Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Wednesday 3 April 2013

Conference Premier

Macclesfield Town 1 Mills (26)

Grimsby Town 3 Cook (13), Pearson (37), Artus (71)

Attendance: 1776

Goals and the nearer misses in a torrent of unconsciousness
They fizzed and feigned as crosses reigned in. Kissock in hassock volleying wide. The Dizzer dabbing cotton wool on the grazes; tender loving care with TCP.

Cleveland levered; Mrs Mills, playing a honky-tonk piano in the centre of the blue defence, flicked on. Cook rose slowly, loopy-looped a header over the keeper. One attack, one goal. 

Blueboys ailed and failed, falling and calling for some sponge action.

On came Dude McDonald, a bit of a dud. Macc smackers, deflections and distractions. Corners for sneezing, corners for hitting the post. Double barrel strikerman thumped a header, McKeown parried, Mills poked in.

McKeown dropped a cross, flapped a cross, missed a cross. Getting cross. Town crossed, so what?

Them, them, all them. Thomas kneed off the line, crosses and crosses. Other things, blue blurs. Woohoo, a Town attack, Hannah flickered. A Town corner, woohoo. Pearson arose, and inaction Jackson stood against the right post and shinned the ball along the line and in off the other.

Just messing about vaguely. Half time

Town moved to 4-5-1. Scramble now and then, vague vagueness then and now. Kissock wall passed and wallflowered over. McKeown missed a cross.

Cook turned and passed to them and they passed back to Cook. Cleveland crossed; the lonely Colbeck collapsed a diving header. Colbeck? Colbeck! On for Hannah on the hour.

A black and white cat ran the whole length of the pitch. We smiled. 

Thomas wellied and Mad Frankie intercepted some Macc shindigging. Colbeck drove a flock of sheep and tickled Cook who flickled as the keeper sat under the nearest toadstool. The ball died. Artus stood and waited for the linesman’s flag and turned bright red as he tapped into the empty net.

Town brought on a shopping trolley, just for a laugh.

The empty ground emptied. The fourth official held up his flashy thing: there will be four Macclesfield supporters left in the stadium after added time.

You want to know what love is, or do you want to know why Town won? Hey, it could be the same thing: Craig Disley. His presence makes life a little more pleasant. Brains, not brawn: it stops the yawn.

"The lads were a little bit hurt by the things that were being said, but they came back and showed what they're all about. They've been bitterly disappointed by some of the recent performances and they wanted to put them right and they did that."

More on this

On Monday the Hatters were in tatters, on Wednesday the Silkmen were made into milkmen, appetisingly apposite and the opposite of the usual trite Town trottings. Town were just OK in a round-about way, holding on defensively and striking efficiently thanks to the absence of a case for the home defence.

McKeown was a bit flappy and flaky as Town rode their luck in the first half, with Winn turning Telegram Sam into a hurdy-gurdy, hurdy-hurdy-gurdy man. After half time a tactical change that worked for once, and the Macclads were easily moulded into festering dough balls. This wasn't much more than Town standing in the right places as the Silksters lost interest.

Well, they ran around a lot very quickly. They ended up running around in circles, not so quickly, as they tired of life. They looked tasty, but curdled quickly. All mouth and no trousers.

A magnificent obsession with their miniature Messi, the diminutive disco dasher, saw them easily corralled by Town's sheepdogs. Winn was a persistent pest, and their full-backs were long distance lopers as the Macc lads set off like road runners, but they were really Wile E Coyote in drag.

They coulda been a contender. They coulda been somebody. They aren't.

A-ha, this game was all about us as the japers and jesters burst out from the long winter of our occasional content. What a hoot, what a hollering hoot we had.

Corner! Corner! Catch the Meggie moggie! Taylor the Macckeeper couldn't stop stroking his lovely hair... and we noticed. "Taylor, Taylor, stroke your hair". The boyband bystander resisted for at least 23 seconds, then up went his left hand, flicking his follicles gaily across his forehead. Wahey! Up went the roar of the Town crowd behind. The boy was reduced to a quivering quacker. What a cracker.

We're Grimsby 'til we cry with laughter.

Mr W Barratt (Worcs)

Was a handful of wrongs, no more, no less. It's a litany of larceny, a shuddering shoddery, where yellow cards appeared for no good reason, where science was ignored and fantasy horror was the unexpected genre of choice for the film show: 1.9243. He really was appalling. It shouldn't happen to a vet.

Corner, corner, corner, toga, toga, toga, toga, spam, spam, spam chips and a Cheshire cat.