Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 January 2014

Grimsby Town 1 Lincoln City 1

Downwind and out of sight there were just 500 impatient Impies. Not impressive. Ah, little Lincoln, all light engineering and choristers. It's not a football town, far too many hoity-toity tea shops and ladies who lunch.

Wet, windy, so, so wreckingly windy as the breeze blew back the nets and bent back the flags, driving sheets of drizzle into the lower orders in the Pontoon.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Bignot, Pearson, Doig, Thomas, Colbeck, Disley, Thanoj, Nielson, John-Lewis, Hannah. The five who went mad in corsets were Walker, Rodman, McLaughlin, Cook and Southwell. You could smell the WD40 as it was applied to Deputy Doig's knees.

Lincoln turned up in green, enough to make you sick. They still looked like BMX bandits.

First half: Cloudy with no chance of football

A big, big wig-wafting wind. Off they kicked downwind into the Pontoon.

Boom, a free kick launched from the Fitties, Brown leant back and levered from outside the area, McKeown tippled spectacularly over. Boom, Colbeck wrenched a free kick, Farman flipped away from the far post. Whackadoo whackaday: corners here, there and everywhere. Disley dived, a green man headed off the line. Pearson grazed, Doig dazed, Thanoj befizzled lowly, Farman flappled.

Barging, charging, holding, swiping, clipping and clotting – booking once, booking twice, booking thricely green. Greens spoiling, cauldron boiling, Town toiling, Farman foiling. Can't keep this pressure on, can't keep this pressure on.

A free kick under the police box and Newton applied his first law of footballing physics – welly in the wind. The ball hoiked into the near post, Thomas arose as green slimed down his back and perfectly plonked into the bottom left corner. A roofless finish.

Pearson prepared to hook in the shadow of the Frozen Horse Stand

Where are we now, where are we now?

Pearson prepared to hook in the shadow of the Frozen Horse Stand. Dixon carried on regardless and ducked into a mid-air collision. Pearson flew into the adverts and out came yellow, then out came red among much hufflage and shufflage. Dixon the clot in green, booked twicely for small-time mugging in broad daylight.

All Town, all action pacman scrumbling. Nielson swerved and shot, Farman bumbled, John-Lewis mumbled towards the corner flag. Corners and corners and corners and corners. Wide, high, off the line, punched away, scoffed away, lofted away here, there and everywhere but goalwards. Bignot did a nutty boy run and cross, Hannah stretched and levered highly.

Other things happened. Annoying things. Shots high and tackles low, ugly bookings, hookings and misadventure on the high seas, cap'n.

A throw on the left, a twirl, a curl, a Hannah flick, a parabolic parambulation and Disley drumbled miserably, Farman flopped pathetically but somehow wonderfully and there was a happiness all around. Hurrrah, hurrah for Farman's flappy hands.

Woah, Newton whacked from well away, McKeown magnificently flew and swatted away from the top left corner.

Four minutes added, eggs boiled badly. Thanoj threaded, Hannah rolled his rooster and lofted a lifter when he had a snifter of goal. Impy wellied, Foster nodded, Jamie Mack prodded over.

That's all, go and hide from the wind behind the Pontoon.

Second half: The line of least persistence

Oi, where did that wind go? And why is it changing direction?

Inconsequential nurdling and noodling for ten minutes. The Shop had his window display ruined by some green manalishi with a two-pronged hook. A penalty for your thoughts, my dear?

Pressure, pressure, pressure – where's our pleasure at other people's leisure? Neilson trickery and frippery from a short corner, woozling along the bye-line, whelping agin the foot of the post as chums awaited service. Hannah schmoozed from afar and Farman parried. A corner punched off the line, John-Lewis juggled his work-life balance to scuffle through green socks. Another off the line. Thanoj dippled a bobby-dazzler slightly wide.

One of these days we're gonna cut them in to little pieces.

Ah yes, the curious incident at the foot of our stairs. Colbeck and Newton did some amateur breakdancing on the corner of their area. They wellied upfield, Doig headed over McKeown and Tomlinson walked tall into the open net, summoning his choral society for some a capella singing. And all the while the linesman had been waving his rinky-dinky flag. Sing for your supper elsewhere.

The greensters bellowed and out came another yellow, then a red. Daftness all around

LJL tackled, nothing much occurred, out came a yellow card for persistent Shopping. Thanoj chipped to the near post. Farman leapt and clutched the ball as John-Lewis passed underneath. Oh woe is he, oh the agony, the terrible calumny of a monochromer passing nearby. The greensters bellowed and out came another yellow, then a red. Daftness all around.

Rodman replaced Colbeck. At least we had slow swaying rather than scurrying praying. Rodman coiled a free kick deeply. Pearson snuck around the back and headed into the vast chasm of muddy openness inside the six-yard box. Three sets of home boots tentatively approached; one galumphing set of green socks had no doubts. A moments gone in a slow flash.

More moments of wallyness from individual Townites, going in circles of their own delusions. A clearance, a Neilson surge, Rodman waltzed past one, past two. The ball flipped off Farman, Hannah awaited beyond the far post and volleyed sumptuously down, across and past the yellow custardian. As if by black magic, a green boot appeared to swipe off the very line.

It's one of those days.

Crosses, corners, a bit of this, a bit of that, a cross deflected up, Farman panicking, Hannah punched across the face of goal unseen by official eyes. And no-one was around to really annoy the Impies.

Hannah wasted a free kick, Nielson greedily scoffed up all the midget gems and wafted woefully not once but twice. Four minutes added, nothing happening. Last kick, McKeown hoofed, Disley grazed and Hannah's toes were two inches from minor local glory.

What a wet blanket of piffle that was. Blowing, not flowing.