Cod Almighty | Diary

The mysterious case of the dogs which bark at nothing

3 September 2025

It had not been my intention to write of the disappearance from public life of my distinguished friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, but I am forced to rebut foul rumours being circulated by his foes. I can assure you that the man who claimed to see him plunge into the bottomless Chapman's Pond was identified as a Mr N Hair, a man whose sight and judgement is not to be trusted. Still more disgraceful, it has been said that Holmes has been attending fixtures in the Football League Trophy. While that would offer him the anonymity he craves, it is a proceeding foreign to his being. I fear I must provide some modicum of an explanation.

It was on a morning early in the autumn of 2025 that I called at the rooms on Baker St which I had once shared with Holmes, and found him in an attitude of the blackest derpair. It was only a week since he had brilliantly unmasked the perfidious schemes of the Rezalg family and the notorious baronet James Mousereefe. The world saved from their evil attempt to win the League Cup, the press of five continents and one or two alien planets were singing the praises of Holmes, yet he lay listlessly on the divan, mobile phones, tablets, and even the occasional old-fashioned newspaper flung about the room in disgust.

"Look at all this, Watson" he said, gesturing at the detritus around him. "A football club makes an administrative error, realises it, reports it, takes steps to ensure that it is not repeated and accepts its proportionate punishment. That should be an end of the matter.

"But what do we find? Tabloid hacks asking the question whether Mammon United will be restored to a competition from which they have been justly eliminated. Having endured death by a thousand pop-up ads, the reader eventually learns that the answer is no. Inspector Pilchard Gateau announces an investigation, into nothing. Quite out of proportion to the impact of a player whose main contribution to a game was unfortunate, allegations of skulduggery compete with the most paranoid fantasies to fill social media to the brim. Some no doubt are intended to provoke, some are sent in a spirit of irony, and yet more are issued by automata, the last agents of the Rezalg empire of crime, and yet they stir a response."

"But what is the meaning of it, Holmes?"

"There is none. You recall the case which hinged on the singular behaviour of the dog which did not bark. Here we have thousands of terriers yapping away, for no reason. I fear this is not a world in which a logical reasoner can operate. It has long been my intention to retire to the Lincolnshire Wolds to study the art of Tibetan calligraphy. I think I must acclerate my plans."

At that moment, a tracksuited figure burst through the door.

"Sherlock Holmes" he cried, "I am at my wits' end. Grimsby Town find themselves the victims of an epidemic of madness among referees. You must help me."

"Surely this is a field for your special powers, Holmes?" I ventured to suggest.

Holmes paused, reaching for the mouth organ he was apt to play upon when in the deepest thought.

"You are right, Watson", he finally decided, "Though I fear I can be of no direct assistance to you, Mr Artell."

"How did you know it was me?", the faintly bearded figure asked.

"Elementary. You are a character in something purporting to be a fanzine article devoted to the Mariners. Who else could you be?"

With that, he asked us both to depart, as he set about studying the laws of association football.

Since that day, there have been no direct reports of Sherlock Holmes, but I can trace his presence at football grounds across England. Whenever I read a match report in which the referee is not mentioned, I suspect my brilliant friend is using his powers unseen. A game well officiated is ideal for a man who wishes the world to forget him, for it is one occasion when the dogs still do not bark.