All Right Now

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

6 March 2022

Grimsby Town 1 Woking 0

Oh the dreadful wind and rain is the permanent refrain as it’s howling and piddling yet again. When next will we have our day in the sun? What do we want? We want fun, we want sun and we also want a bun. This is the coastal town that they forgot to close down, where every Saturday is silent and grey.

Town lined up in a 4-4-1-1 formation as follows Crocombe, Efete, Waterfall, Pearson, Crookes, Sousa, Jones, Burgess, Clifton, McAtee and Abrahams. The substitutes were Amos, Smith, Coke, Scannell and Dieseruvwe. Another week, another new kid in town. Everyone wants to love you Callum, so don't let them down.

Yes, there's great expectations, everybody's watching you. You've never heard of Brian Blessed? Well you are young and probably keep your teeth nice and clean? Let's hope Jones's alright.

And what of the blue suede Cardyboys? Here they are, all 73 of 'em, and some are already bealing. Oi, brolly wielders stop your squealing. At least you have a roof as you watch your hit and hoof.

My, my, they are still tall.

First half: What difference does it make?

Town kicked off towards the Pontoon with a lump straight out of play. Ross wandered to the edge of the area inspecting his divots. He looked up and pointed to the sky, sang to himself, chatted with passing pigeons, walked back around the back of the goal and around the back of the Pontoon, bought a Sasquatch burger, adjusted his hair, phoned a friend, checked his chakra, fiddled and faddled and then it was nearly half-time.
Ooh, hang on, the ball moved, let's start again.

At this rate this game won't be over by Christmas.

Hit and hope and rope-a-dope dipstickery as a bluesman plunged when the wind flapped beneath his wings. A free kick launched downwind and out of sight. Waterson, or was it Pearfall, attempted to scale Mount Effiong, noodling back into the void. A cheeky chap slithered a swerving half volley through the hedgerows, arcing towards the bottom right corner. The long limbs of Crocombe fell upon this dangerous liaison.

Blue chips were chased with haste. Hey Luke, you gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder, it's gonna get harder and harder as you get older. A clip, a clop and an Effiong looper-drooper was tipped over by Crocombe, who flap-punched off big home heads. Sleep well, dear reader, for there is only danger to the old rugged scoreboard on a hill far away.

When I look at the ace in our own deck of cards, it reminds me that there is but one McAtee. C’mon, all you got to do Johnny is move your feet and kinda shake your body to the driving beat. He winks, he jinks, he jives and Ross dives at the nearest post, diverting against Abrahams' knees and the ball crept over the crossbar. We're through the looking glass here, people – for what you see is not what you get, though Town did get a corner for this goal kick. Confused? You soon will be.

Jones elevated upon instruction, Waterfall arose, Ross finger-pinged against the left post and the ball bonked back into the centre, the goal a-gaping and a-yawning. Sousa hooked and the ball travelled towards the big empty goal, with no Wokemen in the same galaxy. Trinkets and figurines were already falling off mantelpieces all over DN35 when suddenly, without warning, with no humanity, Diarra spider-legged from nowhere to party-poop off the line. A china Wallace and Gromit died for no reason.

Do you think Efete's throw-ins are his personal tribute to Shane Warne? I’m sure that one was his zooter. And that's the one they call the flipper, for the flipper is faster than lightning. No-one, you see, is smarter than McAtee, who wibbled a wobbler straight and untrue safely wide to the west of Ross. The blue John, Allarakhia, curdled lowly and Crocombe purred and plunged upon this soft and gentle mild green fairy liquid.

Them. Things. A corner. Heads and fails. A shot in the dark and Crookes diverted for a goal kick We're back with Alice in the referee's wonderland. What we see is not what they get, though Town did get a goal kick for this corner. Confused? You soon will be as balls hit hands but were unseen, whilst hands were held to faces in places you'd never dream. Let's just say either the referee had some magic mushroom soup for lunch, he was playing a parlour game or was recreating a Two Ronnies sketch.

Town towning around downtown where the floodlights are bright with Abrahams spinning around and wafting highly from burger bar corner. Town clowning around uptown as Efete completely messed by missing the ball when the ball was standing still. Effiong ran away, barundling past remaining twiglets and bedraggled narrowly and Crocombe's shins saved many a bacon butty.

Huffing and fluffing, faffing and naffing at a monochrome corner. Pearson hooking, Pearson heading and Pearson shedding the bedding. Does that mean what you think it means? Do you know the meaning of within?

Time, ticking away, Ross roaming in the rain, Annersley ambling with fake pain. These are moments that make up a dull game, with Town waiting for McAtee to show them the way. We know that McAtee is the way, the one and only. When McAtee ails Town fail. He's ailing, we're failing, the season is tailing off.

Ooh, hang on there, there's movement, there's signs of life. You could hear the hoof beats pound as Little Harry raced across the ground and then what? Sausages! Sousa in circles, never ending nor beginning, forever in an ever unspooling reel.

Two minutes were added for the 47 years of ambling, shambling and military precision dilatory dawdling from the boys in blue.

A half stuffed with random acts of error. Town should be winning, Town could be losing. Every little bounce, deflection and rebound went the way of the blues. This feels like one of those days. Don't they all?

Second half: Sideways here we come

Neither team made any changes at half-time.

Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it. Woking kicked the ball straight out of play in exactly the same place as Town had but an hour before.

The wind was dying like the season, like this game. Is it mizzle or is it drizzle? Nicking and knocking from the left, Abrahams swizzled and swiped on the right. Gnomes were already toppling in the front gardens of bungalows all over Cleethorpes when suddenly, without warning, with no humanity Ross spectacularly sprang right to parry away from the top right corner. A couple of cats were disturbed for no good reason.

And we can see no reasons, 'cause there are no reasons, what reason do you need to be shown? We liked the Aldershot keeper, he was our kind of opposition flapper. This one is annoying, he's actually doing his job.
Crikey, is that the time? Is Dave watching A Place in the Sun again? Alas, turning left to peer into the houses in the corner did not bring diverting joy, just darkened rooms and pulled curtains. Perhaps Dave went to B&Q, it's the local way to spend a Saturday, after all.

Time is the fourth dimension, but what is the fifth. Let the sun shine in!

Space, the final frontier. Space, on the right and Jones, or perhaps Burgess, who can tell them apart, released the hounds. Efete rumbled and barumbled a cross that shimmered through to the farthest post where Little Harry lurked. Clifton ducked and bundled back across Ross, who fell upon the line. Bodies collided, the ball rolled sideways and Abrahams slapped into the net. That unlucky family of four from Rotherham, wandering along the prom-prom-prom, were munching their lunch when suddenly, without warning, with no humanity, pastel was peeped. Some mushy peas died for no good reason.

Why? Magic mushrooms do addle the mind.

Had we seen a bluesman near the Pontoon yet? Please do write in and tell us if you do see one.

And all the while they plunged under imaginary lunges, demanding treatment for their hurt feelings. Annesley swooned and slowly dragged himself off the pitch, so, so, slowly, so, so obviously wasting time that the ref didn't allow him back until he'd eaten all his greens, washed his hands and combed his hair, the scruffy urchin. O tish, o pish, great news of disaster! McAtee is slain just outside the Town area! The nation in peril as the Black and White Knight remained face down in the dirt. As the yellow card was espied, arise Sir John, fit as a fiddle. Job done.

Substitutions were made. By them. I simply don't care anymore. If you wish to make a complaint then do so to Offsod, the regulator of non-League football writing. Or read the match file. Do your research.

One-way traffic with a one-way ticket to the blue moon. We'll see a Cardiboy once in a blue moon. Sideways, upwards, sideways, down, sideways, sideways. Stop me if you have heard this before: Town forever starting something they couldn't finish. C'mon, a rush and push and this game is ours.

Wahay, a thing! It happened. A thing. Efete crossed, McAtee stretched, the ball carried on regardless. As did the game, as did the "game management" from the dead men of Woking. Their legs are grey, their ears are gnarled, their eyes are old and bent.

I suppose you'd like to know that Jones was booked for legging up Effiong, the Leggy Mountbatten of the Bananarama. Well, some of you like facts within the fiction. Wierdos.

Clifton to Sausages O'Sousa who sausaged in his usual manner. It's the law: Sousa shall cut back onto his left foot and slice highly, widely from 20 yards before the hour.

Jeez, I'm bored. Ain't you? Oh hello. They had a shot. Annesley, somewhere over the rainbow, way up high over the Pontoon.

Pressure. Padding. Pressure pads from the lads. McAtee McCrossed from the left, Abrahams opened his body and steered a volley towards the left corner. The ball hit the head of Sousa, who cleared marvellously.

In our world Manny D replaced our sausage dog. In the outside world they were told Dieseruvwe came on for Sousa. Yeah, who do you believe? Black and white against blue, who knows which is which and who is who? Town morphed to 4-3-3 formation with Manny D standing in the shadows.

McAtee soft coiled into the waiting arms of Mr Ross. There really isn't more to that sentence. Shrug your shoulders, we can see where this is heading, after all they are very tall.

As the clock ticked onto the 79th minute the crowd suddenly awoke, scaring the Woke blokes so much one of them fell over and had to have a lie down for four minutes. Well, you can't blame them, they hadn't heard a peep from us all afternoon. Woke at a wake indeed.

Nope, nothing. A watched clock never boils. Nothing, nope, a boiled kettle never tells the time. Time, time, time for bed.

Five minutes were added as the faithless started to stream out, making their own traffic to beat. Oh, here we go. C’mon, let's get this over with.

Town are gonna lose this... Town are gonna lose this.

An absence on the right, a cross and Kabamba rolled Pearson across the face of the six-yard box, spun and swiped. The ball slid off shin-padding towards the top corner, turning right at the very last to swink into the side netting. Phew, eh. Oh, here they come again. A header at Crocombe, panic in our disco and Pearson slapped clear.

Are we there yet? At least it's up the other end. Scraps and shunts and arbitrary punts. Burgess dunked diagonally, Pearson flicked and the ball scrumpled out towards the covered corner. Abrahams chased and whacked, and for Manny D’s Knee opportunity knocked at the near post. And suddenly the leavers were streaming back in. Yeah, see, we remainers were right all along. Oh what a hoot to put the boot into the timewasters of the world, especially with the boot on the other foot as Woking's Oakley ran after the ball and Crocombe kicked it away as the blue boy stooped.

In the end they created the time to lose. Oh wasn't that a shame. Time for some prawn sandwiches.

Did we dieseruvwe to win? Do we care? Let's move the patched-up caravan on to the next campsite and see if the sun shines on the virtuous. Maybe not a perfect game or a perfect day, but you do reap just what you sow.