Cod Almighty | Diary

Some Gulls will, some Gulls won't

20 October 2014

What to do on a Saturday night? John was in his basement mixing up his metaphors, and we were on the pavement thinking about the comic potential of mystery man Steve Marsella. Is he a box ticker, this Marsella chap? Does Marsella whine, especially after the post-match dinner? Are we wasting our time with puny punnery?

It's me, your delighted Deviant Diary delving into the canyons of your mind as the species amuses itself to death. After two away victories against 'big' teams, all is officially well with the world. The dragons have been slain, the Gulls have followed the Town trawler and nothing can go wrong now. If three home ravens don't make a funeral, then perhaps two distant swallows don't make a summer either. Especially in autumn. Let's get some perspective through the Perspex. You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows for, as any meteorologist worth their sea salt will tell you, it's not about weather: it's about climate.

A-ha, so are we embarking on the traditional October sugar rush that ends after the stocking filler has been munched on Boxing Day? Travelling Town have done to others what others have done at Blundell Park – gone away to a 'big' club to stifle and steal. What does it prove? That Town have been coached to a high standard of negative competence. It's a base to work from, so let's build a grand design. Go for a floating cathedral of glass and gold: a small loft conversion painted beige would point to a poverty of ambition.

So, Saturday then: Lennie's a happy shopper and Jamie Mack's a flappy flopper. We'll gloss over the Torbay terror of that opening 15 minutes. Our local e-rag clickbaits with a set of Torquay-based stories THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOREVER! Enigmatic variations upon a theme of "man unhappy at things that made him unhappy". Phwoar, racy 18-rated stuff. Some gulls will, some gulls won't.

In a public service announcement the Mariners Trust has pleaded with those pillocks with smoke bombs to resist the urge for numptiness and desist from dumbness. Chucking a smoke bomb from the top of the stands at Wrexham was utterly moronic and downright dangerous, especially to those Town fans sat beneath its putrid parabola.

And what of the future? Percy Parslow will go now but might stay, while Rhys has had his Oates and will never return, thank you very much and good night. Don't have nightmares, do sleep well.