Cod Almighty | Article

by Euan Mann

2 December 2004

Southend United 1 Grimsby Town 1

Forget the provocative title. It wasn't like that. But it was great fun, and, dare I say it, good football.

Some time last week my Grimbarian colleague Andy reminded me of my long-standing promise to watch the Town: specifically, to travel down to Southend to watch the Mighty Mariners take on the Super Shrimpers. Come to think of it, I don't actually remember making the promise, but he's always conning me into these sorts of things, especially after a couple of post-work shandies. 

If you need any convincing of Andy's skills in the persuasion department then look no further than the time he managed to persuade a tree-hugging left-wing hippie from the slightly sunnier climes of San Francisco to spend his precious weekends in London travelling up to cold, grey Cleethorpes to watch Grimsby against Barnsley. Furthermore, he even persuaded Jesse he loved it. You have been warned. [Hey, it did end 6-1 - Ed.]

Anyway. Come Friday I still hadn't thought of any half-decent excuses. It's always difficult to feign illness at 5pm when you've been sitting working alongside someone all day. Strangely enough, the other two who might have made the trip (if they really ever existed) had "slightly too much work on". Hmmm... nothing to do with the prospect of spending two hours in cold and wet Essex then? Course not.

Andy got more and more excited as the day wore on, although he went pretty quiet for about 40 minutes at about 4 o'clock. The reason for this mysterious burst of concentration became apparent when he handed me a series of maps, the like of which you have never seen before. Every single page was cross-referenced, neatly notated, with the key points highlighted. Understanding the key required five GCSEs, and his colouring skills showed definite A-level geography potential. Needless to say, he was less than impressed when I left it in the office. Whoops.

Against all odds, however, we made it to Roots Hall. Eventually. Getting out of London at 5pm on a Friday seems to be roughly equivalent to pushing on ropes, but at least we weren't in the five-mile queue to get into Bluewater. Give me Prinny Quay any day. Thankfully we also made it into the ground without taking a mauling from any of the population of psychotic badgers that the Southend road signs warned us about.

A quick snack later and we took our seats right behind the goal in the as yet unfilled away stand. Andy was spotted instantly by another Grimsby local and immediately got out his best northern accent – a quick "a'reet mate" and a nod of the head and all of a sudden I began to feel quietly accepted.

If you’ve read Mr Holt's match report then you'll know he spent the warm-up talking me through the squad, but to be honest I wasn't really listening. I was much more excited by the fact that Keeps had dropped his bottle in the middle of the penalty area and preoccupied with coming up with a suitable gag for this report. Sadly it still eludes me. We're simple types on the right side of the Humber you know. It must be the Yorkshire influence.

The stadium sponsors also kept me amused, with the Echo Echo Echo Echo Echo Echo hoarding and Mr Universal and his Cycles both tickling my fancy. Before long though, Keeps had found his bottle and we were ready for the off. I'm not going to cover the match in too much detail as Andy took care of this, but as this could be my only time in the Alan Hansen hot seat I'll jot down a few of my thoughts.

Firstly, it was pretty entertaining stuff. As a Leeds fan I've been getting used to some pretty scrappy football, but this wasn't bad at all. Town actually seemed quite keen to try and pass the ball around, soaking up the Southend pressure without ever looking too flustered, before launching speedy counter attacks. Fleming and Bully both seemed keen to get up the wings.

Whittle looked solid as ever, but what else would you expect from a man who perfected his trade at Boothferry Park? Jonesy was pretty comfortable with the aerial ball, but didn't look quite so keen when defenders ran at him. Mind you, you can’t have everything, especially in the fourth division, and when you're ten feet tall I suppose seeing your feet must be tricky at time, never mind co-ordinating them. It would have been nice to see Young Greg being given a chance though; between his stylish name/nickname combo and a really professional looking warm-up, I was convinced he would have been the business at the back.

In midfield, Monsieur Pinault was a joy to behold: like the original Scarlet Pimpernel he was here, there, and everywhere in the first half. His ability to scrap like a terrier while maintaining his Gallic flair and slightly arrogant demeanour would have made him my man of the first half. If I'd had a couple more shandies then I might even have started to liken him to Ginola. Sadly, like David before him, he seemed to say au revoir at half time, obviously suffering from one too many pies in the dressing room.

Overall, my man of the Town would have to be Parky. If goals were handed out on effort, commitment, energy, etc etc (you get the picture), then he would have had a hatful. As it was he had several shots saved or blocked and looks a shoo-in to start scoring again soon. His best chance probably came when Lazy Pinault's header looped over their keeper and bounced off the bar. 

Everything happened in slow motion, with Andy/me/other Grimsby fans rising in unison. Surely. Surely. Parky waited... waited... and waited for the ball to come down to him, but it was painfully apparent that he was just a foot or two too short to power it in. The sort of frustration you feel on those machines where you have to pick up the teddy with the crane – so close, but no cigar.

Mention must also go to the half-time dance troupe. Never before have I seen eight girls/ladies/women (couldn't tell from distance) take to a football pitch in such a dazzling array of coloured PVC. As they posed around the centre circle I even asked Andy if they were going to strip. "I 'ope so!" he said, remembering his northern roots just in time. [Andy says you're a liar - Ed.]

And then, perhaps driven on by the chorus of "Get yer tits out" from the rather uncouth home support, the ladies ripped off their T-shirts and danced in their boob tubes. Brilliant. The rest of the interval was a mere blur. I can't remember entertainment like that since the one-day cricket I watched in Bristol last summer, when the West Country fans took umbrage with the Tom Jones impersonator and forcibly removed him from the pitch.

As I draw to the end of my musings, I realise that no article about the game would be complete without mention of the fans. There's always something special about away games: you only get the real devotees like me and Andy, I suppose. But I was reminded that there is also something even more special about away fans in the lower leagues. They were brilliant. Never once stopped singing, shouting and screaming. 

Whether it was "We... piss... on your fish" or the more imaginative "We... piss... on your eels", the noise was endless. "We only fish when we’re winning," was truly inspired [you sure about that one? - Ed.], and the drunken "Northerners, northerners" made us feel right at home. Special thanks must go to the bloke sitting just behind my right ear, who busily questioned the referee's sexual preference, eyesight and decision-making ability for most of the second half. And when we started calling "offside" every time a Mariner touched the ball I was proud to have an English sense of humour.

All in all, it was a great evening's entertainment. A draw was probably a fair result, although we came away thinking that Town really should have snatched it. But then I guess Leeds/Hull/Grimsby fans know that feeling only too well. 

And you know what the funniest thing of all is? I'd even do it again...