Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Simon Wilson

8 April 2006

Carlisle United 1 Grimsby Town 0

The preamble
We live in a day and age when the medicinal practice to combat stress and depression is to prescribe a daily dose of pills. If you do or ever are to suffer from such inflictions, I recommend a course that wanders from Leeds past Settle through the Yorkshire Dales and into Cumbria before arriving in Carlisle. Forget your book, newspaper, Walkman, your mobile phone redundant with "no network coverage" and simply look out of the window. Witness the peacefulness of nature.

The snowy upper peaks vanishing into the low cloud. The beige-brown paths, arteries for ambling ramblers, below as we rumble over a viaduct. The land a peculiar mix, the naked skeletal trees with sprightly newborn lambs bounding nearby. Deserted derelict old stones huts. Maybe if Carlisle run riot I could get off near here on the way back and live in one of those huts as a hobbit.

With the terminus twenty minutes away, I overhear two Carlisle fans talking about their chances. Oh, they'll definitely win. But top scorer Karl Hawley's played the most games of any of their squad, has looked a little jaded recently and is apparently carrying an injury. A quick scan of Stedders' guide to fourth division pubs reveals that... Carlisle aren't even in the "popularity chart". Great, venturing into the unknown thanks to an out-of-date chart, and thirsty. Undaunted, the train pulls in and I use the map in the guide to find a quick pint and get lost (later I find because the map is fucking useless) finding the pub, but stumble past innumerable pizza restaurants. It's straight up to the ground with a nip into Gregg's, past some lovely homes, across some perilous at-angle road junctions, and through a right mish-mash of accents - the expected Cumbrian burr, but equally strains of the north-east, a number of ladies mumbling in Scottish , a smattering of Welsh, and some older men sounding like Andrew Sachs in Fawlty Towers.

The club shop is rammed, admitting on a one-out, one-in basis with a procession of around 60 waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Now that is demand. Round the back, some kids are having a kick around on a disused basketball court, the first seed in community facilities at the club that never came to fruition when funds for the ground redevelopment ran dry. This is also why the pitch isn't aligned with the main stand, fact fans. There's a lesson in this. As I walk through the turnstile to hand over six of the nine two pound coins I received in Gregg's twenty minutes before (Carlisle must be the two pound coin reserve of Great Britain), a steward tells me though that the redevelopment will be underway "soon".

Dave Moore appeared from the tunnel and promptly tried to break Anthony Williams' spine by jumping on his back. Find their first team keeper next time, Dave, and give us a fighting chance. Williams, Moore and Justin Whittle exchanged less than manly cuddles round the waist. The goal in front of the terraced away end was cordoned off; meaning Mildenhall had to warm up between two red sticks pushed into the ground near the corner flag. Further up the pitch, a few quick drills for the Town players had seen the ground cut up easily.

The Tannoy was piping out whatever number the latest Now That's What I Call Music is. Suddenly I See, and behold the threatening grey clouds drifted inland, bathing the pitch in warmth and bright sunlight. The Town players had now formed a circle, dribbling inside of it, but ducking aside when they were confronted by another player. Hopefully not something they will carry through to the game.

The programme notes the mascot's food of choice is pizza. Not a surprise given the choice in the town. It also turns out the lad is the son of Carlisle player Chris Billy. Aren't there laws against this, like managers having player agents who are their sons? Oh, look a seven-year-old boy cheerleader. Or is it Deep Roy the Oompa Lumpa? Mighty Mariner had made the trip and, it has to be said, had a male escort. No, not that sort. Why had he bothered to turn up? Hello, Mighty. Us on the left and right of the stand want some attention too. Stop signing autographs for your teenage fan club.

With the Tannoy now playing the Shaun of the Dead soundtrack (Queen's Don't Stop Me Now) the players came onto the pitch. Town lined up with the usual suspects, with You Jug Eared Bastard! (as in "get the ball in you jug eared bastard!" as some bloke keeps shouting at home games, but Parky to you and me) replacing the injured Gary Cohen on the right wing: Mildenhall in goal; Macca, Whittle, Stick, Newey along the back; YJEB, Woodhouse, Bolland, Goodfellow along the midfield; up front Lump and Reddy (sounds like a DIY material). Carlisle - or "just a small town in Scotland", ho ho, hilarious - shaped into their effective 4-3-3 formation, Chris Billy anchoring midfield, Hawley, Bridges and Holmes their three musketeers. The announcer tells us that on the bench is "the wonderful Simon Hackney".

Just before kick-off, some shipping news reached the back row, Northampton conceding two goals as Rochdale snatched a last minute draw. Staying second in the table was a guarantee of relief to a couple of Town fans. I wondered if a Cobblers win and them breathing down our necks would have added a little more bite to this confrontation. We would have to see.

First half
Town defended the away end, attacking upfield from our viewpoint. It took a matter of seconds for the ball to go out of play as Carlisle fluffed their third pass down the right, but Town handily contrived to put the ball out for them. Aranalde took the throw-in long but with one foot off the ground as he released the ball. Foul throw or not, Whittle got to the ball in plenty of time, looked up and played a measured ball forward for a Carlisle goal kick.

Carlisle looked to press forward with early balls down the wings, always leaving five players and an ocean of space behind the ball and their more advanced players. Two back passes from retreating a Macca and Newey averted the home team taking any early advantage. These sandwiched an early Woodhouse shot, which was always covered early by the massed bodies, as the midfielder looked to support the front line. His early ball was so nearly snaffled upon by Goodfellow, but the chance came, as they say, too early, the spring not quite in his stride.

In the fourth minute, Hawley was found on the right wing, and ran down the line at Newey who matched him stride for stride, pushing the attacker against the line, and eventually winning the ball. The home fans by this tussle didn't agree, but Newey gained an early upper hand.

60 seconds later Parkinson was loitering just inside the area, waiting for Macca to fling a throw-in upfield. He did and Aranalde had to lay the ball behind the goal line. Woodhouse stepped up and swung in the ball; Westwood rose and barely touched the ball out of the box. As the players rushed out of the box, Westwood was crouching. "We want Williams on," called the Town fans rather half-arsed and over-expectedly.

A couple of minutes of midfield rat-a-tat-tat ensued. You know how these go. An off-side decision (where it looked like the referee was waiting for the player to receive the ball before blowing, very modern). A few fouls. Some throw-ins. Suddenly!, Hawley emerged from the torpor with a surrrrge down the right touchline, advancing towards Newey and the inrushing Bolland. Cornered, their number 10 released Lumsdon with a sweet, but not extravagant, back heel. The ball was zipped across the field but Parky, ever alert to the call to action, nipped in and was hauled down in midfield. Mildenhall played the ball up to the left corner where Reddy did well to lay the ball back to Goodfellow. His zippy cross was cleared by Gray landing inside the D at the feet of Pinball Parky, the ball bouncing between his feet, before being easily dealt with.

The next ten minutes were mainly Carlisle as they pressed Town. The balls were played earlier, their players were always harrying, reducing Town's passing options. Lump dropped deeper to add to the number in midfield, notably ruining a fine passing move when Murphy dawdled during the home team's pomp. The dithering was contagious, like an outbreak. Goodfellow dallied on the ball and brought down his oppressor when recovering. Newey cut inside and, with his only weak moment of the first half, overran the ball to an advancing midfielder. Whittle and Jones placed misdirected passes well beyond Macca for throw-ins, but in reality they shouldn't be passing anyway. Percentages isn't maths lesson for defenders, it's an order.

Clearances weren't clearing, weren't going out. The players were getting anything in the way of the ball and somehow surviving. That somehow was usually Newey, on three occasions flying across from left-back to sweep behind our centre-backs. During this period Paul Simpson, dressed in all black like a gnome from the Dark Side of the force, urged his players on. Things went from the desperate to a sense of the inevitable when Bridges, hovering as an inside-left, received the ball and then slalomed his way past one, two, three, four players, leaving them prone on the floor. A fifth nicked the ball away as the drawbridge to goal was lowered. The home support roared at this spurt of ingenuity. The Grimsby fans reacted like hostile hostages. Town's respite was to work the ball upfield with gusto to Goodfellow through Reddy, but the cross was again cleared in the box by the head of Gray.

A short period of (relative) calm followed, Town's players becoming reacquainted with the ball. The result was unexpected as it was neat, incisive and venomously threatening. Newey played the ball inside to the deep standing Lump who sauntered for five strides into acres of midfield space and released the galloping Reddy. The ball was squared to Parky who returned the ball for Reddy to slap a shot towards goal from just outside the box. A Carlisle body got in the way. Come on Town!

Half an hour gone, and Gary Jones, who a minute earlier had intercepted a lurking Hawley, fouled their keeper. From the free kick, a throw-in well in the Town half was stared out under the watchful gaze of Whittle. Mildenhall took the goal kick, and Carlisle's midfield latched onto it. Billy roamed forward to the right-hand side of the box and broke forward, thumping a fine cross through the six yard box which Newey resorted to cagily fly at to clear it. Our left-back was on hand again moments later as a teasing Lumsdon cross had to be averted away. The ball was immediately played across midfield for Bridges, again lurking deep on the left, to skip across the box with his dainty footwork and hit a slap shot which Mildenhall did well to parry into the air and fall bravely upon. The hurly-burly in the stand to our left started up again. Deep breaths. Stick was down on the ground. Deep breaths. Don't worry. He continued. Shall we?

Ten minutes to half time, and Goodfellow cut in from the left wing along the edge of the box, and slid the ball to Parky on the right. With a sure touch, the Pinball Wizard clipped the ball between two defenders for Bolland to tear on to in the box. One touch, and BANG! Bolland unleashed a fierce low shot which cannoned back to Parkinson, who veering the ball towards goal and Westwood.

The teams exchanged a couple of bouts of irrelevant possession again, before Woodhouse fed Goodfellow, and the nippy winger shot into the box, and then shot in the box. Westwood did well to save, pushing the ball out for a corner. From the corner, Carlisle broke upfield only for the timely persistence of Goodfellow to halt the advance halfway into the Town half. His searching ball could have been better, easily picked up. And again the blue shirted players came at a backtracking and taut rear guard. Stretched, the defence did just enough to twang the ball away.

The pressure continued and a Lumsdon cross from the right was cleared by Woodhouse just inside the box, and to the vain appeals of "handball!" by the locals. Another attack, and this time Newey again got in the way as the cross came in from their left, a desperate header agonisingly drifting wide of the goal as if in slow motion.

The half ended with a strong dose of Reddy. First Reddy found himself back to goal with the ball on the edge of the box. He was felled, and a free kick was given. Despite the wall clearly being only eight yards away from the ball, Woodhouse stepped up and curved the ball over the wall and over the bar. Somehow Town got managed to attack Carlisle again and won a corner, nicely hit by Woodhouse, but Aranalde was alert and cleared with a cautious poke to the sideline. Moments later the ball was back with Reddy on the left whose cross easily dealt with by Billy. The ref blew his whistle.

Town had survived a particularly nervy opening 25 minutes for their back line, but had grown as the match had gone on. Maybe the defence had been watching scary DVDs on bus up from Lincolnshire. The attempts at passing and controlling the game were inappropriately timed as they were detrimental to their purpose. Carlisle benefited. The key was to go at them, Woodhouse, Goodfellow and Reddy linking up well on the left half of the pitch, Parkinson trying his carve open the Carlisle left. For them, Bridges showed the kind of fleet-footedness that the lumbering defenders could easily be sold with, but there was more directness to the table toppers than many had been led to believe.

Second half
Both teams remained as was for the second half. And Town continued as they had left off, their half-time Lucozade giving them some turbo boost forward. Bolland's kick off went back to Newey who fired the ball upfield towards Goodfellow whose hit was at a defender. The play flowed through Billy in the middle to Arnison on the right, his cross reaching an unmarked Bridges who volleyed straight at Mildenhall from the edge of the area. Eeek!

The wide players for both teams had some possession, Murphy for Carlisle pitching an excellent cross into the Town box which Mildenhall caught well, and Parkinson gathered his cut out cross only to shoot meekly at Westwood. The ball was punted upfield and bounced over the fucking Stick's head at the other end of the pitch. It then looked like the ball ricocheted off Hawley who had snuck in behind Stick. Mildenhall gratefully gathered. Cautiously, our custodian waited for Hawley to leave the box (none of that sneaky nipping in from behind, mister) and wellied the ball into the Carlisle half. The ball broke to Aranalde at left-back who dismissed subtlety and swung the ball back towards the Town goal, and Bridges who had burst clear of the attention of Whittle. Just outside the area the ex-Leeds player cushioned the ball with one touch on the half volley, and then lifted the ball over the on-rushing Mildenhall. The ball landed dead centre in the goal. If one man was going to score it was going to this man, the one player on the pitch who looked like he could caress the ball to do his bidding. It was a goal of great beauty, even if the goal celebration looked like some shit reference to golf.

Town had no choice: they needed a goal. From the kick-off they went on the attack. A spell of pressure was rewarded with Newey down the left pushing the ball to Parkinson on the edge of the box. The ball was returned towards the left wing where Stick played back to Goodfellow who shot across the face of goal. Carlisle's response was to replace Danny Livesey with the albino looking Adam Murray. The game stagnated for a few minutes, Town coming to terms with the deficit and the opposition's change round, Carlisle content to hold a goal advantage.

Parkinson tried to raise his team mates, winning a throw in down the right after a succession of feints. Macca guided the ball back to Parky, and he centred a drifted ball. Westwood just about won the ball ahead of the incoming lump of, well, Lump.

Another five minutes. Did you know that's as long as the shortest reproductive life in the insect world, that of the female mayfly Dolania American? A fascinating look into a bug's life there. Oh, look it's the persistence of Michael Reddy winning a corner on the right. Gary Jones rose, as if hoisted by a crane, and planted his header down past a goal-sniffing Reddy. Goal kick.

More midfield nullifying. No insects have missed the chance to procreate this time though. Lump, dropping deep, combines with Bolland and squirms the ball to the modern day lesser-spotted on-rushing McDermott, who gets in the way of the ball and despatches it to Goodfellow. A cross hit with his supposedly weaker foot requires a timely interception from Murphy. Another chance for Parkinson to run onto the ball down the wing is engineered, but the pass is too strong and Parkinson ends up getting to the ball a yard over the touchline. Another sub for them, Holmes venturing off for Simon Hackney. Will we now discover why this man is so wonderful?

It took nearly 60 seconds. Aranalde took another one of those 30 yard long throws (we'd given up caring if they were legit or not by now) which was flicked on down the left wing, then pushed out for Hackney to deliver a cross for Murray, with two Town defenders watching him on the penno spot, to hop into the air and head the ball close, too close, to Mildenhall. It should have been two.

Carlisle looked like they were starting to gang up on Town's left, a long throw flicked down, but Stick intercepted. Woodhouse quickly offloaded the ball to Newey who swimming with sharks around him and had to instantly nudge the ball to Lump five yards ahead. Carlisle swarmed round and a knock back to Whittle saw evasive action taken - hit it long to Parky! The defender prodded the ball down to a team mate who motored the whole length of the Town half, and jinked his way to a corner. The inswinger came in and Mildenhall rose, fists high, only to see the ball fly off the far post and back into the goalie's hands. Our hearts were in our mouths.

Newey took the ball out of defence and hit a diagonal ball. A mistake in the Carlisle defence handed Town a softly won corner. The ball flew over to Parky who hit a "cushioned shot". A few fans sounded like they wished someone would put a cushion to his head and shoot him. Westwood's save did the job although the shot removed any challenge.

Halfway through the half, and Macca got booked. I can't remember what for though. According to my notes it's Town for the next five minutes. Murray was snapping at the ball whenever it came near him, but Town tried to avoid his flank opting for the left. Lump won a free kick, Newey got forward a couple of times, and there were a few Carlisle throw-ins deep in their half but no notable return.

In the 74th minute, Slade withdrew Parkinson and brought on Junior Mendes. Why? Just accept there are some things that are incomprehensible to the human brain. This arrival was the cue for Hawley to wake from hibernation, first skilfully placing the ball against a defender to win a corner, and minutes later threatening goal directly with a shot that Newey did well to block so close to goal.

Three minutes later and a sweet move down Town's right found Goodfellow too far forward when Macca's cross was cut out. The albino alligator snapped up the ball and surged forward. With a nudge Hawley was brought into play but his shot was wastefully over. It proved to be Lord Macca's last contribution to the game, as he was taken off with Goodfellow, with Futcher and Toner replacing. Futcher joined the front line, Toner slotted into midfield. Ten minutes of constant pumping awaited.

And pump they did. Instantly the travelling fans were baying for a goal when Town won a corner. Jones headed wide, but the referee awarded another corner. This time Woodhouse delivered a pinpoint ball, which Futcher, leaning back slightly, met slap bang in the middle of the area. The ball drifted over the crossbar.

The PA system announced the man of the match as "Seagull Aranalde", the persistent foul thrower. Meanwhile Reddy was trying to get past a Carlisle defender. The ball bounced off the defender and the referee deemed it a goal kick. Carson Daly would call it 'karma'.

Both teams had a go at the other, but Town had the better of the final five minutes. A foul by Murray saw Woodhouse shirk his usual dead ball duties and Newey pumped the ball long. With five Town players forward, they just watched as the ball bounced once past them and behind. At last Westwood showed something he excelled at, booked as he was for time wasting, faffing around with the ball behind his goal. The volume of the home fans was getting louder. They could smell victory. Bolland was freed on the right by a Newey free kick. With several angles to get the back through to one of four Town players, Bolland opted to play the ball onto the shins of his marker. When Carlisle attacked, the desperation of the trailing team showed as they conceded a number of fouls for rugged challenges. Toner was booked for his apparent killing of Murray. The ball was kept near Town's left corner flag, the succession of free kicks killing time and did the home team's time wasting wanders with the ball.

At the third attempt Town won a goal kick. Mildenhall hit it long, long upfield. The desperation almost paid off, Woodhouse's shot fired in from the edge of the box halted a couple of yards shy of the goal, and the rebound from Lump ballooned away for a corner. The ball in was punched away, the ball went towards the centre circle, and Stick fouled. The free kick was taken and the referee blew. A scrappy game came to an end.

Just over 10,000 Carlisle fans in attendance roared with joy. The Town fans that hadn't all ready slunk away applauded the players' slightly limp clapping. Overall Town shaded the possession and had more attempts on goal, but they weren't anything as clear cut as Carlisle's. Carlisle's approach disappointed given their energetic and entertaining display at Blundell Park in January, but it was functional and did the job. They hardly ever looked as stretched at the back as Town did on occasion. They took the three points. When they needed invention Bridges provided it. Too often Town relied on the wide men, their cross sniffed out with authority, their cutting in shots never really testing Westwood. The title is as good as gone. Not that it matters. Remember: Town don't do titles. And there's no shame in losing to the team with the biggest home support and wage bill in the division. What more would you expect? They should be there on pure economics alone.

Worried? Not I. I had another 210 minute train saunter back home to enjoy yet. Not even a defeat was to ruin my big calm. Worry? Why? There's still five games left and second place to secure. And a smoked Lincolnshire Poacher with sweet onion chutney sarnie to eat.

Man of the match
In an opening twenty-five minute period when the back line did its best to induce everything but calm amongst the travelling supporters, one player drifted inside to sweep and instil a sense of authority over an eager Carlisle side. Some fine forays forward also featured, but judiciously chosen to be only when appropriate. He was no superman, but there is nothing propitious about this verdict, only germane that Tom Newey, your time has come! Long should it continue!