Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
26 November 2014
Grimsby Town 3 Woking 1
An unbitterly pleasant evening in the home of the receding hairline and receding crowds. About 20 sharp Cards played wistful whist in the covered corner as they counted us out and we counted them all in. Where have all the flowers gone?
Yo, it's the Tetney Tupac doing the Shorty rap! Keep-keep-keep us shape, k-k-keep us shape, gotta keep us shape. We gotta midfield held together with sellotape.
Town lined up in an amazing experimental jazzy 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Parslow, Pearson, Nsiala, Magnay, Mackreth, Brown, Disley, Arnold, Pittman and John-Lewis. The substitutes were Bignot, Clay, Neilson, Hannah and Hamish. So fiendishly complex was this formation that I, a mere supporter and observer of the game, couldn't possibly work out who played where or what they were supposed to be doing. Why, it was beyond us all. What madness we see.
Two strikers? A handbagging? Ah, the wisdom of crowds.
Woking wore yellow, and Happy Hill was in galoshes, pre-prepared for some Neilson-based water fun.
First half: Crowdsourcing
Town kicked off towards the Osmond. 4-4-2.
Pittman pressed, Lennie caressed. 4-4-2.
Oooh, nearly! 4-4-2.
When he fell right down, he didn't need a shove. Their keeper crumpled, and on came their number one, number one. He's their second to none. We came to know Aaron Howe, we came to have affection for his foibles.
4-4-2 wingery. Strikery things. Men near the ball, ball near their goal. Ooh yeah, we're amazing, we're really cool. Wow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow. Unbelievable Magnay crossed, the Dizzer rose upon hot springs to headtower toweringly into the top of the nettage.
Wa-hey-hey, two men running at their goal. Lennie barundled, the ball trundled nearly. Whoops. Wakey, wakey. Woking walking, Pearson sprawling splendidly in the grass. Slick, quick flickers, you can't get slicker than a quick slick flicker. Rendell hit the turf, Marriott hit the roof.
Arnold corned, the Dizzer donked, Howe protected his eyebrows. Arnie cornered the market in corners, Magnay beflummoxed a befizzler straight down Howe's nostrils from somewhere on the Pyewipe.
Woking were becalmed by stormingly adequate effort. They run, they shoot, they score. They played 4-4-2.
Second half: At Woking pace
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Brown roamed on the right. Pittman shouldered the blame with a cup of noodle soup straight at Howe.
Pittman trampled down the dirt, robbing the purple haze and spinning a curly-wurly dink. John-Lewis stooped to conquer our fears at the near post, ducking in from two yards
A wally into the corner, a wail from the Mainstanders, a howl from the Pontoonites. Howe shambled out to the corner flag, a yellow man rambled along the sea wall, Pittman trampled down the dirt, robbing the purple haze and spinning a curly-wurly dink. John-Lewis stooped to conquer our fears at the near post, ducking in from two yards.
Arnie elevated his corners. Pittman lifted above the hoi polloi to graze over from a yard out.
And then the Great Wibble.
Woking pushed and flushed out Town's dead. Mackreth the weedy wanderer, Toto down in Acapulco, and Brown the wandering minstrel with the two-stringed banjo from Cash Converters. A bit of bump 'n' grind with his big behind, a shimmy-shake, rattle and roll slowly, slowly, lowly around Percy, through Toto and curving beyond the grasping Jamie Mack, and in off the foot of our left post. Morgan, a suitable case for treatment.
Tipping, tapping, Payne slapping agin the foot of the right post. Thank heavens for Betsy's wafting. Scraping left, scrumping right, a mini-siegette from the Surrey Benders. On came Hannah offside who scored, but was offside. Off went Pittman. Mr Brown went off from Town at 9:21, on came Feetov Clay who was ready with his gun.
Arnie shimmied, Disley slaked agin a yellow boot. Magnay walloped down the left, into the dark recesses of the nether-nether-land betwixt Pontoon and Findus. A wail from the Mainstanders, a howl from the Pontoonites, Hannah jinked and winked at Arnold, who ambled along the bye-line, calmly waited for the yellow sea to part and rolled perfectly into the path of an awaiting striker. An open goal and the ball at Lennie's feet, what could go wrong? Nothing. John-Lewis jutted out his jaw, plumped out his chest and stroked majestically.
Hello Hamish McWatson, do you like the fush and chups? Ooh, nice turn. Turned out nice again.
Two strikers. Three goals. Three points. A point made.