Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

19 January 2025

A blank grey day of seeping coldness with 1,147 Derbyshire day-trippers in their own little world, wrapped up tight inside the Osmond. We're just happy to be here, we hope we get a thriller in the chiller.

Town lined up a 4-2-3-1 formation as follows: Wright, Cass, Rodgers, McJannet, Hume, McEachran, Khouri, Luker, Davies, Svanthorsson and Obikwu. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Thompson, Green, Vernam, Barrington and Rose. What more can you say? It's probably the strongest XI we have. On paper.

As the tribute to the many Mariners who'd died in the last year rolled on Paul Cook came out and applauded the Chesterfield supporters, displaying an ignorance of occasion and context. All he needed to do was just wait a couple more minutes.

And on that down beat let the entertainment begin.

1st half – Mud in your eye
Town kicked off towards the Spireite-stuffed Osmond, back and forth, forth and back, up, up in the air and Gorgeous George's beautiful balloon fell to earth beyond the old oak trees. Svanthorsson glided and slip-slided away, rimbling a roller past Thompson and past the far post with not a minute yet passed.

Back and forth, forth and back, beach volleyball and Thompson hared out to whack back up, up and away as Spiderlegs approached. Blues' backs against the wall? Nah, Dangerous Davies hit a free kick into and off the wall.

Bluesmen forever free on the furthest flanks, the full-backs exposed as the floodlights came on. Cass clamped to Colclough but Hume was harnessed to his own spirit animal, which today, Matthew, happened to be a Kirk's Dik-Dik. Poor old Hume, today cast in the role of an amuse bouche for wandering wingers. Stop sticking the boot in to Denver, you say, the issues were closer to the home of the corporate chompers. Indeed sir, the Town right was rocky as lazy Luker provided Cass with no protection or assistance.

And here he comes. Dreamweaving Dobra wafted in from the wing with Cass in close proximity. The charmless windchime criss-crossed with Colclough who wandered through space as Luker and McEachran watched him wallop at Wright. A corner, a clearance, a cross, a clearance, and Horton heard a hoot as he overegged his pudding. Remember, a full-back's a full-back, no matter how small.

Bibbling and bobbling along, Chesterfielders purring and pouring through the gaps, Town hobbled by the Main Stand linesman who couldn't see blue balls go out or blue legs stick out. A corner dripped, Mr Showponytail headed back, Hume nodded after nudging and Dobra made the impossible possible, stretching and leaning back to lob over from four yards.

C'mon Town, gotta hide your inhibitions, wanna see an exhibition (maybe a backheel?). Better do it now before you get too cold. Ah-ha, Hume chipped, Sheckleford headed to Svanthorsson who headed back into the penalty area. Davies rollerballed past Naylor and with the outside of his left boot carefully caressed a curler around Thompson and into the bottom left corner. Life ain't so bad after all.

The moral of this moment? If you take the chance and do it then there ain't no one who's gonna put you down.

Luckless Cass was Lukerless as a medley of Midlanders merrily danced and Horton dinked deeply. Hobson arose afar, espied Wright hopping his way and gently looped his header back and over the huge and hulking begloved homester. And? And Rodgers took a step back, assess the situation and calmly hook-headed off the line. There is no and needed 'ere, only an 'ead.

Town timidly trotting and tottering, underpowered, underpaced, third to every ball in a two-horse race. Waves of blue lapping against monochrome shores. Where's the sea wall? Hume in a self-induced tizz by the corner flag hauled Hobson's shorts down after being turned into cheese. The free kick half cleared once, twice and thricely and finally Dobra, the cocky Cockney Albanian, bedraggled wide most Elmer Fuddingly.

Infiltrations on the right with Luker again missing his moment. A pull back from the bye-line and Mandeville's shot slithered through McEachran's legs and edge to third slip off the outside edge of the near post, the Pontoon in roiling ferment. In swung the corner and Naylor slithered in front of a couple of stripes to graze flick high into the net, the Pontoon in boiling torment.

Come back in quarter of an hour. What a drag. Fifteen full minutes of dead air, the ball always in the air. Do we care? Where's the flair? I can see their hair. Hey, Pepple! There were people who knew their centre-forward was Pepple and not all of them were big Barbra Streisand fans. Wisps of mist began to drift across the silent, still greyness.

One minute was added. A final sneak down the Town right and McJannet scraped the cross from Wright's fingers and Pepple's toes. Wright down, Wright up, Wright punched a corner off the line. Right, that's enough of that, it's time to remember some sausage rolls we have known.

These were the moments of our first-half lives, the rest was just divots.

2nd half – Falling and laughing
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Down in the foggy bottom a Bluesman tumbled, some say stumbled. Oldaker swung the free kick high over the wall, across the face of goal and the ball swung further, further away, disturbing nothing, being nothing, there is nothing, no more, no, nay never no more to say about events far away in a place disappearing behind a thin grey curtain.

Enter stage left the manadarin Merry Andrew, with a life of illusion, wrapped up in trouble, laced with confusion. What is he doing here? He's mad, he's always been mad and now he's making us madder by the second. Mariner muggings and Justin jauntily jived along the bye-line. Thompson stood tall and Obikwu's shot slapped off the keepers left-hand and scuttled, slowly, slowly over the bye-line.

A goal kick was given.

Eyebrows were raised, cheeks were puffed, letters written to the local council. Some even considered starting an online petition. There were…concerns.

The game was one-way traffic towards the Pontoon, Bluesmen barely passing the halfway line. Chips and chases, moments of nearlyness, Davies spundled through a blue maze, the ball stinkling into the six-yard box to the left of the goal. Thompson sprawled and flipped the ball out as Davies fell and flipped over. Penalty or a corner? Neither and Svanthorsson was booked for miming his aghastness at a goal kick being given.

A petition was started. The crowd was alive with the sound of fury.

And halfway through the half Rose replaced Obikwu.

More chasing chips and more moorish morsels of almostness. Svanthorrson ran onto a lob and, as Thompson flew out, the flag fluttered. The odious orange official conspicuously waved his arms around for play to continue and the keeper passed to a completely unmarked Bluesman under the Findus, by the halfway line. The ball flew up off a divot, hit a blue hand, the Spireite stumbled and Hume ran forward into the vacancy as the crowd roared…

…and the ref stopped play for the original sin - offside against Svanthorsson.

Three quarters of the ground by now in a permanent rage, the seething masses' collective anger rolling round the old, old ground. You could taste the gathering storm of fury, you could see the players stoked up and firing in some cylinders.

Changes, now and then, for us, for them. Green replaced Khouri. Luker pulled up as Thompson sprinted out. Svanthorsson danced one step too many and Davies shot at the keeper.

A humdrum hump upfield and, as Drummond nipped in front of McJannet, up went the flag for offside. Stripes snaffled, Hume za-zoomed and Svanthorsson was tickled free inside the penalty area and….stop! What's that sound? The battle lines were drawn - everybody's right if someone's wrong. Many people were speaking their minds.

With Town about to shoot the official judgment was that the correct course of action was to award Grimsby Town a free kick, in their own half, for an offside ten seconds prior. Sometimes we just need to let the facts speak for themselves

And on and on we went, repeat action. Chips over the top and chasing the laddies, awaiting official failures. Davies robbed a dallying Derbyshirite, Hume Hollis-turned through a pair of blue towels, Svanthorsson shimmied into the openness and stumbled as he was nudged as he shot straight at the keeper.

Players nearly freed, not quite wriggling, not quite shooting, a touch too much, a thought too long, these moments passed when perhaps the player should have passed. Svanthorsson beaten to the punch by the keeper, Luker waited for a Bluesman to run into his back inside the penalty area, Rose was swiped away as he was about to shoot, Rose didn't shoot when the keeper was way out and way out right of goal.

I switched on Look North and there was a report that the Wolds Panther had been spotted roaming North East Lincolnshire. I didn't see Charles Vernam, but I did hear the tannoy announce that he replaced Svanthorsson with five minutes left. Seeing is believing. I don't believe it!

Three minutes were added within which Fleck was booked for a cynical old-pro hoik of a hitchhiking homester.

And that was that.

In the end a cracking afternoon where not much happened but so much did. Boy what an atmosphere and,  though he was the worst ref this century, it was exactly what we, and this game, needed to raise us and it from timidity and torpor.

Eight more draws!