Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

29 August 2025

We never thought our life could be anything but catastrophe. Ah, but finally we can see a bit of good luck for Grimsby, 'cause we got a golden ticket in our hand.

Is that a golden twinkle in Big Dave's eye?

It's a special day in every way and everything is beautiful in its own way on a starry, starry summer night. As the alley cats prowled their beat the high rollers rolled into our dirty old town, nosegay garlands strewn across their path as they emerged from their gilded cage. We're here, we're ready. Are they ready for this?

Do they even know what this is?

Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Burns, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Gardner. The substitutes were Auton, Staunton, Turi, Oduor, Brown, Soonsup-Bell, Amaluzor, Rose and Kabia. A patched-up coat of many colours, a right-back at centre-back, a centre-back at right-back, a strapping youther up front and the bench a hotch-potch of the barely standing and the rarely sitting. This is life on a shoestring.

Manchester United, finally in town after 77 years in hiding. When last we met it was equals in another land, another world, perhaps another universe. We haven't changed a bit, just a new coat of paint and a computer in the office. Them? They’ve gone all lah-di-dah since they last came for a night out. We must ask them how does it feel to be one of the beautiful people.

What do they want to be, have they finally found the key, but really, are they going to play? Well, they've brought along a turnip and cow-cumber, so there'll be fresh leaks by the Humber, but watch out they've runners that run away. Oh yes, they have brought Onana, they've brought out Onana to play today.

It looks like they’ve never given a thought that they could lose. C'mon Town, give Heaven hell, let's have no regrets. There's something in the air tonight, the stars are aligned.

Gerrinto 'em.

1st half – Electric shocks
Here we go.

Town kicked off towards the ram-packed Osmond with a whack and hack, shaking their shacks with hustles and bustles. McEacharan's teasing tinkle released Burns behind dawdling Dorgu in the shadows of the ram-packed Ramstand but, alas, the cross fizzed above Young Cam and beyond the Wolds Panther creeping through the undergrowth.

There's only one way to get them out of the cup and that's to get stuck in. Get Stuck In! Town got stuck in. Young Mancuniguns, you young suckers, do you know what the hell just got into you? Khouri clatterscraped, McJannet pattercaked, red shirts scattered across the turf.

Pfft. They can run quickly, yeah, we know that. So can Hoppalong Harvey. We didn't know that. We do now. Dorgu and Cunha simply erased before they could fail. Lunging, plunging, plutocrats piffling and wiffling, stripes staunch.

Fifteen minutes. No alarms. Twenty minutes. No surprises.

Grimsby Town, powered by Green energy. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the right, Ugarte and Amad bounced off Action Man's psychic aura. A tickle to Gardner, a spin and lap to Burns, a step inside and drip back beyond into the gaping gap where no full back lurked. Vernam took a touch and smiggled lowly to the near post, where Onana the banana skin was waiting to happen, and helpfully happened the ball on into the net.

We have lift off.

Our hearts were a-tremblin' and a rolling thunder rippled across the land. The earth moved under our feet and the sky began to tumble down upon the Osmoaners.

One touch ticking and Burns passed perfectly to a silently standing stone-faced shirker. In homage to this Manchester Disunited team I can't be bothered to remember who. Blah-blah-blah and all that, Amad cut in and drivelled to Pym. Twenty five minutes. Twenty five minutes for them rich tourists to have an actual, factual shot. It took Accrington half that time. It's important to have context and perspective.

It began to dawn on all present that the Croesus club in crisis had paid £66m for a wonky Tesco shopping trolley. It's a lovely shiny shopping trolley, glistering in the sunset, but Bunny Warren put it back in the trolley park, ready for the next customer. That's what we simple working folk do, we do our job without fuss or favour.

Terriers, tigers and terrific Town tickles. Here-a-there, there a there, infiltrations and excitations, Burns deflected, Gardner sneaking a graze across the face of goal.

Could this be magic? McEachran espied Burns beyond Dorgu the dog-eared defender, and dinkled delightfully. The Irish Roamer arose to head into the Mancunian muddle in the Manchesterian middle. The ball boombled up onto Gardner's arm, shinned off his kneecaps and in to the net off Ugarte's drowning hands. Just our luck the referee was watching rather than waiting for the VAR that never comes.

Two up against them Red Devillers? Now that would be greedy, wouldn't it? Ooh, never look a gift horse in the mouth, take what you're given. Stripes shimmering, Grimsby glimmering and a glancing blow to a red head. A corner in the covered corner shortened and crinkled into the corridor of uncertainty by Slim Charles. Onana, the hesitant Herbert, tip-toed into the carnage, punched the thinnest of hairs on Rodger's head and the ball disappeared into the scrum of stripes. And then we awoke, is this some kind of joke? Much to his surprise Warren opened his eyes and in embarrassment walked the ball into an emptied net in a penalty area devoid of red, though there was a red mist behind him.

As the whole town bounced towards Denmark and the rest of the world bounced towards the Humber, every single red shirt stood and stared into the distance, none looking at or talking to a theoretical teammate. No leadership, no interest, just millionaires feeling sorry for themselves, waiting to be chauffeured home. Hey, bye-bye, Ugarte, it's time to hit the road to dreamland!

Shaken, barely stirred, the visiting attractions bumbled and stumbled into cul-de-sacs knocking on doors hoping someone would let them in. They are nothing, an amusing after dinner anecdote, a barely tittersome Christmas cracker one-liner, a suddenly stirred dragon awoken from a slumber. Maguire advanced and cutely dissected the Town defence with a diagonal drooler. Sesko slithered and slapped, Pym ducked and plucked the half stop back into his purple bosom.

Town edging backwards, Redsters zazooming breakingly. Rodgers raced after Cunha retrieving, keeping us believing. McJannet, Warren, Khouri and Uncle Tom Cobley threw themselves before these artless aristocrats, diverting attention, inverting convention.

Hey there, calm down. Relax. Amad was offside. Showreel show-off. Relax, calm down, see the bigger picture. Sesko leaned over Bunny Warren and blampled firmly at Pym who palmed aside. I said relax, look closely, the ref played charades with Captain Green indicating he would have given a free kick if he needed to.

What do we need? A rest. We're all getting giddy.

Two minutes were added, filled with a selection box of blocks by striped socks and a stray curly-wurly.

Astounding. Outstanding. Mesmerising Mariners, decrepit old devils. Oligarchs' playthings outwitted, out thought, outrun and above all outplayed. Football is about the kind of things that money just can't buy, for money can’t buy you love.

2nd half – The rain and pain
The Bed Weevils made a triple change at half time, hauling off their overpriced garden furniture set, Ugly Ugarte, Dreadful Dorgu and Fredricson, a bag of frozen peas. But who's next? Great album. No, who is the next taxi on the cab rank? Well, I've seen De Ligt boy, I've seen De Ligt and whose that humming to himself and softly strumming his guitar? In the floodlights I can see it's Fernandes. And then there's Mbeumo lurking in the drizzle.

Fasten your seatbelts.

Counting down to lift off, 45 minutes to go. On they rushed, gushing forward and flying down the flanks. A cross, a Cunha header blocked. A leg here, a toe there, a forelock grazing from under the gaze of lurkers behind.

The mugging of chugging chancers and Vernam released Green behind…behind…nothing, a vast void of emptiness they call the Man Utd back three. Green crept along the bye-line, sucking what was left of red defence towards him, like manky moths to a miserable miser's old wax candle. Yeah, not even a happy miser. He looked up and noticed the unremarkably unmarked Burns waving frantically, rolled perfectly into his path and watched Heaven moved earth to divert danger using only his ego.

Forty minutes to ignition, please begin to clear the launch pad.

It's raining, raining on the Park, hearts sinking in the crowd as it was getting heavier, and suddenly drenching and drowning, cascading down the stands in great gushing torrents. All around there were thunderbolts and lightning, very-very frightening. Kobi Mainoo? Kobi Mainoo? Spare him his life from this Mancunian monstrosity. Let him go? Will they let him go, unlike his passing which Town let go through the lakes and out of play.

I see a little silhouetto of a man, Amorin, Amorin, is he hoping the ref will end this farrago? The ball sticking in puddles, Red shifters hindered, the weather getting biblical on each pass.

Warning, warning 30 minutes. All non-essential personnel please leave the playing area.

The red wave is coming, whooooooosh. Backs to the wall, when will the first brick fall?

De Ligt delightfully bellowed beyond the angle of post and bar, Warren and Pym scrimped away, but back to Amad who curled widely beyond the right post. Well done, young man, you chose the right option. Striped satisfaction guaranteed.

Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour, step right this way. Splish-splosh, Town under the cosh, Mainoo hooked widely, Fernandes swivellingly swept low to Pym's left but the purple plunger patted and scooped before Red shorts swooped.

And all the while Town were coiled, waiting to pounce, to spring between their leaky pipes. Gardner surged too soon, Gardner knock-kneed past Maguire and out, Burns burned bridges and Burns jinked and winked deeply into another holey Mancunian mess. The Panther arose and softly noodled straight to the calamity custardian, their lemon drizzle flake.

With 20 minutes left Turi and Brown replaced Green and Vernam. Yes, Brown. That is what is technically known as a surprise. Them, that is them the other team, they substituted Heaven with Mason Mount who, last year, did not sweat at all. He will be now.

And still they come, upping the pace, upping the ante. Warren scraped away and ducked over, Burns ducked to dive. What do you call a collection of Grimsby defenders? A coagulation of Town. Mariners morphing in one entity, a hive mind in one body rolling across the turf from left to right repelling the Red hordes.

Under the Police Box Turi tricked, treated and triangulated around a befuddled foe and Gardner hared off into the spaces between fiends. Maguire swung his pants and squirtled the ball perfectly into Young Cam's path. On he raced to cooly curl around Onana into the bottom right corner, only to turn and see a cruelly fluttering flag fluttering cruelly. And on this bombshell Gardner and McEachran were replaced by Kabia and Oduor.

Oh no, Dave, they've scored!

Mainoo broke past Khouri and fliggled way out to a final Red shirt who was indeed, way out on their right. Mbuemo melted infield, mesmerising Sweeney with some wiggling and waggling to coil around McJannet into the bottom right corner past the motionless Pym.

Fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes. Initiate final safety checks, batten down all hatches and retreat behind the safety barriers.

For one beat, perhaps no more than a second, three sides of Blundell Park fell silent, then a great surging roar drowned out the din from Osmond. Listen lads, we can still do this! Ah, but which lads?

Barging and bundling, Rodgers remained grounded, rubbing various appendages and off he went with ten minutes left. Staunton strode on and Sweeney moved to right-back. Town, holding on with a defence made up of string and beans, three full-backs and The McJanitor.

Trust the process, trust the process. But whose process? Isn't it just cheese? Well, it is from the North West Diaries co-operative. Soft cheese, hard cheese, that's a goal kick, that's a free kick. Grimsby expects every man to do his duty. Fall over! If in doubt, get it out!

Sometime within the psychedelic freak zone that was the end of times Zirkzee and his amazing dancing hair replaced Amad, who had a strop and was immediately stropped off. Ok, now breathe deeply, we're going in now, strap on your tin hat, I hope you've fed your cat, we may be some time.

The desperate desperados laid siege, tapping out an incessant rhythm across and around, seeking a little chink in the armour. Panic in the streets of Humberside as McJannet was tackled by a latent puddle. The ball stopped right in Sesko's flightpath but Cam's the man, pre-lancing the boil.

Zirkzee slapped and tickled Khouri and both were booked, the free kick given to the poshos. Time ticked ever slower, balls were dinked ever higher, corner after Red corner. De Ligt and Maguire, just a-getting higher at the far post, you know where they're at. Mount whipped and dipped beyond the farthest post, a header back and limbs flailed inside the six-yard box. Pym swooped to swipe then drooped to drop upon a bumbled return.

Phew, that must be it, mustn't it? A couple of minutes left, Townites stumbling, the ref immune to the pleadings, and another corner. Taken once, taken twice and taken thricely as the referee tutted at the pro-celebrity Sumo bouts afore him. Mount dripped again from the covered corner. The ball arced, time slowed, a dream began to die inch by inch as suddenly two Red shirts were alone beyond the far post. Maguire nodded in off Pym's knuckles.

For one beat, perhaps no more than half a second, three sides of Blundell Park fell silent again, then the masses raised up against the elites - up with this we will not put. We are Grimsby, this is our town, our time, the world shall hear us roar.

Five minutes were added.

Mmm, we know how much we struggle against basic route-one bashballers. One minute, two minutes, three minutes…stick it into the corner, whack it into the Burger Bar! Go down, stay down, get up, get back, get back, get back and hit it long.

In and out and in and out and in and out, United squeezing, Town wheezing, flips and flaps, the ball disappearing into a great big blancmange inside the Town six-yard box. A Red leg poked and the ball flew over and that was the end. Can you picture what will be?

Penalties
It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter anymore. We've won by not losing. This was our night, it stays our night, whatever happens. They're in front of the Pontoon. Yes! Oh no, the dread, the horror, the horror.

I could hear the distant drums and sounds of bugle calls coming from afar. History beckons.

Kabia - woah, Onana overshot the runway as Kabia centralised rightly. 1-0
Fernandes - Pym plopped left as Bruno rolled right with a sigh. 1-1
Burns – Onana collapsed left as Burns passed left. Nice. 2-1
Mbeumo – Pym headed for McDonalds, Big Bryan didn't. 2-2
Oduor - Onana raised an elbow and diverted up off the crossbar. Feelings sunk. 2-2
Mount – Pfft, is Pym ever going to wait before diving the wrong way? 2-3
Staunton – Ooh lovely, calm and cocky. 3-3
Dalot – Stop doing that Christy! 3-4
Brown – It's not fair on the poor lad he's only… oof, in the hole! 4-4
Cunha – Ah well, fun whilst it lasted, he never misses…Pym you beauty! 4-4
McJannet – 'ave it! 5-4
Zirkzee – A whacker whacked high. 5-5
Turi – Ice cool, the Geezer from the Freezer faultlessly rolling. 6-5
Mainoo – high, handsome, finally doing something adequate. 6-6
Sweeney – Actually, Onana is as useless as Pym with penalties, isn't he. 7-6
Maquire – no trouble with Harry here. Is this ever going to end? 7-7
Khouri – Yoikes. A yellow hand brushing, the ball pushing on in. 8-7
De Ligt – He's going to hit it down the middle it's OBVIOUS! He didn't. 8-8
Warren – Well, that was easy. This won't end until someone skies it. 9-8.
Sesko - It's a heck of a lot of money for eventually taking a penalty. 9-9
Pym – Purring a pass left as Onana sank right. 10-9
Onana – Anything Pym can do he can do just the same. 10-10

Can we go home sometime please?

Kabia – Double triple bluffing to beat the flying muffin. 11-10
Fernandes – Now, would he do the same again? Well he scored again. 11-11
Burns – Hearts in mouths as Onana and ball sailed left…but in off his palms. 12-11
Mbuemo – Is it midnight yet? He’s a dead-eye dick, a ruthless hotshot…. 12-11

Ball hit bar, fans hit roof, feet hit the steps as a surge of stripes swept down onto the pitch, mobbing and sobbing, leaping and weeping, players held aloft, holding Harry Haddocks aloft, the ground throbbing. And the world outside our little window now sees what we see. Proper football in a proper ground with proper owners and proper fans. This is football, without this there nothing but shapes moving. This is what it means when your world means something after all.

So how did they do it? They've travelled the world in search of data. Sweet dreams are made of this.