Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

19 October 2025

Ah, Good Morning, kidlets. I'm going to tell you a story in song about what happened to Gareth's Gilly-Gilly football team when they played by the North Sea.

There's an amply-sized ground, by a quite large river, where a lovely team had a lovely dream and if we carry on like this we'll make you scream. Whaddyawannaknow? The weather. How quaintly British. A grey day, a blue team and a yellow ref. Perhaps you could liven things up by sitting on a colourful cushion?

Town lined up in the now standard issue 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Amaluzor, Green, Walker, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Warren, Khouri, Svanthorsson, Oduor, Soonsup-Bell and Rose. As the Gillymen had turned up with a couple of chunks of cheese Lavelle appeared, as if by magic, to ask them to step this way. Amaluzor. Amaluzor. Beneath this mask many were wearing a frown.

Gillingham. A bunch of big blokes. A bunch of old small blokes. Blokes. And Andy Smith. Didn't he do well for us all those years ago. It's nice to see you, to see you nice, let's hope you don't have a good game.

Shall we just get on with it?

1st half – I wanna tell you a story
Gillingham kicked off towards the Pontoon. It only takes a minute to give them half a chance. Slip-slop, slap-dash, Slim Charles making a hash and Andrews, alone, successfully avoided scoring by arising and noodling overly beyond the farthest post available.

Us. Corner. Vernam curler, and here he comes, with his chest all bare, a little gold ingot and a lot of grey hair. I speak of the pompatus of gloves. It's Morris, the oldest keeper in town, plucking and punting straight down the middle. Sweeney scampered to block the incredible hulk that is the bulk they call Palmer-Houlden. The ball skidded on and Pym declined to saunter out and fly kick. On the ball bounded and the Kentish rabbit was caught in the floodlights. The mighty Pym stood still, stood tall and stood for no more of this nonsense as the shot bounced off his personality and squoofled wide and high.

Kabia. They say he did something. They do. You're way off, I say, I say you're way off this time, son. You could hear a caterpillar sneakin' across a moss bed in tennis shoes.

Moments, things, something almost happening here. A Rodgers cross and Vernam headed down into the gloop. Vernam released behind their hounds and his cross-pass bumbled off various bottoms. Many scrambles. No eggs.

Gillingham. What is the secret of their success? Hey, it's Remeao, who nearly gave us a heart attack with his huge hurls. Ah, but the data tells Dave that every one of his chuck-ins has the same trajectory, the same length, the same speed, like a military medium county seamer rolling, rolling in from the Pavillion End, over after over, year after year. Predictable and playable. Green played a straight bat, with an occasional pull for four over midwicket.

Vernam shot, you say: saved. Vernam shot, you say: way over. Walker too. Or was that later?

The bump and grind ground on with home teeth grinding as Kabia was booked for a nudge of no consequence, nowhere of relevance. And was Crystal Gale booked for a sly slap across Gorgeous George's chops that made his blue eyes brown? Was it (a) yes or (b) no? Call 212-555 HAIR 'cos Morris's wigs don't come off, even under water!

What an unconscionable ball breaker this ref is. He's giving Town nuffink, nuffink, I tell yer.

Green walloped a shortened blue corner flop way, way upfield, deep, deep into the Gillingham half. The ball bounced as Kabia wiggled and wriggled past Hutton and they both stumbled. They both got up and both a-tumbled. Up went a red card and off went their one dimension, Hutton the hurler, and down came the red mist for the rest of the bluesmen. Darn it, they were now in a fix, they'd tried everything, but they'd run out of tricks. Or rather, trick, singular.

As the tripped-up trippers were distracted by a gaggle of Grimsbyites afar, McEachran feigned but Vernam snickled the free kick down the cycle path. Walker got on his e-bike and squinkled at Morris's nose.

What are going to do now, big boys?

Let's go camping down by the seaside. Please don't dig for worms.

In Gilly socks, Gilly shoes, in Gilly shirts the Gilly news was there is no news, they just let the Town cymbals crash as they did bash against their temporary sea wall.

It's Cheltenham redux with opponents reduced and Town in a familiar cycle of recycling. Go left, go right, go right, go left, go west; life is peaceful there, so much space, so much open air, where the skies are blue, this is what we usually do.

Together they work and strive and, if we're lucky, perhaps score five?

Push me, pull me, in and out, round and round we go again. Let's twist again.

Three minutes were added. In those three minutes three minutes worth of time occurred, being equivalent to three minutes. Time enough for nothing of note to happen, frequently.

We're constantly on the brink of something almost happening here. What it is exactly just ain't clear. But what is clear is that, with this ref, nothing's right if everything's wrong.

2nd half – Emotional rescue
No changes were made by either team at half time.

Snap, crackle and Rodgers popped a cross deeply. Vernam leapt like a sustainably reared fish-farmed salmon to loopily nod back and over the old man in sea green. Morris flipped onto the post and Kabia barundled in from at least 100mm out. With champagne corks a-popping the world weariest of Pontoonites remained seated, espying a fluttering flag for a mysterious offside. Ah well, at least VAR will clear that up.

On the cycle cycled with Town staked out 30 yards from goal, tapping left, tapping right, infiltrating, circling back on the themselves, watching, waiting, standing, dawdling, repeat, repeat, JUST WHACK IT! Get off that showboat to china.

A cross, a block, a block, a cross, a Walker shot deflected back off his little Celtic shins and squiffled and crawled an inch over the angle of post and bar. In and out and in out and out, and out and out, and in and out and in, and I've forgotten whether we are in or out. Where are we now?

Green was madly booked for being tackled, Rodgers was booked simply for doing a tackle as the blue Sumoballerz carried on barging and baulking at will. Apart from sending off Hutton, what has this ref done for us?

Ten, 20, 30, 40, 50 or more passes and in the nick of time, a hero arose, a funny-looking dog with a black and white nose. McJannet urged, Sweeney surged and tinkled between two towers. Kabia rolled around the back and spotted the opportunity to roll into the backtracking Gale. Never a man to pass up the chance to sniff the grass, down Ja-Zee fell and the yellowman took a micro-second to weigh up the pros and cons of hitchhiking home, sure someone knew where his car was parked.

Much mithering and muttering from the maids and men of Kent. Ah, you want to go home, you want to go ho-ome, but sir, I have been to your Medway muddletown. Gillingham's like Immingham, or possibly South Killinghum. Now wriggletto out of that one, our Kentish cousins.

But who's turn is it to miss this week? Ah, it's The Wolds Panther, pawing the ground, growling in the undergrowth, cracking right as Morris flew left and cupping his ear to the complaining Coleman. Yes, Vernam, yes, you are our knight in shining armour, you are our sunshine, you make us happy when skies are grey.
It starts when you're always afraid. Paranoia strikes deep, for step out of line and the man comes and takes you away. With New Spiderlegs in full flight, Williams the Wally legged up Amaluzor, then intercepted Rodgers as he crept beyond. Two minutes, two yellows from the man in yellow and the Gillymen started to cry.

A double blue subbing and double blue bookings. They've gone totally insane, their methods unsound. Carry on Gillymen, do lose your heads.

Rolling news, rolling waves of Town, well, I could call them attacks, but perhaps we could categorise this as a technical exercise in modern interpretive dance. Town circulated, occasionally entering the penalty area but retreating whenever a blue shirt neared.

Green headed way wide, Walker urghed once, urged twice. Amaluzor's back heel dribbled. McEachran skittled wide, McJannet scuffled wider. Morris made a save. From a shot. From a Town player. During this match. I didn't really believe it but, after some regression therapy from a locally renowned quack, this memory has been retrieved. I have the AI generated video to prove it. Oddly, this shot was by Stuart Campbell, having been set up by Gary Liddell.

With ten minutes left Vernam and Walker were replaced by…Vance Warner and Malcolm Muggeridge. Oh, hang on, that can't be right can it. Perhaps it was Khouri and Soonsup-Bell.

Soonsup-Bell, does it ring a bell? An echo of the Brighton Belle, he's currently a lighter weighted Luca who we fear for in a strong sou'westerly. We dread to think that when the wind blows that he'll fly off to the fjords like Mary Poppins. Just remember, Jude, that polar bears aren't cuddly, they are even more aggressive than a fourth division full-back on a yellow card. Grrr!

Tickles, tackles, Town shackling themselves. The bellows wheezed, the Gillinghammers finally pulled apart as flaps were flipped, and flips were flapped. The ball boomed up and down, with Green awaiting a dozen yards out. The choices were endless, the time infinite. The ball power-washed into the deeper extremes of the Pontoon.
Just a minute, I don't want to sound complaining but please, please Kieran Green, just shoot or just pass, just don't think. Moments lost in the haze of time and space as Green Energy powered up but a cloud of doubt drifted across the sun to end the fun.

Seven minutes were added.

And the door was slightly open and the wind appeared, a small Kentish candle blew and then disappeared. Pumping balls, balls being pumped, pump up the volume of balls into the Town box. Well it happened one night. Heads and tails, heads and fails. There's no need to fear the reaper.

Ah, finally the blue curtains flew open and then he appeared, alone in the middle of the penalty area. The ball pulled back from the bye line and Rose did look backward and said goodbye to the ball as it flew into the glamorous gardens of Grimsby beyond, landing somewhere in the West Marsh.

And finally, with seconds remaining a blue man tumbled under the Ramstand. Morris pumped deeply, a blue head arose and the ball plopped nicely into the arms of Pym.

Ladies and gentlemen, the end of this affair. Town bravely held on against the odds, well, nine men and a poodle. Too much poncing about, not enough oomphing.