Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

31 August 2025

Floating down through the clouds, memories come rushing up to meet us now we're back at the World Famous Blun-Dell Park in a little fishing village by the Tyne. Jeez, what is a Grimsby anyway, they say? Well, they know now.

Now then, now what? Can we speak out loud about our doubts and fears for the night that will be the night they will remember us by? Well, we can mutter about the immutable laws of football, that for every up there are a thousand downs. Actually there are 407 Bristol Rovers down in the Osmond.

Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, Amaluzor, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Auton, Sweeney, McEachran, Oduor, Burns, Rose and Gardner. Are we resting or testing? The staple diet of a Green Khouri but a side dish of Turi, with the Amaluzor chaos engine happenstancing, possibly dancing on the right.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gummy bears, what about them Pirates? Big boys with beef and Conteh and McEachran in midfield. Is this a fever dream or a fevered nightmare? No, simply facts as the Brizzlers lined up with something old Town and something sounds like new Town in midfield. For George's brother Josh the candle is burning and the wheels are turning, but what you gonna do?

Oh, they've got a Bilongo on the bench. Charles Vernam used to drive one of them, didn't he?

Who's that raspberry fool? Is it Lee from Blue or Ritchie from Five? The boy band ref loves the feeling of fresh air on his face and the wind blowing through his hair.

C'mon Town, treat us like you did the night before, well, the night before the night before.

1st half – Blue hotel
Town kicked off towards the Osmond. Corners. To us, to them, perchance to dream of anything happening. The referee stroked his hair and smiled. The referee smiled and stroked his hair, his lovely hair, his luscious locks a-flowing, his teeth a-glowing, Town simply slowing from a saunter to a standstill.

All roads lead to Tyrrell Warren, very much the footballing Mavis Enderby of North East Lincolnshire.

Stutterball, gutterballs, Sotiriou they say, a shot, they say. They say a lot, don't they.

A Townite felled, somewhere. Staunton swung, from somewhere, a lemon curdled but loitering stripes were wrapped in a girdle. There's peace and quiet in the open air, there's time together with time to spare, time to learn, time to care. Somewhere, somewhere. It would be nice to see some flair, and not just on some passing trousers.

Amaluzor's amazing pace, just look at his face, as Sparkes was nutmegged under the Ramstand. Grappling, groping Big J went a-loping up the line pursued by the furious full-back. Mauled and hauled Amaluzor lost the control he never had, overstretching into Sparkes, turning a series of fouls on him into a booking for him on the halfway line. Lumped and dumped and out for a corner that became another corner that became a corner cleared out to Southam-Hales who swivelled by the 'D' and spectacu-volleyed through a murmuration of Mariners and a platoon of Pirates into the bottom right corner. Or he hit it and it went in. Season to taste, sweet or sour, it's up to you.

Once or twice, here or there, stripes moved. A chip and Green chase, a scribble away after Rodgers roamed. Amaluzor nearly near to being near at the far post if nears are measured out in years. The Wolds Panther wiffled a free kick around the wall into Southwood's waiting hands.

Have I told you about the clip and race and last man Conteh clattering Kabia? No, seems I haven't. It was like it never happened. Ritchie from Five ran his fingers through his hair.

Three minutes were added and all we can add is a Warren wasterball boombling nicely through to their lemon sponge cake.

They're beggars and blighters and ne'er-do-well cads, but they're probably loved by their mums and their dads. They kept it tight, they kept their shape and for all their dumping hacks and bashes it's been a gas, gas, gas for these gnarly old Pirates.

It would be lovely if one or two Town players would move their feet, though not as lovely as the official hair. The highlights of this half are the highlights in the ref's hair.

2nd half – A wicked game
McEachran and Burns replaced Turi and Amaluzor at half time. Turi had been nice and simple, efficient but ineffective, safely static, unembarrassingly unseen with very clean shorts.

Who's that knocking on our door, who's that ringing the bell? Don't let 'em in. Rovers roaming, a corner scrambled away by our McEachran. Forays and flailing far, far away, the hum-drum strum of a busker in a distant underpass.

Now there's a man with more hair than wit. What a twit! A blue hand punched away from Green, and Town corners became goal kicks as Town trampled underfoot, sorry, were trampled underfoot when within 30 yards of the lemon piper. Don't do that again, you're driving us insane. Miss a handball once more and that's another thing we'll despise you for. We don't like it, especially the way you run your fingers through your hair.

Infiltrations and insertions, inversions and diversions. The flankers began to fly, McJannet surged, Vernam cross-passed to Southwood when many a Mariner lurked.

A time to build up, a time to break down. Turn, turn and turn again. Revved and raring, Vernam haring, Khouri licked, and Staunton's cross kicked off a lumbering hack. Kabia's sumptuous lay off set Vernam narrowly free, the shot flipped up and was whisked away from Kabia's travelling toes by the wrong McEachran. No time to waste, no time to lose, Rodgers chucked in by the Police Box, Green sidled, Burns boomed and za-zoomed and Khouri back flicked widely at the near post before Brizzlers could take two shakes of a lambs tail.

There's a whirlpool and weir you mustn't go near when messing about at a throw-in. Staunton headed into a  cantering quarterback who headed back into the grey zone twixt defence and Pym. There was more promise than delivery from Omechere as Pym shuffled out, stood tall and swayed away the midges. Nominative determinism in action, well mostly inaction, which was fine by us.

Nominative determinism in action, which was not fine by us. As Kabia sneaked onto a McEachran dink the linesman, who according to my programme is called Robbie Rubbish, flagged when all could see two lunks of blue cheese were between Fluid Jaze and the Pontoon. Rodgers raided, a corner shortened, McEachran volleyed over and pulled his shirt over his head.

On we roared, on Town poured. McJannet driven mad as McEachran was blocked and tackled by the raspberry fool. A winkle, a Vernam twinkle straight to lemon gloves. Burns burned past some blubber and was downed by the Police Box. Staunton teased a delightfully dripped and whipped free kick that drooped right on to Kabia's head, but five yards out. The Pontoon rose to acclaim…a goal kick.

With ten minutes left Rose and Gardner replaced Staunton and Kabia. Two strikers. Two! Needs must. We need it, we must.

You can't fix an egg when it ain't quite good, and you can't fix a man when he's wrong.

Gardner backed and tacked into Green's flightpath. Action Man twisted and turned and slapshot goalwards. Moore shimmered and flew to his right, brilliantly pawing away. Waste no time, weep no more, show him what the door is for. We need to wash that ref right outta our hair.

Blue glances for corners that transmogrified before our eyes into goal kicks. Blue fumbles and tumbles, wraps and scraps, indulged and many a monochrome eye bulged.

Hair is utterly ridiculous. Have you seen it lately?

Gliddy glub gloopy, nibby nabby noopy, la la la lo lo. Sabba sibby sabba, nooby abba nabba, le le lo lo
And I say again: tooby ooby walla, nooby abba naba. It's not hard to ridicule Hair and his hair, don't set the hares running down to the pitch. Don't look now! Red Riding Hood's coming for you.

Tight triangulations exposed them on our right. Green slithered to the bye-line and sliding Rose tip-toed Southwood, merely permitting a Victorian vignette of three gentlemen searching for their housemaid's handkerchief. Please don't look at the table legs.

It's getting pretty hairy out there for Kilgour and his troops, but Charlie don't surf today. Raring and haring, Rodgers raiding on the right, Burns chipping and causing a fright. Vernam backing, Khouri cracking the ball through blues, past yellow and squittling off Kilgour's inside leg and past the leg stump. He got a case of beer for that one.

Make it loud. This is a Romeo Fox Trot. Shall we dance?

Seven minutes were added, Oduor replaced Vernam. There is no more, merely blue shorts dawdling and writhing. Noise is not enough.

These extremely mundane brigands from Brizzle can't believe their luck. We can. It was just one of those days where even the seventh cavalry couldn't help. You live and learn.