Cod Almighty | Diary

Ruud Gullit sitting on a shed

18 December 2025

So, what’s behind today’s door of delectable Town advent? Ah, it’s a chocolate in the shape of Artell, Pearson and Croudson pointing to a star that seems to have xG written on it. That can’t be right, can it? Oh, and there’s a message on the inside of the door here that reads: ‘Merry Christy-mas’. Well, it is the season of giving, after all.

Yes, your West Yorkshire diary has somewhat reluctantly made the switch from imperial to metric. I’ve blown off the cobwebs of analogue and fired up the digital, having decided to embrace the data that now drives so many discussions around twenty-two blokes attempting to kick a pig’s bladder into each other’s onion bag. Our prophets delivered gold when the Mariners beat the might of Manchester United. What’s followed since has made little frankincense, and has left us fans demanding myrrh. Whatever that is.

Data demands to be believed. Yet we possibly, and quite probably, don’t need the data to tell us what we can determine with our own eyes. Profligate in front of the opponent’s goal, sloppy in front of our own. In basic terms, it takes a much greater effort for us to score than it does the opposition to score against us. This imbalance is an inefficiency, which is driven by underperformance, which is driven by any number of things.

Can our three wise men figure out what the sweet baby Jesus is going on? Caspar knows. There was no prophet called Pym — although those who knew him speak of a generous soul.

Good goalkeepers are hard to find. There’s one sitting just outside the Promised Land, in Millwall. He was good. I can still see him now, dressed in pale gold, wafting at a loose ball in the Notts County area before Gav scooped it home. Those were the days when we used to beat County. Although it’s fair to say Max was prone to being leaky earlier in his career.

How do you solve a problem like the Mariners? The table tells no fibs, or so we’re told. How much of a problem is this, anyway? Town’s general play is okay. We’re on the front foot, we fashion chances, we await nervously for the opposition’s first shot on target. We need to break this cycle.

These are fine margins, not deep-rooted issues. Last season gave me greater concern due to the number of times we simply didn’t turn up. Teams would walk all over us, and the game would be as good as gone by half time. This season, we’ve turned up — well, maybe not at Barnet. Are we considered a greater scalp for the opposition? Our data is admired almost as much as our style of play.

Yesterday’s BOTB diary kicked it off and so, as an opportunist, I thought I’d jump in on the topic of football irks. The thing that irks me most just lately (but not always historically) is the foul throw. As someone who was pulled up for fouling my throw in a charity match, I’ve since wondered why referees haven’t enforced the same standard in the professional game.

You’ll have noticed that long, booming throws are very much in fashion, but I’m not here to discuss the value of such a weapon — I’m here to point out that nearly all the takers fail to have both feet on the floor at the point of release. One is out in front, planted, sometimes wholly in the playing area. Naughty! While the other catches up from behind. The toes should at least skim and trim the turf, but most don’t. C’mon officials, penalise these pests!

Bromley beckons for our out-of-sorts heroes. They'll be well backed, again, as the away end is completely sold out. A university flatmate of mine came from Bromley. He won Countdown at the age of 16! For a long time, that was the only thing I thought of when someone mentioned Bromley. Now they’re fourth division foliage, part of the Football League tree and must be taken seriously (unlike my flatmate, who always acquired a lisp whenever he got drunk and made no mention of his Countdown conquering until after we’d all graduated and gone our separate ways. He actually supported Charlton and we shared a mutual love of Clive).

Bromley is where we turned things around last season. What's to say we won't do the same again? UTM!