Cod Almighty | Diary

Set adrift on the memory bliss of De Ligt's miss

29 August 2025

Your A46 Diary sits happily on a cloud of easy elation, flicking from replays to YouTube clips, to Twitter feeds, to full re-runs on the TV and the radio, relaxing into footballing bliss in a way that’s very new and still comfortably familiar given the recent years of knock-out successes. In these delicious days after the event, I feel like a living room George McEachran sweeping up a loose ball, competence personified, the embodiment of ease, the image and the actuality of a middle-aged man on his hols, sunk so far into his sofa, he’s as soft as the cushion covers and as happy as a Town fan post-Man U bliss, memories and moments made vivid over and over again by multi-media magic.

Bathing in bliss, wallowing in wonder, glazing in giddy gravy, I'm in a seventh heaven slosh of indissoluble satisfaction. I am a Town fan in unfamiliar territory, a stranger in a strange land. I am happy. I am a sandboy, I am cock-a-hoop, my pink is tickled, I am Larry, I am a pig in shit, my day is long and if I were a dog I would have two tails, one black and one white.

But maybe I’m not such a stranger in this rosy place. For some years now we've been thinking it can’t get any better than this, that the moments have peaked, that we’ve reached the pinnacle of what it means to be black and white and happy. Moments are measured in one-offs, each one an instance of ecstasy. Even 2022 sparks discussions and friendly debates about which of those three amazing matches were the best or the hardest, which had the best moments, best individual and team displays, which had the dawning moments when we knew we could do it. But all three were happy, the whole ten days was a time of belief and hope and happiness.

And the FA Cup run. From Plymouth to Brighton, moments upon moments, of satisfaction, of purpose, of collective drive and desire and pride. Weeks of happiness. Cup games, knock-out games, play-off pushes, they become the stars in an otherwise black sky of memory: Meadow Lane, The Racecourse, London Stadium, St Mary’s they shine in the dark night and serve as points of comfort when we feel low, when we determine ourselves as supporters of luckless, loveless, useless Grimsby Town. But the night sky is filled with wonders, constellations of success white-striping the black, filling it so that we don’t see the void, just the light and the colour and the happiness that the stars bring.

I felt it on Wednesday night, that happiness. No nerves, not really, just an excitement. The first five minutes or so were lost to me. Watching those red shirts walk out next to our black and white was a moment I knew I would treasure, and I slid into something like a reverie, somehow nostalgic in the moment, a little lost, not scared, not at all, just shifted slightly, on another plane so close to this one that my feet still touched the Pontoon concrete, but it was different, there and not there. I suppose I knew there were always going to be tears, but I didn't expect them so early. I can’t even remember the teams being announced.

And as I woke from the delirium and saw Rogers in the centre circle, nose bleeding, and I saw McJannet powering forward and delivering a cross from the left wing, I knew that this wouldn’t be a one-off, not in the same way. Artell had spoken of this not being a pinnacle. He was right. We took to the field, took the initiative and took the game to them as if Manchester United were Newport or Crawley and I was in that happy place so rarely recognised, even more rarely felt. We were the team who knew the plan, our players knew their jobs, knew their targets, knew where their teammates where. Our team was the team, the only team on the pitch, as Amorim said. And we rode that knowledge, that high, that joy of certainty. There was no fear in the crowd, only the pleasure of being there, of being at a Blundell Park and at the centre of the world.

This wasn’t a one-off, and of course it’s not just another star, either, not just another moment in the constellation of our season; this is the North Star, a new galaxy, a new understanding of deep, cosmic mystery, but it’s still in the same sky, still the same players playing in the same way they had at Accrington, the same way they will tomorrow against Bristol Rovers. This was the brightest smile in a happy sky.

Oh yes, Rovers. No news or interviews at the time of writing. We’ll almost certainly be flat tomorrow, and we will all have to deal with the down from the incredible high. The crowd will be quiet. Someone or someones will grumble "what’s the point in beating Man U if you can't beat Bristol?". Many more will grimace and frown at those who can’t recognise their own happiness; the players will be just a fraction off their normal pace, the opposition just a fraction more energised as they take on the most famous team in the land. It's a shame that it’s this fixture to follow Manchester United; later in the season it could’ve been very spicy indeed as old players and old grudges are reacquainted. But it's the Saturday after the Wednesday before, I’ll just glad to be back and I’m too happy to care about anything except being there again.

But hey, we’ve been saying it can’t get better than this, that this moment or that can’t be topped, for years now, yet it’s bigger, brighter, better all the time. So, maybe tomorrow won’t be flat, maybe tomorrow will be another piece of evidence that this new Town is mature now, ready to keep learning and keep growing, and that we, the fans, are not strangers and that this land, this happy place, is not strange.