Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
11 May 2022
Of all fatiguing, futile, empty trades, the worst, I suppose, is writing about Boreham Wood.
You, dear pastel blue Bores, must first understand where your fairyland is: it lies a little way farther than the farthest hill you can see. It lies, in fact, just beyond that hill.
Town lined up in a 4-4-1-1 formation as follows: Crocombe, Cropper, Smith, Pearson, Amos, Sousa, Holohan, Fox, Clifton, McAtee and Taylor. The substitutes were Crookes, Burgess, Maguire-Drew, Abrahams and Dieseruvwe. Through the dust and the smoke of this man-made hell, walked a giant of a man that the locals knew well. Big John's back.
Boring, boring Boreham Wood, dreamers, schemers and back to earth with a thud. Always striving, never arriving.
A bit of wind, a bit of sun, let's get a win and have some fun.
1st half – Man and the Machine
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon, away from the flirty dozen Boresmen in the covered corner. Hoof, hoof, hoof, again, higher and higher still. Brazen boomtastick, boombastic bigballing from the basic Bores. Stephens slivered over, Lewis levered less over. Over, over there. Where? There on the Osmond stairs right there, a little inflatable with clogs on.
We're dimly aware of a certain unease in the air. You'd better watch out there may be clogs about. Capitol cloggers.
Striped crosses overhit, striped passes underhit and Mr Chipolata in a tiny tizz as he whizzed around in eccentric, concentric circles near the Dentists Stand. A rightish Town cross defloopled off pastel boots and grazed off a powder blue head as Taylor lurked near the fuzzy pink handcuffs of Natham Ashmore. A goal kick. What a situationist comedian we have in charge.
And now for something completely the same.
Bigging, bouncing, Big Max flopping and mopping as Lewis lurked beyond Gog and Magog. Town turning, gurning, burning down the house. A swifty-nifty nick and knock, Little Harry swept, Taylor stepped and the ball careered off the near post.
Volleyball verbiage, niddling and noodling in the middle of the middle of the middle of the Bore's half. Ups and downs, head tennis and swingball, Mr Teasy-Weasy Raymond nodded back to where the sun don't shine. Stephens stood and watched, but McAtee had no fear and attacked the rear, picking a pocket or two, sauntering towards Mr Pink and carefully passing under the tipster and inside the right post.
McAtee ran towards Abrahams, who handed him the Shroud of Turin. Holy artifacts Batman! A shirt with "Big Scanz" imprinted upon the back. Let us pray for the resurrection of the record appearance holder…there is a record of his appearance, isn't there?
It's all very relaxing, isn't it. Yes, yes, websites, message boards and podcasts, but isn't it about time someone recreated the events of the game in mime form? The Marcel Marceau Mariners Moment is waiting for you.
Blue befuddling at the lack of Comely cuddling. Mariners mugging and McAtee was eaten by the earth, crumbling into the void to avoid scoring. What shall we do to fill the empty spaces? Jordan's hurls and Harry's whirls, merely pearls before whines. And Pearson did arise at a Cropper chuck to glance inchlets wide.
Plunges under lunges and McAtee feeble-wobbled a free kick a la Ronaldo straight to the arms of Ashmore. Holohan's shins cover a multitude of sins.
A moment of almostness that never was, for once upon a time they nearly might have been. Blue murder in the covered corner. A half-non-clearance, pastel passing and Crocombe slapped away from blue boots that weren't even there.
One minute was added.
And so it came to pass, there was a pass. We're hopelessly passing our time watching Town nearly playing football, whilst they are definitely playing rugby.
2nd half – The present position and the power of the press
Neither team made any changes at half time, though The Bores went ker-razy and moved to a 4-4-2 formation.
I see a clearance in the forest, let's put our tent up here. Foxing, boxing and swung from high to deep, McAtee shimmering and scoring. Sit down, oh sit down, there be a flag fluttering. McAteasing, easing beyond the giant redwoods and thwacking lowly only for Ashmore to hit the floor and deter once more. McAtee, McAtoo fell like Mr Magoo over Nathan's bun as he skipped through the absent blueness again.
If we hadn't seen such riches we could live with the poor substitutes.
At around this point in our lives they sought to confuse a stupid person by removing Comely and putting on their own Clifton. Huh, we ain't gonna fall for that old trick.
Ah, but we may fall for this old trick. Out there somewhere near Xanadu in a place no-one dared go, their Smith coiled lowly around our Smith as Boden sniggled farly beyond Cropper. A perfect touch took the old bodger goalwards and goalside, nay but ten yards out. Big Max lay low, manspreading akimbo on the rug. Ah, nice.
Slapstick and old lace at a Town corner. Come down the old Imperial Vaudeville Theatre for some comedic adventures in the Boreham Wood penalty area. There's sing-a-longs, knockabout humour and madcap sketches, none of them involving Charlie Drake.
After four. One, two, three, four…Roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun, roll out the barrel, we got the blues on the run. Singing songs and giving cheers, look around, the gang's all here. I love a party with some atmosphere.
Little Harry, the human dynamo, perpetually dynamic, drifted infield and suddenly thwackled from afar. Mr Pink was forced to think and sink low and right to push aside from the foot of the post. Corners zinged but rarely pinged, then Little Harry arose to head from a blank point. Ashmore spectacularly swayed right and punched away the cherry topper.
McAtee swung a big dripper from deepest Peru that swung further afar and probably nearer his parked car. Does he drive or simply walk across the Humber?
Holohan volleyed further wide than Mad Jock McFurtherside, the man with the widest Celtic fringe this side of Ballyhooginty. Just don't mention the goat. I'll get me coat, it's getting cold.
As their season died like a louse in a Russian's beard The Boring Men had one more heave-ho. Marsh freely glanced a corner nicely wide. Should have scored, didn't score. Sir, you ain't no Chimichanga.
They seek him here, they seek him there, those Bores seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven or is he in hell, well that silly boy Orsi dived like Harry Pell. Even the ref was laughing.
With a couple of minutes left Burgess and Manny D replaced Taylor and McAtee. Standing in line, marking in time, that's just the way it is. Some things will never change.
Two minutes were added, perhaps to allow the stewards to disorganise their pitch invasion evasion plan.
Well, that was a stroll in the park with an occasional shot in the dark. Footballers beat ruggerby players, it's time for Dave Smith to wheel in the pizzas.
We've missed McAtee more than he missed tonight.