Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
13 April 2011
Grimsby Growlers 1 Rocky Rushdeners 1
I was going to the worst game in the world and I didn't even know it yet.
Town lined up in the new future, the brave new world of dynamic hustle, bustle, toil and trouble 4-3-3 formation as follows: Croudson, Bore, Garner, Kempson, Wood, Hudson, Cummins, Oh Leary, Connell, Peacock, Coulson. The subs were Kenny Fingers, Atkinson, Thanoj, Eagle and Duffy. Town were Rob-less at the start. There were people in the ground.
First half: Suicide is painless
They made Town kicked towards the Pontoon. They had a load of long throws. Kempson headed them all away. We can see them now: they're rubbish. What were we scared of?
Garner headed a corner way over and there was nothing but barges and bundles. Hoof! Hoof! Hoof! Kempson fell over, Kempson was replaced by Atkinson. Blond Bob sniggled straight at slow low Evans, their dumpy keeper who couldn't kick. Blond Bob Atkinson scored from the corner with a wiggle and a waggle after a Cummins shot was parried by a defender.
They had long throws. Kempson wasn't there to head them away. They missed, missed and missed again, then they scored, Sharif shinning over Croudson from the edge of the area. All from huge chucks that Kempson wasn't there to head away. They should have scored loads, they didn't, even without Kempson there to head their tedious hurling away.
Town played the Shorty-Shouty way. There is nothing to report except street muggings and afternoons misspent in snooker halls. It was Bradley Wood's kind of game.
Second half: Visions of the things to be
Rushden ran out; their management snarked and sneered out, gesticulating at the dentists. The stewards kettled these yobs and threw them out. Back down the tunnel went the midland moaners, back up the tunnel ran everybody.
The entertainment was over: those nylon nits spoiled the party by playing what they claim was a football match.
Coulson whackled and Evans saved spectacularly, the rotter. Atkinson headed wide, twice. They had a header, once, that woke Croudson from his slumbers. They tried to break Wood's legs, he tried to break their heads. The Town fans had already had their resolve and their hearts broken. We are reaching the end point: miserable football with miserable management and miserable players in front of miserable fans.
We watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's our dream and our nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor and surviving.
No form, no passing, no fun, no wonder it's dark. We're turning non-League, we've turned non-League, I really think so.
And in the last minute Hudson forgot the Shouty-Shorty masterplan and started to pass. Three times he passed, on the ground; three times there were attacks with intent and interests. And then it ended.
Town had a good minute. Goodbye cruel world.