Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
22 November 2017
Grimsby Town 3 Swindon Town 2
Hey Town, what you doing down there?
A nigglingy narky night of swirling drizzle with 200 Rockin' Robins twiddly-diddlying down in the depths of the Osmond. No goals, no fans, no fun, no sun, no you, no wonder it's dark. Town, just no fun to hang around, are we going to be freaked out for another day?
Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Mills, Clarke, Collins, Davies, Dembele, Rose, Summerfield, DJ Jinky, Matt and Jones. The substitutes were Killip, Dixon, J Osborne, K Osborne, Berrett, Hooper and Vernon. Berrett was a sub, then he wasn't a sub; heaven knows we're miserable now as Kelly appeared on the bench, as if by tragic. Oh woe, woe and thrice woe.
Swindon turned up in lime and limpid green checked shirts. Urgh, how aesthetically displeasing. Floating down the sound resounds around the icily empty stands all around. Silence, despair, silent despair, despairing silence. Oh shut up and get on with it.
First half: The wrong end of the flick
The Green Machine kicked off towards the Pontoon with a hoik. Badda-bing, badda-boom. DJ jinked, Mills milled some pepper and Dembele deflected a deep cross from afar. The grey goose in goal spread his wings and flew to spectacularly parry aside.
Ooh, hello, they can run quickly.
Ping-pong, Town not knocking long. Movement, passing, winging and crossing. Dropping balls dropping off monochrome thighs. Charles-Cook flinging left, falling right, suavely springing to slap aside.
Say hello, wave goodbye. Dembele scooped the ball back in the shadow of the Police Box, Jones whooped through hoops, Matt swooped and swept a pass around the grey goose into the bottom left corner.
Ooh, I know what this is, I remember we used to have these in the old days. It’s a goal Mrs Walker, it's a goal. A goal. A goal. A goaaaaal.
Ooh, cheeky. A free kick and Summerfield slipped a wink. Dembele jinked a jink and Collins volleyed straight down the middle. The grey goose was loose aboot this hoos to flick aside annoyingly.
Town. Attacks. Attacking during attacks.
What have them jellied green giants done? Absolutely nothing, say it again.
Ah, something wicked this way comes.
A chumbling chip under the Frozen Horsebeer Stand. Rose arose to softly nod back into a vastly vast void, Summerfield raced across and wellied against green shins. The ball flumbled up and into the centre. Anderson ambled along, sized up the curtains and wibbled a worldly wobbler into the top right corner. The Pontoon sighed and simply applauded the strike. The graceless goons in green threw shapes and poses. The Pontoon dislikes posers.
Sigh on, sigh on, with sighs in your heart. Biffling and baffling near the dug outs, Slade waving, Summerfield barging. A free kick dropped deeply into the Town penalty area. Matt rose and glanced straight down and straight back to Jamie Mack as Robins roamed. The salmon stopper awaited on his line, crouched forward and oh dear, oh dear, oh dear Mr McKeown. Through his gloves, through his legs and through the looking glass.
They score, we droop.
Corners, schmorners. Dembele fell and swiped, widely and highly. Matt boom-bang-a-banged straight down the middle, Charles-Cook cocked a snook with another reaction slap and two minutes were added.
Are we bothered about their free kicks? Nah, they sat back on their ego, a right bunch of swankers.
Matt plunged on the edge of the penalty area, Summerfield thwacked and the grey goose flipped away from under the bar.
Town: zesty and frothy, but unhinged by misfortunate, happenstance and a miserable mistake.
Second half: We are family
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Dribbling and drabbling, a Town corner and off they broke. One-two–three, up their right over to their left and Goddard burstled into the penalty area to receive a cushioned ping. Summerfield helter-skeltered back to mess with the man's mind. Goddard stumbled and slippered wide, claiming foul deeds were afoot as his foot slipped.
Huffing, puffing and no houses blowing down. Matt's shirt danced alone at a throw-in, DJ jinked and swiped a yard wide of being 18 yards wide. Err, some stuff here and there going nowhere; maybe Jones shot widely high, or was that in the first half. Or both. Mere droplets of dishwater in the pond of ploppiness. Time passing, Town passing, Town passing the time, the wind beneath our wingers dying, dying, dying.
Summerfield swept leftward and DJ started to jink, twisting, turning, burning his full-back into the rump of an old cow. DJ jitterbugged to the bye-line, looked up and saw salvation. He passed behind the huge green hedge to the unmarked Dembele, way out beyond the far post. Dembele took a touch and carefully, calmly, caressed the ball into the open net around the flying grass stains.
Oh Ambassadors of Angst, you spoil us. Town goals are like Swindon buses.
Awoken from the arrogant slumbers, the Green Goddesses revved up. A free kick fizzed and Collins flew across Jamie Mack to glancy-graze away from a yard or so out. Anderson glided gracefully, twirled his baton and curled widely off a slither of stripe. The corner boomed, a big lad loomed, McKeown brilliantly bashed away from under the bar and Collins dredged the Humber to clear the path to righteousness. And lo, Danny Collins showed the way.
Summerfield swished a sexy little swing around and through. Jones stretched and poked at the far post, slicing milli-inches wide of the keeper's right post. Jones swizzled and spun a swiper a foot wide of the keeper's right post. It’s like watching a football match between two teams of professionals.
Jamey Osborne replaced DJ with some time left. Who knows how long, in all this excitement I kinda lost track of time. The crowd roaring as Town were pouring towards the Pontoon. Dembele ch-ch-cha-ed, Rose piffled a prod and a greenster dissembled for a corner. Summerfield flat-batted beyond the far post and Collins retrieved by the corner flag, poking back to Osborne. Shuffle a scuttle and a sweet pickle of a pass pinged into Jones, a dozen yards out at the near post. Jones the Steam swung his pants, swung around to the bye-line and crinkled lowly through the loudly old doughs. Charles-Cook flew low and pushed the shot along the goal-line, where Rose awaited to tap into the empty net.
The beast was stirred. A wave of green flowed towards McKeown. Mis-kicks, misprints and missiles a-go-go. A corner from their right, heads arose. The ball arced highly towards the top left corner. Salmon Davies popped up to plop the ball up against the bar, down against his shoulders and McKeown stepped forward to collect this lovely bonny bouncing ball of loveliness.
Three minutes were added. Vernon replaced Jones. Let the party begin. We have lift-off.
Darn fine stuff, darn good game against dangerously lithe and lively opponents. Why didn't we try this before?