Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

12 October 2025

On a clear day you can see forever, or at least as far as Spurn Point. But what can we see so far? The question is simple, is the tide coming in or going out?

Town lined up in the now usual 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Burns, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Staunton, Walker, Svanthorsson, Amaluzor, Soonsup-Bell and Rose. What's good enough for rancid Robbo's ragamuffins is good enough for the Colchester Cowleyballers, so no changes at all from last Saturday's Salford stroll.

There's something in the air but is this an air of confidence or an air of complacency? With the Cowley boys in town the ball's going to be in the air all afternoon, that's just a fact of life. As funny as it may seem, some people get their kicks stomping on our dream of beautiful football for beautiful people. That's life.

So is the tide turning? Let's find out.

1st half – Something in the air
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. No, stop, let's start again, there's something strange in the neighbourhood. Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. There's something weird and it don't look good as McEachran was mugged. Are we afraid of Mbick ghosting in between Warren and Rodgers? At least we can call on the calming presence of Christie Pym's shins.

And so we decided to get away and have some fun. Grimsby triangles make defenders disappear if they come too near. The Wolds Panther sizzled, blocks by yellow socks. A cross, a corner, Vernam piffled but McJannet sniffled and crossed. More yellow socks, more blocks, and Vernamating across the face of the penalty area led everyone up the garden path. The one in 95 Harrington Street. Mmm, begonias, at this time of year! Isn't it time to plant your winter pansies?

An agglomeration of almostness, a nest of nearlyness, a double dose of deflectoblocks from defensive socks as Slim Charles and Khouri clobbered goalwards after mutual mugging in midfield. Sweeney twiddled and twaddled and a big thigh diverted. A leftist corner to Town was coiled by Vernam into the near post, into a space bereft of stripeage. Green ran around his marker and a temporary traffic light to flick over the waving Macey.

OK, now we've got the audience warmed up, let's roll out a medley of hits. Passing, moving, schmoozing and grooving. Town tessellating, three perpendicular bisectors meeting at a single point, McEachran the circumcentre of attention.

Ooh, nice, Burns, Burnsey, he crossed too high, he crossed too low, he crossed too droopily, he crossed too shallowly.

And then things slowly fell apart. As the crowd began a minute's applause. Pym, perhaps distracted, dozed and Mbick charged down his fly kick. The ball flew out right to Lisbie who crinkled against the outside of Pym's left post as the Tangerine troubadour withdrew his arms.

McEachran, then Khouri were booked, as the ref got tough on Town tackles, not so tough on the cause of tackles. Two thirds of the midfield muted, Town lost fizz and oomph. A yellow corner and Lisbie's header plopped into Pym's awaiting arms.

The tide turning, but Town still digging for worms. Behind you, it's coming in behind you! McJannet withdrew his foot as Payne the pain plunged over the invisible touch into the penalty area. A yellow card for diving and the lesser-spotted Cowley was booked for devolved sibling moaning.

A marvellous McJannet tackle stopped the marauding Mbick, Tyrell's Terror. Warren flicked aside, cast aside, bumped aside, unable to stop the rampaging Addick.

A chip and chase, a hustle and harry and the balls artlessly squiffled off striped toes. A corner hooped in from their right way, way beyond the far post, Tucker arose and noddled back in to the central core. One block, one hand slap, another block, and finally at the fourth count the combined swiping of Lisbie and Mbick slapped the ball in from a couple of yards. Well thankfully we live in the digital age and NASA were able to confirm that Mbick had scored.

Hardly a surprise they'd scored. Hardly a surprise he'd scored.

It's hardly a surprise that there's little more than slaps and dashes left to say. An offside here, an offside there, home and away hopes raised but dashed by raised flags.

And four minutes were added during which Araujo blimpled a blamp safely over when invited to make an offer.

It could have been worse, it might have been better but it had descended into a wrestling match officiated by the vice chair of the village vegetable society.

2nd half – The descent into sadness
No changes were made by either team at half time.

Colleywobblers hounding and pounding, Town ground down, down, deeper and down. Buffeted and barged, some were weary, some were teary, many were intimidated by bigger boys and sir with the whistle was not helping.

Town rolling sideways, boxed in the corner, a bump, a lump and many a grump inside the ground as we're talking balls and falls and calls for change. Any change will do, we shouldn't be afraid of trying, any time will do, we don't mind.

After ten minutes of total inanity Svanthorsson replaced Burns, promptly gracefully gliding, nutmegging, double slipping and colliding with a defender. And promptly reverting to the Dadi boy from this time last year. At least he was keeping in tune and time with his band mates.

I'm sure it was that great philosopher George Kerr who said, when discussing the epistemology and the philosophy of language with Fred Dinenage, if you push at an open door it opens.

Feeble forward feyness, long lost possession, Araujo ambled along their centre right and clumped a clip straight down the pitch. Warren ducked, Mbick toed over Bunny's nose and flicked over the onrushing Pym as all in Blundell Park sat silently awaiting the free kick for the high-kicking can-can. Well, come on, we're still waiting…we're still waiting….

The Pontoon was collectively so aghast and appalled it was unable to squawk.

Well, there we are. An hour gone, the game gone. And here we still are. We're still waiting…we were all just fools to keep waiting.

Carry on grinding. I would say it's all grist to the mill, but they're both at Boston now, aren't they? Maybe Ben and Zak could set up an ice cream parlour and see where it takes them next. We've got those drift away blues as eyes turn left and watch the planes and boats and trains passing by. It isn't as though there is any passing on the pitch; there's a glitch in the programme Professor Glum.

Town boxed into corners, lumping and dumping. Town boxed into corners, lumping, dumping. Vernam and Kabia came on for Soonsup-Bell and Amaluzor. No, no, hang on, it was the other way round wasn't it? I'd forgotten that Vernam and Kabia were on the pitch. So had they.

It was only a difference of opinion, but really...I mean good manners don't cost nothing do they, eh? The ball rolled out of play and into the Colchester technical area then on into their dug out. Sweeney pursued as their bench dwellers played blind man's bluff and a yellow card waved afore someone, somewhere deep inside the hive mind.

And on we ploughed with time. The Grimsby gears were grinding ever slower, rusting before our very eyes. And as the gears seized up the wheels fell off the blunderbuss.

Shall we talk about the Warren Incident? A chip and chase into the open corner and Bunny Warren slipped whilst sliding. A yellow boot caught him in the chops as the tackle not so much crunched as lightly nibbled at the crust. The fiendish foe arose with Warren prostrate, clutching his face. On play went and Colchester mumbled and bumbled and in all the excitement nobody remembers anything but the coda, the denouement, the epilogue. The referee wandered over to Warren, who had received no treatment, and insisted he went off the pitch for 30 seconds.

Finally, something approaching a moment of ordinariness. A corner and cross, to us, to them? To both, to neither? Is this a kind of dream floating out on the tide?

Ah yes, it's a Town corner repelled, but nobody seems to know where it goes. And what does it mean? It means a Colchester counterattack and panic in the streets as on and on they did run in the sun. With Townites sinking, yellowmen racing around to come up behind us again. A deep dinklette and Anderson, barely three yards out, headed into the opened nettage. Sweeney spread his wings, having learned to fly, and the ball flimbled off the Flying Squadron leader. They claimed handball, Town got a goal kick. Nice to get a bad decision going our way for once.

Pratting about in the corner Soonsup-Bell double disastered inside the Town penalty area, finally passing directly to the lurking Anderson who chipped deeply into the twilight zone. Mbick stretched and missed his cue by the far post.

With less than ten minutes left Rose and Walker replaced Sweeney and McEachran as Town threw on that mythical beast, the second striker. Woo-hoo. Danny, Danny we love you, but you only have seven minutes to save the earth.

And, with two minutes remaining, Grimsby Town (a football team) had what historians and statisticians call "a shot" that moved towards the opposition goal, the ball not deviating or deflecting off yellow socks or blue bottoms, but actually, factually, in reality, really and without hesitation deviation or repetition moving from Amaluzor's foot directly to Macey. I'm sorry, but before then we hadn't got a clue what to do.

Seven minutes were added. I suppose it aids the traffic flow down the Grimsby Road.

Lumps were dumped, heads were headed, Macey flapped a punch away from no-one and fell into a couple of stray bodies, including one sole, single and innocent stripe. The turquoise twit saw fit to award a free kick and on time tick-tick-ticked.

And ticked and ticked and ticked and ticked as kick after kick sailed up, up and away.

The final minute, a final throw of the dice, a final throw of the ball. Rodgers knocked back to Green, who swished deeply from the deep shadows of the Ramstand. With the ball floating down through the clouds Soonsup-Bell soared salmonly above the skies, above his marker and but three yards out. The ball thudded off his bonce and onto the cross bar and another couple of hundred seats were flipped as more homesters moved slowly to their cars.

What's done is done. We can just write off this final scene, take heed of the preceding hour of slim pickings.

They've done it again, they've done it again. They, that ever-changing cast of guests, know how to bung up the Artell machine. Danny's boys were just the next cab on the rank who have The Knowledge. Sometimes size is everything.