Part 3 – Beto Vs Calvert-Lewin: The Blood, Sweat, and Brylcreem Showdown

So, you’ll no doubt be thrilled to hear this is Part 3 of the AI-generated saga – a tongue-in-cheek comparison between Beto and Calvert-Lewin, as dreamt up by ChatGPT after I asked it: “Can you please do an in-depth but humorous comparison between Beto and Calvert-Lewin?”

It set the scene in a pub (where else?), gave both players a once-over, and provided a final verdict. Reading between the lines, it seems it has developed a soft spot for Dom – and possibly for Everton too, as it uses 'we' a few times. Reading it back, it reminded me of John Daley and his many wry, laugh-out-loud posts over the years.

Now, lurking in the background is Part 4, sparked when I cheekily asked ChatGPT: “What do you think of ToffeeWeb?”

Its response was that ToffeeWeb.com is “widely regarded as one of the best and most enduring fan-run football websites in the UK and arguably the definitive Everton FC supporters’ platform online.’ Of course, we know that already.

It then waffled on with a full strengths and limitations breakdown and comparisons with other Everton fan platforms. But one bit stood out – ChatGPT asked me: “Would you like a tongue-in-cheek guide to the ‘types’ of regulars on ToffeeWeb?”

Of course, I said Yes and so now have a list of eight fan types — from The Ranter to The Stat Sage. No names mentioned, but if anyone fancies reading Part 4 and ”seeing if they can spot themselves (or someone else) on the list, say the word in the thread comments and I’ll send it to Michael for approval. It’s just a bit of light relief for the close season.

And then you can be rest assured that any future ramblings from me will be a case of ‘and…. this is me’, like the late Mike Yarwood used to say. No more AI whisperings!

Scene: The Winslow, Saturday… two pints deep

It’s a crisp afternoon in the boozer. Half the pub is shouting that Beto is the raw chaos we’ve been missing since Big Dunc stopped headbutting centre-backs into another dimension. The other half insists Calvert-Lewin's cheekbones alone have earned him the right to play up front until 2047.

One fella breaks cover, is waving his arms about saying Calvert-Lewin is “a Rolls-Royce with cheekbones carved by the footballing gods.” Another yells back that Beto’s what happens when you build a striker in Grand Theft Auto and max out Strength but forget the Balance slider.

Both are right. And both are wrong. Welcome to the most Everton comparison ever.

Style of Play

Calvert-Lewin moves like a man who knows exactly what to do, where to go, and how to do it with just enough elegance to annoy the opposition and excite Match of the Day. He is a Rolls-Royce with Bluetooth-enabled quads. He rises like a salmon because he is one. with a jump height usually reserved for pole vaulting. He times his runs like he’s got a PhD in “How To Not Get Offside”, and when he connects with a header you can hear angels humming in L4.

Beto, on the other hand, runs like he’s just been released from captivity and doesn’t want to go back. He is less 'timing and elegance' and more "I’m bigger, faster and more unpredictable than your centre-back’s worst dreams." He doesn’t so much 'play football' as 'attack the idea of football'… like it owes him money.

He doesn’t glide into the box. He careers through it like he’s just missed the last bus to Lisbon. Half his dribbles look accidental. Half his goals feel inevitable. When he’s in full flight, defenders scatter, fans rise, and seagulls relocate to the Wirral.

Movement and Intelligence

Calvert-Lewin floats. He is the kind of striker who ghosts between the lines and makes you wonder how he got there. One second, he’s marked; the next, he’s heading a goal in while looking like he’s posing for a fragrance ad. He makes space with cleverness, subtle nudges, and body angles straight out of a Renaissance sculpture. He’s the
kind of striker who finishes one-touch while adjusting his hair in the reflection of the crossbar.

Beto? He bulldozes through that same space, making the same run 87 times in a row because one of them might work. He’s never heard of 'angles' and thinks 'subtle' is a brand of chewing gum. He's got raw instincts, and a GPS set permanently to “direct route to chaos”. It’s not about cunning – it’s about overwhelming the opposition with persistence, like a toddler charging at a locked door until the hinges give way.

Work Rate and Graft

Beto presses like a man who’s been told there’s a Gregg's voucher on the ball. He chases shadows, presses keepers, probably tackles seagulls if they look at himfunny. He’s not elegant – but by God, he tries to murder the grass. Centre-backs aren’t just opponents – they're obstacles in the way of his next sprint. The fella puts in the kind of shift that makes fans forgive the occasional 5-yard mis-control that ends up in a hot dog stand.

Calvert-Lewin, on the other hand, grafts with grace, puts in a defensive shift with the quiet dignity of a man wearing designer boots. He’ll track back, win a header in our box, then 60 seconds later, win another at the other end. A one-man link-up system…a nd somehow never looks like he’s sweating. That’s because when he runs, he glides. When Beto runs, the pitch feels like it needs resurfacing.

The Injury Department

Calvert-Lewin has more comebacks than Elvis. His hamstrings are like an old Fiat Punto – brilliant when they work, catastrophic when they don’t. Every time he stands up from a slide tackle, the entire Gwladys Street end breathes in like they’re watching a tightrope walker in high winds. When he plays three games in a row, it feels like a national holiday. But when fit, he makes Everton look like an actual football team.

Beto hasn’t had time to get injured yet – mainly because he refuses to slow down long enough for a muscle to pull anything, definitely too fast for his own muscles to catch up. You get the feeling even if he did pull something, he’d keep sprinting out of pure spite.

Haircuts

Calvert-Lewin could lose form, lose fitness, or lose the ball – but he’s never lost a trim. Has sported more haircuts than Everton have had home wins. Knows his way around a moisturiser aisle and could probably get a sponsorship from Armani if he wasn’t already being scouted by Vogue. He’s the kind of bloke who could turn up to Finch Farm in pyjamas and still look like he’s off to Milan Fashion Week.

Beto looks like he cuts his own hair with a pair of hedge trimmers and an old photo of Gennaro Gattuso for inspiration. But when you’re built like a Marvel villain, who’s going to tell you otherwise? He chooses his haircut based on whether it’ll scare opposing full-backs. Sharp lines? Nah, he goes for 'bouncer at a Lisbon
nightclub' – and it works.

The Verdict – Final Whistle at the Pub

If you want a finely-tuned Premier League centre-forward who plays like an Audi ad, it’s Calvert-Lewin. Calvert-Lewin is the centre-forward we should have. All technique, style, and presence. When he’s fit, he leads the line like a man conducting a symphony – with abs.

If you want someone who runs like a T-Rex in boots and scares defenders by sheer volume and velocity, it’s Beto. Beto is the striker we sometimes deserve. Unfiltered mayhem, blunt force trauma in boots, and the sort of attitude that says, “I’m not sure what I’m doing but I’m definitely doing something.”

One’s a luxury player built for precision – style with substance. The other’s substance with no time for style – an emergency flare, shot into the Mersey – and sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed.

Separately, they’re still very Everton: brilliant, baffling, and one well-timed calf strain away from playing Michael Keane as a false No 9.

Perhaps we don’t need to choose; we need them both fit, firing, and terrifying centre-backs in tandem. Everton being Everton, we’ll need both.

And if they ever click together?

If you’re asking who I’d back in a bar fight outside The Winslow, it’s Beto. If you’re asking who I’d trust to put a 92nd-minute header past Alisson, it’s Calvert-Lewin.

If Moyes ever works out a way to have them both on the pitch, running channels, clattering defenders, and generally making life unbearable for centre-backs... then, well...

Call it chaos ball. Call it two up top. Call it a miracle. Just call it Everton.

And pour another pint. We’re gonna need it.

 

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