Point me at the sky

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

9 February 2022

Grimsby Town 0 King's Lynn 0

On Saturday the Lord Mayor's Show, on Tuesday we're playing a game that we know'll end in tears, the sort of game we've been watching for thousands and thousands and thousands…

We're back home and we'll be thinking about, oh I dunno, pop, pop, pop muzik on a warmly chill but still but breezy evening in front of 73 Fenland funsters. But yeah, but no, but yeah, but no buts 'cos things can only get better.

Town lined up in a 4-4-1-1 formation as follows: Crocombe, Efete, Waterfall, Pearson, Amos, Sousa, Coke, Raikhy, Clifton, McAtee and Taylor. The substitutes were Smith, Burgess, Scannell, Abrahams, John-Lewis. Lennie I and Lennie II together at last, but if they sit too close on the bench does the space-time continuum rip and Sean Scannell appear, as if by magic, wearing a Glenn Downey mask? There'll be plenty of space, plenty of time with stodgy and bodgy in central midfield.

Ah, Lovejoy's little tinkers, all sons of their fathers, though some have left the sodden path and separated from the paternal past. Will they be just like their dad and follow in the same tradition? Go on, point me in the direction of Tommy Pointington junior.

Bun boy!

Tommy can you hear me? Tommy can you see me? Ooh Tommy… Tommy… Tommy… he seems to be completely unreceptive. He hears but will not answer to our calls.

Let's talk balls.

First half: Fiddle about

The cocky Linnets kicked off towards the Pontoon, but Town dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, lost their way and didn't know where to roam.

Woah, it's the Raikhy hokey Cokey. Oh, Raikhy and pokey Cokey stuttering and cluttering up the sock drawer. Arms bent, knees stretched and a yellow squealer squawked. After much boo-hooing the referee was persuaded to book Efete for random imprecision. And up jumped the felled Fenster as soon as the yellow card appeared, he could have lain down here and just been another accident statistic.

They're masters of the bluff, this opposition, that's their proposition. There's a slow Town attack coming round the bend.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, we're sick, sick, sick, sick of the flicker, flicker, flicker and out. There is a light that shines and it's on the ship sailing by. There's a slow train a-comin', full of passengers yet there's no one on it.

Coke choked, the left disenfranchised, yellows swarmed and Clunan muffled alone 10 yards out to miss marvellously.

I don't believe it! Someone moving their legs? Amos fizzled and frazzled over longly.

I can hear the grass grow, but I don't see anything at the end of the rainbow in this evening. We're as silent as at Solihull. Hush, hush, you could hear them calling their names now. Hush, hush, no-one in a rush, we gotta midfield like quicksand.

Deep yellowness and Efete handled for a corner of shallow yellowness glancing widely.

Town? It's just a pass to the left and then a pass to the right. Put your hands on your hips, we’re keeping it tight. Moments of momentary momentum, a cross off the line, a cross off near the line, nearly off the line closely, close, closer. Somehow Town can't break away, we're persistent but slow.

Hey-ho. Oh. A flick over the top and Little Harry scurried free, bedragging lowly back across the plunging Jones, who flinger-flipped the ball past the right post. McAtee defenestrated in the wilds and Pearson breakdanced hookily lowly to the keeper's left.

Hargreaves, changing, rearranging the deckchairs across the face of the penalty area, Crocombe's long levers levered longly to scrump the apple.

Oh it must have been cold in the shadows, Sousa and Clifton switched wings. Clifton underpassing, Sousa over overpassing. Passing the time, nothing is fine.

One minute was added to the game but subtracted from our life.

This game has one foot in the grave as Town play tortoiseball and the Linnets play Pacman.

Second half: Eyesight to the blind

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Blimey, Coulson, your shirt's too small for you.

Oomph! Ooff! Raikhy raked overly.

Oof, some oomph. Oompah, oompah, Town stick it up their jumper. Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la. Oh dear, tut-tut, we've hit a rut, we won't go far with playing the washboard. More flawed than bored, pressure and blocks with blocks of pressure. A corner here, a corner there, a head clear and a tiny tear as Eric O'Sausages bangered wide with Jones blinded by the lights. Little Harry flying, Little Harry hauled to the turf, the free kick Charlestoned away and nodded highly back. The ball dropped and yellow hands dropped the ball.

Yellow hands dropped the ball right inside the penalty area.

Yellow hands shovelling and scooping with no stripes near.

A spontaneous eruption with one single word resonating throughout the land: handball!

Now he can't hear us, his ears are truly sealed. He can't point either, his hands are chilled, he didn't see nothing and his linesman completed the scene.

A knock, knock, knocking on King's Lynn's door. Efete near but not near a cross of no distinction. Sausages! Lateral movement, shuffles and scuffles, McAtee whacked, the left post snapped.

It's one of those days.

Fenland fun and a fennish faller. Widdrington coiled the free kick over the angle of post and bar.

And so faintly Town came tapping, tapping at King's Lynn's door. Heaving, ho-ing, fouls be throwing. Raikhy mis-curdled a corner lowly, the ball skipped through swishing limbs past and beyond the far post. Waterfall stamped and Jones rabbit-punched off the line. Jones, you're becoming a pest.

It's one of those days.

It's been a long time coming but with quarter of an hour left there's a change a-comin' with double subbing. Abrahams replaced Taylor and Burgess for slow Coke, who's lost his fizz.

What's this? 'Tis some visitor we chuntered, slapping at Town's door. Slickness, quickness and derring do. Widdrington wellied, Crocombe's fingers did some walking to flip aside from beside the right post.

What's this? 'Tis some visitor we muttered, tapping at Crocombe's door. Pearson knock-kneed, a cross, a glance that was their chance. There was only this and nothing more.

Just who is that mystical creature standing by the halfway line? This man of myth, a source of mirth, what is he worth? Whatever happens tonight we can all say we were there when Sean Scannell played at Blundell Park as off trudged Raikhy.

When no-one was looking Barrow clutched straws and clasped his tussie-mussie. The ref stopped play for crying and lying around. Wasting our time, we'll never pine for the sad days and bad ways of Tommy's boys. Scannell stretched leaving a yellow writher and much blathering from their backroom boys.

Infiltrations but no excitations as Burgess leant back and scooped, Waterfall shinkled a big dipper to clear for them straight to Efete, who leant back and miskickled a slicer.

Six minutes were added. Huffing, puffing, tepid sinning and timid shinning ended with Clifton bursting alone into the penalty area to the sound of the final peep.

Just one of those days.