Reap the wild wind

Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 December 2018

Grimsby Town 2 Swindon Town 1

They do Wayne Burnett beach towels now? I want one.

The temperature's falling, football fever ain't high; life is bare, gloom and misery everywhere. There's stormy weather on a dreadful, dreary December afternoon.

Town lined up in a more or less 4-4-1-1 formation as follows: McKeown, Hendrie, Davis, Collins, Fox, Vernam, Clifton, Hessenthaler, Pringle, Embleton and Thomas. The substitutes were Russell, Whitmore, Welsh, M Rose, Buckley, Cook and Cardwell. Well, here we are, back home again, happy as can be and this time Embleton started in the Kingsley Black Hole, with Pringle and Vernam as rotating flankers.

Collins and Davis sent out a statement of intent in fashion form: real men wear short sleeves. And nutters. It’s a four sock, three jumper, two gloves and one woolly hat day.

Swindon stayed inside as long as possible. Who can blame them? There were no ball boys, which at least avoided the possibility that Town would get prosecuted for child cruelty.

OK, let's go fly a kite.

First half: Blow football

Swindon kicked off away from the near two hundred wilting Wiltshirers, sending the ball soaring up through the atmosphere where the air is clear.

Bags billowing, flags flattening, deck chairs cartwheeling 'cross the floor. Feet freezing, noses sneezing, teeth chattering and defences scattering.

Bimbling and bumbling, an Embleton cross dropped, and vigorous Vigouroux plopped against an old oak tree and the ball flopped out. Into the void where Town strikers avoid. Oh yes, we're a little annoyed, not buoyed.

A red flick from afar spun wildly in the wind, careering past, around and over Jamie Mack. The ball danced on the breeze, over 'ouses and trees. Although my eyes were open wide, they might have just as well been closed.

Big balls and a big man flick-on. Panic in the streets of Hummmmmberside as Doughty waltzed through recobounds and rebochets. McKeown lay low and rightly pushed aside.

Adebayo rolling and roaming. Medium Harry dug a small trench and covered it with leaves. Red shifting, a corner crooned, home flapping and well, my eyes are still wide open but I can't get to sleep. One thing I'm sure of – I'm in a deep freeze.

Red roadblocks on Doubting Thomas and Little Harry as Town stopped playing banana-ball and passed the ball along the ground.

But certain winds will make Swindon's temper bad.

A Town corner, outed then backed then outed again. Embleton lobbed and there was red hissing as Sid Nelson leant down and armed the ball away. The referee pointed spots-ward and there were no tripper tantrums. Vigorous Vigouroux hopped and bounced, star jumping and jitterbugging along the goal-line. Thomas slapped lowly and the ball bounced down and up into the top right corner off the gallant Gaul's right hand.

A wall shrunk as Taylor wisely used the wild wind as a turbo booster, bending the ball up, over, round and down into the bottom right corner

From the off red dingling, dangling and Pringle poncing lazily across the face of the Town penalty area, rolling a dim back-pass. McKeown sliced as Adebayo's big duvets approached. Hendrie half-piked, Adebayo arctic-rolled and a free kick emerged 25 yards or so out. We know the rules: if it’s on target it's in, so small boys in the Pontoon pulled their jumpers over their eyes. If you don't see it, it never happened, right? A wall shrunk as Taylor wisely used the wild wind as a turbo booster, bending the ball up, over, round and down into the bottom right corner with McKeown skittled.

Well, that's annoying.

Town crumbling, Pontoon mumbling. Another free kick. From under the Police Box, Taylor coiled and McKeown slurped up a scoop at the near post as red toes lurked.

Vernam swayed, Embleton missed. Wind, rain, slices and slaps, it's all going backwards, not forwards. Davis sliced a swirler into the Burger Bar, balls disappeared into darkness beyond. Embleton shot sometime, somewhere, lowly to Vigo. Thomas softly headed into old Gallic chops.

With five minutes to half time Collins chased a channel chip, sat down holding his thighs and headed off to an appointment at Dave Moore's Totally Manly Massage Parlour. On came Whitmore.

Red rollicking and frolicking hither and thither, sidewinding sexily nowhere. Taylor stood in the centre of the Town half and simply walloped a bazookaball straight at McKeown. The ball wobbled up, down, left and right. McKeown parry-slapped back down the middle and Davis swept as Robins wept at the realisation they'd missed a trick in forgetting to take arbitrary pot shots in the wild, wild wind.

One minute was added and some Knoyle knocked the ball highly into the Pontoon. I think everyone just wanted to go inside and run their fingers under the hot tap.

That Wayne Burnett towel would make a darn fine rug, you know. It's important to keep your knees warm.

Second half: The whether report

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! Neither team made any changes at half time.

In Humberston, Habrough and Healing hurricanes hardly happen. Now, once again, where does it rain? Right here, right now, pounding, pounding in our brain as Swindon pounded, pounded in the rain.

Adebayo rolling, a red corner trolling, head tennis blockery and tomfoolery near Woolery. Swindon sweeping into the wind, scything volleys behind Town's back four, the ball dying in the void. Panic. Clever.

Pringle prancing, Pringle blocked. Red roving down the right and Doughty passed a cross into the six-yard box. Adebayo and Fox made their marriage vows and slid together. The ball snickled off towards the bottom left corner as Jamie Mack calmly awaited developments before shuffling across his line to swoop and sweep aside.

More vigorous vimming and veering from the Rocking Robins. Adebayo turned and burned, leaving monochromers ailing and trailing behind, before carefully curling lowly. And? The answer is James McKeown; do you really need to know what the question was?

Elevation, Monsieur Hulot! Vigouroux saw which way the wind was blowing and decided he had the ability to defeat nature. Keep on scooping baby.

Red trickery at a free kick. Black and white blocking. This be simply a summary of the facts. Details, schmetails.

Thomas calmly, carefully pounced upon the present to blamp back into the bottom right corner. Oooh, it's not so cold now

On the hour, feel the power of our engine. Ups and unders, mishaps and flat caps flying across the turf. Embleton picked up the pieces in the middle of the middle of the Swindon half and let fly, wobbling a wibbler straight at Vigouroux. What's French for collywobbles? The Gallic goalie parry-punched straight back and Thomas calmly, carefully pounced upon the present to blamp back into the bottom right corner. Oooh, it's not so cold now.

Town began to flower and flow. Pringle dingled a diagonal dangle as Little Harry flew beyond the full-back and fell over his own expectations for a goal kick. Passes were passed, legs were moved and Monsieur Hulot held on to Embleton's low sweep.

Allez, allez, allez!

Whoops, here they come. Town's defence stood four square as Adebayo ran through their static caravans. Alone. McKeown waited, McKeown swooped, the ball flew sideways and Dunne crinkled wide of the right post through a tunnel of Townites. To McKeown the praise was phewsomely fulsome.

With Town wilting at the edges, Rose replaced Vernam.

With Town still wilting Embleton dripped a cross from the right and Vigouroux flew backwards to flip over. And that was Town: Embleton's greedy meander shall be withdrawn from public view for the sake of the children.  
Redness, redness, rubbing all over. Blocks by red socks, corners whipping and dripping, harem scarem slipping and flapping. Jamie Macc flapped a cross to no-one, nowhere as the wind wobbled. Pringle artlessly dithered and failed to follow a red shifter. The wind-assisted McKeown flew out to high-smother.

Pressure, pressure, flapping and flopping. We've one sub left but two subs to make. We're at the Parslow Point, but we haven't reached peak Harry. What comes first, the chicken or the leg up? Ah, it's Triple Harry time: Cardwell replaced Thomas.

Three minutes were added – and all roads lead to the corner flag near the burger bar.