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I sit at my desk and sigh. In front of me are dozens of scribbled team sheets, arrows strewn across them, names crossed out, names filled back in. Whatever I write down, nothing makes as much sense as just doing the same thing. Keeping it tight at the back, breaking out down the flanks, sending up the midfield to support, trusting in Oumar Niasse to continue to distort the laws of physics.

“What must it be like?” I wonder aloud. “What must it be like to actually win the title?”

“Hello!” beams Joe Royle as he bursts into the room.

“How long have you been there?”

“Oh, I just like to hang around, waiting to be invoked,” he chuckles. “Winning the title though, that’s quite something. That’s really quite something. There’s no feeling like it.”

“What was the secret?” I ask. “What did Harry Catterick do to get you over the line?”

“He was a complete bastard,” says Joe.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Tried to kick a drunk down a hole in Tbilisi once. True story. Didn’t like the press, definitely didn’t like television. Didn’t really like anyone. Kept himself to himself. But he was a football genius and his word was the law. But ultimately, we won that title because we had a good manager and a good team.”

“Do you think we’ve got that now?”

Joe thinks about this for a moment. He nods.

“I think we’ve got a good team.”

“Thanks for the chat, Joe.”

“No problem,” he grins. “Any time you want to talk, you just say my name.”

The first of our six cup finals is the hardest of the lot, away at Jose Mourinho’s Manchester United. They lead the way, but they were beaten 4-0 by West Ham last weekend and we’ve caught them right between European ties against Hertha Berlin. We’ll be fitter. Unfortunately, they are much, much better.

Juan Mata is exhausted, Zlatan Ibrahimovic is half injured and the rest of their team is in various states of knack, but United are just so much better than us. Even with a visible limp, Zlatan turns my defence inside out and Alfie Areola is really put to work. But when the inevitable happens, it’s Eric Baily of all people who scrambles home from a corner we fail to clear.

Niasse is nowhere, he’s an empty shirt so Romelu Lukaku joins the fray at the break alongside a fit-again Gerard Deulofeu. When these two are on song, there’s nothing we can’t do.

Sadly, neither of them are on song. They’re miming. We make chances, but not good ones. We chase the game, but not hard enough. James McCarthy gets himself sent off in injury time and that sort of sums it all up. We’ve been found out.

Upon our return to the dressing room, we are fortunate to discover that everyone else in the top six drew. We’ve lost a little bit of ground, but that certainly could have been a lot worse. Watford lost to Bournemouth, so they can’t catch us now. Two wins will put us out of reach of Spurs and Liverpool too. But that’s not what we’re chasing.

West Bromwich Albion, fighting relegation under the tight-trousered aegis of Andre Villas-Boas, are up next. We’re at home and we’re bringing back the cavalry. Lukaku, Deulofeu and the no-longer-suspended Idrissa Gueye all come into the team. This is a massive game, there can be no excuses. We need to win.

The first whistle blows and we get on the front foot straight away. There is so much room to move in the midfield that we’re creating chances with ease. Unfortunately we’re missing them with ease too. Deulofeu is put through one-on-one three times in the first half alone and drives his shot into Ben Foster’s midriff every single time. Lukaku rattles the crossbar, Funes Mori hits the post. It’s still goalless at half time. The chances continue to pile up after the break, Deulofeu misses two more from close range, Lukaku sees one cleared off the line. With 13 minutes to go and a Champions League place on the line, I send on Niasse to partner Lukaku, I put Tom Davies on as a defensive midfielder and I use the fresh legs of Bryan Oviedo to cover the entire left flank alone.

The chance comes from our exposed left flank. Brazilian loanee Neilton stabs a low cross into the box, but it goes straight to the feet of Domagoj Vida. The big Croatian is not a man for nuance, so he opts to smash the ball out of our six-yard box. Unfortunately it hits Adrian Lopez in the face and ricochets straight back past Areola. We can’t afford to lose, we shouldn’t be losing, but we are…we are losing. And indeed we lose. 0-1. At home to West Bromwich Albion. I sit alone in the dug-out until the groundstaff ask me to leave so that they can lock up.

And so we head into the third match of our six game ‘cup run’ on the brink of a three-game losing streak. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had an easy home game? A chance to break out of the funk? Sadly, we had that last week and we lost it. And now we’ve got Arsenal away.

I opt to leave Lukaku and Deulofeu in the team. Aaron Lennon is still feeling the effects of an injury and Niasse hasn’t played well in his last two outings. Class will see us through.

Class certainly sees someone through. Sadly it’s not us. Arsene Wenger has been under all sorts of pressure this season as his team have ebbed and flowed around fifth place, but his Gunners are making up for lost time.

They open the scoring after just 90 seconds. A routine cross is left to float in the box and Santi Cazorla is at the back post to score. We are granted a golden opportunity to claw our way back into the game when Deulofeu is kicked over in the box. Leighton Baines misses the penalty. Seven minutes later, they’re two up. Eduardo Salvio, Wenger’s January signing from Argentina, stabs one home.

We pull one back when Cazorla accidentally puts one in his own net, but then Salvio scores again, a wicked finish to make it 3-1. I call for calm. Vida kicks Salvio up in the air in the six yard box. He gets up to score the penalty to seal a first half hat-trick. 4-1. Sixty seconds later, he cracks off a snapshot, Areola parries, the ball hits the post, hits him and rolls in. 5-1.

Leighton Baines spanks home a long ranger. We’ve only had 31 minutes of football. It’s 5-2. What on earth is going on? This formation was built to be boring. We’re supposed to absorb pressure and then hit on the break. We’re supposed to control the game. This is as controlled as a fight in a pub car park ten minutes after closing time.

I make a triple substitution, but it’s really just to give people the impression that I have a plan. There’s no plan. There’s no plan at all. Everyone has just shit their pants all at once. Including me. And possibly Duncan Ferguson. It’s hard to tell, he’s gone catatonic.

Somehow, no-one scores in the second half. It ends 5-2 to Arsenal. I can’t believe that we can have such an incredible, barnstorming, wonderful 33-game season and then go to pieces like this.

On reflection, yes I can. Of course I can. This is me. This is Everton. This is just what we do.

The only good news is that Liverpool’s defeat means that they cannot catch us no matter how many more games we lose. The worst we can do is finish sixth. But right now, that feels like finishing last.

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