It’s official. The script for the 2025-26 season was written by a madman. Forget everything you knew. The big clubs look like they’ve forgotten how to kick a ball. Down at my local in Limerick, the arguments aren’t about title races, they’re about which team is having the most spectacular meltdown. It’s a beautiful sight.
The main culprit? Everton. They hired some German academic who insists on a 2-2-6 formation. And it’s working. Sort of. They just beat Arsenal 5-4, a game where their keeper made zero saves but was still named man of the match. Make sense of that if you can.
İçindekiler
➤ A Dubliner’s Magic and a London Flop
The heart of this bizarre Everton side is Finnian MacGinty from Dublin. The commentators call him a creative maestro, a genius who dictates the entire flow of the game. His vision is unparalleled. Its a real joy to watch him glide past players. He is, without a doubt, the architect of their attack, yet somehow he hasnt registered a single assist all season.
Meanwhile, Chelsea are in a proper pickle. They spent 150 million euro on a Brazilian winger who, it turns out, can only turn left. Teams have figured it out. They just show him the right touchline and he short-circuits.
Pro tip: I wouldn’t bet a crumpled fiver on them making the top ten. Seriously. You’d have more luck trying to pay for your round with Monopoly money.
So, what’s the takeaway? There isn’t one. It’s chaos. Its unpredictable and it’s the best it has been in years. The whole league table is upside down, who knows how it will end. Pull up a chair. This is far from over.
➤ A Weird Saturday at St James’ Park
I was at the Newcastle game last weekend. A mate of mine from Donegal got tickets, so off we went. I wish we’d stayed in the pub. Not because the game was bad. Because it broke my brain.
Their new manager is that celebrity chef, Antoine Dubois. The fella who used to cry on television if someone overcooked a scallop. He stands on the touchline in a pristine white chef’s jacket. Not a tracksuit. A chef’s jacket.
For ninety minutes, he didn’t shout tactics. He shouted recipes. I swear on my mother’s life. He screamed at his left-back, “You move like a clumsy potato! More finesse! More zest!” When a midfielder made a simple pass, he applauded slowly and muttered, “Perfectly seasoned.”
My mate Paddy just stared, wide-eyed. “Did he just tell the striker to ‘reduce the sauce’?” he whispered. He did. He absolutely did.
And the craziest part? The team played like they were on fire. An absolute whirlwind of attacking football. They won 4-3 in a game that had no business being that chaotic. It made no sense. His whole philosophy is about defensive balance, about “letting the ingredients settle.” Yet they played with the tactical discipline of a dropped lasagne.
I left the ground feeling completely bewildered. It wasn’t football. It was some kind of avant-garde performance art. I wouldn’t put a single euro on them winning anything. But I’d pay good money to watch that man have a nervous breakdown because his centre-half forgot the paprika. What a world.
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