Cod Almighty | Diary

Knock, Knock Knocking on Steve Evans Door

9 September 2026

Hullo. It's Wednesday, and it is BOTB Diary here with more deeply unserious, some may say vapid, takes on the world of football and GTFC, complete with cultural references you only vaguely understand and are therefore slightly irritating.

So where else to start but with the Champions League game between Dortmund and Villarreal? A thrilling game played out in front of 77,000 people, 39 of whom were Villarreal fans. Yes, 39. Remember that next time Town are playing at home to some non-league rubbish like Cheltenham or Bromley. Now, as you can probably tell from the previous sentence, I'm not a big advocate of the Lovely Big Family of Football in which we are all brothers and sisters under the skin, whoever we support. Indeed, apart from GTFC, GTFC reserves and England, every other football team in the world can fuck right off. But the only thing that touches my old, cold heart is when a team like Barnstoneworth United or Dover Athletic have a huddle of supporters in the Donny Osmond Stand giving it their all, with the chants and the flicking of the Vs and so forth. Good on ya. Good on ya, fellow football fans. My brothers. My sisters. 

On Saturday we play the Bristol Rovers, despite the fact that we once vowed to no, nay, never, no nay never no more, play the Bristol Rovers, no never, no more. They are currently the best team in the world if you include the last 14 games of last season, in which they scored over a 100 goals and conceded minus three. They currently sit top of the league, being managed by guy-linered ex-lardball and present sensitive man-child powderkeg Steve Evans, who will probably get sent off as usual here. Since we are the current no-score-and-score-draw bores of the fourth, a draw seems the likeliest result, and one I wouldn't be too displeased with, unless we are winning in the 94th minute. Two more diaries to go before then though, so I'll lay off on the predictions. 

In earlier days we knew a lovely man called Keith who seemed to be always alone. Since a little group of us got on well we asked if he wanted to come out one night to a pub quiz. He looked bemused, confused and slightly perturbed by the question. "I can't do that," he replied. "I reckon to eat in the evening." Which brings me on to the 12.30 kick off. This basically gives the Town fan who reckons to eat at lunchtime a number of options.

1. Starve to death

2. Remortgage your house to buy some fancy hot doggery with coriander on it at the ground.

3. Queue for seven hours at Pip's Chips 

4. Eat lunch at 11.00am

5. Try and smuggle in a cheese and tuna baguette

Since I don't reckon to do any of those things, I'm always left in a quandary. My current non-tactic is to eat a couple of cereal bars on the way to the ground. It's a worst of all worlds scenario, and one I'm not proud of. I'd be interested to hear if my reader has a lunch plan. 

Saturday is also Retro Shirt Day at the Park. I'm going to wear my Blue Oyster Cult 'Secret Treaties' shirt, having deliberately misunderstood the instructions for comic effect. 

And finally, Cyril, earlier in the week I saw a tweet from a club complaining that the opposition fans were all squeaking dog toys whenever they attacked. Can I find it now? Can I buggery. If you read the story, have a little chuckle to remind yourself how funny it was. If you didn't, tough, I'm going to stop the diary now without an obvious literary cadence to leave you feeling unsatisfied.