I can hear the grass grow

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

21 April 2021

Grimsby Town 0 Morecambe 3

Oligarchs and corporate sharks are not in our ball park. For Town a hedge fund is a crowdfunder to buy a shrubbery for Cheapside. Let the idle rich play their own violins, we've got our sad tunes in the ruins of Fentyland.

There's oxygen left, let's take a final gulp as our perennial nemesis arrives.

First half – Ball park incidents

Town kicked off towards the Pontoon with the usual drop kick and line out, scrum down, ruck and maul. Knock on! Spokes spun and brilliantly dissected and bisected the defence with a perfectly weighted roll down the wing. That's what the Hollow One signed him to do!

Ah, we're kicking the other way lad, look to your right side, Luke.

Slippery whipitty Stockton gambled, gaily galloped and gambolled in the shadows of the Frozen Horsebeer Stand, weaving, wiffling and wafting past occasional stripes. Jamie Mack, trying hard, to be true, buttered the low-clipped parsnip and Matete swept away for a chuck in, duly chucked, and Wildig walloped wide.

Well, that was a minute.

Hoofing, woofing and a fleeting glimpse of football as a red shoe shuffled safely down the street. By chance two separate glances met as Knight-Percival shanked in front of the keeper and Lennie lobbed gently, gently and gently over the emptied goal.

Lamy crossed, Letheren lamped away into either the ether or nether regions. Either, neither, ether, nether. Just noise, for there is no poise from the boys in black. Big booming balls to nowhere, we're on that road again. Well, I'm so tired of crying on the road to Woking being our peers.

New shorts please! A bloodied nose and Lavelle was short changed in public.

Red swarms, we have been warned: passing, movement, pace and runs into space. Matete and Clifton mega-nutted in the covered corner, scruffed across and scrambled aside by Menayese's long-limbed lunging and plunging. A Spokes speclo-shot slapped off red socks and off they ran. McKeown buttered the hot cross bun away for a momentary moment of respite for the ailing, failing patient in palliative care.

Whack and hack from front to back, what do we lack? Control. Their MG Rover wall-chested on the halfway line as Town's defence straggled out for an offside. And indeed a man was offside in the centre, but Stockton bounded away as a chip was flipped down the Town right and slid the ball around and under McKeown into the bottom left corner.

Can you hear hurricanes a-blowing? Can you hear the voices of rage and ruin? There's bad moon on the rise and the end is coming soon.

Town? On the road to whack and rueing all our yesterdays once more. Those were such happy times, but so long ago, was it all a dream? We can shout, we can scream at the screen but, oh Lennie, what did you do?
What could he do with aimless punts?

With one eye in the mirror, we watched Lamy gavotte in a scarf that was apricot. Oh Lamy, so lame he made Gibson look competent.

Them, themming themmingly on their left. A corner, half cleared by Hanson, returned archly and in a slow arc, crinkling slowly and lowly into the heart of the six-yard box, dead centre. Jamie Macc sat down and waved his body, the ball bumbled off the flopping flinger and, oh-oh, Songo'o, walked the ball in.

And now the end is near we can smell the final curtain.

There's time still but Town waste it with swill. Time, chances slip through the hands like grains of sand as we watch Town go from throw to throw and throw it away.

A Habergham long throw flicked on, Lamy swivelled into Freeman Street. Habergham long throw headed on as  Lamy chased around the back and... Town got a free kick on half way line. Another chuck, another corner, so what happens now? Spokes poked way over from way out. There's no way out of here.

Jiggery-pokery and Wildig ran on and swept highly widely or widely highly. Life's too short for plain crisps.
Long balls, balls that are long, just one question: how long are the balls?

Bunny hops, hopscotch and butterscotch instant whip, always a tea-time favourite. Lifting by Lamy, Big Jim dead batting, Lennie leathered and Letheren leapt to lever over from the top left corner. A super-dooper save. Are these beams of light gonna blind us? The corner looped, shadows danced and Menayese swivel-poked over from inside the six-yard box.

As three minutes were added McKeown headed out of his area to head away from an infiltration and finally, Cyril, Mr Lennell John of Lewis swivelled and softly slopped straight to the keeper.

We just looked feeble.

Second half – Voyage to the bottom of the road

Khouri and Lamy were replaced by Waterfall and Jackson Jnr as Town moved to a 4-3-3 formation.

Fluffy flurries and Spokes tickled Lennie. The cross rolled through the unmanned emptiness twixt defence and keeper, between penalty spot and six-yard box, between heaven and earth. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive Big Jim and Ira for not trespassing.

Hewitt advanced from right-back, stood on the ball, and the Erics launched long and straight and true. Stockton ran away down the middle, shrugged of Menayese and lobbed over the leaping McKeown. The ball trickled and bumbled towards the opened goal. One bounce, two bounce, three bounce and four, how can we stop them scoring one more? Rockin' Rollin revved back to spectacularly back-hook off the line to the waiting Waterfall.

Men moved hither and thither, sometimes connecting with the ball.

Price thwacked way over, a Habergham cross and a Hanson flick, oh dear. Town one-touch passing and movement, Matete and Jackson slickly licking up the left, Lennie wandered down a cul-de-sac admiring the bungalows and wondered… nice place to retire to.

Spokes swinging, Matete swaying and swiping across the face of goal just like, but unlike, Saturday. Ah Saturday, by now we really should know a dead cat when it bounces.

So, round and around and around we go, where the ball's headed, nobody knows. A crossfield Spokesball hit the ref but the band played on. Habergham crossed and Lennie noodled at the far post and the keeper wrapped himself around the post like a duck.

Shrimper subbing and the buffering began. We're back, we're not and another minute gone. A redman underneath the Police Box preparing to chuck, frozen in time, and the Town free kick dropped. Menayese swivel-poked and the ball trickled off red past the post for a corner which Waterfall glanced across the face of the far post.

Long, long, long, long and long again, wrong again. Cumbersome clutterball cutting out the middle men. Artless, aimless, agricultural.

Adjectives of annihilation bury the point beyond redemption and venomous verbs of ruthless candour plagiarise the back catalogue of Burt Bacharach. What a load of incoherent nonsense.


The ref started to take pity as last man Waterfall held Stockton and legged up their MG Rover and Town were given a free kick. These Lancashire hot shots played purely, played perfectly, picking off the weak and weary in the press, for they knew that some stripe, sometime, somewhere will always, eventually, mis-control and meander.

Buffering, buffering, lord thank you for buffering. Ah, and we're back, we're back in the Bananarama. A smorgasbord of Shrimpers scampering down their right and Waterfall stretched at the near post to prod past McKeown. Big Luke is deadly from that range and Town are dead in the stagnant water.

Florentino Perez is right, we don't want 90 minutes of this; stop it now, think of the children. They'll never support Town if they see this.

Four minutes were added as we remote voyeurs drifted away to put the bins out and pickle our onions. Spokes and Meyanese in a slapstick muddle, McKeown tackled an intruder and their Hendrie lobbed over the open goal.

That was the end of the affair.

Look like a Holloway team, play like a Holloway team, lose like a Holloway team.