Easy Glovers

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

24 April 2017

Grimsby 4 Yoeful 2

Us and Russ? We're happy together. How is the weather?

A brightening crisp day of springtime springiness in the becalmed backwaters of fourth division football, with 101 be-gloved Somerset levellers swashing around the Osmond. I suppose that explains the wimpy green ribbons across their shirts.

Hey Slade, crazy man, crazy horses, zipping up his boots, we're going back to our roots, yeah. Town lined up in a free jazz experimental 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Mills, Pearson, Collins, Andrew, Berrett, Disley, Clements, Osborne, S Jones, and Vernon. The substitutes were Davies, D Jones, Boyce, Comley, Tombola, Vose and Dyson. Ladies and gentleman, Mr Craig Disley. I rest my case, and we can all rest assured. Assurance, insurance, endurance, we're entranced by the return of sense and sensibility to our world. Gavin who?

Couldn't they be bothered to clean the kit last week? Have they lamentable Laundromats deep down by the rivers of Babylon Hill? Yeovil turned up in a woeful washed-out kit, an inside out shirt of insipid yellow and green thin hoops. Another example of West Country naffness. You can't take these people seriously if they don't wear serious shirts.

What more can I say? Are you not entertained now? Is this not why you are here? Let's go get 'em again.

1st Half – strolling thunder

Town kicked off towards the Osmond and we watched Otis Khan, Yeovil's pet highland terrier, chase a string of sausages around the park. That's life, that's park life, know what I mean? Football is not about the joggers who go round and round and round. More, or maybe less, on Dominic Vose later in the programme.

And now for the news from your part of the country.

Tipples and tapples from the forgotten sons, Jones glided across the face of the penalty area and levered a little lick behind the left back. Osborne sneaked behind the mumbler and tumbled over the onrushing traffic jam that was Maddison Avenue. Jones carefully, competently strolled and rolled the penalty left as Maddison headed for the beach to his right to dig for worms.

Well, that was easy, all we had to do to have some fun was wait until the sun comes up over the Frozen Horsebeer Stand.

All is still quiet on the day before St George's Day. A crowd gathered in black and white as, arms entwined, Collins and Zoko put on some overalls and played out the repechage of the Cotswold Olympiks invitational pro-celebrity shin-kicking competition. Need you ask? Collins triumphed by a toe and The Dizzermeister headed away the corner.

Do you think Disley could be handy mending a fuse when the lights have gone out? We don't need to scrimp and save to hand out one last hurrah for our hero. Maybe he could combine midfielder mastery with a little light book-keeping. He balances midfield so he could balance your books too. Synergy, synchronicity, simplicity: aren't we back in the land of sense and sensibilities?

If Town upped the intensity this friendly could get tasty. Osborne shuffled and sizzled, gliding past dozing diners and underfluffing a long shot. The Dizzer flicked a Mills chip and Vernon spun a pun through some fey yellow legs. Jones ghosted through their spluttering machine and lever-poked over the keeper who superbly tipped aside, and why is this sentence continuing when the offside flag was up? I dunno, it just did. That's life, it just is sometimes.

Sittin' in the afternoon sun, we’ll be sittin' when the evenin' comes watching the ships roll in. Then watching them roll away again, yeah. We’re lazing on this sunny afternoon, it’s all going so pleasantly. A free kick by the tunnel and a booming diagonal welly. Mills snuck into the deepest recesses of the penalty area to volley back and a half-headed clearance sauntered out into the middle of the middle of the middle of the Yeovil half. The ball bounced high, Clements lifted a loft over Lawless and lollipopped a slow dipping volley across the keeper into the right side of the net. Well, that was as easy as a Sunday morning.

Flicks and tricks and Jones flibble-volleyed softly. Just moments when things happened if Town bothered. Were the cider-swillers from Somerset bothered? Old rubber legs is back in Town. We're talkin' 'bout, hey now, Akpa-Akpa-Akpro. Shorn of locks but still with fire in his socks, Ak-Ak swished and swayed and sliced widely. A cross from their left and Ak-Ak ducked in front of Pearson and headed overly wide. What more of these washed-up wanderers from the West? Crosses hit Collins head.

One minute was added. One minute passed, unlike Yoeful.

Not so much low tempo as no tempo. A stroll along the strand, a perambulation along the promenade, a walk among the woeful from Yeovil. We're sitting on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tired Glovermen roll away.

2nd Half – torn between two Glovers

Yoeful brought on Bevis Mugabi for Butthead Whitfield. The Town remained the same.

Please don’t spoil my day, you're miles away. After all that half time rest Town are only sleeping. Slackery and dackery, with Pearson failing to grasp the consequences of allowing Ak-Ak to shield and spin. Hickory and dickory as a yellow chip and chest was permitted within the hours of daylight. Zoko rolled around and rolled the ball back to Lawless who lamped lowly into the bottom right from the edge of the penalty area.

And then what momentum they didn't have was dissipated as Lacey had his eyeliner re-applied.

You could say they applied pressure, but that's really just another way of saying they had the ball sometimes. Jamie Mack punched a cross, caught a cross and watched Dizzer head things away. That's just watching leaves in the wind.

Ah-ha, we have lift off where we left off. Jonesian persistence under the shadow of the Police Box resulted in retrieval and a roaming run along the bye-line. He looked up, saw a sea of yellow and green and the cross was shumbled away at the near post for a corner as many waited beyond. Andrew curled a big dripper into the centre of the six-yard box as the woeful Yoefulites mugged their own keeper. Vernon, virtually on the line, hoiked and hooked into the emptied net while munching of a packet of Refreshers on his way to the slotties down Meggies, doing wheelies on his chopper with his hoodie up on his parka. Young people still do that, don't they? Or do they just take their cagoule in case it rains?

Dizzer, always Dizzer, dancing delightfully between the lines, disrupting the day trippers and heading away their furtive flings. And Berrett was away, away and away chasing down the left pursued by the invisible army, chipping to the far post when all known monochromers headed for the near post.

Yeovil got a free kick in Big TV Corner. Hey, keep your eyes on the pitch, there's going to be a goal here. Town are gonna lose this... Town are gonna lose this… Yeovil Town are gonna lose this. Mills swayed away into an unmanned spaced under the Frozen Horsebeer Stand. The mighty atom glided towards the bouncing ball as it bounced and bounced from the Town half into the Yeovil half. Outpacing, outracing outrageously re-enacting every single goal ever scored by Michael Reddy, Osborne beat the full-back, cut across and carefully caressed a pass around the Glovermens' gloveman's gloves into the bottom left corner.

Yeovil Town have gone and lost this as a Yeovilite lost his plot and waffled a weak wimp-o-shot direct from the kick-off.

Shall we play sombrero soccer? Clements clipped a cross-field clump onto Osborne's toes. A magnificent touch, and Jamey O waltzed to the bye-line. His cut-back was cut out so he simply got the ball back and cut further back to the advancing Andrew. Some sea birds ducked out in the Humber estuary. Vernon eased Jones into dreamland, and Jones bought a second hand sofa, slopping softly wide.

And Vernon was replaced by Dyson with 20 minutes or so left. The ground arose to acclaim a perfectly decent all-round performance. Slade has his Lump-lite. He's happy, hope you're happy too. Vernon sometimes does good things, sometimes does bad things, and sometimes does things out of the blue.

Like Julian Dicks' hair, it all went a little pear-shaped after this. Zoko sent a telegram to Mr Andrew informing him of his intention to sprinkle a little nutmeg on his fruit cake next Tuesday. Andrew failed to get the telegram and Zoko zoomed off down the wing, crossed to the near post and his crinkle was boombled away for a corner. For the umpty-thrumptieth game in a row a near post header was flicked goalwards. Striped socks slashed away halfly towards the penalty spot. Slipshod slackery and wimpydom allowed Zoko to dance, little laddie, dance through non-existent tackles and prod-steer into the top left corner. Zoko, what a mover he was. Dyson less so.

Wake up and smell the poses, heeeeeeeere's Dommy! Vose replaced Berrett. What a sensible seat filler he is these days.

Turn again Dick Whittington. Vose spun dried himself into a cobweb and Andrew coiled the corner farly. Collins arose above the flapping fingers of Maddison and headed into the empty net, Alas, this story has a sad ending, as Bevis' bonce accidentally got in the way and the ball spun up and back into arms of the stumbling tumbling blueboy.

What another sumptuous sweep from right to left, what more magnificence from the toes of Osborne. Does there need to be anything more? Art for arts sake. We are nothing but blind ants of utilitarian misery if we cannot appreciate these transcending moments of beauty.

Tremendous one-touch Tobloroning up right with Vose a moving fulcrum. Hang on, did you read that right? Vose…moving? It sure is a mighty strange thing indeed, no wonder the Glovermen were confused. Vose slightly over-tickled Dyson free behind the defence. The borrowed boy crinkled lowly across the keeper, who pushed the ball slowly, slowly along the six-yard box with the goal opened for business. Vose, alone beyond and behind the keeper, was tragically felled by a stray blade of grass.

With a couple of minutes left Tombola replaced the rapturously received Osborne and six minutes were added. Six? Perhaps the referee was enjoying art for arts sake. Why should he care? Why should he care? Some of us have a table booked for 5:15. Fish won't fry itself, you know.

Vose turn again and again and again undermuffling lowly and widely. Andrew boombled lowly then highly. A Town corner was passed way back to Clements on the half way line, but he wasn't looking. Yeovil were so woeful there are no chickens left in the roost or roast. Vose cha-cha-chaed along the bye line and tumbled under a threat from his own ego. Dyson slap-shot low and left and by then most had left.

That's everything, that was all that was needed to bat away these fruit flies. It was barely a contest for a relatively organised set of adequate professionals. Everyone knew what to do, and did it. Simplicity from Slade, tranquillity for Town fans.

Are we comfortably numb with this dribbling denouement to this season? I do believe it's working: good.