Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
17 September 2025
Hillsborough just looks the same, like a derelict man who had died out of shame, like a jumble sale left out in the rain. Haven't been around here for so many years, so many tears in a tram stop on the road to nowhere. Their future's uncertain, have they got time to work it out?
If it's Tuesday it must be Wednesday. Yes, that's right you've won Dusty Bin.
Don't kick a club when they are down, for there but for the graceful ways of Stockitts and Petwoods go Town. ANYMORE! Some Town fans are wearing yellow, quite rightly. Electrical bananas are bound to be the very next phase.
Town lined up snazzy cream in a 4-1-4-1 as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Amaluzor, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Sweeney, Ecclestone, Brown, Walker, Turi, Oduor, Burns and Soonsup-Bell. Having scraped around the Cheapside barrel as the coach driver beeped his horn everyone left standing's now sitting on the bench.
Overhead from every stand an albatross hangs his name in the air and deep beneath there's just a rolling wave of emptiness, a vast chasm of blueness. Sheffield, a silent scream.
1st half – The Owls are what they seem
Town kicked off away from the cacophony and into the voiceless void. We know who you are, we know who you are. You can't be an Owls' fan, or you wouldn't be here.
Eternal, infernal questions: why does the brown cow give white milk when it only eats green grass? Why is smoked fish yellow? Ah, now that's one we can help you with dear Owlers…
Town triangles, toying with the local youth. Town tapping, sapping the lost boys' strength and will as round and round we go. Horvath punching off Green's nose, Horvath flapping from lurking toes. Why is he here? No-one knows, I suppose, that's just the way careers go. Evan Horvath, a man stalked by Grimsby ghosts.
Like a night out in Nunsthorpe…
Slim Charles walked like a panther tonight, prowling and purring past a poor little lad left alone at night without a light, what a terrible sight. Wednesday's children full of woe, they ain't keeping it tight.
Shall we shoot? We might, we may, let's make hay and make 'em pay. The termination of some Vernamation and a free kick on the right corner of the home penalty area. Lord Charles whipped some cream and Horvath parry-punched away. And round and round we go again, tip-a-tap, tip-a-tap, when will their elastic snap?
McJannet thundered, Green half-blundered and Kabia thighed and dip-volleyed across the face of Horvath's left post. Staunton sauntered, Amaluzor haunted their left-back, Kabia Reddy-rocked and Reddy-rolled between the lines. Town, powered by Green energy, whiddling, fiddling and diddling in the dark spaces. Action Man wheeled and dealed along the bye-line and Horvath kicked aside.
And it's easy, easy as a Sunday morning.
And then suddenly a Green intervention caused some tension and off the bluesmen swayed, breaking away from the pack with a little tick and a little tack to their right. Town befuddled and undermanned, Pym caught 'twixt and 'tween by one of their teens who rolled across the face of goal to the awaiting Lowe, six yards out. As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared. Warren, yes Warren, flew from another dimension and happiness was spread across this land. The most magnificent tackle in the history of football ever. From Warren.
Flying like an eagle, soaring like a salmon, as delicate as a butterfly, as strong as an ox. Tyrrell Warren, the Baresi of Blundell Park, no longer the mild-mannered janitor but the number one super guy.
Nearly, almost, almost and nearly. As the flow ebbed one could hear a faint beep-beep-beep-beep in those distant stands. Perhaps the ref's half time cup-a-soup is ready.
Four minutes were added
There we are, a stroll in the park that just went round in circles. I don't advise adding croutons to a cup-a-soup.
2nd half – Temptation
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Green limping. Green limping more. Green hobbling, the ball bobbling more, Khouri collapsing, as did we with laughter. Staunton and Vernam exchanged knowing looks, looking over the retreating hedge and seeing only glory. The Wolds Poanther crinkled, Horvath winkled up and over the bar for a corner. Staunton, for once, followed the instructions on the advertising boards and the hordes a-hollerin' in the stands. Elev8! Dropping and dripping, the corner whipping into the very heart of the penalty area. Kabia arose alone to head against the thighs of McJannet and his marker. And the ball boombled softly into a vacancy.
Altogether, shout it loud, there's no one who can doubt it now, Happy Jaze is here again!
Tinkles and winkles from the off, Big J jinking and jiving, leveraging leftly over and into the low-slung Townites lurking beyond. Oh, you just want the basic facts. Amaluzor drifted in from the right and kicked the ball over the bar and into the lower tier of the Leppings Lane end. Where's the poetry, the mystery, romance in that?
And at that off Green trouped, replaced by the old trooper Private Walker. He knows what to do. He did what he had to do, so Wednesday didn't do a thing to hurt a fly as time did fly by.
Once in a while we worked on points for style. McEachran twirled, Walker whirled and reverse curled widely. Vernam's gears shifted as he drifted infield and did the Vernam thing of coiling high and wide of the far post. Once in a blue moon, Charlie boy, once in a blue moon.
In all scripted reality there must the illusion of jeopardy. Sheffield Wednesday had a freekick. Sheffield Wednesday kicked the free kick into the Grimsby Town penalty area. The seven ball boys sat halfway up the stairs had to chose which one had to make the long march down to collect the rotting fruit of a weary, dreary blue head.
With 20 minutes left they brought on the secret weapon, their heart and soul, their saviour, their first, their last, their everything. Dr Bannan. Ah, but like wallpaper sticks to the wall, like the seashore clings to the sea, he'll never get rid of his shadow for, Barry, you'll never get rid of Jamie.
After an outrageously sensational full pace back heel the limping Kabia was a spent force, as was Vernam. On came Oduor and Burns as Town slid seamlessly into a back five for the last dozen or so minutes.
Despite the false dawn and false hope of the Barry the incredible bulk finally turning up, there is nothing else for any stray Owl to-wit-to-woo about, though they may have booed. Who knows, who cares, one day Chansiri will sell his shares.
With a couple of minutes to go He and His Hair came on. Who? Hear them shout his name across the land, his name is Neo and we're dancing in the stands. You know, those five added minutes flew by without a care in the world.
Shrewsbury, Man Utd, Wednesday: one day we'll meet a team that will give us a game.