Forrest Gump and Cilla Black got it right. Life is full of surprises.

I told you all at the start of the season I would weave a tale of mystery and suspense, but even I have been shocked at a) some of the comments my articles have inspired and b)some of the events that have unfolded so far.

So I hope to pacify some angry readers and enlighten those still not convinced by my impartiality. And all that without mention of Stevie G or JC – oh, already that plan has failed.

Anyway, a week of surprises started with the results from games we wouldn’t normally give two hoots about. If anyone else sat in a pub cheering on the Israelites like the weirdoes we witnessed after the sad Scotch, I’d be amazed. But clearly many of you did, which demonstrates how England do still mean something to many. The Russia and Croatia results set us up nicely for the Wembley decider, surely Steve ‘chuckles’ McClaren’s men would now not fail.

We know what happened, and our esteemed editor’s article summed it up far more succinctly than I could. However, whilst Brian Barwick was promising a ‘root and branch’ audit of English football, so I and my colleagues were reeling from a call from Ofsted. A similar inspection was coming, though hopefully wouldn’t have the same result as befell the new toothed one.

So football took a back step for a couple of days as we ran around preparing evidence and lesson plans. A wise man once said that ‘teaching is like football’ (ok, so it was me) and last weekend certainly felt like the nervy night before a cup final.

Saturday’s performance and result at Goodison was of an ilk I’ve never fully witnessed live before, only on historical DVDs through whisky-induced tearful eyes.

No less a sage as Stuart Hall apparently likened Everton’s football to Keats’s poetry afterwards, and there was certainly much beauty to appreciate and purr about. Although we’re on a good run, I for one didn’t expect such sublime soccer and high emotions. Everton have a habit of letting us down just when we think we’re on to something good, twas always so, in fact many Evertonians admit that nothing could surprise them where Toffeeness is concerned.

There were a few good goals, and quite a bit of champagne football. Arteta’s swagger returned with aplomb, Nuno was a joy to watch at left back, and Steven Pia-Pia-Pienaar gets better with every game. Of the magnificent seven, little Leon’s (still too young to take penalties) goal was possibly the pick of the bunch. However, Yakubu was the biggest (literally still) shock, and played like, well, an £11 million striker. His record is becoming alarmingly impressive, another pleasant surprise, as was the sight of Mr Testicles at half time (don’t ask.)

For a couple of hours at least, the Blues took me to football heaven, a scientific school where inspections and other such stress mean nothing. At this point I also have to express my amazement at the treatment of Rafa. In one respect it couldn’t happen to a nicer fella, but again I defend him and think it’s unjust. Tonight’s report that five thousand loveable Reds were to storm Anfield with anti-US slogans comes as no surprise, however the uncertainty surrounding a manager whose team are unbeaten still and is – just to appease all those who think I’m bitter -  undoubtedly a good coach who has a bit of luck. Maybe the result against Porto will have appeased the demanding Americans for a little while longer.

Yet more surprises were around the corner. Man Utd losing to the Ginger Mourinho’s horrible lot, Bruce to Wigan, Redknapp’s arrest (well, maybe not), Jewell to Derby, Sydney FC’s tactics, McLeish to Birmingham… and Alan Irvine to Preston. Less surprising, for my Carlisle-supporting flatmate at least, was Irvine’s predecessor Paul Simpson going back north to Gretna. Not to get married I presume, rather in some advisory role, temporarily thankfully given Preston’s form so far this season.

The Ofsted didn’t go too well in case you were wondering. It just goes to show that being taken by surprise isn’t always pleasant. But the joy of unpredictability is what lures many of us into the clutches of the beautiful game, and if you could say exactly what was going to happen, it wouldn’t be half as exciting. I realise I’m having to eat my words, given that in the recent past I said that just as death and taxes are certain, so was foreseeing Liverpool comebacks and Hollyoaks storylines. Now, at the risk of putting my bequiffed head on the metaphorical block, I’m not so sure.

Don’t question the future or worry too much. Everything will be ok, as Donnie Darko said. Especially if we carry on playing such good football!

That’s it from the northwest for now. I have to go, I’ve got tomato ketchup between my eyes.