Cod Almighty | Diary

Find us keepers

12 November 2025

Well, we have notified the authorities that Tuesday's diary is missing, and they have promised to launch a full investigation. I mean, if a day has no diary, is it even a day at all? 

Goalkeepers. That's what I wanted to talk to you about today. Goalkeepers. Now, I'm a very old and withered man, and I've been watching Grimsby town ply their terrible trade for approximately 50 years. Using my astonishing photographic memory I have replayed in my head all the hundreds of games I have seen and counted the number of goals given to us by opposition keepers as opposed to the number our keepers have given them. The results are as follows:

Goals gifted to us by dodgy opposition keepers spilling, missing, fumbling and pratting about - 7

Goals we have gifted the opposition by our dodgy keepers spilling, missing, fumbling and pratting about - 1,039 

Now, I'm no mathematical genius, but I suspect an analysis of those numbers will show a statistical significance that cannot be attributed to chance. And it's not as though we have always been the underdog in these games as, frequently, particularly in non-league, we would end up winning the games anyway. 

So why is this peculiar phenomenemomenon so obvious? Well, the first keeper I remember vividly was barber's nightmare Nigel Batch. Then my brain skips to Steve Sherwood. Dave Beasant is in the mix, then various Wilmots and Reeses and Crichtons and such. I can't remember them giving too much away. Then the picture goes cloudy - and - oh god - I can see it so vividly! The fumbling! The spilling! The missing! The pratting about! Nam!! This is a 21st century thang! Every keeper that plays here for our opponents is a perfectly normal, respectable keeper who saves saveable shots, catches catchable balls and gets called a wanker every time he takes a goal kick, whereas our custodians seem lawless, unpredictable, anarchic and feral by comparison. 

Thank God for Chris Pymty! A keeper arrives who just gets on with his job in a competent way, all the time looking like Michael McIntyre and giving me severe hair jealousy. But lo! The curse of the Grimsby keeper is upon him. He be accurs-ed! He hath lost the use of his arms like Kevin the Teenager did when he turned thirteen! He be blind to the long shots of doom! Oh, he be still good with his feet though. I'll give ye that. 

But I have a a theory. No, hang on, I haven't. I have no idea why anyone whose job is guarding the fishing nets in the 21st century for the Mariners becomes inflicted by the jittery madness. I mean, Liverpool have had a touch of it in the last ten years a well, as have Man Utd. So we aren't alone. 

Incidentally, congratulations to the BBC for being the first person, organisation or corporation in history to have managed to put Donald Trump on the moral high ground. Little bit of politics there, but I think I got away with it. 

We've just had a call from the police. Tuesday's diary has been spotted in the Peak District, worrying sheep. Members of the public are warned NOT TO APPROACH the rogue diary as it may contain biting wit. More details as and when we get them.