Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

15 October 2015

Grimsby 7 Pallidfacts 0

A brisk, dark night of the soul for 90 shivering, shaking Shaymen deep, deep down in the Osmond stand.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 as follows: McKeown, Tait, Pearson, Nsiala, Townsend, Mackreth, Clay, Disley, Arnold, Bogle and Amond. The substitutes were East, Brown, Mackreth, Marshall and Tomlinson. Outrage swilled down the avenues and alleyways when empire loyalists realised tireless Ben Tomlinson was to be a bench-dweller. How are we going to not score now? Go on Johnny T, ask Mr Snippy why he's dropped the non-goal machine.

Ah, Conor Townsend. What a lovely haircut. Ah, the sight of Omar and Amond spread a little happiness across the land. There's goals in them thar hills.

First half: Guile and graft

They kicked off towards their doom, and the Pontoon. Town pressing the flesh as the slow mangle squeezed the life from the lifeless lollopers. There were moments, there were possibilities, there was action.

Tait roamed and Tait crossed over and beyond for a goal kick. No, sir you gave up on life far too soon. Amond chased and chivvied on the bye-line, spun and magically overhooked the ball into the flight of the bumblebee. Monkhouse strolled and swayed a roll for Bogle to snuggle lowly.

Town flashed and dashed, with ticks and tock, flicks and tricks, spinning wheels going round and around. Monkhouse stooped to head and headed off as mercurial Marcus Marshall marched on.

Tait crossed, Omar donked wide. Toto's statutory mash-up led to bluebottles frying in the floodlights. Bogle bumbled, Sadlier slow coiled wide. That's their attack. Goodbye Reggie.

And then the dam burst.

Arnold fizzled, Bogle arose to glance. The ball arced agin the outside of the post. Amond, in a trice, prodded from beyond the fringe against the bar and Glennon's surprised arm heralded vindication for the masses.

Under the southern corners of the Frozen Horsemeat Stand a chuck was chortled across the face of the penalty area. Bogle boggled and toggled his woggle to wiggle and giggle as the blue sea parted and the ball departed into the net, inside the near post.

Townsend tickled his fancy through three feeble ankles. Marshall poked, Bogle dummied and Amond, on the penalty spot, coolly, slyly side-foot-steered into the top left corner.

There's nowhere to run, Shaymen, there's nowhere to hide.

Persistent mangling on soppy tea towels.

Second half: Artists versus artisans

I know what you're thinking, is that five goals or six? Given this is Grimsby Town and we have the most powerful strike force in the Bananarama, Halifax have to ask themselves one question: how fast does a swallow fly?

They made a change. That is of no consequence.

Their Big Bad Brown slide-stamped like a tipsy tango, scraping Clay's bones. A yellow card. Moments of almosty nearlyness. Omar fly-fishing on to Amond's toes; Omar this, Amond that, Marshall having a dancing party tonight.

Toto tippled; Amond arose to sumptuously, sensibly flick into a booming void. Omar licked his lips and slipped a snick and Clay swayed a swish into the bottom right corner. I know what you're thinking, is that five goals or six? Given this is Grimsby Town and we have the most powerful strike force in the Bananarama, Halifax have to ask themselves one question: how fast does a swallow fly?

Arnold swingled against the post holding the net up. Passing. Movement. Intensity. Marvellous.

Disley was replaced by Brown. Why not, eh?

Omar crumpled after a high-pitched delivery into his gentleman's particulars. He can't help about the shape he's in; he can't score, it ain't pretty and our patience is thin. Tomlinson replaced Bogle. Oh well.

The pendulum lost its momentum. Give it a push, someone.

Tait wellied artlessly. Big Bad Brown uselessly dissolved as Amond pounced on the bounce, swingled and clipped a cool snick past the groping Glennon. When we saw his face, there was never a doubt in my mind.

Wahey, them. A free kick clawed oddly by Jamie the Pink. He still needs some medicinal compound. That's all. Let's dance.

Nibbly-nobbly nothingness and Our Brown steer-volleyed straight down the middle as the blue seas parted again. Amond ambled, waited for Glennon and gently lobbed over the desiccated biscuit.

One more for the road? Tait swayed, Glennon saved and Tait swaggled against the post. We don't want to be greedy.

Twenty minutes of added time, of which only two were played. Pfft, we're being short changed.

Bogle and Amond back together. And look what happened.