There’s been much talk in recent years about moving Premier League games to various parts of the world that do not boast Premier League teams – Sheffield, Miami and so on – with the stated aim of spreading the gospel, had the gospel been stolen from Jesus and the Four Evangelists, to be bastardised and defiled, to be converted into folding green and then into geopolitical power and influence. By way of total non-sequitur, this year’s Geopolitics World Cup will be held in Donald Trump’s America. There was, of course, much anger at this ludicrous plan for many righteous reasons, then we all got back to enjoying the football as the ignoramiti knew we would, the game too chaotically, joyously puerile and affirming for its own and our own good. How can we possibly excise it from our souls when it bestows upon us the unbridled wildness of Wednesday’s behaviour, as it also did during the last round of midweek fixtures? The campaign for a fully night-time Premier League begins here.

But in the meantime, let’s look back at what came to pass and, given no one ever starts with Everton, let’s start with Everton and their two red...