Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

14 September 2025

Oh, them again. Not so much old friends as old reluctant acquaintances thrown together by circumstance. Let's grin and bear it, it won't last long. Do they still knock it long?

On a bright old day with an occasional bluster Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Burns, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Ecclestone, Staunton, Oduor, Walker, Amaluzor and Soonsup-Bell. A full bench of first teamers out injured, a full set of newbies on the bench, a full stomach after lunch in Cleethorpes. Full steam ahead Mr Boatswain, full steam ahead!

Cambridge United emerged from the deathly hallows in a particularly anonymous beige-to-tan kit with the vinyl roof and leather trim optional. They're built like a 1970s fourth division team, but without the perms and moustaches. Some are wide, some are tall, some are wide and tall. They are awfully large.

The question is will we pass our Cambridge entrance exam?

1st half – Horrible Harris's hamster wheel of fortune
The game started, it is alleged. Well, the ball started rolling as Town kicked towards the Osmond. That's as far as I am prepared to go in my witness statement, m'lud. I did see foul deeds and a systematic programme of unprovoked attacks on innocent by-standers from the ruffians from afar.

It all started with a mishit, and we could have guessed it would come to this. Crabbing across the back line, Warren underhit a roller and Burns, dawdling under the Ramstand, was brushed aside by a rampaging bull. Minor panic, major roadworks on the M180. No animals were harmed in the making of this movie.

Vernam flickered, Kabia flicked, the lights went out. Had they even been switched on?

Line-outs, rucks and mauls as Cambermen clatter and clamp. A cross whipping and dipping by, slipping by the farthest of far posts. Sound The Last Post, this game has died, and it's only just begun.

Kabia manhandled, mangled and wrangled as a trio of Tanmen took it in turns to block and barge when Jaze was on the charge. And, of course, down they go, slain by a withering look and passing comment. Shocked, shocked, the pusillanimous pastel peeper was shocked to find manhandling going on here.

Alarmed by the presence of the ball and a lurking Tanman, Burns underpanicked a backpass, beautifully bisecting the central planks in Town's defence. Ah, that wheel of fortune, ever spinning, spinning, spinning. The magic of a miss and a sigh as Appere's shot didn't pass by the Mighty Pym. And then Louis Louis Appere, oh no, he gotta go holding his thigh. An earthquake is erupting, but not in a Blackpool backstreet, as on came even chunkier Prince Kylian Kouassi, an aspiring monarch of the fens.

Step back, grab yourself a seat. Town had a shot. Three! No four! Passes! Despite the wind Green lacked power and Gentle Jake was unmoved by the low driller that had no killer. Pollyfilla piffle.

Ooh-ooh have we awoken from our golden slumbers? A wiggle and wriggle and Burns fluttered infield to schlapp a slap lowly across the face of our old brother Jake. Eastwood settled down to push out into the middle, where a chum lumped out for a Town corner. Elevation! We don't need no elevation, but we would like some ball control. A skittish skittler scuttled through various legs and beyond. A little shovette and Burns tumbled on and out from the edge of penalty area. The bloke down the road used to own a Vauxhall Shovette, very of its time.

And off they hurtled. Big bad boys ran off up the middle as Townites accompanied them on their seaside stroll down the Prom. Go on, keep going, there's great views, especially if you keep going a bit further. Yep, that's it, turn right just there by the Police Box. Brophy waited for the donkey ride to pass and carefully passed back behind the hot-footing hoofers to a late arriving train. Mayor, centre rightish, twentyish yards out, slapped through a soufflé of tumbling Townites and into the bottom leftish corner. It's déjà vu all over again. Again.

Rucks and mauls, I'm appalled. Have they Gary Owen in midfield? Stripes felled whenever they moved within 30 yards of Eastwood, no matter how distant the ball. The referee oblivious, the linesman under the Police Box risking arrest for loitering without intent, dithering and dismaying with an inability to see cantering Cambermen beyond the stripes.

Long chucks, huge hurls, gigantic catapulting and all because the lady loves Milk Tray. There's nothing else to say.

Five minutes were added. Can't we just end it all now, please; think of the children.

Ooh-la-la, Sweeney swept forward, swept across the face of the penalty area and swept a coiler across and around the face of the farthest post. Cambridge diddled and fiddled for time, tapping back to Jukebox Jake. As Kabia pursued the bear Watts threw himself in front of the Irish rover, Eastwood's statutory obligated mis-kick simpered straight to a striped shirt and…the ref booked Kabia for failing to avoid a falling tree.

We had a corner, they had a shot. There are no redeeming qualities here, for us, for them, for the officials, for no-one. Through our eyes we seeing nothing.

2nd half – Handle with care
No changes were made by either team at half time.

Kabia overwinkled after being wiggled away by Khouri. Brophy volleyed over. Minutes passed, players didn't. Town approached the zone of almostness, shots were blocked by flying pickets. Green turned, a Tanman tapped.

Minutes passed, every now and again a striped shirt hit the turf and Cambridge got a free kick. We can beg and we can plead, but the ref can't see the light (that's right). This would not be possible in a rational world but we don't live in a rational world.

More minutes passed. Brophy shot narrowly, Pym pushed away. Any more pie?

Halfway up the stairs is neither up nor down, but halfway through the half Amaluzor replaced the allegedly existing Wolds Panther, and Staunton came on for the collapsing Sweeney. Town were dissolving before our eyes, and they were already a very thin solution. Homeopathic homesters in a funk.

It doesn't do anyone any good to have Level 42 in mind.

Energised and structurally rejiggled, Town began to emerge from hibernation. Two up top, three at the back, wing-backs winging and Cambridge no longer comfortably dumb. Amaluzor barundled and tumbled, dead centre. Staunton crinkled against the tidal barrier. Visiting ranks crumbling on the flanks as Town were coming through in gentle waves. A leftist bouncing cross bounced through twirling bodies, resting with Kabia just beyond the far post. A touch, a twinkle and Gibbons's flying slide block ended all thoughts of happiness.

Desperate times, desperate measures, the visiting criminal gang hit the mattresses. Any passing stripe was felled or held as no coccyx shall be left unturned. Every challenge brought a pre-programmed twist and shout. Every Town tackle guaranteed to make our bile rise. Compared to this mirthless mafia John Beck was an amateur pussy cat.

Them. Hold your nose. Some head tennis and basic general ploppery. A break away, McJannet prodded away from the waiting Kouassi. All they do is whack and thwack, unsubtly howitzering willy-nilly. Town stood tall despite being so small, always managing to squirrel away the ball.

With a quarter of an hour left Khouri and Burns became Walker and Odour through the magic of the substitutes board. Pester will pester, especially after festering on the sick list. The ground roused from its torpor by the accumulation of official incompetence and daytripping skullduggery and the ante upped. There be space, there be pace, there be structured chaos. Staunton beautifully arced through the six-yard box, Amaluzor stood next to the lunging Green at the far post but the ball studded wide.

Temperature rising, the fever is high. Town a-breaking on the right and Gibbons smothered Kabia, laid upon Kabia, pushed his hand down on Kabia's neck, stood up and stood on Kabia. Somehow, unbelievably, the referee interpreted this as a foul upon Kabia. Disgraceful! Heaven forfend, gadzooks and please pass Neil Harris a handkerchief. The referee walked around holding his ear, wandered up to the fourth official, had a bit of a gossip, strolled around holding his ear, had a long chat with Gibbons and accidentally pulled out a yellow card.

The new roof on the Pontoon passed it's annual stress test and held firm, though the Incontinence Pad Stand did look as though it raised its eyebrows. Well, who wouldn't?

Just like the referee I defiantly did not see the ball bounce up and strike McJannet's hand. And neither did you, OK?

The Knight is young and full of possibilities so let's bring on Bell, our belle, Soonsup-Bell. With two minutes left Warren was whipped off and on came Jude from the obscure Iberian nether regions. Is tonight made for him?

Six minutes were added amidst much plunging and whinging from the fenland fiends and other animals. Kabia throttled in the dark spaces behind the referee's back, Kabia cow-wrangled and branded with an iron in full view of women and children, Walker wrenched but returning fire. Our little Jamie Dodger, tickled and turned, plunging to earth when menaced by monsters in the shadows of the Ramstand.

As Staunton stood watching, waiting, the free kick was delayed, deferred and re-scheduled after pushing, prodding, probing, shoving, slapping and increasingly arrestable molesting of Mariners in the middle. A dink, a wink, legs a-flapping and McJannet's impression of Green impressed the gazing throng as he declined to remain upright when a tan boot wafted. The refereeing wheel of fortune goes spinning around, will it point our way? Will this be our day?

While the wheel is spinning, I'll not dream of Town winning a penalty. Turning, turning, turning, how our hearts are yearning for a little luck, a little bit of bloomin' luck. And it's stopping on green….penalty!

Kabia crouched, Eastwood slouched, Kabia tapped and Eastwood slapped down to his right, to his right, yes to his right, he guessed right to go right and intercept the flight. The ball boopled back into the centre and the shins of Amaluzor burst through a crowd of daffodils to thrustle into the emptied nettage.

And there it is. The end. Karmic balance restored because, for this present Town, there's something inside so strong. Perseverance is not just a parrot, owned by my aunt, with whom I do not live.

Awful match, woeful officiating, an utter waste of time. One side wanted to play Association Football, the other wanted to play American Football. It was like watching a budding chess master take on a kick-boxer at snakes and ladders. Town were in suspended animation from the start, the tone and tempo set by that Warren/Burns wobbleballing and never recovering. Cambridge had no intention of playing football. And didn't at any point, even by accident.

We really do need to work out how to deal with rancid, miserable bullyballers.