Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
28 August 2017
Grimsby 2 Wycombe 3
Cleethorpes in heat!
A still, hot afternoon of semi-stickyess with 187 Wandering Wycombites wallowing in the Osmond. Hey, look, we've turned up again. Can the team turn up for once? It's a lovely day; go on, give us a treat.
Town lined up in a 4-4-1-1 formation as follows: McKeown, Mills, Clarke, Collins, Dixon, Tombola, Rose, Berrett, Kelly, Dembele and Hooper. The substitutes were Killip, K Osborne, Clements, Summerfield, Clifton, DJ Jinky and Cardwell. Kelly and Hooper again? Is Slade trolling the supporters? Ah, this time it's so different. Dembele started in the hole with Kelly on the left.
Wycombe, a quartered kit like a set of louvre blinds, a keeper in Jackson Pollock inspired yellow and Akinfenwa has finished flying over America, providing necessary shade for the freckled and feckless.
Let's get this nonsense over with.
1st Half – nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.
Wycombe kicked off towards the Pontoon.
Our Kelly believes he can fly down the wing. The man's not up for a bit of bump'n'grind.
Sometimes silence can be so loud when Kelly has the ball.
Minutes passed, unlike Town, unlike Wycombe.
More minutes passed.
Even more minutes passed.
The ball slipped off Hooper's thigh and Dembele dribbled into a crowded cul-de-sac, eventually parking in Harrington Street. Dembele didn't shoot after a Hooper lay off. Jackson Pollock scooped an aimless punt on the edge of his area. Claims were made, no gold was found.
A blueman was offside, but a bluesman not given offside. Mills saved with a last ditch tipple back.
Russ life is boring. We're stuck in HMP Sladeball with no chance of parole, or a pardon. It's a cruel miscarriage of justice, call the BBC!
Whenever it was, the inevitable and expected arrived. Noodling nothings nowhere out on their right while Kelly and Dixon respected their guests' personal space. Kelly watched as a blue one-two blew a hole into the sinking ship. A cross was levered to the near post. Collins arose and was nudged in mid-air. The ball grazed on and Clarke statically observed as the ball hit Akinfenwa's chest, bounced down and the musclebound muscleman poked in from seven or so yards out.
Minutes ticked on. A blue cross rolled through the area. Minutes ticked on monotonously. A monochrome cross from Mills rolled through their area. Mills urged, Kelly swept over Jackson Pollock. Sit down, pay attention. Kelly had been offside since Tuesday night.
Minutes ticked on and on and on and Rose lunged wildly, madly, deeply near the right corner of the Town area. Yellow card, free kick swung highly and centrally into a thicket of thickness. Collins arose and was assisted by the subtlest of slight shoves by Akinfenwa in mid-air. Hand hit ball and Collins hit the roof as a penalty and yellow card were instantly awarded. McKeown flew left and Jacobson placed the ball centrally rightly.
Yabba-di-dabbadi-doo. The unmolested Stewart headed a corner goalwards and the ball thumpled off Hooper's forehead on the goal-line.
And finally, in added time, Mills-Collins-Mills and Brown blocked with his shoe. Jackson Pollock finally had to do something.
Like last week, this week. Kelly and Hooper up top and Town 2-0 down at half time. Seething is believing.
2nd Half – have you got it yet?
DJ Jinky replaced Kelly at half time. Has the penny finally dropped?
Like last week, this week. Two down at half time Kelly removed and Town roistered back by turning up. Things and stuff. Movement. Wycombe wobbling. A free kick dinked, Hooper backing and Dembele not shooting.
Winging, jinking, jiving and diving for pearls.
Winging, attacking, crosses and corners. Wycombe wibbling.
A corner from the right flew out towards the twin Town towers. The slightest of glances at Clarke, the merest of muggings of Collins and the referee's fingers pointed towards the penalty spot. Who knows why? Who is going to take it? Oh. Oh dear. I thought we told you never to let Muscleman Mitch have the ball at his feet. Pogba's Hair stood behind pointing to the top left corner. He kept pointing to top left and the keeper nodded. Yep, top left, obviously. Rose placed the ball low and right.
Momentum. It's organic, much like an allotment. Town have it, so let's plant those vegetables.
Hooper squelched and welched near the half way line and Wycombe clipped the ball into a void just outside the penalty area. Collins lunged and scissored a bluesman. Out came yellow, out came red, off went Collins. McKeown pushed the free kick out in the centre of the area and Akinfenwa magnificently blocked.
K Osborne replaced Tombola. Collins, even Collins is acting like a fool these days.
Ah, but the big mo was still with Town: DJ Jinking and twinkling. A throw-in under the Frozen Horse Beer Stand and Hooper gently turned infield and ambled on. No Wycombites approached and suddenly we see why he's a professional footballer. What a zinger: smash, bang wallop, what a picture that'll make for his mantelpiece. Just a minute, what's this? Hooper shmershed a crackling whack that did not deviate or hesitate as it took the shortest, fastest route available into the near side of the net. We'd like some repetition now, Hooperman.
DJ Jinky Demebeled through three. There was a cross, there was another cross. There was a pass or two. There was hope. Oh no, not that, not the comfy chair.
One chicken, two chickens, three chickens, four. Five chickens, six chickens, seven chickens, more. Poultry enumerators to the left, chicken counters to the right. We're Grimsby Town, we only need ten. Ten minutes to destroy the world.
The flow ebbed, the crowd quietened, the intensity dissipated and disappeared. Wycombe wandered down their left and crossed deeply. Akinfenwa loomed over Mills, squashing Zak! with his sheer bulk and thumped a header over McKeown.
How many chickens now?
Cardwell replaced Dembele. More DJ jinking and a moment of almostness that definitely led to a corner that definitely led us up the garden path.
A bit of this and that but not quite here or there. Cardwell was hoiked back after sneaking past El-Abd, Dixon's free kick hit the wall and so did Town. Four minutes were added and… now we can go home. To our tomatoes.
It's boring watching this Town and it's getting boring telling you how boring it is watching boring Town. Pick eleven footballers who will try hard and not welch out when humans approach. Pick two wingers. Pick two strikers. Choose life Russ, not death by a thousand bores.