Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
27 October 2013
I've got a feeling, a feeling deep inside, oh yeah. I suppose I should go to the dentist. It's a long and winding road that leads to the doors of Wembley and the fever has gripped the town. You can't move for empty spaces. What shall Town do to fill the empty spaces? Cut the price and cut the mustard perhaps.
It's a bright 'n' breezy day in the home of the harrumph and around 30 Olympians had rushed over from Rushall to see a big team play. Adebole is indeed big, as is their little keeper's chest. I thought the moobs were on CBeebies.
Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Hatton, Pearson, McDonald, Thomas, Rodman, Kerr, Disley, Neilson, Cook, Hannah. The seven substitutes of sigh were Hedge, Bignot, Colbeck, Thanoj, Jones the hairstyle, McLaughlin and Hearn. Work it out yourself, it's easy.
Vast bleak chasms of desolation and meaninglessness were spread before us. I could have been doing nothing instead of this. Wahey, don't count your chickens on the stage Mrs Worthington: they've got an atomic rooster on the wing. Our little drummer boys must have been excited that Carl Palmer was chopping his sticks Live at Blundell Park.
Are these mental diversions from the mundane excursions ahead? We have to start before we finish. Start it up. They'll make a grown man cry.
First half: The boy in the bubble
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. And so to bed, it was all a dream, in a bound he was free, and we all lived happily ever after. Sorry, I turned to the last page, must be sticky fingers after all this cake. Is that a plot spoiler? Is there a plot? Didn't we lose that about ten years ago? Whodunnit, who stole our baby?
Oooh look over there, a cute kitten with a ribbon. Ah, look, over there, acute passing and movement. By the bullish Rushers. Once, twice, thricely wasting their time with woeful crossing. Once, twice, thrice and fourthly falling for imagined tree felling. Free kicks wafted, lofted and wasted. By them. One of them was even on target. Are we awake, are we daydreamers, just chasing after rainbows we may never find again?
Hannah was offside. Hannah was offside. Hannah was offside. Hannah was offside. H… the motion speaks for itself.
Hatton brushed a boy aside. Another redman hit the mud inside the Town box. Everyone shrugged and just got on with their lives. McKeown swept out and swept up as the hint of a possibility of something crossed several minds. Unlike Town, the moment passed.
Some heritage rust was dislodged from the Pontoon roof, cascading down in a brief but spectacular sunlit array
Aswad raided and rained crosses. Cook noodled to no-one as Disley stood alone. Disley slashed tiresomely wide while Cromer burned. That doesn't make sense. Ah, but I‘ve heard John Fenty speak. A Town corner. What, what! Say "what" again, say "what" again, I dare you. I'm sorry, did I break your concentration. Kerr clipped lowly in that old Man Utd to Scholes corner thing. Hannah took a touch and volleyed. The ball hit a red wall, was vaguely cleared, vaguely crossed back and divingly headed away again. All very nouveau vague.
For the avoidance of doubt, that was the only crumb on the crummy carpet. This football thing was slightly distracting us from our chatting. There really was no need for Burgerboy to wally a welly from the Fitties to attract our attention. Some heritage rust was dislodged from the Pontoon roof, cascading down in a brief but spectacular sunlit array.
Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue. Since you've been gone I can sing a rainbow.
Ah, some rash rushing and passing with Neilson swishing into the penalty area and a club sandwich to boot. A penalty. Hannah blamped left as Mooby plunged right. People stood up and made the approximation of a cheer. And that was that, apart from a bit of late Benny-Hilling in the Town penalty area when Thomas chased Adebola across the face of the goal.
In all the minutes of all the half the boy in the bubble never made a save. It was a dry wind as it swept across this dreary desert of a deserted ground.
The end of the beginning. They ran around, Town ran into them. Style is something you use to get over a fence. Tactics are suitable for vegetarians and you can buy a full pack of 24 for £12.99 on eBay.
Second half: Punctures at an exhibition
Neither team made any changes at half time. It was the same old same old shameful cold turkey sandwich. Cook was a Munster mush, Alex the Rod Man played like a drain. March the Tailors dressed you well, Trebor Mints were a minty bit stronger, and you could be sure of Shell. You knew where you were in the old days. Creative destruction is destructive creationism. Bring back price controls, fair rents, a balanced team and a balanced diet.
Oh, we can pass the football and move our bodies. Neilson swayed infield, shot and rifled lowly towards the bottom right corner. Mooby's sight was blocked by two red totem poles; he plunged late and scoopled excellently aside.
Now it's time for something completely usual. It's… a distinctly underwhelming formless gloop of mixed-up, muddled-up memories of men mucking about. The work placement ref continued his narrative arc by archly antagonising the dotted diaspora with an unfathomable free kick for the Midland minstrels. Disley had slid and kicked the football away from a redman, who'd eventually had a bit of a lie down. Thwapped into the wall, a ricochet returned and was slowly headed over and wide. This was the Mona Lisa of their moments: enigmatically interpreted through the ages, but basically a bland portrait of someone being a bit miserable.
They broke; a man was freed and drifting away from swooping McKeown. Thomas glided and guided the ball out for a goal kick. It almost was something, and should have been, but it wasn't.
The tricky number 11, possibly called Ramsey-Dickson, flicked a frolic over Hatton and Burgerboy ploughed across to dump him into the car park. Tricky boy is a big James Brown fan as their bucket and sponge man came on with a cape to help him off. He suddenly felt good, running straight back on to slap sexily just over from way, way away.
And then the Rushall charabanc ran out of petrol. Town had no interest in stopping to give them a lift.
Cook, for once, controlled the football within speaking distance and slippered down the left. Neilson dribbled and drumbled to the bye-line. Hannah stepped back at the near post and slashed prices at the nearest Kwik-e-Mart. And on came Hearn the hunter for Hannah the hatstand. Hatton crossed; Cook ducked seven or so yards out and carefully glanced wide.
Kerr, the boy who has finally started swinging for us: he's a little ticker now, the only one trying to get the passing crisp and even while the rest were happy for soggy chips
Colbeck replaced The Rod Man. Listen, do you want to know a secret? The Rod Man was so ineffectual people actually thought Colbeck would be an improvement. At least we'd get some throw-ins.
Ooh, that's a good corner. Kerr, the boy who has finally started swinging for us: he's a little ticker now, the only one trying to get the passing crisp and even while the rest were happy for soggy chips. Disley was stupidly upended on the left. Kerr floated an in-swinger daintily towards the penalty spot and Pearson arose unmarked to glance under Mooby.
When's the draw?
There was less of a contest than before. How many do we wish to score, for they've run out of puff, and lost that loving feeling. Hatton dragged and dropped his winger, dinking down the touchline. Cook ran on and on and into the penalty area and, from a few yards out and a few yards wide, poked straight at Mooby, who helpfully dived out of the way as the ball apologised inside the near post.
At this Kerr was replaced by Jones the lightweight beard. Shall we just cut to the chase? Hearn turned, chased and slashed high into the side netting. Town passed and passed and Hatton strolled to the rumbling Hearn. He hit the bye-line and rolled back to Neilson. The scoreboard had been moved previously precisely to avoid damage in such a situation. Last minute, last chance, Hearn rolled, scrolled and Mooby scramble-scruffled to eventually clutch the ball to his chests.
That was an expensive practice match. They were no match, even for sleepwalking stutterers. We did it for you, Gainsborough. Yellowbelly revenge is a dish best served on Twitter.
Man alive, that was tedious. I should have gone to the Sausage Festival.