Cod Almighty | Article
8 September 2003
When Danny Coyne left for the bright lights of a Premiership bench, my girlfriend described it as like being left by a lover seeking a more comfortable bed. I had to agree. Upon hearing of the return of Aido Davo, however, I was happy to let Danny run off with his new flame (or to that whorehouse in Leicester, as my less generous partner coined - ha ha - the phrase), for I believed we were about to receive that most bountiful gift of a better goalkeeper. I assured the girlfriend that she had been dumped by a no-good drunk and had now met the doctor her mother had always dreamed of. His performances at the start of this season have gone a long way to convince her of this.
This is, of course, Davison's second spell with the club, his first a rocketship Flash Gordon ride of record-breaking success (after the Ming the Merciless performances of Jason Pearcey, but that's another story), which earned him a move to a 'bigger' club. He has now played for no less than 11 clubs throughout his less than illustrious career.
If he's so good, I hear you ask, then why all the chopping and changing? I have no idea. Apparently his performances for Town have outstripped those at his other clubs ("He gets more practice here." Who said that? Come on - own up). This disease, known as Donovan Syndrome, is currently working to our advantage; and with the return of the king (Davo not Aragorn - this is Blundell Park not Middle Earth) all the pieces are coming together. Mwa-ha-ha! The signs and portents are all there! We're in Division Two; we've signed Aidan Davison and a goalscoring winger and had an indifferent start to the season. Now if Grovesie could go bald and annoy everyone and Rodger grow a dodgy moustache, we're laughing.
Thank God all those happy jolly oranges and yellows have gone from the goalkeeper's jersey. It just wasn't us. Sombre is the order of the day at Blundell Park; grey with the merest hint of silver is enough, thank you. Those colours almost violently clashed with Aido Davo's gloomy visage, his almost comic-book looks, that chiselled long face, the dark hair and the brooding eyes...
The alternative suggestion is that he's a miserable git. This has in the past prompted the question: does he ever smile? Even on the Wembley pictures of celebration, his face looks more like a dried-out river bed, with slightly upturned cracks, than what you might call a smile (although I'll let him off for the concussion). You'll be happy to know, though, that he can and does smile. I know. I've seen it. Well, not actually seen it. Let me explain.
'Twas last season, the fixture of Bradford versus Grimsby Town - you know the one, the debut of Steve "I'd love to stay, honest" Kabba. The players' tunnel is right next to the away end, which in turn is right next to the pitch. In an attack of schoolboy humour I shouted - and to this day I still don't know why - "How's Wayne Burnett?" or something to that effect, referring to the infamous rumour of his wife's dalliances with the Samson-like midfielder. I reacted as I imagine many schoolboys would: I looked away, suddenly dreadfully embarrassed, and not without a little fear (he really was ominously close).
My brother and girlfriend assure me that Davison turned round and laughed, actually laughed, a big hearty guffaw. Probably at me for being a prat. I was left suitably shifty, feeling ashamed at my rudeness and proud of my bravado all at the same time. Fondly now I look back at my misdemeanour, and it's good to know we have a great keeper who also has a sense of humour.