Splendour on the grass

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 August 2015

What a beautiful noise, coming up from the streets, as around 100 ravenous Kentish Men romped and chomped down in the sunny depths of the Osmond Stand, and the happy homesters bounced buoyantly with bonhomie.

Oh to be in Grimsby now that football is here. It's the happiest place on earth these days. What a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world we live in.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 as follows: McKeown, Tait, Gowling, Nsiala, East, Arnold, Clay, Disley, Monkhouse, Amond and Bogle. The substitutes were Robertson, Pearson, Mackreth, Venney and Clifton. Same as Tuesday with Pearson still dropped, but collective jaws not so dropped.

Bromley? Who are they? An amorphous nowhere near London, where all seven continents are visible from the top of the famous Green Midget Café. You know the one, where every item on the menu is spam, spam, spam, spam and spam. With chips.

Open up your eyes see the sunny skies. Dear impudent Bromley, won't you come out to play?

First half: the happy house

The Bromley contingent kicked off towards the Pontoon and soon looked oh so pretty, oh so pretty vacant. But we don't care.

Passing! Pass to the left. Passing! Pass to the right. Ooooooooooh passing. Town tobleroned and Bromley needed a chaperone. A throw-in down by the closed corner and rat-a-tat-ta, the yellow Kentishmen were mowed down. Clay trickled, Amond tickled, Monkhouse flat flipped, Arnold chested, and Amond steered lowly into the far corner. Ah, you blinked. Shame you missed the most mellifluous of Mariner moves around some blinking rabbits. Silky triangles of chesty pings.

A memory that melts in your mouth. Mmm, tasty Town.

No clue what's happening to you? Watch out Brommerboys, there's no place you can hide. Town's rhythm is gonna getcha. Omar chased and did a Bogle boogie, slipping as a big yellow taxi was sliding. The referee pointed spotward, Bromleyites bawled incredulously, a gaggle of Grimsbyites grappled and Omar emerged with the ball under his arm. Don't you mess with Mr Omar, yah hear. Bogle stood motionless, square on, held his head up high, stared at Julian and crackled low and hard and right under the keeper's body. A penalty so poorly placed it was unstoppable.

Five minutes gone, just five minutes gone. Bromley had kicked the ball twice, by kicking off twice. Things were twice as nice as Tuesday. A butterfly fluttered by.

Town's metronome ticked as Town were slick and quick, with tricks and flicks at a fair old lick. The Southern Men were just feeling sick.

A corner zoomed, Amond arose alone to frazzle over. Monkyman flicked, East snicked a big dipper and the ball grazed off the falling Amond's forehead. Care to join Town for some old time dancing? Slow, slow, quick-quick slow. Squeeze me, please me like you do. It's marvellous, majestic and magnificent. The ground was swelling, welling up with tears at the beauty and the brilliance, the superiority, the vim, verve, elan and engulfing ecstasy.

Arnold slashy-volleyed flashily, Toto's big balls boomed and Town were on song in a one-sided game of ping-pong. Easy, far too easy. Bromley were clamped and cramped, bedazzled by brilliance.

A sloppy corner, sloppily undealt with. Goldberg clapped, Jamie Mack slapped aside. Wakey-wakey! The Kentish Men started to fall and sprawl and the referee started to pall. A free kick laughed into the wall, another lofted gently into McKeown's awaiting hands. Why don't we go and score another, just for fun?

A corner on the left. Arnold elevated a coiling dipper beyond the far post. Gosh, it's Josh, noodling back into the middle of the six yard box. Amond hooked high and took the high fives. Yeah, we want five. Now!

Tait canoodled longly, Arnold ambled free and lofted against the post as Julian went for a stroll in the sand. That's the post in the stand. The crowd settled down for a half-time chuckle at the Bromley buckle; let's not give them something to suckle on.

Sloppy-sloppiness out on the right. A friendly favour from the referee and a quick free kick, dinked deeply. East double-dated and Davies rose to noodle lowly across McKeown into the bottom right corner.

Disley dinkled and Bogle boggled a Bromleyite to barundle into the penalty area. Omar eschewed the arm-stretched Amond and Julian sat on the shot. Shall we fool them with some of the new Plan A? Ooh let's. Jamie Mack smacked, Monky snacked a snick and Bogle boogied and Amond scruffed Julian. Bogle boggled and Amond surged to swank over.

Infinitely and effortlessly superior, a half hour of happiness.

Second half: a miss in the dreamhouse

Bromley replaced Davies with Dennis.

Dull, dreary, déjà vu. Town stopped shapeshifting and reverted to shape-keeping channel ball lumps. Nothing happened that would shake a leg at a whelk stall. Some corners. Toto cracked a cross across, Julian flipped, and there was a flash of thoughts as no flesh was present. Some head tennis nugging and mugging ended with a miserable Disley mis-hook. Clay mis-hit a cross, Arnold slashed madly.

Bromley had a cross. Gowling was there. They huffed and puffed as Town drifted around waiting for their tea.

Monkhouse was replaced by Wee Jacky Macky. Wee Jacky Macky was booked, Tait was booked, and many took the opportunity to book their Lincoln tickets on-line. No point in wasting time, eh.

Tippy-tappy tipples in a tight spot, Jacky Macky bustled through the middle, Julian awaited as four monochromers massed. Mackreth rolled the ball sideways and Clay rolled in to the empty net.

Amond off, Pearson on. Tait went to left back, Toto to right back, East to… who cares. Three minutes were added. More Lincoln tickets were booked.

What a dreary trotfest that half was. Mr Kipps, Biggles, Ziggy Stardust and the Bromley Batman: your boys took a terrible beating…for thirty minutes. Let's not get too blasé about Town's blazing, but it's better than last year's lazing. There's goals in them thar thrills.