Everton FC

Joleon Lescott is the most confusing player in the Premiership. His first goal today was classic Lescott with Osman flicking the ball on and Jolly lurking round the 6 yard box to prod it home, so far, so very Joleon. If his first goal was classic Lescott though, his second was more like classic David Platt, after another flick on this time from Jags, he swivelled on the edge of the 6 yard box and struck a sweet volley with his back to goal - beating Friedel and seemingly rescuing a draw in injury time from a game which we could have easily won with our performance.

But this is where the confusion sets in.

After an impeccable performance and with literally seconds left on the clock, the ball was prodded through to Ashley Young from Agbonlahor and Young goes past Jolly as if he's not there and slots the ball home, breaking the hearts of toffees fans everywhere. This has been typical of him this season, a strange and quirky mixture of attacking flair and inept defending which has caused in me both serene rapture and howling rage all year.

Despite the result however, this was one of our better performances this season. We dominated the midfield for the most part, with Fellaini in particular looking dangerous despite his outward appearance of a lanky afro'd clown, and to come so close to beating what is now an excellent Aston Villa side with the injury problems we're having is nothing to be sniffed at. It was just a shame that we capitulated so poorly after playing so well.

God hates Everton strikers. This is irrefutable fact. Not only are The Yak and James Vaughan crocked for the rest of the season (if not permanently in Vaughan's case), but its also transpired that Saha has pulled his hamstring during today's game against Spurs and is gonna be out for at least a few weeks. This leaves us second only to Woolworths employees in terms of sheer bad luck and getting royally screwed over just before Christmas. However thats just the way things are, and there's nowt we can do about it so I will try my best not to bang on about it.

I doubt, however, that I would be quite so philosophical about the whole affair had we lost today. While watching the Manchester derby in the pub earlier this afternoon, I was saying to my good friend and fellow toffee Robbie that I would gladly take a draw at White Hart Lane after our abysmal performance against Wigan on Monday. What I didn't count on though was the reappearance of lil' Stevie P, who was effervescent in todays game, and easily our man of the match. He worked hard, covering most of the pitch and brought some much-needed quality to our midfield, something we have sorely lacked since Arteta forgot all the qualities that make him the player he is (was?). Today was also the first post-match interview I've seen featuring young Pienaar, and I was suprised and a little shocked at the bass-laden timbre of his voice. The man has a throat like a subwoofer.

Jags, again, was imperious in defence and has easily been our player of the season so far for me. He reminds me a bit of John Terry, always getting the first touch on dangerous balls into the box and organising our sometimes hapless defence via the gift of shouting loudly. Give this guy the captain's armband, as it is simply going to waste on Neville. Our general play was pretty good all round in fact, with Fellaini looking dangerous and Cahill returning to the form we all know he is capable of.

If there is an upside to our strikers dropping like flies, its that it means we pretty much have no choice but to return to the old 4-5-1 system we've been so fond of the past few seasons, providing we can keep our big midfielders fit. Its now time for Victor Anichebe, Lukas Jutkiewicz and Jose Baxter to step up and start wearing the daddy pants, and they are big pants full of a mess left behind by Yakubu.

All in all, an excellent result for us today but at what cost?

Of the 1260 minutes of league football that Everton have played this year I have actually enjoyed, at most, 45 minutes of it. That is a terrible return for my investment -  to the extent that I'm starting to question my ability to support them in a logical and conventional manner. At half time during tonight's game, I actually thought to myself that I would turn the lights off in the unoccupied rooms of my house, as that tiny piece of environmental karma might just tip the balance in favour of the toffee's. This wasn't just folly either, I genuinely believed that this might have an effect.

This is what it has come to ladies and gentlemen. It's almost too much to hope at this point that Mickey might actually clear the first defender with a set-piece, that Roger might actually mark the opposing teams' right winger in a conventional manner instead of aimlessley wandering up and down the left flank, or that Phil Neville will simply stop being Phil Neville. The aformentioned 45 minutes that I enjoyed this season came during the second half of the United game a couple of months ago when it actually looked like we were trying to play attacking football, display some tenacity, and y'know score goals or something equally outrageous. Contrast that with tonight's dismal performance and the difference isn't so much day and night as it is sonar and lunar eclipse. Our main tactic against the pie-eaters seemed to be play it into feet in midfield, hold it up, get tackled and then get Yobo/Jags/Nev/Rog (delete as applicable) to just hoof it upfield, in the vain hope that Yakubu might actually make a run. With the exception of Jags and Howard, not a single Everton player can hold their head up and say they had a good game.

So fuck it, I don't care any more, I will do whatever it takes to see us perform better this season regardless of how menial and/or utterly unconnected it is. It'll be like that scene in Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum is explaining Chaos Theory to that bint out of Blue Velvet. Maybe if I adjust the tire pressure on my car to improve its economy, this will cause Tim Cahill to regain his ability to head the ball, if I perhaps stopped thinking bad thoughts about people I dislike, Steven Pienaar will remain fit for the rest of the season. If I stop kicking my cats in the face when they miaow for food, we'll beat Liverpool at Anfield this season. For that, I would (however reluctantly) stop kicking my cats in the face.

Reading back what I've written, I realise that I've not actually described or analysed anything of any great substance regarding tonight's performance for this match report. Hang on, maybe that's it! Its only since I've started writing this column that we've started underperforming now I think of it. Hmmm, tell you what, if we win our next game against Spurs, be prepared for many more ramblings from the edge...

If that's what it takes.

To be honest, I've been putting off writing match reports for the last two games against Bolton and Fulham. Not only have I been as busy as Harry Redknapp, but the two matches were so unutterably dull for about the first 85 minutes that my brain freezes up in recoiled horror every time I've tried to put them into words. However, like some kind of undramatic 4-5-1 phoenix from the flames, the boys managed to look like the Everton of last season, gritty and determined in midfield, solid defensively, and grinding out simple but effective 1-0 wins against lesser opponents. No disrepect to Bolton or Fulham fans, but you are. You just are.

Again Fellaini was magisterial, if that is even a word, and nodded in his goal against Bolton with a sort of lanky grace usually reserved for Peter Crouch and swans. He's dominating the midfield aerial battles and is combining well with Osman in the middle, even if it does leave us a bit slack defensively, and with Cahill back and Rodwell coming through the ranks we suddenly appear to have a wealth of options in the middle seemingly from nowhere. Saha finally managed to get on the scoresheet, we're now 7th in the league behind the mighty Hull, we got our first home win (for fucks sake) and we've picked up 7 points from the last 3 games... in other words, things are looking up.

Oh and to sweeten the deal further, Liverpool got beaten by Tottenham with ol' spade-face Carragher scoring an exquisite own goal. Later I used this to wind up our erstwhile Liverpool editor Yates until he got so drunk and surly that he ordered expensive cocktails from the bar and demanded for them to be 'put on the tab.' Shit got undignified. 

Greetings my fellow toffees, first of all my apologies for the lack of updates of late, but between my internet/pc being on the blink and spending some time in our fair capital I've been a bit short of time to report all that is good, bad and indifferent about our fair club.

After missing the first 20 minutes of the game whilst trying to find a pub in London (the natural home of the Man U supporter) which was actually showing the match, the outlook was not good. We were one-nil down to Darren Fletcher's nicely taken goal, and United were starting to turn the screws as they so often tend to do. However, after a few excellent saves from Howard, some hard tackling from P Nev, and some shameful histrionics from Ronaldo, it looked like we were getting a foothold in the game and managing to disrupt United's usual attacking grace. Beforehand I was dreading this game, not so much in that we might lose as I expected, but more the manner of our loss - all season we've looked short of confidence and even when a goal or two ahead we've looked shaky defensively. But the performance from the boys in the second half was as good as I've seen all season - with Fellaini managing to win the aerial battle in midfield (and seemingly getting more used to the pace of the Prem), and Jags and Yobo managing to contain the attacking threat from Rooney and Ronaldo.

When big Maz managed to glance the ball home from Arteta's sweeping corner kick, things were starting to look up, and literally seconds later Yakubu should have made it two-one after a rather uncharacteristic fuck up from the trembly-lipped wonder that is Rio Ferdinand. After another twenty minutes or so of excellent football from ourselves, the game was over, we had gained a vital point, and Ferguson was cracking out the old "the referee didn't give us enough protection," chestnut. Not only that, but the Gwladys Street End managed to wind Rooney up to the extent that he kissed his Man U badge, then stared darkly at anyone within spitting distance if they so much as looked at him funny, causing ol' Red Face to sub him before he bit clean through someone's leg in pure bovine anger. All in all, a good day.