Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
Relax’ said the night man,
’We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave!’
I don’t think they knew it at the time, but the Eagles might as well have been writing about Everton Football Club when they penned Hotel California. Farhad Moshiri’s sorry excuse for a sports team is stuck on a relentless, never-ending hamster wheel of crap, and they can’t get off the ride.
Every match, every signing, every substitution, every season is a variation on the same tune. What begins on a high note with exciting promise devolves into a cycle of depressing, preventable results, each one almost no different from the last.
Individuals who are talented in their own right run around the grass field a lot, but not in a sensible way, and they inevitably make a mistake or three. Once the mistakes are made, they’re usually irrevocable. There is no plan B. There probably wasn’t even a plan A. That’s one of the hallmarks of managing Everton. You can’t possibly know what you’re doing.
Nobody was particularly good today. Nobody was particularly bad, either, bar Everton’s two Watford imports. You know who you are. In the end, it doesn’t seem to matter who played well or who played poorly. The dark cloud over this football club won’t go away. Sometimes it doesn’t rain on your head, but most days you get struck by lightning.
Maybe this instant reaction to today’s match is too negative for you. That’s probably fair. But I’m tired. Of Marco Silva. Of Bill Kenwright. Of Farhad Moshiri. Of my weekends being regularly ruined. Are you tired?