Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

28 September 2025

With three o'clock approaching the players slipping into stockings, stepping into boots, but at least we don't have to bring a raincoat. It's just another A46 derby day. Cheltenham, alone at the bottom they dwell, hoping the boss of their dreams will break the spell.

Town lined up in the pitter-patter 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Oduor, Green, Walker, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Staunton, Khouri, Svanthorsson, Amaluzor, Soonsup-Bell and Rose. Espying Danny boy and the Icelandic glider perched on the bench perked up the crowd even as eyebrows were raised at the midfield make up.

The ropey Robins, a tall team, a big team, a rugby team, but are they a wise team?

When you're stuck at the foot of the fourth things get confused down there. Power, ideals, the old morality, and practical football necessity. It must be a temptation to play Pell and Angol because there's a conflict in every struggling team's heart between the rational and irrational, between good and evil.

But good does sometimes triumph. Sometimes, the right side overcomes what Lincoln fans would call the Lee Angol's of our nature.

So who'll get their kicks at the end of the A46.

1st half – Sudden impact
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon and on the attack immediately. Passing, movement, movements and passing. A cross or two, once or twice, Day flipping and flapping, grasping and groping as their right side disappeared before we'd even noticed it

Stripes swarming, warming to the task, a warning for the white shorts, already surrendering one by one. Sweeney stepped up, stepped in and tinkled The Wolds Panther free. The twinkling toes shone brightly and Walker's near post prod was repelled by the hands of Day. Up Little Jamie got and swiped the rebound but the annoyingly competent keeper superbly arose for a point blank block.

All Town are we? We are. Sweeney swung, Vernam shuffled his soft shoes, sending his full-back to the offie for a bottle of cider and passing past Day. Alas the last Robin standing stood on the line and kicked away. What have they done? Angol dredged McJannet and hip-whipped him in mid-air. Tuts where tutted.

In the doldrums of nothingness, Day flat-packed a fly kick deep, deep, deep down into the covered corner. The ball floated beyond Rodgers dying to a standstill as it approached the corner flag. Archer dibbled and dabbled, wibbled and wobbled and trundled a roller towards the near post, Warren watched, Angol slid and missed, the ball rolled on and Hutchinson ran into the ball as it ran across the goal-line. The ball hit him and it went in.

What an utterly inept and dreary goal to concede for one single, momentary lapse of reason.

Irritated but motivated, the marauding Mariners maintained the momentum. Vernam shuffled his soft shoes, sending his full-back to the offie for another bottle of cider and cracking a coil over Day. Alas the crossbar cleared off the line. What more have we done. McJannet surged and slapped into the side netting.

It's all getting very annoying, is it one of those days?

Amidst mutterings and tuttering deep inside the Pontoon, the world changed in the blink of an eye. Surging pinballs and clatterballs, the actual ball spumbling to Walker halfway up and halfway down the Cheltenham half. A touch, a step, a great thwacking, dipping thunderball sailed up and over the grasping Day and into the very, very top right corner. Yes, it's a goal, Jamie Walker, it's a goal. A goal! A goal! A goal! And what a goal, he hit it and it most definitely went in from fully 30 yards.

Down the helter skelter faster and faster towards Cuckoo Land as the Robins fell off their perch. A Pell booking for hooking Walker is merely par for his course. A booking in every port. Town tapped sideways, backwards and sideways again, the crowd grumbling at this passivity when it could have been stuck in the mixer for their big lads to head away. McEachran, wandering under the Ramstand, reversed his polarity, Vernam tickled, Walker waggled and swayed, opened up his body and casually chipped a sand iron into the top left corner

What a touch, what a magical beam. If I hadn't really been there I'd think that I was dreaming.

And with that the last dregs of Cheltenham dissolved, flushed down the sink as Blundell Park was in the pink.

Two minutes added, six played as Cheltenham lost their minds. Well, Pell lost the marbles he never had. Vernam sha-zammed, Dirty Harry lunged and out came a yellow, then a red card. Well, I can tell you, we were all broken up about Harry Pell's rights. Such sweet, sweet, schadenfreude as the pantomime villain of the fourth slunk off to a chorus of approval. And then Warren plunged to earth, holding his face as the Angol of Dearth's arms flailed. Out came another yellow as the crowd did bellow.

They scored by accident on a rare trip to the beach, for they were nothing but a homeopathic version of everyone that's troubled us this season. They were big and hoped for something to turn up at a set piece. Town were effortlessly superior and justice was served by Walker's crisps and Pell’s red mists.

2nd half – Monsters mashed
Hey, Cheltenham replaced Jude-Boyd, who'd been roasted and toasted by the rampaging Vernam and Sweeney, with old Young, who could be an oxymoron. We'll see.

And what do we see? We see some Angol delight for Town. Artless Lee, dumb Lee, Angol's arms rubbed McJannet's face and out came another yellow card. Off he slowly trudged past the shoulder-shrugging Rodgers and up the tunnel, chucking tape towards the Town bench as he eventually disappeared. Was he ever even present?

Town leading, the opponents down to nine men. What are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do now? Tip and tap and bore the game down?

Oh no sir, we have lift-off. Big Dave did promise us that one of these days we're gonna cut a team into little pieces. Cheltenham, a mere pillow of wind as Town fearlessly, ruthlessly, methodically processed the dead carcass. Roll left, roll right, cut down the middle, pull apart, insert knife, twist and remove offal. Cheltenham were indeed offal.

Roll right, roll left, cut down the middle, tickle and tease. Vernam rolled around some pancakes, Sweeney lambasted straight at Day's nose. Rolling, rolling, rolling, Robins hides raw, McEachran blocked by white socks as Town ticked and tocked. These Robins are rockin' now, huddling together, no wheels on their wagon, so they're not rolling along.

Roll left, roll right, to left, to right, to left, slow, slow, quick-quick and low, the white sheets stretching, tearing and falling apart. McJannet controlling the traffic. It's a green light, Jaze, you can go now. Kabia, 20 yards out deadish centre, flashed fabulously through the static caravans and in to the right corner via the soft hands of Day. Simply too hot to handle.

Watch out funk's about and it's gonna get just bigger!

Town camped, Cheltenham swamped. Left, right, left, right, atten-shun! All tattered and torn, white shirts scattered across the turf, Vernam va-voomed and his shot ballooned off terrified toes. Day parried aside, all along the watchtower. There's so much confusion, they can't get no relief. Kabia careered after the dawdling Archer into the scoreboard corner, nicked and knocked and Harvey crossed before a tripper blinked. A white flag fluttered a faint foot, Green slapsticked and Sweeney, standing alone eight yards out, calmly took a touch and crackled in off the left post.

They had no defence for it, the heat is too intense for it, it's pitchcraft. Town tapping out a steady beat. Patient. Persistent. Pleasing, teasing and easing through the gaps. Oduor twirled and whirled and curled beyond. Vernam waited unmolested, chested unmolested and whipped a dipping half-volley across the keeper into the far corner.

Now then, Harry Pell, is that five goals or six, I kinda lost count in all this excitement.

The scene was rockin', we're we all digging the sounds, Cheltenham in chains, Town backed by baying hounds. Rose and Soonsup-Bell replaced Vernam and Oduor. What's the formation? Some of them, more of us, does it matter? It's attack versus an absence of defence. Stripes pulling the threads on an old moth-eaten cardy, just for fun.

After another five minutes of swingball in the back garden. Staunton, Khouri, and Svanthorsson replaced Green, Walker and Kabia. It's been building up inside of us for oh, I don’t know how long, but don't worry baby, he's still the Dadi. Everything's turned out all right.

I suppose it is only fair to mention two events that occurred inside the Grimsby Town half, for they, indeed did enter it during this promenade of perfection. Twice. Two times. That's one more than one.

A corner arced across, dipped across and passed across the face of goal and the face of the farthest post. Hutchinson gently dripped a free kick from way down south that passed politely past one of the two posts holding up the crossbar. Which one? It depends on your perspective, for it was both left and right, whilst being neither, as Schrodinger's opposition ceased to exist even in any meaningless way.

And still the merciless Mariner machine rolled on and on and on. Rodgers walloped way over, Rodgers sliced way wide. Dadi dancing bamboozled and Staunton's pass-shot collided with a white-socked coach party waiting on the line. With all predators eradicated Bunny Warren gambolled gaily across the fields and a casual crinkle hot-looped off a sleeping policeman, boombambling up and over the angle of post and bar.

With ten minutes remaining a dribble of mirthless homesters could be seen sneaking out, trying to beat the traffic, but only creating a traffic jam by their own actions. Pressure, crosses, corners, activity, action and here comes number six. The striped scalpel stripped back the patient, Staunton sauntered and carefully rolled a pass into near post where Sweeney swept and once more Cheltenham fans wept whilst the rest of us just leapt up and celebrated this wonderful world in which we're living; the end of summer and Notts finally winning the County Championship.

By jove, by Jiminy, wait…there's more.

Soonsup-Bell dreamweaving after spinning tops on the left. Jinking Jude hit the bye-line and simply tapped simply into the near post, where a trio of Townites awaited. Khouri crashed high and yet more travelling Robins cried with laughter. Cheltenham fans, all 88 of them, I can't lie to you about your chances but you do have our sympathy. We've been there, we know. This will pass, unlike your team, a soulless, heartless, pitiful confection of people paid to appear like footballers.

Is it greedy to want more? Now, don't get me wrong, I ain't no creationist, but there's a sniff of history here, we can finally erase Darwen from the record books. A cute cameo, more delightful Dadi dancing and Svanthorsson's shot hit Rose's shins for number eight. Ah, come in number eight the flag is up for an offside. Boos were hissed as pantomime season approached quicker than a Cheltenham defender.

Five minutes were added – and yet more dribblers left to create that all-important traffic jam to beat.

Ruthless. Methodical. Pitiless. Merciless. Marvellous.

There's no need to gild this lily. Let the motion speak for itself.