Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

10 November 2024

Ah-ha, the Wombles of Wimbledon are back in town for the big showdown where, at the end of the day Brian, one of us will definitely stay down. For someone in the stands it will be the end of all those elaborate plans. There's no safety in a draw for Town, there'll be no surprise if those incredibly utterly devious Womblers make the most of everything and throw everything in the recycling bin.

On a bright afternoon with a chilly restless wind that yearned to wander through the spaces between friends and foes and kept you on your toes, Town lined up in a 3-1-4-2 formation as follows: Eastwood, Rodgers, Tharme, Warren, McEachran, Svanthorsson, Green, Khouri, Hume, Obikwu and Rose. The substitutes were Wright, Cass, McJannet, Ainley, Vernam, Barrington and Burns. The Justice for Justin campaign succeeded in wooing Old Blue Eyes as Spiderlegs returned in place of The Wolds Panther. Well, if you need to win, you may as well play your two strikers. The substitutes? Don't get excited, save your breath, hardly bedazzling as they filled many among us with inertia.

Now then, the Wombles. Big lads. Some wide in short, most long in shirt. Some long in short and shirt. And Lewis in hot pants.

Packed to the rafters, four stands full of laughter, remembering the days when we both weren't behind the times. C'mon, let's play, let's blow the years away. Let's not blow it Town.

1st half – Wombling and wobbling along
Wimbledon kicked off towards the Pontoon. That's all you need to know, for there is nothing to know, because, you know, they did nothing but Pacman across the green, green grass looking for litter to trundle away.

An up, an under, a punt, a shunt and Duck Farm hurled a Howitzer into the heart of darkness. Big shirts, big heads and the ball heading back to the Cerebral Scouser, musing by the Fan Zone. A tick, a tack and Rose scraped into the back of the Osmond.

Big booms and tedium looms. Here they go, hitting high, hitting long, walloping down the channels, chipping and chasing. Crikey! That's us, who'd have thought that tiny tiki-taka Town would be counter-intuitively Bigballing downwind against the Godfathers of Grinding? Moments of this, moments of that, Icelandic ballet in the uncanny valley of uncertainty where their wing-backs weren't. Khouri cantering and clipped by a clodhopper within the sound of the covered corner. Hume crinkled, a monochrome head winkled and the ball snicked across the slips and out to the boundary beyond. Does that go down as a missed chance, Athers?

A quarter chance, Nas.

Punting, punting, punting, hoofing, hoofing, hoofing. Duck Farm did chuck and chuck again, black and white heads did duck, and the ball sagged wide and wide again. And again. I won't say this again, but Duck Farm's long throws were thrown longly. They headed them away. They were much taller than Town.

A wallop into the nether regions and Goodman slapped out. A wonderfully mis-walloped back pass and a bonus corner for Town. Who knows, who cares what happened next, for nothing really happened next. It landed on the roof of the net. It landed in Goodman's hands, it bounced off Harbottle's head. One, all, none. Possibly, probably, definitely.

Next.

Ah, let's pause for a moment and consider this, the moment of moments. McEachran sweetly spun in the centre circle, releasing the hound of love. Green swung his pants and spun around and past a passing bluebottle, hurtling down the right to try and reprise the Wonder of Wimbledon. The cross coiled, dipped and dripped as Rose arose alone between two giant haystacks. Six yards out, dead centre Twinkletooth Danny glanced and, for a moment, the stars aligned and a glorious future began to write itself across the sky. The crowd arose from their seats for this was that moment in time, the snapshot that sums up a season, for yet more history is upon us.

And then it was gone.

The ball gently swayed across the face of the farthest post and bumpled wide. The hand of history tapped Danny upon his shoulder and asked him to sit down. And so did we.

Oh how long will it take 'til they see the mistakes that they've made? Ah, adjustments were made in blue. Oh dear what can we do? Keep on running, keep on trying, c'mon let's settle down and play some football. Hoofy-hoofy-hoofy, oi-oi-oi. Obikwu wriggled around a lamppost and caused crowd pandemonium that the Wimbledon defence could control. The ball went sideways, so did our game.

A beach ball rolled across Eastwood, his only save in the first half. Then another, and another! Don't these youngsters know about the curse of the beach balls? Isn't it part of the Green Cross Code? If not, why not? McEachran muffled a rumble, Khouri drove down the middle, ignored lurking chums and bedraggled widely wide. Anything else? Obikwu fell into their area. Penalty? Not for me, Clive.

I promised not mention Duck Farm's long throws again. A nod's as good as a wink to a blind man.

The game just drifted, drifted, wafted, waxed and waned, Town like a winter duvet slowly vacuum-packed for summer storage. More beach balls, vicar? Khouri was kicked in the head and Ross the Ref decided he didn't want to spoil the game, making a big circle with his hands? What's does it mean? You know, for kids.

One minute was added. This, being 60 seconds, is a period of time that can only be described as being a period of time equivalent to a minute. And that rather exaggerates and overstates the amount of football played within it, that minute. That was the minute that was; it's over, let it go.

Well, there was a half of football. Barely any football was played. Town were assertive but not effective, the Wombles were just happy to be picking up litter in their own time. Town should have scored, Wimbledon could have been wearing rubber sandals and a straw hat.

And that is that. Summer is nearly here.

2nd half – Wombles and wobbles everywhere
No changes were made by either team at half time. The travelling Wombles saw our variety pack of multi-coloured inflationary objects and simply stated: "That's not a beach ball, this is a beach ball."

Like their team, their air-filled accessories are bigger than ours.

And out they came, them Wombles, assertive and effective, flying into Town with gusto. Hibbling and bibbling and the ball bobbling along the face of the penalty area. Tilley smackled a snapshot volley through a sprouting hedge. Eastwood flew low and left to spectacularly biff-parry aside. Back they came with their medium intensity power washing. Heads and tails and Reeves's rocket sailed over.

Every picture tells a story, it's all been said before.

Slips and slaps and flips and flaps and a Blue corner coiled into the heart of the middle of the penalty area. A big Blue head rose above monochromers, thwunkled downly and the ball bounded up agin the bar. A moment frozen in time; woulda, coulda, shoulda, didna. We came out of it naturally the worst with Obikwu left standing like a naughty schoolboy as Hutchinson unfurled his legs and wangled wallopingly in from a couple of yards.

What's that sound? Each time you hear a loud collective sigh as the goals go by. The season ends with a thousand Wombles trilling. Forty minutes to go, but the game's gone; we knew it, we know it, it is what it is. We can huff and we can puff but their house won't blow down.

The wheels didn't fall off, for they were barely attached in the second half. All structure lost as the deeper we go the higher the ball flies, our insides were out and the outsides were in. C'mon, c'mon, stop making it easy.

A mascot pantomime distracted the little 'uns from the enervation for a few moments. If you close your eyes and eat some mushrooms you could convince yourself that Obikwu almost turned past his marker. You'd have to digest a lot of funny fungi to fool yourself.

Town lobbed in straight lines, Town hoofed in straight lines, Town ran in straight lines. Wimbledoners were taller, Wimbledoners were stronger, Wimbledoners were faster. These are just facts. Browne ran onto a lob into the Town left and scriffled across the face of the far post. That's a fact too.

With 20 or so minutes left McJannet replaced Warren.

A gull swooped upon a stray discarded, lonely chip that tumbled from a child's fingers. Eastwood swooped upon a stray Reeves roller that trundled through Town's repurposed winger's legs. A helicopter chuntered up the Humber as feet and fate became more and more numb. Is our number up? 

With less than ten minutes left some dice were finally thrown as Vernam and Barrington replaced Rodgers and Khouri. A flickering light, a soupcon of something as the ball was at last spotted on the ground and McEachran had someone to pass to. And at last, with five minutes remaining, Town actually had an actual shot. The first, the last, the everything in these dying days of a strange season of underwhelming overachievement. Little Luca brought some verve and swerve, some vivacity and intensity, with a teasing weave and tickle to Spiderlegs. Obikwu unfurled and Goodman batted aside at the near post for a corner. The Wolds Panther tapped shortly and Hume stood on the ball.

The harder they tried the more amateur they became as coordination disappeared in their collective, individual, desperations.

Four minutes were added and ended as the Osmond sang and the Pontoon whimpered. Yes, this was the end of the game. The end of the season, but this is not the end of it all. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning. We shall see, but not just yet, for summer's here and, hey, that suits me fine.

This game, this day? The game was the game, y'all. Play or get played and Town got played today as Womblers did unto Town what Town did unto Womblers down in old London town. They were slightly better, slightly stronger, physically and mentally. They scored their chance, we missed ours and fell into the old lumpy incoherence when 'The Method' isn't working. This game was every game this season. In the fourth division the game is the same wherever you go, everyone does what they need to survive.

The season went down to the wire, but this game didn't. There's always next year. That's football and that's that.