Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
6 December 2020
Colchester United 2 Grimsby Town 1
Ah, Colchester, the home of Mockney rebels. Gertcha!
All across the nation there's such a strange vibration. It's people in motion!
Hey humans of Essex, if you're going to the Jobsworth Stadium be sure to wear some flowers in your hair, you're going to meet some gentle people there.
It's raining again. I know it's hard to pretend that there won't still be a one-hour traffic jam on that ring-a-ring o'round-a-bout.
Will our system be alright?
First half – What's the difference?
Town kicked off towards humans with the usual kick and rush straight out for a throw-in. Humans! Don't touch the ball you virus vectors.
Lovely jubbly, bright and bubbly, how does our garden grow? Bennett waffled and Pollock was booked for some emergency tree surgery in a field somewhere in England. 90 seconds of nivelling.
Inflitrations and celebrations, congratulations Colchester you've hit the jackpot. A corner swung through unmolested into the vague centre. Bodies bundled, the ball trundled. Our old custardian, hands cold, on his knees, looking for an answer. The answer my friend is someone on the post at every corner as the ball drickled and crawled into the bottom right corner off Smith's accidental backside. Jamie Macc? Well, he's only human.
A moment here, a moment there, Bennett almosting, Scannell nearlying. Hewitt sleeping as Bennett broke back, Hewitt flapping towards Frinton after triangular tappings from Town.
Now, can you tell me if there are places to see in Frinton-on-Sea? Great Auntie Buntie will not be amused as Hewitt's howitzer dropped into the sea off the novelty rock emporium.
Bennett jinked, Edwards jived and Windsor's precision-tooled pass pinged off Gerkin's toes, slithering past the post for a corner.
Snore at a corner, we always snore at a corner.
Rose rightly coiled into the near post, Hendrie flashed his blade and edged down and over the wicket-keeper, who finger-flipped into the far top corner.
And then I awoke, is this some kind of joke? Blimey, a goal. Blimey indeed.
The Jobsworth Massive was shaken but rarely stirring. Town played speed chess from the back, but Windsor was castled. A blue lump and a Brown lamp ballooned. A blue bump and off chased Ainsley Harriott, but Preston boiled his carrots. For the nights filled with dread and the worries ahead, no penalty, no charge.
And still did the stripes slobber over the slackers. Rose robbed and roamed, Preston pinged and Kyle Bennett and his rabble rousing was blocked on social media. Or a blue leg. Edwards jinked and dinked, Bennett headed up, Gerkin headed out of goal and Windsor lost his ball bearings with the goal temporarily a-gaping.
Oh hello there, you're still here. Slippery-eeled Knocker Norris peeled away from monochrome and congealed a satisfyingly rubbish cross.
Chasing rainbows Scannell twisted and gurned, and so Williams replaced him in the third minute of the one added.
It shouldn't be worse and it should be better.
Second half – What's the difference (chapter 2)?
Neither team made any changes at half time.
I see footsteps slowly walking as they gently walk across a lonely flaw in Town's plans. Edwards bouncing off blues, not tracking back when blues moved.
Preston slapped away a bouncing nonentity. Meanwhile, in another land, where the breeze and the trees and the flowers were blue, Ainsley Harriott minced in late to land on the left-back's leg. No booking, not even a foul as the pigeon-toed, undergrowed purple people eaters didn't have sight to see,
Home humming but no drumming: that's not Covid-security approved. Oi turn that light off, don't you know there's a bore going on.
Bramhall ambled into the Edwards void and crickled a cross straight at McKeon's awaiting fists. Warning lights flashed on our map. Cleared up and whacked back, Smith's big booming ball flew out to their right. The unattended Harriott hugged the touchline, bundled towards the retreating Preston, slapped against our winter Rose, carried on at his convenience and slappered lowly through static caravans and through the barely sighted McKeown.
They rang the bell, we shout and yell, but Town just can't break that spell.
Preston pulled, but no foul given; Edwards felled in full flight, a yellow card finally wafted. Williams wallowed the free kick deeply and darkly, Gerkin flipped over the bar and hugged the post. The corner shortened and Bennett diddled and widdled like a door that keeps revolving in a half forgotten dream. The ripples from this pebble were tossed into a stream of unconsciousness, a dithering kaleidoscope of collisions as Bennett ran in into Williams who blocked Edwards who tackled Windsor as Holloway auditioned for Strictly on the touchline.
Pollock head-flicked, Hendrie swayed through the crowd to an empty space, loopy-dinked to the far post and Windsor wanted to ride his bicycle. Alas the ball bumped off big Blueness. Hot dog? I say cool it.
Just when their party was pooping the hosts decided to get on their Bontempi and play some popular tunes, all with a little light bossa nova beat. Turning and turning the world goes on, Knocker Norris flick headed wide from a deeply dippy free kick. Senior was a man without any love from his chums as he churled a curl in to the only boy from Town around, Preston stepped in to stoop away.
And that my friends is all they had to say for themselves.
Us, well, it's a tail of woah or woe. Which way will it go? I think you know, but here we go...
Tipping, tapping, nicking and knocking, Blues encamped in their own car park. Williams retrieved after Windsor was felled, swingling through blue socks to the bye-line and espying Broadway Danny Rose alone. The pass was passed and the opportunity was knocked out for a throw-in, several decades away on the other side of life.
Tricks and flicks, Townites were snicked and Bennett's free kick dipped into the centre of the centre of the goal. Gerkin pac-manned from nowhere to nowhere and the ball za-zoomed wayly over off suspiciously blue toes for a goal kick.
Gibson replaced the slightly irate Bennett. Pollock became Taylor as Town moved to three at the back and a bird in the hand.
It's all Town, they are just the wall against which we bang our heads. Toblerones and silent moans as Gibson tangoed and Taylor's cracker was smothered by a big block of cheese. Crawling along the edge of reason, around the edge of the penalty area, Gibson and Edwards tackled each other as neither shot. A rightly awarded free kick humped beyond their farthest post and Windsor's whack from the knock-back hit a blue-backed whale.
More and more, and on and on, as wave upon wave of Town-ness foundered on the last leg left in Essex. Windsor wiggled freely on the left and Gibson's grubber was blocked away. Gibson dinked and Gerkin clutched on the tip of the toes of hard runnning Hendrie. Preston sneaked, Williams winkled to the bye-line and pulled back into a handy void of humanity. Hendrie's smack was downed, Rose's lash was slashed into the night.
Colchester threw on defenders and hauled off strikers as four minutes were added. And in the last waltz Taylor's traction engine from Gibson's cut back was blocked and, with McKeown lurking, Taylor headed the corner muchly over.
A performance that was so much better, but that makes things so much worse. Town managed to lose a game they mostly dominated, having hardly had anything to defend.
Can't shoot, won't defend, not bad in between.