God love Tony Hibbert. This is nothing to do with the match, but I just have a feeling that he doesn't know that prem league footballers are paid to do what they do. I think that when Hibbert was a child he was kidnapped by Peter Johnson, and later added to the deal with Bill Kenwright. Kenwright has filled his head with things like, “If we win today and you play exceptionally well, lad, you will get quite a handsome prize.†Sometimes I watch Hibbert play and I think, “Kenwright's offered him a semi-gold chain today.†The lad has never put a foot wrong on or off the pitch and keeps his mouth shut and wingers shut down and seems to run off of pure Scouse pride.
That said, West Brom showed up at the door today. Oh, they were modest and all, playing down their role in the Premiership, just happy to be here, and all of that happy clap trap, but we have seen that act before, and they always seem to end with the commentator's voice crying out, “And West Brom have snatched a vital three points!â€
Well if West Brom have snatched points off us in the past, we have been sucking points and places out of pitches over the last couple of weeks like we were shop vacuums set to super-charge. This match, however, began as though the shop-vacuum was clogged up with a lot of cat hair, feathers, spurs and the like. In fact, after the high-powered performances of the last two matches, there was nothing worth noting once this one got underway other than somebody had finally scrubbed the unicorn jizz off of Scharner's head, and put a padded cell in the dugout for the West Brom manager.
Although Tim Howard had nothing to do, I began to fear that this was the sort of day that he would do nothing when he finally had something to do. While I pondered this, Leon Osman twinkle-toed his way down the centre of the pitch, passed to Jelavic, back to Leon, who let rip just outside the area. The keeper dove to his left, but the ball deflected sharply off some baggie and into the net. Ossie tried to claim the goal, and Hibbert gave him the wink and nod, like, “Played, lad, that's a trackie for you.†However, the half played out the way a hint of rain smatters against a tin roof before finally unfulfilling the promise.
HALFTIME
The second half arrived and unfolded like guests who stay too long after dinner. West Brom passed the ball a little, Everton countered with a lone long ball, Brom played one out of touch, I yawned, Everton took out baby pictures, I sighed and began to wander around the room, and West Brom countered with love poems their fourteen year old daughter had written. However, Everton suddenly brought on Victor for Cahill, Albion gave up a free kick in Baine's territory, and I shook myself. Suddenly, I found the guests a bit more intriguing. But instead of Baines taking the kick, Jelavic got a try because “Leighton always gets to take them.†Leighton will be taking even more of them after Slavic floated the ball over the net like he was some sort of tart dropping a scented hanky for a rich bloke in the Street End to catch and return.
In the sixty eighth minute Pienaar went on another pitch-surfing safari and slid a ball to Vic, who happened to be moving at the time. Vic popped the ball low off the left goalpost and it ricocheted around the inside of the net. Vic celebrated by chucking rocks and shrunken heads at the Gwladys Street end. The West Brom fans then began singing, “Tell me ma I want, Some tea and some sympathy...†What they got was a near boxing match between their own goalkeeper and Odomwingy, younger brother of Whatchamacallit and Humdinger, oh, and the final whistle. Hibbert broke into a grin. He was going to get some Burberry and Rockport, deffo, lid.
That said, West Brom showed up at the door today. Oh, they were modest and all, playing down their role in the Premiership, just happy to be here, and all of that happy clap trap, but we have seen that act before, and they always seem to end with the commentator's voice crying out, “And West Brom have snatched a vital three points!â€
Well if West Brom have snatched points off us in the past, we have been sucking points and places out of pitches over the last couple of weeks like we were shop vacuums set to super-charge. This match, however, began as though the shop-vacuum was clogged up with a lot of cat hair, feathers, spurs and the like. In fact, after the high-powered performances of the last two matches, there was nothing worth noting once this one got underway other than somebody had finally scrubbed the unicorn jizz off of Scharner's head, and put a padded cell in the dugout for the West Brom manager.
Although Tim Howard had nothing to do, I began to fear that this was the sort of day that he would do nothing when he finally had something to do. While I pondered this, Leon Osman twinkle-toed his way down the centre of the pitch, passed to Jelavic, back to Leon, who let rip just outside the area. The keeper dove to his left, but the ball deflected sharply off some baggie and into the net. Ossie tried to claim the goal, and Hibbert gave him the wink and nod, like, “Played, lad, that's a trackie for you.†However, the half played out the way a hint of rain smatters against a tin roof before finally unfulfilling the promise.
HALFTIME
The second half arrived and unfolded like guests who stay too long after dinner. West Brom passed the ball a little, Everton countered with a lone long ball, Brom played one out of touch, I yawned, Everton took out baby pictures, I sighed and began to wander around the room, and West Brom countered with love poems their fourteen year old daughter had written. However, Everton suddenly brought on Victor for Cahill, Albion gave up a free kick in Baine's territory, and I shook myself. Suddenly, I found the guests a bit more intriguing. But instead of Baines taking the kick, Jelavic got a try because “Leighton always gets to take them.†Leighton will be taking even more of them after Slavic floated the ball over the net like he was some sort of tart dropping a scented hanky for a rich bloke in the Street End to catch and return.
In the sixty eighth minute Pienaar went on another pitch-surfing safari and slid a ball to Vic, who happened to be moving at the time. Vic popped the ball low off the left goalpost and it ricocheted around the inside of the net. Vic celebrated by chucking rocks and shrunken heads at the Gwladys Street end. The West Brom fans then began singing, “Tell me ma I want, Some tea and some sympathy...†What they got was a near boxing match between their own goalkeeper and Odomwingy, younger brother of Whatchamacallit and Humdinger, oh, and the final whistle. Hibbert broke into a grin. He was going to get some Burberry and Rockport, deffo, lid.
