Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

25 October 2020

Grimsby Town 1 Carlisle United 1

Autumn winds blowin' outside the window as I look around the room, don't be too depressed by the gloom for the weekend warriors will make our hearts go boom. Or has Fat Larry been banned from iFollow for illegal sharing?

Beech's boys turned up in a honkingly gaudy strip with a Farman and a Furman, a Riley and a Reilly. All that rhymin' could confuse a stupid person. Remember, any fool can make a rhyme, cowboys do it all the time.

There's not a soul out there, no one to hear our prayers. It's windy down desolation row.

First half – Gimme shelter

Town kicked off towards the Osmond with a Garryowen towards the raggle-taggle rat pack of flimsy forwards congregating by the Main Stand. A hump back and a wail as Pollock retro-headed backwards and, ooh, a storm is threatening. Gimme Toure slipped through and slipped over. Oh yeah, he faded away.

Booming and zooming in the glooming. We'll take the low road, they'll take the high road and neither team will get to Spotland playing like this. Oh to dream of Rochdale, will we ever get to touch the stars again?

Ah, the hint of a glint of a better future for all our children. Williams tickleballed, Windsor wriggled and Cumbrians giggled as the pest with zest was gently man-hauled as he poked. The ball rolled around near the line with no stripes near, and off they walked, sucking on a mint.

Wheeling, soaring, gliding high, this Cumbrian band big-balling bigly to their big boys. McKeown mis-slapped and stripers slurried in a hurry. A cross dipped deeply and Gimme Gimme Gimme Toure arose beyond the far post to head further beyond the far post. Won't someone help Hendrie chase the shadows away?

Ooh, that's nice. Windsor roaming, fluorescent fools frowning for a corner. Williams lowly coiled from the left, Windsor stooped and flicked on and Pollock hooked a walloping screamer beyond Farman. Ooga-chaka, ooga-ooga, we're hooked on a feeling for the Mighty Pollock.

An up and under and Clifton challenged the leaping ex-Lincolnite on the edge of the penalty area. No foul given and our Last Harry Standing, was prostrate after being poleaxed.

And the slow sinking began as stripes scuttled their buttles. Long lanky chucks and big grazes a-go-go. Toure turned and burned straight at McKeown, Williams strayed passes rather than sprayed passed, free kicks were coiled and finally Mellish bedraggled pifflingly.

And in between the emptiness there was a void. For what it's worth there was a dearth of mirth on this earth. Nothing was happening here, and what it wasn't was absolutely clear.

There's battle lines being drawn and nobody's right if everybody's wrong.

Second half - Give Jimmy some lovin'

Neither team made any changes at half time. For James McKeown it'd been a hard day and he'd had no work to do.

Hums are rarely drummer. They kicked straight out from the off. Hendrie fouled a throw back to Waterfall, who tapped on to the awaiting Jamie Mack. What to do, what to do, what to do with all this time? Write a novel? Build a gazebo? Heck, why not do something that will bring joy to the world and really create something that will make a mark in history. Paul Crichton's got nothing on this cat!

McKeown’s shorts fell down as, like a drunk stumbling through a cellar full of balloons searching for the light switch, he shanked a swipe to Pollock. The ball dribbled, damningly, in a bumbling strumble slowly, slowly past the near post, along the line and into the net.

Everyone in the ground silently turned red, everyone watching loudly turned purple.

Poor Jamie Mack. Misfortunes one can endure - they come from outside, they are accidents. But to suffer for one's own faults - ah! - there is the sting of life.

And there it is. Nope, nothing else happened.

Hanson on, Tilley off. A lightweight feather duster was replaced by a misfiring traction engine.

Hobbling Harry off, Starbuck on. Perpetual motion was replaced by Kyle Bennett without the bandana.

Green on, Williams off. A small paper bag was replaced by a large dustbin liner.

Moments of occasional almostness here and there from either yet neither side. Huge hurls, big curls, big bucks and what a load of old muck spreading.

Carlisle never had a shot on target. Town? Windsor barundled along the bye-line and was duveted before shooting. Hansen fell and missed a keeper's flop after a scrumble of a mess of a punt.

To add to our misery five minutes were added. And then some more just for bad luck.

Both sides got more than they deserved from a seaside shocker. When are Holloway's Town going to bloom? People say: wait 'til they mature! Cowboys rhyme that with horse manure.