Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
14 April 2016
Brainless 0 Braintree 1
A day of rain and an evening of dry pain with 28 Essexians in splendid isolation there behind their walls of chirpy bravado. We’re here simply to prove Mr Pavlov was right. Why else would we leave the chip shop when we saw that Hoban was starting? Pure muscle memory.
Town stood around in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Tait, Gowling, Nsiala, Robertson, Arnold, Nolan, Disley, Monkhouse, Amond and Hoban. The substitutes were Pearson, Clay, Jennings, Bogle and Pittman. There really is no excuse for this nonsense anymore, is there? Perhaps the cash generating multi-purpose conference facilities in the Fentydome should be called the Napoleon Complex.
Braintree played in sky blue and white stripes. They were neither big, nor small, they looked distinctly Town-sized in stature; just a bunch of blokes in striped man-made fibres.
Nothing can go wrong now: Town are going for it. Did they ever specify what “it” is?
1st Half – Ironing Bored
They kicked off towards the Osmond Stand. Disley passed straight into the Lower Findus.
They had a corner. They had a corner. They had a corner. They had a corner. They had a corner. They had a corner. They had a corner.
Hoban sliced onto the roof of the Town net. Gowling haired hairily to Slippin’ Jimmy. Toto back-passed the first shot of the game, but Jamie Mack scribbled back to hack. Hobbled by Hoban, Rusted by Robertson, Muddled by Monkhouse: eau de toilettes available at the club shop.
Crabs slowly putrefying.
All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy.
They had a shot. High. They had another shot. Wide. Has the ball touched any gloves yet? I don’t mean that old lady behind the dug outs, I mean those men out there, the ones being paid.
After 43 minutes and 41 seconds King flapped and Monkhouse slashed sloppily into the sash windows of Neville Street.
Well, we bought the drinks, we brought the flowers, we read the books and talked for hours about Operation Promotion. It was supposed to be our promotion, wasn’t it?
What have we, what have we, what have we done to deserve this?
2nd Half – Welcome to Insania
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Nolan shimmered, Amond flickered and Hoban… remained on the pitch in theory. A cross and… Hoban remained on the pitch in theory. Monkhouse broke, Amond distracted with a mime and Hoban was free, free, free… no we still don’t want him if you paid us. The dry fact is Hoban slapped a mundane shot into the advertising boards behind the goal. No-one expected anything otherwise.
And then the game got worse and worse and now you see Hurst’s gone completely out of his mind. When are they coming to take him away?
Pittman replaced Hoban. Not Bogle: Pittman.
They sneaked away and crossed near a Cheeky boot. They sneaked away and crossed near a Cheeky knee. They are very cheeky chaps.
You thought it was a joke and so you laughed as you saw the number 10 flash up on the flashy board. Who’s laughing now? Monkhouse and Amond were replaced by Jennings and Bogle.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven all good referees go to heaven. You’ll see this one in Hull. Iron walls at seven paces, Nolan failed to elevate.
There was nothing. A void, a vast void of vimless wandering I can’t lie to you about Town’s chances. They did not exist. There was nothing. A void, a vast void of vimless wandering. You still don’t understand what we’re dealing with here, do you? Their structural perfection was only matched by our passivity. Do we have your sympathy?
Will this torturous tosh never end? How long left? Fifteen minutes? What have we done to deserve this? Are we in purgatory? A pitiless punt behind Rusty Robbo, deep, deep, deep into the corner. Fiffing and faffing by Gowling and Miles laughed all the way into the area to prod around and through McKeown into the far corner.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Noooooooooooooo. Noooooooooooo. Stop… stop… I wanna go home.
In the 84th minute Gowling grazed a header and King touched the ball. A shot. On target. The first, the last, the only thing.
Please, I beg you, end it now. Think of the children.
Four minutes were added. Nothing happened at all in those four minutes. In the 95th minute a Townite plunged under the Frozen Horsemeaters. The free kick was dumped to the far post, McKeown arose as blue bodies froze. There was bibbling and there was bobbling, with scraping and a gaping goal. The ball rolled out to Tait on the edge of the area. He leant back and swiped a softly drifting waft against the face of the crossbar.
That’s it. You are free to go. You are blameless of this crime. We know who the mastermind is behind this crime.
This Nonsense Must End.