One man and his clog

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

3 September 2018

Grimsby Town 0 Yeovil Town 1

Oh to be in Cleethorpes now late summer is here. It's hot, it's airless, it's listless. The paint hasn't dried on Mikey's renovated deckchair and we're flaking off already.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Hendrie, Davis, Whitmore, Famewo, Woolford, Welsh, Hessenthaler, Hooper Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Russell, Fox, M Rose, Clifton, Embleton, Wright, Robles. There's nothing like stability is there. And balance. There is, indeed, nothing like stability and balance here.

Don't panic in the streets of Hummmmberside, the schools haven't gone back yet, let alone the clocks.
And don't hang the DJ, he wasn't that bad.

First half: Shaking, but not stirred

The green Manalishis kicked off away from 72 cidermen.

Caught up in circles of confusion, Bevis Mugabe and his super foul throws. Time and again. Again, time after time. It's nothing new. Time, ticking away. Big yellow Baxter threw against Woolford's head. A moment that sums up a dull game.

Townites bounced off chunky greens. Fisher espied McKeown wandering and dreaming and flat-chipped from the halfway line. We could be charitable and call this an interesting snapshot of a day out by the seaside. Get back in your deckchairs, take yer socks off, stick yer copy of the Daily Mirror over yer head and listen to Housewife's Choice. And don't forget that the tide comes in.

A cider cross, a header looped, McKeown sauntered back to pluck safely from the tree of life. Snapchat that for your five vegetables a day.

Jamie Mack punted, striped heads headed airily into the dead zones near the Dentists Stand. Vernam chased, turned the Giant Deadwood into a series of toothpicks, and crinkled lowly to the keeper's left. Baxter slumped and slapped away the skidder from the foot of his feet. A corner. Whitmore headed goalwards and there are rumours that someone, somewhere dropped a packet of crisps. Well, it started with a joke.

Triangles. From Townites. Cook flicked Vernam into the erogenous zone. A dither past one, a dather past another and Mugabi slid to block the eventual shot. A corner. A corner is of no consequence. Town always squirm from a corner.

We stare upon the movements of men without wonder. We stare at our watches and wonder why a minute is lasting an hour.

Fliggling and flaggling on the right. The marvellously tousled D'Almeida underpassed to Hendrie, who flew into the penalty area, over-flying the sliding, twisting Warren. The ref did the Charleston and little Green ran and ran and ran and ran and DJ Jinky side-footed wide from ten yards. Good old DJ, reliably unable to shoot in front of the Pontoon.

Sometimes some things nearly happened. A chip over Famewo, who hoped it would roll out over the lush greenery. Arquin chased the chip and fished for a hook. Fisher arose, the ball rolled down human flesh towards green boots. Welsh got on his hands and knees looking for his contact lenses, crawling after the ball as it rolled and rolled through the penalty area. DJ sniped, Whitmore blocked.

One minute was added. Does anyone really need to know what didn't happen next?

Vernam ran around a lot. Yeovil were surprisingly big and direct. Town had a shot, they almost had a shot. Beyond that there was simply arm-wrestling on a sunny afternoon.

Second half: A regression to the moan

Neither team made any changes at half time.

DJ jinked, Davies winked the ball away before the lesser-spotted loanee could fail in some new and exciting way.

Patrick swizzled and sizzled around and about Clifton and Hendrie, swiping a sweep lowly around McKeown into the bottom left corner from 20 yards out

There were an awful lot of throw-ins. And an awful lot of awful throw-ins. I'll just throw in at this point that it was awful. In a triple double bluff Townites tried to confuse Yeovil by launching the ball as high as possible above Cook's head. It is entirely feasible that plans B, C, D and E were to give Sowumni a headache and Warren's neck repetitive strain injury.

Historians will spend centuries disputing whether five minutes standing near the Pontoon constitutes a spell of pressure. While a symposium was being arranged in the Dutch town of Assen, Welsh whipped and Cook steered a header wide of the left post. Well, that made an Assen of the man in a lilac shirt who jumped up in anticipation of a better world.

For the record, m'lud, there was a small moment of almostness, when at least two footballers in striped shirts moved their feet and passed the football below roof level. Woolford's shot skittled off green socks and skipped gaily into the waiting arms of Biddy Baxter. Baxter ran into Cook and carried the ball out of the area. Cook was booked.

Ah, the pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle; the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true! Right? Right, but there's been a change.

Little Harry replaced Woolford. Five minutes later Hooper was hauled off and on came the man everyone was calling for… Fox. At left wing.

DJ dragged widely and was off in a trice, replaced by a bigger, athletic chap with a lean and hungry look.

Would you like to ride in Mike's beautiful balloon? We could float among the bottom feeders together. For we can fly, we can fly.

Town began an obsessive fascination with Sowumni's forehead. Balls in the air, everywhere, all the time, forever and ever and ever and ever. Town fell for Sowumni's honeytrap.

With about quarter of an hour remaining Embleton stood up, took off his fluorescent bibbage and waited for the ball to go out of play.

Big booming DJ replacement bustling service noodled and doodled from the centre to Town's right and back again. Patrick swizzled and sizzled around and about Clifton and Hendrie, swiping a sweep lowly around McKeown into the bottom left corner from 20 yards out.

You could hear a pin flop.

Embleton sat down, Mitch Rose came on. Mitch Rose spent ten minutes chucking the ball into the Yeovil penalty area. Onto Sowumni's head. How fascinating.

Mitch Rose chucked the ball, oh, you know that already.

With three minutes left there was a little bit of jiggery pokery on the Town right. Here is the moment. A cross fizzed flatly. Hess missed, Cook ducked and steered the ball over the bar from five yards. That was the moment. The dream of a brave battling draw against Yeovil was over. Walk on by.

Ah, but just enough time for Hendrie to cap his cup of woefulness by stretching and missing. Patrick bore down on McKeown and bored the pants off everyone with a woeful waft wide.

Four minutes were added for Rose to chuck the ball onto Sowumni's headlocks. Then we could go home to our tomatoes.

Move along, there is nothing to see here. Nothing at all. From start to finish an incoherent structural mess and plain dumb football from the footballers on the pitch. Yeovil were nothing but Lincoln wannabees, and Town dealt with the real thing easily two weeks ago. The patient is regressing.

Not necessarily all the right players and definitely not played in the right order.