Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
4 November 2020
Grimsby Town 1 Barrow 0
Have you heard? They have Sam Hird and they galloped into Neville Street with a blue badge upon their chest. They call them Barrow and they drive the fastest milkcart in the west. We haven't seen the likes of them since 1971.
Ah Barrow have Barry Blue at wing-back, no chance of him dancin' on a Saturday night now. Bring on the chanting monks. O-o-o-oh lockdown!
One of these days we're gonna cut someone into little pieces.
First Half – Bodies, rest and motion
The Barrowboys kicked off towards the Pontoon with a zing boom tararrel. Gordon Bennett! A mugging, some chugging and over the top for an Aberdeen Angus to moo-va-voom. A slap and a McKeown tickle away from the topperish corner.
Please, don't spoil our day, I'm miles away, and after all Town were only sleeping.
Blue plunges at non-existent lunges. Jones in-swung an out-swinger beyond the far post as bodies bundled and Pollock trundled awayly.
Gibson. Offside. Is that a lost hamlet near Louth?
Gibson. Not offside! Breaking, snaking and shaking all over to sniggle lowly, slowly wide.
A big whither to Harrison Biggins withered away as Barrow receded. Wasn't he once betrothed to Jane Austen?
Triangulations across the nation as Taylor crossed, with Wright alone at night to graze across the roof of the net. Gordon Bennett wiggled his bandana, Gibson noodled safely over the bar.
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single Town striker alone in front of goal shall head over the bar.
The Barrowboys wheeling away, peeling away and were congealing away. Can you congeal the verb to barrow?
Ah, Mr Gibson, offside I presume? Maybe Montel has been tempted with treacle tarts and tasty wholemeal bread, that'd turn anyone’s head.
Oi, stop watching Bake Off!
More blue free-kicking and Jamie Mack stooped to volleyball away.
Moments of Towness, the hint of a glimpse of connectivity. One day we'll get connected to the National Grid and not just rely on the old windmill. Pollock arose at a free kick and nodded into a lovely, lovely void in the lovely, lovely centre of the Barrow box. Hendrie stretched and poked into the emptiness beyond.
Wright wastefully wallied into the Osmond with Waterfall karoakeing in tribute mere minutes later.
Mildly entertaining wallpaper. It has been a lot worse.
Second Half – Three seconds behind John Tondeur
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Whoops. Bluebird swoops and swirls ended with a curl. Town pressed and the Old Cumbrian Ziggers messed and missed and double-subbed. Off went Harrison Birtwistle. Don't panic, this was still an endless parade of Gibson offsides.
Gerrimoff! Williams awaited on the touchline.
Windsor wriggled and wafted wide, Wright waggled on the right and passed across the face of goal and Gibson slid and scruffed in through the keeper at the far post.
You hum it, I'll play it. C'mon, after four. One, two three four: roll on the Barrow, we'll have a barrel of fun, we've got the blues on the run.
The concept of fun is so subjective. Let's say Town had them satisfyingly neutered.
Williams replaced not quite Maximum Wright near the hour.
One of their Taylors scruffed from afar, wiffling past the near post after Barrow brushed away some balsawood. They hustled, Town bustled. Atoms collided randomly, no new elements were created.
With 20 minutes left Moreton replaced the nicely ticking Taylor, adding slower muscles to the midfield muddle.
Town were caught between the devilish Reid and the deep blue sea. Hendrie did the Lambeth Walk to cut out a Brown cross shot. Platt roamed from the deep, deep blue yonder. A poke to their left and Reid swished lowly across Jamie Mack, agin the inside of the far post and back into the arms of the keeper some love.
We should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. Ah-ha, we were.
And finally, at last, as Town shrank Preston replaced the ghost of Gordon Bennett, releasing Clifton from prison to roam freely across the savannah.
Wahay, here they come again. A rumble-tumble run and pull back to Reid on the penalty spot was knock-kneed by Pollock spinningly around the right post as McKeown staggered behind.
Falling and blue bawling, crosses making them cross and a deflected looper pooper-scooping across and over and wide as McKeown scuttled.
Five minutes were added, six were played. Town breaks dissolved in a multiplicity of feebleness, and finally a Clifton volley-chip crawled into Dixon's midriff after Williams' subtle sweep.
Well there we are: some shots, some blocks and a home win. That'll do for a start.