Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Saturday 27 September 2025

Division 4

Grimsby Town 7 Walker (39, 41), Kabia (54), Sweeney (59, 80), Vernam (62), Khouri (83)

Cheltenham Town 1 Hutchinson (19)

Attendance: 6,315 (88 away fans)

When someone does something extraordinary they shall be applauded. When they do two extraordinary things within two minutes, they shall be lauded for their contribution to road safety. Jamie Walker earned his family pack of Irn Bru today.

With Franz McBeckannet having attained peak Pouton status as the permanent Man of the Match, we'll just have to consider this confection as who gets the silver medal of honour, the bag of space dust and a Mars bar.

Who could it be?

Clarke Oduor? No! No way man.

Little George, the midfield operator? Not today, Josephine.

Jamie and his magic torch? Could be! Walker had style, a groovy style, with a body that just won't stop. And two top-notch, top-corner top shots that stopped the rot and topped the lot of 'em.

After dunkin' Downes' doughnuts, delighted Dave was delighted, in his own way; there's definitely an extra digestive biscuit with his cocoa tonight:

"Professional more than anything, we've learned…don't just control the game, control the game by trying to score goals."

Hang, on, there's a bone to pick and an itch to scratch before he settles down to watch Match of the Day:

"They didn't deserve their goal, we've dominated the game literally from minute one to ninety, which is unusual. I thought they were a disgrace, both tackles. Angol got away with one in the first half but that's for the Cheltenham staff to deal with."

After last week's hair-raising arrow to the heart at Barnet, the Rotherham Rambler got philosophical on each passing game:

"We don't get carried away just because we beat, let's be honest, a poor Cheltenham team, and we don't get too distressed or defeatist if we've lost 3-0. My job is to remain on an even keel."

Ooh, another digestive would be dandy.

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Downes was down and wore a frown as he contemplated how heavy the head that wears the Robins crown. The old mucker from Mudgee was a rabbit fried on the fence, staring into the abyss, talking tosh as he transformed from Fair Dinkum Downes to Deluded Downes:

"Clear game plan, for first half hour boys acted that out, we limited them to things, knicked a goal, relatively comfortable."

With a squawking albatross hanging motionless overhead the Aussie angster went 20 clicks past the Do Lung bridge:

"I felt the lads in that second half against a team that move the ball quick with a lot of freedom. You look at the scoreline and you think they threw the towel in, that's not the case."

Awwww mate! You forgot to bring the towel with you, that's why they couldn't throw it in.

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Apart from one, single moment of heritage doziness Town were awesomely superior in every way, the acme of Artellball, the pinnacle of passing and movement. Utterly feeble opponents were not simply beaten, they were pulverised, tenderised, mashed, smashed and marmalised.

The catalyst was Walker, the fulcrum, the core, was McJannet who negated the press and duvet on McEachran by assuming the mantle of playmaker, surging and urging, beating out the rhythm, directing traffic and being the very heart of this matter.

Ah, but Town were not practically perfect in every way, for Kabia was an ephemeral presence for most of his match, Oduor was what would kindly be called neat and tidy, Warren fell asleep for their goal and Rodgers was consistently wonky throughout.

But what was most thrilling was the ruthlessly methodical processing of cheese. Possession with purpose, patience with a plan, playing the old squeezebox, waiting for the depleted and desperate dungballers to fall apart at the seams. Striking when the moment was right after thinking.

Town did what good teams do to bad teams, what strong do to the weak. Town were pitiless in their perfect day.

This ramshackle collection of rag dolls exuded defeat from the moment they stepped off the bus, just an illusion of a fourth division team. Big, brawny, wearing a football kit. And boots! They stood where footballers stand when they play football and then half of them played walking gridiron, the other half musical statues, but without the music or a sense of balance.

And without their keeper it would have been well into double figures; the boy with his finger in the dyke, let down by the village elders.

The demoralised, rudderless, poor bloody infantry repairing the same bridge every day only for the Viet Cong to blow it up. This game, their season, a Sisyphean task with no ultimate authority or purpose.

They are lucky to be so high in the table.

Do you know who's in charge here? Ain't you?

When you go counting Town's success, count the goals and count our happiness. How tickled we were.

Mr C Brook

Bizarrely, if anything, he was extremely kind to the Cheltenham Laddies collage of photoshopped accessories for the first half hour, merely tutting at their foulest of deeds. Ah, but then the pennies dropped in his arcade and he saw the light as the floodlights came on. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do when Dirty Harry and the Angol of Dearth are in town.

Neither good, bad, nor indifferent, the Brookmeister General was finally functionally adequate in fulfilling his duties: 7.5

Total domination, total football, totally Town.

In a word: relentless