Well, we've laughed, we've cried, we've wondered about the strange ineffability of the fundamental truth that we are doomed to be eternally unsuccessful.
That is Everton's season so far.
I've had a strange relationship with Everton in my life. Vivid memories include the 2-0 victory over QPR in the title-winning 1984-85 season when I was more concerned with why so many people were pissing at the front of the terraces. Or the season when my Uncle Tony bought us all a season ticket for 1986-87, forcing us to attend every match and resulting in me getting rapidly bored with football and reading the Your Sinclair magazine from cover to cover rather than watching the action unfold in front of me. Or the summer when my younger brother Daniel watched me and older brother John pre-pubescently sing Everton's 1984 FA Cup song for hours on end.
Anyway, all those are happy memories. Ish.
But this season has been the ultimate anti-climax. After a period of what seemed like incremental progress, and the formation of a strong team, Everton now play decent football, create chances, and then miss those chances with the accuracy of a 1990 Iraqi Scud missile.
If we had a purse, the purse strings would be tightened. However, with Bill 'What's my motivation darling?' Kenwright at the helm, it seems to be a struggle to keep the lights on at Goodison, never mind compete with other clubs of a similar standing to purchase players who will improve the squad.
We've performed admirably against the Big Guns, winning at Eastlands, drawing at Anfield and Stamford Bridge, juxtaposed against severe arse rammings at the hands of West Brom and others.
In short, I haven't got a fucking clue what's going to happen next. All I do know is that Everton FC are in my heart, they're in my soul, they're the cause of my stomach ulcers, and greying hair. I love them, I hate them, I wish they'd fuck off, I want to hug them, and then I want to dismember them.
Anyway, all of this angst will be passed on to my 2 year old and 5 month old sons. Poor blighters.
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