Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

20 December 2020

Grimsby Town 1 Scunthorpe United 0

What, they're cancelling most of Christmas? How about cancelling this season, right here, right now. That's all we want for Christmas: the safety dance, not the four-tier tango.

Town warmed up with a circular firing squad hokey-cokey, a metaphor for the poor season.

Oh dear what can we do, Hewitt's at centre-back and McKeown's in blue. Blimey, Mr Jamie Mack is back to thwart their attack after all that flack for being so slack.

Through our fish-eyed lens and tear-stained eyes, we can barely define the shape of this moment in time. Oh, hang on, it's 4-4-2!

Let's keep us shape and keep it tight.

First half – Back to basics

The men from the Blandford forum kicked off towards the Pontoon and straight out of play, heading on the highway to Hull.

A corner not given to Town, a cross and McAtee headed soft and gentle into the arms of the waiting McKeown. It's so good to have you back home again.

And having fun with all his friends. McKeown wobble-catching a long chuck, and fly-hacking from the void. Minor moments with minor characters, a symphony of sludge in a minor key.

Spokes retrieved, rocked and rolled on the right. Morais's cross deflected uply and Howard flip-flapped away from the angle of post and bar. It's time for change, Superman. Bennett crinkled the corner to the near post. Hendrie frolicked and flicked, Howard pattercaked and Pollock scraped through the falling leaves for an unexpected journey into the land of hope and belief.

Maroon marauding, of sorts, as Eisa began to be a Town teaser. Clifton wasn't booked for recurring hooks and the free-free kick swung through unmolested to the farthest post. Onariase ducked and deflected satisfyingly widely.

Clifton interception, Loft lofted loftily into the lowlands, hitting innocent citizens walking the highways and byways. Oh these Ironists with their shy ways.

Action Jackson sniffed away from Onariase on the edge of the area and plunged under maroon trippage. Nothing given. Oh these Ironists with their sly ways.

Plucky persistence and Hendrie stepped into some up and undering, triangles of nearlyness after bumbles and stumbles as Gilliard chipped and Eisa headed fishily high and wide.

That's not a foul throw, that's a no-ball. This sure ain't elite sport.

These are desperate hours and we're desperate for something, anything to happen. Pollock headed a second Bennett corner way high, way wide.

Oh, here it is, suckers always get punched. Hibbling in a hubble, the bubble about to burst. Ricobounds and rebochets and a ball over the top. McAteer bounding away alone, sinking in the quicksand and passing behind Tom, Dick and Harry, his three chortling chums.

I have the solemn duty to report that one minute was added. Movement continued, but humanity did not advance.

Dour, dire and delightful in its own way.

Second half – Low winter sun

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream. Come take a trip through that door into the second half, a world between worlds, where there is nothingness and being, and being nothing is everything there is.

Be warned, the man who comes back through the door in the wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out.

Neither team made any changes at half time, though the Plucky Ones replaced McAtee with Jarvis.

Pollock down. And back up again. Pollock down again, Pollock up again. You're never gonna keep him down.

Shall we sing some songs that remind us of the good times?

Gerrinto'em, gerrinto'em, gerrinto'em, gerrinto'em. In this bungle, this mighty jungle the lying sleep tonight.

Football? You jest, this is a Rorschach test. What do you see in these images?

I really must get round to marvellous Mr McIveen's magical trip down Mariners memory lane. 'Twas the season of Mike Brolly after all. Tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

Follow me in merry measure while I tell of yuletide treasure. Bennett's corner lacked elevation, so no elation. Ah, fool's gold as we watch him sinking.

Boys running round in a field, live and exclusive on MarinersWorld. Why do we always end up chasing the Haxey Hood when we two meet?

Turn and face the strange, there's gonna have to be a different man up front. It's time for some dull Matt Green. Off came Mr Offside, who wasn't even offside much, such was his minor contribution to road safety in North Lincolnshire during the restive festive period. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a different kind of non-League striker, that'll confuse the little lads from the land of rusty pluck. There'll be no more rabble dousing from Kyle Bennett either as The Hollow One realised he'd got to get Edwards into this life.

And half way through the half an event barely worthy of a brain cell, but we beggars cannot choose from a full vegetable counter. A free kick parallel with Holloway's toes and in a parallel universe the Plucky Ones were paying attention. Hewitt passed straight down the touchline to the unmarked Morais, and the world was at his feet, if not in motion. C'mon, beat the man, take him on, all you got to do Filipe is move your feet and kinda shake your body to the driving beat. A cross and two Townites tackled each other.

And now the music's over, so turn off the light.

In the shadow of the Frozen HorseBeer Stand, Edwards jinkled and winkled around Clarke, who simply stood his ground, turned around and leant shoulder first into the face of the future. A booking for Clarke and for the incandescent laughing gnome.

Jackson in action, dispossessing Onariase and slaloming in a straight line to slice not even into the side netting. This, my fine feathered friends, was the acme of adequacy in this alternative reality. We never ever had it so good again.

The Bunnymen? An echo of their sins of the past, Mr Baraclough as Lofty Loft fell over his own publicity, seeking salvation in fraudulent falling. We have no truck with fraudsters round here, at this end of the week anyway.

More change for changes sake as Beestin floated off like a butterfly, Jackson became a Tilley twirl and Starbuck replaced Morais.

Facts are many but the truth is one! A Spokes scoop was headed away by the cut out of Moira, or perhaps Big John. Anyway, anyhow, it didn't go anywhere that pleased.

Trust your instincts, do the unexpected, find the others. An Eisa free kick sailed on the solar winds for a throw-in far, far away. Scunnies broken hearted. Ah, Eisa, always moving but going nowhere. So what becomes of the broken hearted? All that's left is an unhappy ending.

Five minutes were not added, as Eisa repeated his sin and the peeping yellow peril gave up on this ghost of a game a full 13 seconds early.