Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
25 April 2011
Grimsby Town 0 Altrincham 1
Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour, step right this way. It's a mystery why we keep coming. C'mon. c'mon, take it easy, everyone's got something to hide 'cept for Shorty and Shouty. Ah, the end-of-season frolics at Fenty's Folly, such giddy delights.
Town lined up in a 4-3-3 formation as follows: Kenny Fingers, Samuels, Garner, I'Anson, Wood, Oh Leary, O'Cummins, Oh-o Hudson, Coulson, Connell, Peacock. The subs were Atkinson, Eagle, Duffy, Mulready and Southwell. What a midfield, it's what we've all been waiting for: three men sitting there watching the wheels go round and round.
Altrincham played in all white and seemed to have some large gentlemen and some short gentlemen, but no funny stuff. Plain and simple folk.
Ah, the Swedish Mariners are here! Hooble-booble-google them.
It's nearly over, let's roll over one more time.
First half: Lightweights
Town kicked off backwards towards the Pontoon. Samuels' hoik was hoofed against a white rover. Reeves was free but Wood dug a trench and buried the little mite who might have scored. But didn't. Arthur flapped the corner, Arthur caught the cross. They punted, they hurtled throws, Town flapped and flounced and an Atltyman pounced. Kenny Fingered fantastically and frantically aside and the rebound was cracked into the net, then up went the flag and back came Alty.
Hoof, hoof, hoof and that was Town. Hoof, hoof, hoof and that was them. They hoof better than us. Whoop! An Altyman cleared against Leary's backside and the ball looped and drooped and rootin' tootin' Dootson scooped and scuttled the ball from under the bar.
Town's most creative moment: an accidental bottom. That's the future. Hoof and hope.
Oh it's a long throw. Oh it's short throw. Oh it's a long throw. Oh why oh why oh why does the ball have to follow Mr Leary?
Cummins dinked, Peacock slinked and Connell steered an inch wide. Peacock? He ducked and dunked and avoided the ball in a contract ripper of a performance, his own footballing version of a slow bicycle race. And he fell off.
And they missed on open goal. A yard out, a yard over. Well done Johnson.
Garner headed a corner over, Coulson bedraggled wide, Hudson pirouetted over, Wood mis-crossed and Dootson grappled with existentialism to flip for a corner. That was everything. That was nothing.
That was awful.
Artless, shapeless, soulless and hopeless.
Second half: Dead weights
Neither team made any changes at half time.
They ran off and Arthur saved spectacularly but a little unnecessarily as the ball was straying towards the outside of his near post. The corner flimped and Peacock hunkered down, ducking and allowing Joseph to nod approvingly into the bottom left corner.
Even the daytripping Poundlanders couldn't be bothered to moan.
Just think of tiller girls and kangaroos: that's the sum of the parts of this match. High-stepping, high-kicking nonsense going nowhere. Cummins headed, Dootson prodded over. I'Anson scraped a cross-shot, an Altyman shinned off the line to Cummins, who headed back at Dootson.
Do you expect more? There isn't more, just a few substitutions and some psychotic glove puppetry from Mad Brad. Town went to 4-4-2 and it was slightly better. Town went to three at the back and a lot of others elsewhere not at the back: it was slightly worse.
The Swedish Mariners were silent, their eyes dying, grown men crying and flying home as soon as they can. Now they know. The wrong players playing the wrong way. Fourth highest scorers in this league, you know.
And it all ended. A half-hearted pitch invasion and some lads singing a few of our favourite songs as the wheels came off.
Da-da-da-dee, da-da-da-da-dee, da-da-da-dah-dah-dah.