Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

18 October 2020

Leyton Orient 2 Grimsby Town 3

So what's your Saturday night TV tipple? Strictly Come Prancing or Craig Clay's bittersweet samba to Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass?

Hey, go with the flow of Herb and his trumpet toons every time. You know it makes sense.

OK, so let's play butterball.

First half – Lollipops and Danny Rose

Town kicked off towards the empty stand. A chip, a chase, a huggle and a struggle with something almost tangible. Windsor roaming, Preston honing in on Brophy. Things nearly happened, but didn't. Almost.

A ricobound ribocheted off Hendrie and Rose dawdled in the café by the lake in the middle of the park, watching the swans swanning around. Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat and Wilkinson was tickled free to swish lowly around McKeown. Five minutes and something almost didn't happen, but did.

You know, this pitch ain't big enough for the both of us and it ain't Town whose gonna leave with a packet of peanuts.

Toblerones and curly-wurlies, Town's teenagers were having a party. How sweet the pinging and swinging. Read the news: it's black and white and we're all over the reds. Yep, Town were parked in the Reds' Zone. Williams jinked, Preston jived, Green ducked and Vigouroux vexed with a leapy diversion. The corner drooped, Waterfall dunked and thwunked headily down as the Chilean bottlestopper blundered at his near post. Ooh, that's nice. Put the kettle on.

Town. Passing and moving. A team with youth and vigour. And a plan. We'll get a tan from watching the Leyton Orient pain. One man's civilisation is another man's jungle, yeah? Revolution's in the air, are they dancing in their underwear on BBC1 yet?

Cha-cha-cha.

Turley 'accidentally' slam-dunked Windsor into the concrete walls. Dave Moore stared, Windsor arose to water torture Turley with a constant drip of chivvying. Windsor robbed So-So-Sotiriou, brushed aside the feeble tackle of Green, bundled onwards and reversed the polarity on his neutron flow. Williams glided through the porridge and swept lowly around Vigouroux into the bottom left corner. Well, if this isn't time for a finger of fudge then when is?

They had the ball, Town stopped them, especially periscope Pollock and his telescopic limbs. Wilkinson was a pest, but striped zest was sufficient to blow out his candles.

Saturday night, I like the way Town move. Dee dee na na na.

Second half – A taste of honey

Morton replaced Rose at half time, removing a beard but adding two legs.

Home harrumphing and galumphing as Wilkinson turned Preston into a duvet and Johnson's near-post swipe swept of stripes. The corner was... well, it just was. What it was is an irrelevance, as was the next 10 minutes. Is it time for an ice cream sundae on Saturday? Chocolate sprinkling anyone?

Ch-ch-changes were made. Off went their most prominent pest and on came Maguire-Drew. Off went their most prominent custard pie and on came McAnuff. And Edwards replaced Green, who added some faster flim to the flam as Town's sleeping bag was slowly unzipping. Look out, look out there's a Humphrey about!

Ooh, a thing. Taylor coiled a free kick deeply, Pollock arose alone to guide a glide against the outside of the foot of the post. And on came Gibson for Williams.

Town's strings had pinged, Orient spinning plates and eating grapes. Happe hoiked crossfieldly, Preston dithered and Maguire-Drew began to play chase the lady. Where is the ball? Is it here? Is it there? Maguire-Drew chewed Preston, swinging out and back in again, to the bye-line with a polka past Pollock to caress a pass lowly around grey fingertips into the far, far corner.

25 minutes left. Town are gonna lose this. Town are gonna lose this.

Are we?

Another Taylor free kick dripped beyond humanity, beyond the far post. Pollock arose to loopy-head back and the ball kissed the crossbar in the backseat of the movies.

And still the home fires were burning as Town fans at home were gurning at every swish and mish-mashed hashtag - launch it!

Windsor wandered and wafted on a counter attack. Maguire-Drew reprised his showstopper signature dish and wafted wayly over.

Town are gonna lose this, Town are gonna lose this.

Are we?

A corner repulsed towards the half way line right by the managers' moanzone. Windsor battled and baffled with a bustle and hustle. On and on and on he ran into the penalty area, manhandled and pan-handled by calamity Clay. The referee pointed spotwards, Windsor pleaded, but Gibson heeded the call from the groanzone, smashering down the centre right as Vigouroux va-voomed towards Tilbury.

How long left? Not long left, but still we go on.

Winging and flinging, Preston panned, Johnson scanned the horizon and weakly tapped from the bye-line. Pollock slid and the invisible hand of the market intervened.

You know, if we were living in the 1970s life would be so much simpler. Greater wealth and health equality, free education, free dentistry, free eye tests and ball-to-hand is not a penalty. As Jimmy Hill said "just look at the eyes".

The eyes to the left have it. The motion is passed. Town are passing and motoring onwards and upwards.