Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

7 November 2021

Back through the years we go wandrin' once again. Aggborough in our absence: turnstiles click while there's nobody there, the Martians could land in the car park and no one would care. Ah, but the railings are still here, ready for the incensed to impale their inflatables.

Hello Kidderminster we're back to brighten your day with songs and laughter and jokes old and new. With us about you won't feel blue.

Striped and black-socked Town lined up in a 3-5-1-1 formation as follows: Crocombe, Longe-King, Waterfall, Towler, Efete, Coke, Fox, Clifton, Revan, Bapaga and Taylor. The substitutes were McKeown, Sears, Pearson, Braithwaite, Khouri, Grant, John-Lewis and Essel. Mmm, three at the back, it never fails to fail, but that’s a tale of the past. We're happy shiny people now. New! New New! All hail New Hurst, the bubbly bonhomie and he's had a bonfire of his vanities. Hasn't he?

What, still no Sean Scannell? Where is the prophet, where is the visionary new Glen Downey? More importantly, where is Dave Moore? You know what happens when the crows leave the dock tower.

A thousand faded advertising boards on a windswept West Midland minefield. Get your lets from Doolittle and Dalley. Is that an instruction or a prediction?

1st half – Did Little
Kidderminster kicked off towards 921 Town fans in coats of many colours. Perhaps these coats will bring good luck and happiness.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps not.

Infiltrations across our nation with red shifting, stripes rifting, there be faults in our tectonic plates. Who is where, where is who? Chips and chases, Town not at the races, a void in the flanks, the lines on our map moved from side to side.

Black socks and blue language. Who knows which is which and who is who out there? Coke, down and out, it could be helped and there's a lot of it about. Hemmings wiggled, Revan waggled vaguely, Morgan-Smith muttered between statues to arise alone. Mad Max Crocombe, off-piste and off-kilter, adjusted his ball bearings and plunged back to paw and clawback as Big Ol' Amari ambled towards the temporary bounce.

Hustling, hassling Harriers, Mariners mithered and messed up by Morgan-Smith, who turned a bollard and flattered into the side-netting.

Town: becalmed, bestilled, bewitched and drowning in real time. Is this really Town or have we sent ABBA's avatars to deal with these carpet town heroes. No more carefree laughter in the away end.

Boxed in and punched out, Town in a tizz at the back as Max Max fly-hacked a Towler tap and Morgan–Smith was booked for challenging the status quo. We're down the dustpipe armed only with our own antisocial insecurities.

Bustling, barging, Carpetbombers charging into the corners where no stripe be. One way or another their gonna give us the slip. One day, maybe next week, Town'll arrive on planet earth. Look now, look around, there is no sign of Town life.

Big booming balls! Ah, there's life in the old cloggers yet. Towler bazookaed from deep, deep on the Town left to deep, deep on the Kidderminster left as Efete lurked and lolled to roll into the penalty area. As if by magic, Bapaga appeared, sweeping lowly but there be no weeping in the West Midlands as Simpson smothered lowly and left.

Balls. They boom. Balls. They sail into the Severn Valley railway sidings. We've come all this way and nothing seems to satisfy. Can you help me occupy my brain? Oh yeah, they've got a massive telly in their executive boxes so we can watch the cricket. Hey, that looked out to me. Or was it going down the leg side, Raymond?

You see, in the modern game you have to vary every ball bowled. A googly, an off-spinner and Bart Simpson scooped up the deflected gloryballs.

Balls. Balls. Balls. They have a lot of balls and they need them. Does the Severn Railway get a finder's fee for each returned ball? Save the planet, save the season, can we make Bart make a save please?

Ah, Fox in the box, and slapped across. Was it a cross, was it a shot? Was it a crot or a shoss? Ah, Fox in the box again, scribbling and scrumbling and their custardian picked up the pieces.

Here we are standing near a railway station with our ticket for this enervation. Watching this game reminds me, tug of war hasn't been an Olympic sport since 1920. It's a bore, it's a chore, we expected more than a tug of war.

2nd half – Doolally
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Wind. Rubbish. Windy rubbish. The weather deteriorated too. Boom-boom, there's a second show at 7:30.

Some zip and zest from men in striped vests. Efete extended his legs and Bart Simpson scooped the cross as Taylor's toes hung around at the near post. Little Harry hustled and harried, his deflected cross causing panic on the dancefloor. C'mon Town, keep on keeping on, you'd better not kill the groove.

A corner clipped, Towler arose at the far post and headed down into the hedgerows. The Chaise Longue stretched out languidly and poked and the ball swung across the angle of post and bar.

Oh, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. There may be others.

Buttering and bartering and Fox flung a corner to the far post. Towlerfall headed back and the central Watertower bedraggled a blaster through hopping ankles and wide of the right post.

And so and so and so and so and so and so and so. You'll just have to pray that Lennie comes on. How else are we going to score by accident?

On the hoursish the butterfly Bapagapen slithered, slid, stretched and crumpled. Without the Dave Moore Death Stare there was no hope of recovery. Off he went, on came Lennie. Commencing countdown, engines on. Check ignition and may Cod's love be with you. Let the chaos begin.

Lennie rolled, the Kiddymen rocked. Lennie rocked, Kiddymen rolled over. A moment, another moment. Things. Nearly things. Nearly, nearly things again. Lennie blocked by red socks, Lennie bumbling, Lennie this, Lennie that. Lennie in his element. Lennie's found his level. Town roaming right, rolling left. Dear Old Lennie bundled through a tea towel and Bart battered away narrowly.

Little Harry disrobed a dawdler, Taylor tapped, Lennie licked on, Clifton clipped and overlapping Efete slapped against the outside of the nearest post. Hey, we've moved from never looking like shooting to not looking like scoring. Well, we're all about incremental improvements these days, those famously fine margins between love and dearth.

Ah, the red stuff. Them, they, the locals. They’re still hanging on in quiet expectation, it's the Kiddy way. And so, as you read these words, telling you, now, of the state of our nation, I tell you to try and enjoy this game. I wish I could, but it's too late.

Higgledy-piggeldy nothingness as the Kiddymen chipped and chased and no clearances were laced. Any more dawdling and we're maudlin. An extra portion of chips by the right corner flag. Chaise-Longue reclined and declined to clatter. An unmolested dink, an unmolested turn and Freemantle found Waterfall's aura too strong to resist, or perhaps last-season Luke had unmagically and tragically reappeared. You know when you've been Bapagaed. Hemmings puffed out his chest, strutted, stuttered and crimped low and left as Crocombe flew right.

On came Grant for Waterfall as Town moved to a 4-some in the middle-some somewhere else formation. Balls. Balls over the stands and far, far away, 50 feet down in the crowds of the Severn Valley Railway.

Hemmings cheeky clipped a free kick from afar as all awaited a dink. Mad Max sighed lately upon the bouncing bumble.

The squeals have it. Fox was booked for nothing more egregious than stretching. Time, it's there to waste. We waste it watching Town, they waste it watching Bart Simpson rubbing his thighs. Waste management is so important these days of climate change. Is the climate changing at Town?

Balls in the box, balls over the roofs and houses. Balls, balls, balls, the Town world keeps swinging, let's put on the dazzling charm. Fox fell over in the box, we're in a fix, we need Bapaga's tricks.

Loans and grants, all perfectly acceptable resources. It just depends how you use them. Revved-up Revanance and a soupcon of Grant shimmied through reds on the left. Lennie lurked and his boots were made for swinging, but a home toe swept away their fears.

In this old familiar ground we thought Hurst's children would play. Now there's only emptiness, there's nothing more to say. Five minutes were added.

Are you ready boots? Start walking.

We'll just have to face it that this time Kidderminster are through. Impale the shark!

This was tactical suicide, for it sent a message before a ball was kicked: we feared them more than they feared us. Everything was wrong, it was a reversion to type and so very 2013. 

We've been here before, literally and metaphorically. Those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it.