Cod Almighty | Diary

Fings ain't wot they used to be

28 February 2022

Ooh hello there, it's Monday morning and it's nearly over for Dover. When will it end, when will it end for those poor Kentish men? Did it ever begin?

Your Deviant Diary didn't go to the Crabble and didn't play Scrabble but knows Town's day trip to Europe was a game even the newly new SNOS© called scrappy. Why stay at home? I don't have a passport, so couldn't go, Burnsie. And they call that a Brexit Bonus!

The facts, the figures, are in black and white: Shaun of the Pearson arose, Colonel Abrahams sprung from his trap and Le Big Mac rode side-saddle as Scannell and Grant remained two hearts that beat as one in the bench. On the brow-furrowing side of Blundell Park life, Raikhy was raked and needs some sensual healing from Dave Moore's death stare.

Thanks to those drooping Daggers and dissolving Doverites, Town are firmly ensconced in the role of expendable Stormtrooper No.3 in the Bananarama remake of Stockport Star Wars. Yes, yes, yes, Town are back, back, back of the chasing pack - we're at the bottom of the top. This hot streak of 13 points from five games brought national recognition from those champions of the non-league (when it suits them) BT, who cut off their round-up of the play-off contenders at Notts County and then, bizarrely, dribbled Town's demolition of Dover onto the airwaves after those droopy Daggers' season died in Altrincham.

Ah dear old BT Sport, for them a Town game is a quarrel in some far-away county, between people of whom they know nothing.

Hey, why should we care if no-one else is paying attention? Isn't this where we came in this season? At least last week they admitted our fish and chips are da best in da land. Facts are facts.

What's next? Some yoghurt-reading Guardian-eating self-satisfied, self-referential smugness – that's what's next, dear reader. Hey, it was 20 years ago next month that Si Wilson, Pete Green and Mark Stilton took a punt and created this thing you're reading now. We've been going in and out of style, but you're guaranteed to raise a smile when you read our half-arsed celebration in the form of a space-filling sentimental nostalgiafest. Like Harry Clifton, this will run and run.

It's been a long, long, long time humouring, hammering, lecturing and labouring many a point. After surviving the Fenty years, it's wonderful to be here and let's hope we'll have a thrill or two on the way.

What's next? I've nothing more to say, but it's okay, it's Woking at the weekend. Party time!