Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

9 October 2013

Ian Miller. There we are, no need to say anything more.

A sneaky wind blew into the faces of almost 250 punters from the Cam while a local rock group was trying hard to learn their songs. Elsewhere in Fentyland a cocktail of people queued at turnstiles to watch his reasonably sized fish.

Who's frying tonight?

Town lined up in the officially not-4-4-2-OK! formation as follows: McKeown, Hatton, Pearson, Doig, Thomas, Neilson Kerr, Disley, McLaughlin, John-Lewis, Hearn. The substitutes were McDonald, Jones the hairstyle, Colbeck, Rodman, Cook. The four people who weren't in midfield lined up as you'd expect them to if they were, in fact, in midfield together. The left-footed one was on the left, the right-footed winger was on the right, the two little old trundlers were in the middle.

Cambridge were very tall.

First half: The man with a plan

And we're off.

Woah, slidey panic, droppy panic. McKeown was queuing at the burger van as Cunnington ticked on a punt. Chase me, chase me, cheeky! Jamie Mack stooped and scooped in front of the Pontoon. A corner pooped and Jamie Mack plopped accidentally upon a bar of soap.

Be aghast, be away with you, be true only to thine self. Hatton has a horrid history and he stepped in some slippery gunk on his way to the cheese counter. Bluemen plunging and lunging: this scene contains mild peril and language some may find offensive. They're just too big, too strong, too fast, too much, much too much for our spindly munchkins.

The Corner Shop sold a shallot, shovelling lightly towards Bananaman. The Irish Rover crossed and errr, errr… to err is to be human, remember. Town are very human tonight.

Phwoar, what a scorcher. Lennie-boy spun and swung from afar, lowly, but not slowly and the custardian smothered. A moment, a moment of almostness, almost, nearly.

Appiah dived, Pearson laughed, Pearson cried as the plunging poltroon arose to the sight of a yellow dawn. Cunnington hooky-bumbled, someone else mucky-stumbled in hints of varsity virtuosity. Them just too darn good. Big Hughes coiled around a ha-ha; McKeown superbly flicked away from the foot of the left post.

A high standard of stale bread.

Second half: The man with shiny shoes

Where's the WD40? Town's dressing room door got stuck and the Cambermen hung around waiting for their supper.

What's new pussycat? They purred on and on and on relentlessly, remorselessly on remote control. Miller back-headed clear when free at the far post, having an acid flashback to his monochrome past. Perhaps that's an acrid flashback.

Town jabbed, the Cambermen thrust. Town ducked, Appiah dived. Cunnington whacked from the edge of space, McKeown marvellously married over. Parried over. Reader, he parried it.

Are we here, are we bothered? Oh, we are. Town upped the pace in their passing. Thomas roamed, Disley droned, a slapstick slash and Maxwell's house was in need of some TLC.

Town, oh Town, you are so Town. Hatton messed and missed, Pearson minced his man. Under pressure, bearing down on you, etc, etc. It sure ain't Town who'll hit the high note and the end of the chorus line.

McKeown brilliantly parried, a flash of foreign boot and Cunnington had poked his stick into the open wound

On the hour Rodman replaced Neilson. The Rodster improvised sweetly to dink-scoop to where Lennie's head nearly was.

A cross, Hatton slash-sliced, McKeown flap-punched from under the crossbar and over the crossbar for a corner. Far, far in the distance a blue chap trotted towards the corner taker. Three Townites left their posts, the corner was coiled to the near post and the Shop brilliantly got in front of his marker to thunder goalwards. There's a man in form! McKeown brilliantly parried, a flash of foreign boot and Cunnington had poked his stick into the open wound.

And Town awoke, raging goalwards with Thomas raiding and John-Lewis rolling over a blue boot. The crown erupted in expectation as the referee pointed spotward. The crowd imploded silently as the Shopping Trolley took the ball off Hearn and plonked it down. Maxwell prevaricated, cogitated and flew lowly left as the Shop succeeded in finding the keeper's fingertips. We told you so.

Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, ignore Hatton, remember Hatton. Oh yeah, Hatton. What's going on? Cambridge have an exceedingly competent set of defenders. They stood in the right places to intercept passes and crosses, and threw themselves at the random rolling ricochets. But not this time – a cross swinging from the left, Disley twisted down and around to loopy-scoop a diving header high, arcing beyond and around the annoying bird up high in banana tree. Maxwell, the new Sam Russell, coiled and sprung an extra set of fingers to tipple spectacularly away from under the crossbar.

Town attacked, Cambridge bounced away. Appiah swivel-swiped achingly wide. Another break, another mess or miss, depending on which side your cookie monster is buttered. Subs came, football went. With John-Lewis already hobbling, Cook replaced Hearn. Let's go crazy. Let's go route one. That's crazy. Momentary discombobulation did not lead to jubilation with a long ball loss of libido. Colbeck replaced the Shop. Moments, nothing more. Disley half-hearted a header wide, Pearson grazed a free kick inches wide as a triple dose of defenders directed the ball past the post.

Ah Thomas, a lovely cross, no-one home, made us cross, the sign of the cross, it's a loss, but it wasn't dross. Cambridge were just better, that's the long and short of it.