Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
8 August 2009
The Cheltenham Wrestling Club 2 The Smooth and The Smug 1
We're back on the Town train yeah, back on the chain gang.
Have we hope in out hearts this time? Is it this time, more than any other time, this time that we're gonna get it right? The surge, the sweep, the adrenalin rush of a thousand roaring travelling Townites greeted this new beginning as Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: Blue Colgan, Stickdale, Atkinson, Bennett, Widdowson, Jones, Boshell, Sweeney, Heggggarty, Conlon, Proudlock. The substitutes were Overton, Linwood, Leary, Fuller, Clarke, North and Ak-Ak.
"I saw a mouse! Where?" As the ground sang along the traditional beach ball made its traditional appearance. floating gently like a paper cup onto the pitch. Mighty Mariner sized up a curling drooper over Overton, planted his left foot beside the inflatable and BOOM. He's a real ball-buster.
Place your bets, we're under starter's orders.
First half - condensed milk summary
And we're off!
Jones tickled, a Robinite fell and another rocking Robin lurched over a wall. Colgan yawned, the new day dawned as Town swept majestically across the savannah. Sweeney picked a pocket or two, Proudlock wafted and Hegggggarty's knee-knocked wide. Passing, passing, swishing and dishing: Hegggarty dinked and Conlon dunked straight at their keeper.
Let's not be too embarrassed by Town's superiority. Football is better than rugby, after all. Ahh, take a picture at this exhibition. Click- click, zoom and rotate. Cheltenham out of focus; Town crystal clear posing.
Tip-tap-tip-tap, pass and move, Town into the groove. It's a revelation with Sweeney dancing - feel the sweet sensation. Brown fingered the Flying Cod's shot against the post. Who are they? What are they: nothing. Route one bores searching for an ice cream parlour. They kick, they rush, their fans are hushed.
C'mon, join the party SEE HOW WE PLAY! Yeah, jambo jumbo hot dogs with dehydrated onions.
That goal, that beautiful goal. It started with a kiss, and who wasn't involved? From right to left to right again, Widdowson, Sweeney, Proudlock, Sweeney, Proudlock, Sweeney, Proudlock, Conlon - goal. The Cheltenham fly caught in the spider's web as Sweeney trilled a lullaby for Proudlock to rock and roll across the face of goal. Conlon the barbarian stumbled into the ball three yards out and was booked for being loved.
The homeboys? They just had a couple of long throws, ran after the hoofs and wrestled. They were terrible.
Beautiful. Easy. Re-Newell.
Second half - reduced vegetable stock summary
Town went home at half time.
Punt, hoof, wrestle, hoik, ba-zoom, bazooka, lollapalooza. The stripes huddled together like fearful, tearful zebras stalked by cackling crocodiles. Little Boozy slapped against the bar via Atkinson's thigh. They crossed, they shot, they shotted and they crossied. Nearer and nearer still to Colgan having to touch the ball. With Elvis thrusting, Town were all shook up. Widdowson crumpled as a very tall man stood next to him.
Heggggarty dragged low when Conlon and Proudlock begged for the mercy of a pass. When Town crossed the halfway line the Pavlovian linesman arrested any developments.
They crossed, they humped, they humped again. Old Barry Snails lumbered on, out-stared Sweeney on their right and walloped to the unmarked Ridley on their left. Town backed away, Ridley diddlied, cut in and swiped a noddy right-foot shot that looped over and through defenders and into the top right of the goal. Colgan was motionless, but not emotionless, unsighted and unhappy as Ridley had fluked a pants-swinger.
Ak-Ak replaced poor little Jones.
Wait around for a dozen minutes, another local bus will come.
Stripes stood around, Cheltenham got cocky and made three passes on the ground as Town slept comfortably in their house of straw. Hutton crossed from their right and Barry Snails poked in from five yards. Town have a wooden heart.
Tiny Hutton bumbled free after Stickdale slipped and pathetically dribbled into his bib. Yeah, more shooting high and low from the Rubettes. They kept on rubbing wide as the linesman's flag stuck to his shorts. There's no end to the lengths Town'll go to rain on their own raspberries.
Fuller replaced Heggggggarty.
And in the end, Town awoke. But only in the end. Boshell flaggled a rebound towards Bishop's Cleeve, Stockdale squirted across the face of goal, Ak-Ak slaughtered a curler and, in added time, the unmarked Conlon squirmed low across Brown and beyond the far post. The result was beyond the pale.
Passing, purring, scoring, half time. Snoozing, losing, musing, missing, the end. Town were beaten by their own arrogance.
It doesn't matter who plays, who manages... Town are always Town.