Do dead rubber cats bounce?

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 May 2021

Grimsby Town 1 Port Vale 0

What do they say when it's all over? Sorry seems to be the hardest word for those responsible. Since when has silence been golden for the incontinent incompetent and his mad music man?

Ah well, the past will be another country in the near future, for the future is almost now.

A sunny day with a sneaky breeze and Port Vale in lime. What does our heart yearn for now? A bit of love and pride.

Start the journey.

First half – One of the few

Town kicked off towards the Osmond. S'cusi dove il bar? S'il vous plait ou est le bar? Oi John, our Coke has gone flat! Rockin' Rollin smothered lime drops. A corner shortened and Alf Ippititimus met Norman Wisdom: hilarity ensued and there was fun for all the family.

Bibbles and bobbles, hibbles and hobbles, don't dilly-dally on the way to the Linnets. Are you following the Vanarama now?

Our throw-in, their shot. Mugging under the Police box and Whitehead bedraggled.

Action from Jackson and, well, there was a cross. More action from Jackson and, well, Town got a throw-in. Well, well, said the rocking chair, it's been a while since we've seen such stark despair.

Never mind, maybe we'll take the Pyjamarama League by storm this time.

"Woa, woa" said the radio. Sit, there are some things you ought to know. Lime drops fishing with chips, local bird life happy.

A Town free kick lumped long and high and there's Green between the limes. The ball bubbled back and Clifton volleyed straight down Brown's frown.

It would benefit all if we could find ways to avoid Eastwood having to kick the ball.

They're in, they're out, they're shaking Town all about, with what? Lime drops keep falling on our heads, they keep failing. Whitehead slap-sticked beyond the lime trees. It won't be long 'til happiness steps up to greet me.

Harry hassled them in to a throw-in by their manager. Little Harry hassled Joyce who turned to jelly, mithering a back-pass into the gloop. Mr Green, so serene, bounded away, awaited the arrival of Mr Brown on the 8:21 and calmly passed around flapping fingers into the bottom left corner.

Matt Green scored: the kids just don't understand. A goal may numb his soul, but will thoughts still stray to replacements far away? We need a change of scenery.

And what of the Burslem Bombadiers? Lump, header, whack: Eastwood saved. Ah, a long throw out of the sun, I guess they wanted to gain an edge. They shouldn't have chucked into next door's hedge then. An up'n'under and Rodney, you plonker. A fallacious fall and free kick to Town. No penalty, no card, no income tax, no VAT.

Crosses, headers, shots, all neither here nor there. Call them immature, call them posers, they're spreading manure on our bed of roses. The Limesters take a touch much too much, eschewing shots for fiendish plots of great beauty and little substance.

Ooh, ah, just a little bit. Robinson's sexy swivel shot was battered aside by Eastwood but a visiting Valiant was stood on golden sands and had strayed beyond the sea wall. Where the ball ended is as relevant to our lives as a donkey in a dinner jacket. A fleeting moment of amusement, barely worth a meme.

A stray Green elbow resulted in a booking and two minutes were added for additional bumbling and stumbling.
Port Vale walked off with the sort of face that you only see at a golf club buffet when the mayor realises the cake table is bare. A snore to watch, a chore to watch.

Second half – Our possible pasts

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Wahey, woah, wibblywobblywooo. Menayese skewed, Eastwood flopped and dropped and a fortuitous free kick for fumbling.

Little Harry hared and klaxons blared as a Town corner aired. Cleared by a man without a beard and suddenly one summer Worral ran on from inside his own half. And on. And on. And on. As Eastwood awaited, Worral waited and waited for the loanster to sell his family silver. Eastwood crouched tall and blocked and Big Brisley stooped to head highly from nearby as the following corner flowed into the heart of the middle of the centre of the six-yard box.

Green cross. No, he wasn't angry, just disappointed. Is there a Green cross code? It may explain his Town career. Think. Stop. Look and Listen. Wait. Look and Listen Again. Oh, the ball hasn't arrived.

A cheap shot? Of course, it's not his fault his body is ageing. He runs around and tries hard.

Ah, a cheap shot at retribution from Legge as a forearm smashed into Green.

Scannell! He's alive! He dived and no one took any notice. Life carried on, follow that camel. The limesters lumped long and Rodney fell around Habergham Sam for a not free kick. Town wellied back and Green crossed for some helter-skelterballing. Off went Groggy Green, on came the local Shop for local people.

A can of Coke? I can, I can't? Port Vale people with their colours and noise. Come, come, we'll have none of that here.

Let's have some of this here. Scannell flannelled, Jackson gained traction, Khouri ran on to the teasing tickle and prodded at Brown.

Limesters longing for length, lamping long, long, long, flicked on and Rodney sniggled behind Menayese. Eastwood slid to scoop and his head did droop as he collided with Rodney's knee. After three minutes of wet flannelling and head shaking from the Scene of Crime Officers, McKeown ran on to replace the occasional door stop.

Oof, Roly! McKeown caught a corner, caught a corner, McKeown caught a corner.

Scannell swiped cross-field and there was much action from Jackson. Wiggling, waggling, rolling around the lime drops and a flashing cross flicked off striped thighs at the nearest post and flew across the face of goal.

Halfway through the half Port Vale triple-subbed, bringing on big old Pope and slippery Amoo. And some other bloke who has a name. Who? A footnote in history and a man barely with a foot in this game.

What mighty contests rise from such trivial things.

Pope was a persistent pest who rushed in where some of our little angels feared to tread. Pope feigned human contact and duck-headed wide as the free kick flew through beyond the furthest post. Our last Harry standing bundled up the right and Scannell's tricky-flicky twizzle threatened to cause some eyebrows to raise. Alas, dear reader, they launched it as Robinson was bounding free, flicking over Menayese and lobbing over Jamie Macc onto the roof of the net.

They are doing very well to avoid scoring. Port Vale: well done you.

And here they come again. Worral waltzing through the rickety fence, pulling back into the void and monochrome smotherers arrived to discombobulate. The corner half cleared and dinkled into the fog of war. Hendrie noodled Smith's header off the line.

Enough was enough for Captain Sensible. Off trouped two of the old soldiers of fortune, Scannell and Habergham, on came Spokes and… hey, we're going for it, with all-out attack by bringing on our top scorer. Pollock to you. Read my lips: Pollock.

Big triangles. Jackson turned his man into a bread and butter pudding and was ceremoniously legged up. After the fanfare and introductions from the Town Cryer Spokes: Spokes takes rubbish free kicks. All of them, everywhere, go nowhere.

As you were.

A melange of muddling, a contrafibulation of cuddling, a Pollock in a pericombobulation as Pope prodded or nodded wide. Quick free kick and even quicker corner and Hendrie headed away. In, out, and back again. Pollock shinned sideways and Rodney rapped against the post. The ball bounced back behind Jamie Macc and…the limesters were anaspeptic, perhaps even frasmotic when they saw a flag fluttering at the end of a raspberry arm.

Crossfield traffic, Town being bettered. Pope arose dead centre, dead alone. McKeown battered away. More, more, more, long, short and inevitably heading for their tallest players. Are we heading for another fall? Deflected, inflected, Town's penalty area infected, lance the boil! Amoo, dancing himself dizzy, he was dynamite on their right. Montano was booked for unsubtly upending one of Town's occasional trips to the funfair. Boo, you bully. Back off Boo-ga-loo in your wallpaper shoes.

Three minutes later meathead Montano headed Hendrie and headed off as he threw a hissy-fit. Booked for boo-hooing. You can't park on double yellows, off you go to the compound.

Faces, places, spaces: just put your laces through it Lennie.

Eight minutes were added.

Town breaking, Town wasting. Clifton's clip deflected back and off he ran. Tweaking and twerking Coke flicked wayly over.

Spokes and Pollock excused me and shot wide.

Trick throw-in by Harry. Harry nipped in the bud, Harry hassled hustlers, Harry stood up for himself and clattered Coke in the mush.

And finally somewhere deep in the 99th they flutter behind you your possible pasts.

Town were lucky and plucky. About time we got both in the same game. Is it worth thinking about this game any more?

There's no use in a-cryin', we're nearly through but at least it's not for the want of trying. It doesn't matter anymore.