Cod Almighty | Diary

Isn't it?

29 July 2025

Hello and welcome to another Cod Almighty diary. West Yorkshire Diary here. Today we're delighted to be joined in our ivory tower studio by a very special and esteemed guest, Ron Manager.

Ron, it’s been a bit of a wait, but the new football season is almost upon us.

Upon us, yes, isn’t it? Grown men in Blundell Park, jumpers for goalposts? Goalposts for goalposts, more like! The BP, hemmed in by homes, concrete yards, red tiles! Enduring image, isn’t it? Standing on Fuller Street bridge, admiring the view, waiting for a train to pass. Naughty graffiti. Mummy, what does that say? Haha. There's the lighthouse, marvellous! Watch where you step—oh no! Too late, isn’t it? Wipe it on the grass, jump over the wall. Tide’s out! Dog’s off the leash. ‘Sidney, get back here!’ don’t you think, hmm? Ah, small boys in Sidney Park, jumpers for goalposts, emulating their heroes. The deft touch of Danny Rose, isn’t it? No, the other one. Look out for those 4G masts! 4G pitches, 3G signal, three fish on the shirt, a chicken on the back, Sunday roasts, you know, weren’t they marvellous? Scoff it all down, run outside to play footy in the street, mother telling you to let your dinner settle first. You know, wearing your favourite shirt, two sizes too big—you’ll grow into it! Dixons, red trim, is it 1998 again? You know, the Wembley double, Alan Buckley, Wayne Burnett. ‘It’s gone right through them!’ Golden goal, wasn’t it? ‘Donovan rounds the keeper, and it’s there!’ Marvellous. Small boys, in the crowd, jumpers for scarves, back to the second division, or was it the first? Championship, Chompionship, Endsleigh Barclays Canon league division one, James Alexander Gordon, with his soft, comforting Scottish tone, you know. Scotland, Big Country, Cocteau Twins, The Jesus and Mary Chain! The Scottish, isn't it, with their love of Irn Bru, shortbread and heroin. Deep fry the lot! Haha! Wonderful sense of humour! You know, cholesterol, know your numbers—Carol Vorderman, Countdown, Richard ‘Twice Nightly’ Whitely, isn’t it, hmm? Des wine ‘em, dine ‘em, and Lynam, with his old-school moustache. ‘Welcome to this midweek edition of Match of the Day.’ Duh-duh-duh-duuuh d-d-d-du-duuh, duh-duuuh-d-du-du-duh! Won’t be the same now, you know, with its gentle Lineker-less smarm. Those pundits, they’re not like me. ‘You can’t win anything with kids!’ Ha, marvellous, isn’t it. Alan, Trevor, Garth, you know. Not a Shay, Troy or Karen in sight! Tuning in, not knowing the scores, isn’t it? The Likely Lads, big hair, sharing a bed together, whatever happened to them? Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy when the boat comes in. Smell that sea air! The sniff of a new season! Cigarette smoke, no jacket required. It's just around the corner, walking down the Grimsby Road, to beat the Creepy Crawlies, isn't it? Marvellous! Small boys in the Park, jumpers tucked under seats, slipping the odd swear word in without their parents noticing, sweets at half time, Pontoon second half, a carpet of a pitch, fish and chips for tea, 2-1 to Town, and up the Mariners! Isn’t it? Marvellous.

Thank you, Ron.