Goodison Park is gearing up for its final dance with Manchester United this Saturday. United have had us on toast more times than we’d care to count – 41 league wins, a record that’s less a stat and more a recurring nightmare. Last time we sent them packing was April 2022, when Anthony Gordon fluked one in and we clung on like a drunk to a lamppost. Since then, it’s been grim – five straight league losses, including a 4-0 spanking at Old Trafford in December that felt like a personal insult. But Goodison’s got a habit of turning the script when the ink’s still wet. Maybe Saturday’s the day.
The Walking Wounded and the Barely Standing
Our squad’s a butcher’s slab of crocks and half-fits. Abdoulaye Doucoure’s back from his derby timeout, ready to run through walls or at least through Fernandes. Dominic Calvert-Lewin’s thigh’s still whispering doubts, Iliman Ndiaye’s knee’s gone AWOL, and Seamus Coleman, Armando Broja, Orel Mangala, and Dwight McNeil are all sipping tea in the physio’s lair. Beto, though—big, beautiful Beto—he’s on a tear, four goals in three games, a wrecking ball with a grin. Carlos Alcaraz, that Flamengo loanee, is threading passes like he’s auditioning for a better postcode. Might be enough.
United? They’re limping too. Ruben Amorim’s got a fistful of maybes—Ugarte, Collyer, Yoro, Eriksen—and a skip full of no-shows: Bayindir, Diallo, Mainoo, Martinez, Evans, Mount, Shaw. Still, Fernandes lurks like a tax bill, and Zirkzee’s got that knack for making you regret blinking. Dangerous, even on crutches.
Moyesy, the Prodigal Son
David Moyes is back, and it’s like he never left. Four wins and a draw in six since he swapped Dyche’s dog-eared playbook for his own tattered hymn sheet – only Villa’s spoiled the party. Facing United, where he once chewed gum and dreamed of mid-table, he’ll be itching to twist the knife. He’s got us digging trenches again, and Goodison’s humming with it. A flicker of the old days, maybe.
United are stuttering, Amorim’s grand plan looks more like a doodle on a beer mat. Beto’s got their patched-up defence sweating, and if Doucoure and Garner can wrestle the middle, we’ve got a shout. Five losses on the spin to this lot says they own us, but history’s just paper—tear it up.
Up the Toffees, you gorgeous, maddening bastards.