Wolves 0, Everton 0: Bill Howell's big match verdict
THEY’ll pop down the road and be sick on the sofa, they’ll rip down the curtains and have a cheeky widdle in the kitchen sink.
They’ll be knocking back cans of supermarket cider and stuffing the empties in the laundry basket, they’ll play AC/DC until the room shakes, they’ll stay up ’til well gone midnight and they’ll make sure the neighbours know it.
They’ll brush their fringe down over their faces, they’ll refuse to tuck in their shirts and they’ll not even wash their hands after a visit to the said kitchen sink.
But at home they’ll be clean, calm and responsible. They’ll do their maths homework in front of the fire, they’ll read Enid Blyton books to their little sister and brush their teeth before saying their prayers.
Welcome to the world of the Wolverhampton tearaways who live the lives of hell-raisers on their travels but are churchmice at home.
And who can knock it? Who can blame them? It’s working a treat. Why trash your own home when you can happily trash others?
If they were a restaurant, they’d be preparing gourmet foods for home delivery – warm loin of Herdwick mutton, Jerusalem artichoke puree and honey & mint dressing – while leaving fish finger and chips to the eat-in diners.
But those eat-in diners are stuffing their faces. Their bellies are full to bursting, they’re jumping on tables, smashing plates against walls and having a ball.
The last goal at Molineux scored by a Wolves player was Billy Wright. I know that’s a fact because I’ve seen the black and white photograph.
But who cares? In a season where Portsmouth have acted like a 13-year-old who nicked his dad’s wallet to impress his mates only to spend the party under a table after being violently ill on a £2 bottle of beer, and Burnley have acted like the school swot who refuses to join in with his pals by not buying anything for anybody until their mum comes to take them home at 9pm, then Wolves have got their season just about right.
They’ve danced with the devil when they’ve needed, they’ve taken a sip or two of the strong stuff locked away in their parents’ cabinet when the opportunity has presented itself, and they’ve even stolen a kiss from the class sweetheart when Dutch courage has allowed.
They’ll be tucked up in the right beds next season. Faces scrubbed, pyjamas aired and pressed and teddy bears beside them.
To think that at least twice this season Wolves were seemingly chucked out of the party, only to clamber back in through an upstairs window.
Defeat to Blues at home led to utter despair. The manager was a clown, the players didn’t deserve to wear the shirt and the chief executive was out of his depth.
Then Wigan at home. Richard Stearman’s season effectively ended, as did that of Sylvan Ebanks-Blake.
A last roll of the dice saw a change in formation. Mick McCarthy picked just one up front and you could hear the howls of derision from the angry natives bemoaning his negativity.
But it worked. Almost like a dream. A tinkering manager who seemingly couldn’t decide on his best selection became a manager where even the slightest change – except the quartet of Nenad Milijas, Adlene Guedioura, Michael Mancienne and Dave Jones who would vie for his attention – would seem completely unnecessary.
