Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Saturday 27 April 2019

Division 4

Notts County 2 Mackail-Smith (48), Clifton (og 67)

Grimsby Town 1 Whitmore (90+6)

Attendance: 8519 (1209 away fans)

Man, he was everywhere, spreading a little happiness to divert us from the dross.

There's an archaeologist’s dig going on, right now, seeking evidence of their existence.

The systems analyst from sector 7 passed the lawnmower's questions through his analogue conversion software to muse about faulty work units:

"On two occasions, for both goals, people didn't do their jobs correctly. That gives us more information about where we are at."

But Max Wright will definitely start next week, so everything will be alright in the end.

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Having dealt with their Yuletide head rearing soft underbelly Mr Cliché was enagnomic about their woes:

"We prepared really well and we had dealt with the elephant in the room so we could get the boys ready what was going to come."

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It just shows you where not running around a lot gets you. Back where you started.

A complacently rancid mix of shameful shuffling and slap-stick scuffling in a fluidly incoherent shape-shifting structure. It was like watching unset jelly melt through a cheap colander.

The centre-backs were a mess, the full-backs largely absent; Vernam and Woolford are figments of someone's fetid imagination. Rose isn't ready to start games. Max Wright is. Hall-Johnson was Town's best and, for a long period, only defender and, as usual, he was hoiked off when the going got tough.

Town looked by far the worse of two average Bananarama-bound teams. Town were exactly what County's doctor ordered for a miracle cure.

It just shows where running around a lot gets you. Back where you started.

Mackail-Smith and Mad Mitch were prominently persistent, that's as good as it gets.

Enjoy your pyrrhic victory, we may meet with you again soon. Good luck, for we never meant to cause you sorrow or pain. 

Too busy watching Scunny lose on their phones to bother too much about the rotten tomatoes.

Mr A Haines

The pocket-sized peeper booked the wrong players for the wrong reasons and couldn't tell a Fosbury flop from a foul. On the plus side, he was determined to satisfy the homesters' desperate penalty pleas for desperate diving. On balance, he was perfectly adequate: 6.881.

In the middle of ending something we knew was over: not much, too little, too late.

In a word: vacuous