Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
17 April 2014
I see a bad moon rising, I see trouble on the way as around 400 Shamen danced in the dark down the Osmond end. When does the international playstation fly over Blundell Park?
Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Hatton, Boyce, Pearson, Thomas, Colbeck, Disley, Kerr, Neilson, Cook and Tounkara. The replacement fillers were McDonald, Fyfield, Thanoj, McLaughlin and Hannah.
Rodmanless, but Colbeckful, what we lose in skill we gain in the infinite possibilities of the occasional throw-in. Joltin' Joe and his jinkin' jives always spice up your life.
Halifax wore white and had a man wearing a beard. There is no need for superfluous flowers in this bed of poses.
First half: Rollerball
Town kicked off towards the moon. Long. High. High and long. Long and high. Ping-pong, bong, song sung blue, everybody knows one. Me and you are subject to the blues now and then.
A psychopath ain't a professional. Halifax are part-timers and Kerr spent part of the time scraping himself off the turf, and scraping his studs down white shorts. Oi, Rugby League is played on the other side of the Humber you know.
Hoof. Hoof, hoof, hoof, hoof, hoof, hoof, hoof, hoof. Cook stretched over, a shaman shook, Tounkara baked and flaked agin Glennon. Pearson noodled over, and that's Town. Shamen shoot on sight, shoot all night. Don't shoot the messenger, it's a rolling maul to appal.
Second half: The Killing Moon
An orb of orange crawled over the Osmond roof. Mesmerising, beautiful, on a starlit night we saw you. Too late to beg you to cancel it?
There is no hope. Watch the moon, stare at the moon, bark at the moon as Town hooflessly hope with hopeless hoofing. Mix Colbeckian ball control and Aswadian tackle-wimping, stir with a plastic spoon and watch the soufflé rise from Maynard's right boot, curling and whirling majestically from the edge of area to the corner of net.
Go home, you may as well. Sell the car, sell the kids. Shut down the computer NOW. Don't read on, don't think. Stop, stop, stop… it's for your own good.
There was nothing. No passing, no movement, no idea, no method, no hope. I will not tell you what I saw, for what I saw is your darkest footballing nightmare. Sleep well in your cocoon of hope and memories of what once was.
There really is no point.