. Although it seems in his haste, Brendon has jammed the cork into the bottle and all the little nuggets are plopping out. I could have aimed a whiskey-shrivelled trouser snake at the ball and trickled it over the line faster than Eto’o. You’ve got to wonder how that shower are banging in the goals, making the scores appear so convincing and comprehensive, when the football is so pedestrian. It’s about time they’re held responsible for all those RTAs. Let’s just get one thing clear: without the [Poor language removed] child of Ken Dodd and an alpaca, they’d by languishing down in eighth. The (for lack of a better word) man is prolific but also a liability, and we know how our disowned [Poor language removed] across the park loves to attract controversy like a turd to the swimming pool filters.
Anyway, I said there’s something magical, and you’re all waiting for me to pull Debbie McGee out of my hat. I wouldn’t want to pull her from anywhere else – that magic’s worn off. Was it botox? The truth is, despite the typically Evertonian blip that ensured we didn’t set any records this year, we never look like a team that’s going to lose. We’re not bringing on Johnny5 with fifteen minutes to go, trying to hang on to (or piss away) a 2-1 lead over Fulham, bringing everyone back for corners, and erecting a panicked Maginot line in front of the box. Even when we’re losing, we look like we’re going to win. It’s that simple. Remember the Norwich and Arsenal games. Not only do we look like we’re going to win but, most of the time, we really do.
Now, we can argue ‘til we’re blue in the face (I know we’ll be colour coded, but it’s not advisable), but I’ll leave you with this thought: I got my Christmas present on 5th June. Alright, it was the same day as my birthday, so the blowjobs make this a closer call than I’m admitting, but Martinez brought with him a winning, attacking mentality, a positivity and charm that enamours him to the pundits and media impresarios , and the exact same attitude that Fergie bundled out the doors at Old Trafford. Davie wants an empire, ruling with his frown , and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command? “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Let him have it. I’d prefer to be a witness to a legacy (in part, his) than sat in the pub, or processed into that theatre. Let The Scottish Play commence. In the meantime, I’ll be having a little siesta. Wake me up from this dream in May.
Solo lo mejor. Merry Christmas my fellow Blues.
Christmas Day was sufficiently lubricated; the old man ignored the pretender perched on top of Sky Sports’ tree. What did he get me this year? Out of bed on Boxing Day to watch eleven blokes with turkey-hangovers waddle around. Maybe we deserved a good stuffing. There’s nothing wrong here, no gifts to return, no novelty socks, unless you count Anthony Taylor. He could have done with pulling his up a bit, but I’m guessing he drew Mason in the PGMOL Secret Santa – what better present to get him than a big fat finger to the laws of the game. Onwards and upwards; I wouldn’t want to seem bitter. I might put on this season’s DVDs to cheer myself up. That’s a bit of satire, just in case we’ve got some slow kopites hiding in the closet – about as genuine as a Suarez apology.
Maybe I should apologise for that. There are reports that his missus has threatened to leave him, so he’s turned over a new leaf. Let’s hope this side has the number of a decent orthodontist – I wouldn’t want those two front church-doors under my tree. Perhaps it’s the festive spirit hanging around Stanley Park that got carried down the M6, but there was something a bit too loving and giving at Stamford Bridge; never mind, we’ll just swap gifts and have a laugh. Right? My routine’s the same: swap the t-shirt for the blue, knock a few pints back, and grab a sarnie from the Church. Bish bash bosh.
Matchday stomach linings aside, this season is shaping up to be a real corker. Although it seems in his haste, Brendon has jammed the cork into the bottle and all the little nuggets are plopping out. I could have aimed a whiskey-shrivelled trouser snake at the ball and trickled it over the line faster than Eto’o. You’ve got to wonder how that shower are banging in the goals, making the scores appear so convincing and comprehensive, when the football is so pedestrian. It’s about time they’re held responsible for all those RTAs. Let’s just get one thing clear: without the [Poor language removed] child of Ken Dodd and an alpaca, they’d by languishing down in eighth. The (for lack of a better word) man is prolific but also a liability, and we know how our disowned [Poor language removed] across the park loves to attract controversy like a turd to the swimming pool filters.
Anyway, I said there’s something magical, and you’re all waiting for me to pull Debbie McGee out of my hat. I wouldn’t want to pull her from anywhere else – that magic’s worn off. Was it botox? The truth is, despite the typically Evertonian blip that ensured we didn’t set any records this year, we never look like a team that’s going to lose. We’re not bringing on Johnny5 with fifteen minutes to go, trying to hang on to (or piss away) a 2-1 lead over Fulham, bringing everyone back for corners, and erecting a panicked Maginot line in front of the box. Even when we’re losing, we look like we’re going to win. It’s that simple. Remember the Norwich and Arsenal games. Not only do we look like we’re going to win but, most of the time, we really do.
Now, we can argue ‘til we’re blue in the face (I know we’ll be colour coded, but it’s not advisable), but I’ll leave you with this thought: I got my Christmas present on 5th June. Alright, it was the same day as my birthday, so the blowjobs make this a closer call than I’m admitting, but Martinez brought with him a winning, attacking mentality, a positivity and charm that enamours him to the pundits and media impresarios , and the exact same attitude that Fergie bundled out the doors at Old Trafford. Davie wants an empire, ruling with his frown , and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command? “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Let him have it. I’d prefer to be a witness to a legacy (in part, his) than sat in the pub, or processed into that theatre. Let The Scottish Play commence. In the meantime, I’ll be having a little siesta. Wake me up from this dream in May.
Solo lo mejor. Merry Christmas my fellow Blues.
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