Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

30 January 2014

Cambridge United 1 Grimsby Town 2

How long does it take to pour water into a cup? Ah, you've never been to the Abbey. They have all the time in the world.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Bignot, McDonald, Pearson, Fyfield, Rodman, Kerr, Disley, Neilson, John-Lewis, Hannah. The five men in duvets were Thomas, McLaughlin, Colbeck, Cook and our new Tonka toy.

Tounkara! Kicks like a Frenchmen, walks like a Frenchmen, shrugs like a Frenchmen. You couldn't get just any woman off the street to do that, you know, Russell. Times have changed.

First half: Kick and hush

Town kicked off away from the Town five hundred. Easy does it, let's keep this all low-key, shall we. Kerr the fulcrum as Rodman rode the see-saw and the Shopping Trolley noodled nurdlingly nowhere.

What about the Orange? A little squishy, a little on the sour side. Big Hughes bigging bigly and big booming crosses into the stands. A bundle, a rumble, McKeown stamped down on nonsense. A welly, a wally, a sad sweet dreamer in amber. Ah the ambling ambers, the dying embers of autumn. It's forever autumn for those with the Abbey habit. Cor, they're really poor!

It's Jamal today! A cross, a corner rubbished to the near post, rubbishly cleared then rubbishly crossed back as Kerr redinked a drooper into the near post. Hannah leapt, flappy Mr Floppy fainted and John-Lewis wellied lowly.

Oh how we laughed.

Cambridge hit back with the ferocity of a flea. A dead flea. A dead flea in a finger of fudge. Oh, how we laughed as Taylor roamed and rolled and died in Burgerboy's arms in flight. It must have been something he said.

I'm not going to fudge the issue: Feefifofield can't cross for toffee, except when he can. Cruising down the highway doing 105, swishing lowly to the near post, Hannah poked, the ball boinged off the post. My, my, football.

The pickled ambers almost had a shot. Or not. Aren't they supposed to be any good?

And Kerr coiled beautifully from the far side. The Shop all alone. Let us not let daylight in upon tragic.

Is that it? Ooh, that's nice.

Second half: Going for gold

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Lennie Boy wriggled and waggled highly across the keeper, who flapped again. Hannah waggled and wiggled and lamped lowly across the face of goal. Town pressure, Town shots, almost. Neilson charged down as he straightened his hair ready for his close-up, Mr DeMille.

Them? Oh, you know, they had moments. A bit of minor scramblage here and there, now and then. Kerr arrived, nothing more needs to be said.

Put your feet up and purr, it's so easy.

Ah.

Slapdashery, hobnobbery, Fyfield scraped away for a throw-in. Townites huddled slowly, Amberites muddled about, crinkling a cross. Berry snuck in unmolested to glance low into the bottom right corner.

Hannah curled, Sullivan flapped, Neilson slapped low and the ball bedringled in off local feet. Happy feet

Oh dear, that is a shame. They don't deserve it, you know.

Rodman teased and eased himself to the ground as yellow legs waved him by. By the bye-line by the by, Hannah curled, Sullivan flapped, Neilson slapped low and the ball bedringled in off local feet. Happy feet.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

Cambridge had been rumpled and now they crumpled. Wahey, wack-a-doo-wack-a-day, what a gay day.

Rodman this, Rodman that. Driving at the heart of the defence, driving us mad with frilly knickers and knockers.

Every game has its champagne moment. Sometimes it's a goal, at others a save, or a magnificent tackle. Our Lennie boy is a special one: nobody does it messier. A sumptuous flowing counter-attack, one-touch passing and movement. It's like old times. John-Lewis shielded the ball and caressed a Reesian flick perfectly in to the path of a passing yellowman. He's got a kick like a mule in molasses and a flick like an arthritic elephant stamping on a balloon.

A break, a shot, a save, a header, a save. Pearson stood tall and their moments were just swirls in their coffee. On came their subs, one after the other, replacing ghosts with phantoms without menace. Everything changed, yet nothing changed.

Colbeck replaced Neilson and Thomas the hobbling McDonald, with Fyfield sliding west. Everything changed, yet nothing changed.

And then the moment came: John-Lewis was replaced by Tounkara, let's hope he's not the French Shop. Oo la la, c'est La Boutique! He shrugs magnificently, he shrugged off a yellow pest magnificently and dribbled straight out of play. Mmmm.

They flung a couple of crosses in, they headed it a couple of time. Some slick-haired slapper tried a showboating bicycle kick. Jamie Mack swayed for the cameras. Pfft.

There were four minutes of added pfft before Cambridge's home records finally went pffffffffttt.

We did unto them what they did unto us in October. And Town didn't even lose any pawns.