Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
28 October 2020
Forest Green Rovers 1 Grimsby Town 0
Oh how we miss a night out in Nailsworth with a greasy veggie butty.
The things they did last week were awful cold, so tonight we're talking about re-g-g-g-g-generation. Or are we going to f-f-f-fade away again?
How can we take the eccentric ecologists seriously with Whitehouse and Matt strutting and strumming their crazy folk-jazz in crazy joke-jazz shirts.
At least we don't have to walk up that hill.
First Half – Scream thy last scream
Town kicked off and the night went downhill from there. If only the ball had gone down that darn hill.
A back pass that wasn't, multi-ball pinball, leg-byes, no balls and a wide. Tap. Tap, Tap Taaap. Taaaaaaaaaaaap. Wake me up before you go-go.
A dink, a dunk and that old lunk Matt freely headed over. Hendrie betwixt and between, Cadden sneaked and snapped straight at McKeown. A big trippy-drippy cross shinned off Idehen for a corner.
Town tip, Town tap, Towny tippy-tappy, tappy-tippy; it's a long way to trap a tip. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, and occasional lifetimes passed as Town passed left, right, back, back, back, back around and back around and back around and round the back for McKeown to hack and back again and again and again.
And back again and again and again.
And again and again and again.
Hanson was manhauled mildly by local greengrocers and virtuous vegetables triangulated around the non-existent right-back. Tilley pondered when to pull up his potatoes, Kitching was in the garden, pulled back lowly and the unremarkably unmarked Young steered highly off McKeown's fingers.
Scrambled nonsense and Matt poked in from offside.
Two steps sideways, three steps back. It is, is seems, the only way forward.
A Windsor cross drifted over green boots and wide with Hanson sighing. Tilley waffled a wafty free-kick. That is more than all.
Three minutes were added, simply delaying my ice cream. I scream, you scream, scream thy last scream, our old club in a casket.
Second Half - Take up thy stethoscope and walk away
Neither team made any changes at half time.
So you thought you'd like to go to a show. Moments that may be the product of a fever dream. A Pollock cross missed Hanson and Tilley skedaddled straight to McGee. Is this not what you expected to see?
Three steps sideways, four steps back. Oh the hokey–cokey, oh the hokey-cokey. Oh the hokey-cokey. Knees bent, arms stretched Bailey; blasted against MckEown and then the moon after Winchester turned Idehen's insides out and his brown eyes blue.
Hanson and Idehen were replaced by Gomis and Gibson as Town moved to 4-3-3.
And nothing. A theoretical physicist in a galaxy far, far away munched a chocolate bar and posited that a Town strike force existed. Some theories hold water, Town sent on a couple of sieves.
And over the airwaves the delayed voice of David Smith spoke for England, audibly imploding at the sheer futility of a wet Tuesday night in Brigadoon. Enervated by the existential ennui, poor Dave died inside a thousand times live on air.
Ah, it's bin day tomorrow.
Dull Matt Green came on as Holloway opted to spice up his tired living room with some wooden furniture. Oi Olly the G-Plan went out of fashion in 1958.
Some long shots and muffed clots from the green zebras. Flyaway Gomis flibbbled, Taylor sat down rather than shooting and was booked for diving. And a humpety Hendrie hoik was beheaded at McGee by Waterfall.
That is what it was, it is what we are, and what the heck is the point in watching this turgid trash?