Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Miles Moss

8 September 2007

Accrington Stanley 4 Grimsby Town 1

Football supporters have all sorts of traditions, superstitions. The lucky socks, the regular routines... don't change anything, or the team might lose and it'll be all my fault. There are unlucky routines as well, I have discovered.

Last season, Town lost 4-1 at Accrington, and I was there. Pat Bell had come round to the house at about one o'clock, and we set off in my car up the M66 towards the beautiful Lancashire hills on a sunny day.

This time round, Pat Bell came round to the house at about one o'clock, and we set off in my car up the M66 towards the beautiful Lancashire hills on a sunny day. Uh-oh. This time I nearly got lost near Haslingden, and then had to stop at a service station to use the cash machine. These things had also happened last year; indeed it was exactly the same service station. "It's tradition," I joked with Pat, who retorted that he hoped the result would not also be repeated. A-heh heh heh... oh God.

The Stanley fans in the pub (yes, the same pub we went in last season) seemed confident of a carbon copy anyway, with "4-1 to the Accrington!" taunts. Pah! Have they not heard about our potential this season? You'll be lucky! Ha! Inside the ground, a few hundred Town fans enjoyed the sunshine and warm breeze. The balmy army.

Town formed themselves into a 4-5-1. On the pitch, Barnes, Mulligan, Fenton, Whittle, Newey, Till, Hunt, Bolland, Boshell, Toner, Rankin; on the bench, Montgomery, Bore, Bennett, Taylor and Jones.

And today's referee... as pointed out in the Refwatch, it's Jon Moss. The same ref we had at Stanley in April of course... oh Christ.

First half
Accrington kicked off towards us. Well, that's a good sign - it was Town kicked off first last season. Ahem. The ball was passed about and stuff for a bit, but the first significant occurrence was the apparent death of Andrew Proctor, who thudded to the ground near the centre circle and moved not a muscle for a good few seconds, causing the physio to sprint on. He was sent off the pitch for treatment, and came back on a minute later sporting a new shirt, this time with no name and no number 6 on the back. Had he injured his shirt really badly, then?

Stanley took a throw-in on Town's left, the bright sunshine causing three hundred Town hands to be raised to three hundred Town foreheads in some strange mass salute. The throw was scooped up easily by Barnes who threw it out, prompting a quick attack and a corner for Town. It looked promising. No, really, it did. They looked like footballers, Stanley like up-'n'-underers.

Town's defence were cucumbers. Fenton well placed for headers, Whittle in particular looking solid - on 15 minutes he chased a ball into Town's right corner under pressure from a Stanley forward. Instead of clipping it out for a throw-in, he deceived the attacker and passed the ball down the wing to Mulligan, and this led to another Town attack. A few minutes later, Mulligan bamboozled Miles with a cheeky drop of the shoulder, turning him and running off with the ball, looking a different class.

Things were looking good at the back, but the attack wasn't working: balls were continually played up to Rankin, but it seemed nobody was going up to help him, or if they did, it was a few moments too late. Something had to change... and sure enough it did, when Boshell was replaced by Taylor, giving Isaiaiaiah someone to play with.

Stanley had a moment of danger, a weak header apologising as it looped over the bar. There followed a free kick, which Barnes parried well, and a corner. Then it was Town's turn: a wicked Bolland dipper, a fast incisive attack with some good passing, and a corner which was zipped in at knee height, but was still headed away by Stanley.

The ref stopped the game briefly and made the Stanley manager change his top - the Stanley strip he was wearing was clearly confusing Mr Moss who kept seeing it on the sidelines. Mind you, he's easily confused, it seems, for moments later he mistook the previously dead and now nameless Proctor falling over and squealing "ref!" for something which deserved a penalty. He picked up the ball and booted it into the net. Proctor, I mean, not the ref. Although the ref might as well have done.

Town were deflated, but kept at it. Taylor in particular looked dangerous, his pace putting the wind up the red defence and creating chances; the best of these came at around the 35-minute mark when clever and quick exchanges between him and Mulligan resulted in a superb cross which, unfortunately, nobody could finish off. Till, too, had been trick and quicky, weaving past tackles and getting crosses in to... nobody again.

Nothing happened for five minutes. An empty Coke bottle slowly clonked its way down the concrete steps behind me like a plastic western tumbleweed. The drummer in the Town end persisted with his rhythmical support (although - if you're reading this, drummer, you might like to try detuning one of your heads, which will give you less resonance and more of a satisfying thud sound).

Suddenly, Rankin is in the box! He turns! He shoots, twice, and the ball is blocked both times. Ach. Toner also had a shot blocked, Stanley had a chance, and the half was over.

Town had showed some promise, but were losing; it's all becoming too familiar. Town's defence was generally sound - we were 1-0 down, yes, but that penalty decision was pathetic - but the attack was lacking... something. There seemed to be plenty of breaks upfield but it sometimes felt like Town were using a bishop when they should have opted for a queen or a rook.

Half time
At half time, the lucky owner of programme number 361 got the chance to win £1000 in the crossbar challenge! Well, they would have if they'd bothered making themselves known and come onto the pitch. No matter - the holder of programme number 679 can have a go instead! No? No takers? Oh dear.

Time running out, the DJ threw a ball into the crowd to randomly select a contestant. A girl called Laura caught it, and on to the pitch she came, wearing tight jeans and high heels. "You're wearing heels!" the DJ shrieked insanely. "Take them off!" Laura didn't for her first attempt, which dribbled about three yards. Barefoot, she tried again. And again. Five times in all, not bad considering you're only allowed three attempts - to win the money, you have to hit the bar twice.

Desperation crept into the DJ's voice, and he selected another contestant - hooray! It's a man this time! At least he got the ball near the goal! "What's your name, mate? Paul? Big hand for Paul, everybody!" Having caused the interval to overrun by five minutes, Mr DJ ran off the pitch as quick as he could, babbling inanely as he went "...so buy a programme next week and you could have the chanc... CRUMP!" as he fell flat on his back.

Second half
Jones replaced Rankin, and made an immediate impact. Within seconds, Lump collects a cross, flicks on to Bolland who heads the ball down as he enters the Stanley area and... the ball was taken off his toe end as he was about to send us wild.

The resultant corner was cleared, and Accrington broke quickly down their left. Brown crossed the ball right onto the forehead of Paul bloody Mullin, who nutted it into the centre of the net. It all looked so easy. Some of the Town players appeared to have been appealing for some infringement as Mullin ran in, but the ref seemed content for play to continue. I do wish he didn't have the same surname as me. Mr Purple went splenetic.

Town won a couple more corners, then Buckley performed the Changing Of The Peters ceremony, Till being replaced by Bore. And then, for the next ten minutes, Grimsby looked like they'd win it. Bore ran and defenders and went past them; he and Taylor combined well, and Bolland had a shot charged down. Town had the Stanley defence running round like stupid dogs chasing invisible sticks; Toner knocked the ball down the wing, Newey clipped it in, and there was Bolland to head simply into the net. A glorious move. Filled with hope, I strained my voice cheering them on to get two more.

A minute later, Taylor again made the Accrington bottoms clench with a speedy run and pass to Bore, who set off on a circumnavigation of the 'D', finally finding Jones, whose return pass into the box was just - just - cut out by a Stanley foot. Again comes Taylor, sprinting down the middle this time, causing Branch to tweak a hamstring in his attempt to keep up. Bore breaks again, and Town win another corner, which is knocked over to Bolland at the far post. Bolland's cheeky chip goes over the keeper and rolls onto the bar before dribbling down the outside of the net. And then Jones takes a high ball over the shoulder and lets rip on the half-volley. Realising that Jones was a threat, Stanley players then spent the remainder of the match using him as a climbing frame. Referee Moss seemed happy for this to continue so long as they didn't fall off him and hurt themselves.

Exhilarating stuff, that ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was followed by 25 minutes of utter horse vomit. The sudden disintegration of all that had been good about Town coincided with the appearance at my shoulder of an Accrington security employee. He started talking to me, my concentration went, and Stanley scored again. He'd had a busy day, he was a neutral, he was a West Ham fan, it's nice to see small clubs like Stanley doing well, sometimes he'd go and see Dagenham play, they're lucky at West Ham, as they have an excellent youth development structure... I started by politely answering back, but soon descended into grunting, and stopped responding entirely when Mullin scored again. A quick break, a cross from the wing, and blasted in from 10 yards. Sensing that I blamed him, the boring West Ham fan gave up on me; at the same time, Town gave up on the match.

Accrington took a short corner which was side-footed inches over the angle with no challenge nearby; Stanley then broke down their right, catching Town totally out of position. Newey pulled the runner down and was booked. Town's mojo had completely evaporated, and with it the atmosphere at the away end; the big Town drum took up a funereal one-beat rhythm.

There were further few Stanley attacks, which could have made it 4-1. And then there was another attack which did made it 4-1. A simple cross, a simple header. In time added on, Bore and Taylor had weak shots, but quite frankly, who cared by then? Not me.

Town had been utterly brilliant for ten minutes. It's not enough. I'd been laughing about the sense of déjà vu before the match; I never thought I'd see the same scoreline. I'm not bloody going again next year.

Man of the Match
The defence were great in the first half and shambolic in the last half hour; Till was dangerous; Bolland scored and had other chances; Jones, Bore and Taylor were superb in short bursts. But by the end of the game, I felt that nobody should get man of the match. Nobody deserves the opposite accolade either. The team were brilliant together and then terrible together. Everybody and nobody get both awards.

Official Warning
The penalty demoralised Town for some of the first half, and ultimately it was probably Jon Moss's fault we lost. Well, perhaps not. He let Jones be climbed on, but he didn't book Fenton for a dangerous tackle early on. He made bad decisions but probably some good ones. I don't care, actually. I'll give him 5.

The Others
Paul Mullin is the new Tommy Mooney. They have a big forward and play to his strengths. They're a bit ugly but they know how to score. I used to have a soft spot for them, but I don't any more.