Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

9 December 2020

Grimsby Town 0 Newport County 2

Ah yes, Tuesday night is bin night.

The defenestration of Jamie Macc is one thing but Little Harry at left-back? What has he, and have we, done to deserve this.

Let's roll the boulder back up the hill and see who salutes it.

First half – The narrow way

The nifty Newpottyans kicked off towards the Pontoon. Scarlet slickery, Town slackery, a Welshman felled under the nose of the Police Box. A coil, a graze, a bump off the post, a throw-in and a lone redster stood by the near post and stood on the ball.

A pickling punt and Russell hared out to head away. I say hare, but the rabbits are in the floodlights.

Edwards weaved a basket and threw it in the river. Hewitt nicked and roved, Gibson slashed. Ah-ha, he's king of the impossible.

Little Harry foul throw. Never!

Shilly-shallying down the Town left. Bennett watched as Shephard flocked forward then helpfully pointed for someone else, somewhere to follow the bear as a dink wasn't aimed at Shep's faithful head. A pull back and twang! Twine poked a glide wide.

That obsession with possession. We've got that sinking feeling, woa-ho that sinking feeling, now we're gone, gone, gone, woa-oh-ho-oh, gone.

Hendrie hauled down Haynes wayly out but centrally. Twine walloped from Wonderland, through a raggedy picket fence. The ball deflected off Pollock and nurdled into the bottom left as Old Sam sighed to his right.

One thing we know for sure, it's time for the recycling.

Taylor calmly panic chested as Amond lurked and Russell scooped up a wibble-wobble free kick. Here we go, another long free kick was patted down after Edwards was a silly sausage.

Why do they keep having free kicks? Because Town keep fouling them. How else do you stop big, stronger, faster, better players?

As half-time approached, Gibson became trapped like a rat in the press cabin corner. Halfly hoiked and hardly returned, Rose scraped a trench for his potatoes and the twinkling Twine tumbled. The pastel peeper pointed spotsward. Ah, such memories. Amond clamly crinkled highish left with Russell's finger-tips flailing in the slipstream.

Two minutes were added. What's the value in that?

Four free kicks, four chances. Town were being toyed with.

No snap, no crackle, and it's all going pop.

Where's that fog?

Second half – Careful with your axe, Ollie

Windsor replaced Rose at half time, while Haynes was replaced by Dolan for them.

An exercise in futility as the adults in the room sat back and intervened only if the kids went near sharp corners. Gibson, arm-wrestling at passing balls, Hendrie piffled when he should have puffled.

Edwards tripped off red socks and Windsor wellied against the bar. The ball thumpered back straight to Gibson, six yards out, who fell over his pass back to the prostrate Townsend. He really isn't a League players, is he. But who is?

The Nabobs of Newport just let Town have the ball as they knew that passing around at the back would just lead to a misplaced pass or knocked knee sooner rather than later. And a long lamp was swallowed as our runts shunted away. Pitiful, like watching  nine-year olds playing their dads.

A flashing yellow as Taylor tripped up a passing redster. The quick free kick was flicked on, Hendrie hooked away from an awaiting big red boot. Another quick and short free kick was flicked on, flicked back and flicked away by striped bottoms.

Aye-up, another free kick pokey-prodded wide by Twine after balls were dropped.

You know there's too many ifs and buts in everything done in our name.

I suppose we have to mark it down as a sign of improvement that Ellison didn't get his contractually obliged goal. Off he went, on came Abraham who promptly rounded Russell and threshed wildly as Townites stretched. And here we go again. Lacerated on their left, Waterfall teed up Amond's back hook onto the roof of the net.

Changes were made, yet Town as changeless as canal water for Williams replaced Edwards, Gibson became Starbuck. Huffs were puffed and shrinking straws were clutched like pearls. Williams widdled and Windsor twiddled into an existential void. Snappy triangles, a Hewitt surge and Windsor tackled Starbuck, who then crossed into the Pontoon.

And finally a Town shot, from open play, and on target too! Patience is a virtue rewarded by this thinnest of cruel gruel. Or is patience a parrot owned by my aunt? Starbuck crossed a field in England and Little Harry spun and, just for fun, gave Townsend an iced bun. Or a shot straight at him. One of the two.

What else is there? Nothing but nonsense. A Russell fly-hack was returned and the swivelling cross missed by micro-toes. I presume you are as interested as the next man that Jamie Devitt came on to curl yet another free kick into the valley of fanly dearth way, way wide of the lost ball boys of Avalon.

Four minutes were added, if you really must know.

All this Town manager is doing is changing the deckchairs on his, and our, Titanic. With some bad luck, we may get back inside Blundell Park in time for the band to be playing as we slide under the sea.