Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

25 November 2020

Crawley Town 1 Grimsby Town 2

Tuesday afternoon was never ending, but Tuesday night with the Creepy Crawleys? What the hell am I doing here?

What the hell is the Hess doing there? Yes, Hess, you find yourself in another part of the world and you may ask yourself "Well, how did I get here?"

Shall we press play and just get this over with?

First half – The Wright to roam

Ah, there we are, all that buffering's making me itch. Town kicked off. Of that there is no doubt.

When you're sad and feeling blue with nothing better to do, don't just sit around feeling stressed, take a trip on the Gatwick Express. To Crawley.

An egg boiled. Rose was turned like a turnip, Idehen flapped his feet and Watters whacked directly into the top right corner without passing go. Four minutes and we had no warning.

The zombies were having fun, their party had just begun.

Hit and hopeless. Up and down, flying around. Wright snipped the barbed wire and Green stooped overly. It's alive! A little energy and a hint of a suggestion of life in the cadaver.

Ah, little Max, our little secret; you'd have thought the Hess would have warned their full-back about our electric eel. There he is wrapped in a ball, doesn't seem to move at all as Wright swished and swayed to droop farly. Morris missed and Green, a yard or so standing next to the post, carefully guided his header against the confused flapper.

Whatever happened to McKeown's Transylvannia twist? Seems he was troubled by just one thing, when he opened his eyelids and shook his fist and twicely missed at passing corners. And Red nicely missed the passing ball.

Now, would we rather have the ghost of Simon Ford or the memories of Paul Dixon? The Creepeys espied dilly-dally-dithering as Idehen watched a ball bounce and Watter pounced and flounced. An up was undered and Duncan ducked again as a red mist descended to bash with a monster mash. Jamie Macc caught it in a flash.

Ooh, ahh. No, sit down. A sloopy dink into the emptiness and, alas, the keeper swept as Scannell slept. Still, he was nearby. Still, Watters stopped running from deep. That's nice.

Hewitt rummaged vaguely inside a handbag. No police involved. Spaces, faces. Traces of football. Woah, someone hit the fast forward button. I like it.

Maximum Wright, maximum contact. Town's tyro was targeted for termination as a suitable case for treatment. Rose dinked the free kick one step beyond the far post. Waterfall arose and be-donked back across to the remarkably unmarked Green, who slowly gathered his sense and bedraggled slowly, lowly into the bottom right corner past grasping fingers.

Err. What is this thing you call a "goal"? What are we supposed to do now?

I'll get the ice cream.

A smattering of batterings as cars go by, the twinkling lights of beautiful downtown Crawley flickering in the distance. A minute was added and Jamie Macc flew low and left to bash Powell's blast aside after Town prematurely retreated from Moscow.

Well, who'd have thought it, eh. I'll put the kettle on.

Second half – A bag of mixed nuts and some cheesy wotsits

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Pace! Triangles! Pacy triangles!

Town zipped, Town zapped and Crawley snapped. Preston dinked down the line, Edwards jingled, jangled and Wright flew on his trapeze to the near post and lofty volley-steered highly above the clouds of doubt that was Morris, a minor character in our new youth dramedy.

Homester potatoes shrivelled in the winter heat. Edwards spun around the mulberry bush and swiggled a swank for Green to chase. Morris slithered to swish from Big Green Toes.

The Crawlers crept, and many leapt as crosses kept zooming in. Preston ducked and Rose plucked a hairy chicken. Idehen stretched and missed, Watters flew through their left unmolested and crinkled against advancing Maccaness. The ball skittled across the face of goal and Hendrie was simply slip sliding away the moment of danger

I'm as interested in you in their substitution on the hour. They changed but nothing changed, they barely buttered the parsnips let alone battered any fish.

Let's talk some more about the Max factor. The boy was a thorn in their side, a perpetual motion machine playing at axiom velocity, maximum overdrive. Nicking from a dozing bull, bulldozing through some red bricks, Wright zipped a wily waft and Morris flicked away from his left post.

A free kick from nowhere in particular dropped off stripes and Watters bedraggled wonderfully wide from way to the left of the plunging Macca.

Surely he's not poorly in Crawley. McKeown wandered after the ball and bent double over the barriers. Well, I've never been to Nice or the isles of Greece or sipped champagne on a yacht, but I have been to Crawley and it made me feel ill too.

As the referee watched Dave Moore at night seated on the ground, Clifton replaced the limping Idehen. And so it came to pass that Hewitt retreated to centre-back, leaving Harry the Mop to sweep away the dusty droppings and rustling crisp packets of old Crawley Town.

Wahey! A hoik and slash and Morris was lobbed by his defence, scrambling backwards for Christmas. Wahey! Scannell spotted the Morris Man jigging away merrily way out of goal, and Eagled from the half way line. Alas, the ball plopped inchlets over the bar.

And finally some man-o-man action as Hewitt and Watters exchanged glances on the right. Handbaggery!

As time ticked on and on the filmsy Gomis replaced Edwards and they made a change or two. Big-balling, ball-bigging twisty turny red crossings. Arising above Preston their tallest poppy noddled down and beyond McKeown. Stay frosty. The trusty old sheepdog retreated, stooped and steered the stray sheep back into its pen. Or if you prefer your oil in Imperial measurements, Waterfall headed it off the line.

OK, we know that the fickle finger of fate will be pointing soon. There's a kicker coming, isn't there. Ah yep, we knew it, here it is. A flick on with Reds mustering on Town's right. Ashford bazoomed beautifully over the bar when there were more friends than foes around. That's what I call friendly fire.

As five minutes were added Green and Scannell were replaced by Starbuck and Adlard, bringing Town's average age to 18¾, but increasing the average speed by at least 5 miles per hour.

Fiddling, faddling, Crawley paddling in pools of sorrow and here's the tears of joy. Well, almost. Gomis shimmied down the left but passed behind the central Wright, who spun and curled wellish wide of the left post.

And that was the last of it in the six minutes added.

'Tis true that Crawley were generous hosts, but this Town had just enough gumption to eat all their nibbles before the last bus home. Waterfall and Rose, particularly, did their old man jobs perfectly. Offensively Wright and Edwards were persistent pests. The rest did enough to get in the way and did their best. It is the minimum we expect, but it's more than we've been getting.

There was a plan, there was a structure, there was above all some intensity and stoicism. Let's hope it isn't simply the dawn of another dead cat bounce.