Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

24 August 2025

Over the hills and out of the clouds it just came to me in a dream, like St. Paul on the road to Domestos. A superclub, the King of clubs, they have it all. A restaurant, a bistro, serving food, but not just any old food. Proper food. Scampi, chicken Kievs, garlic bread...garlic bread - it's the future, I've tasted it.

Bigger, better, faster, stronger, rising out of the ashes. Accrington Stanley

On a secretly humid afternoon striped Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1, some still insist 4-3-3, formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, McEachran, Khouri, Amaluzor, Kabia, Burns. The substitutes were Auton, Sweeney, Brown, Vernam, Soonsup-Bell, Rose and Gardner. Where are they all, where are they that are all we have standing? Rodgers in Warren's position, Warren in Rodgers' position, Turi tantalisingly tangoing with Little George. Was Big Dave's position on rotation innocent or a diversion? What we get is what we'll see.

The Stannermen stood around, ignored by the Lincolnshire legions, except Porky Paddy, we can't let any old Irons get away without the obligatory oinking.

Oh, and don't forget tonight's turns at the social club: Los Reales del Paraguay, Bobby Knutt, Miss Helen Shapiro and all the way from America singing songs from the shows, Howard Keel.

As we're at the Wham Stadium, young Town guns may as well go for it.

1st half – Disco Inferno
Town kicked off away from the eleven hundred Townites snuggled down the side and lounging over the open terrace, dining al fresco.

Heads and tails, heads and fails, the ball sailing into history. Rodgers fell over a toadstool, Staunton coyly drooped the free kick into the centre of town. Wobbly Wright punched and Staunton bedraggled. Biff, bang wallop. Codswallop.

If you invert an inversion is that a reversion or is this simply a diversion from a drab and dreary, slightly weary stroll through ten minutes of stodgy sticky toffee pudding?

Hang 'em high! He's gonna get caught out just wait and see. Red raiding, a deep drip beyond Staunton and Charlie Brown noodled. The Mighty Pym settled down to scrape away from the post right into Walton's flightpath. A monochrome duvet hovered and Walton wallied wide.

Home balls in the box, corners, long chucks on tap and Pym picking up the pieces to the sound of a saxophone and whooping from the average Town fans behind. Uh-huh, alright, woo and all that. Clattering and chattering as Bauress blasted McEachran into space, or at least the space between Artell and the Town bench. Words were spoken, eyebrows raised.

Has our Celtic fringe been trimmed? No it's an optical delusion, the locks flowed as Burns burstled and passed betwixt and between toes. Kabia swayed and splayed by home hooves way out left. Staunton coiled deliciously into the corridor of uncertainty and Kabia slinky-slunk poked past the legs akimbo keeper.

What a nice surprise. Kick off your shoes, relax and float downstream. Slow, slow, quick, slow. Cha-cha-cha. Have a banana. Khouri dredged the local river bed, Kabia winked and Turi purringly arced a perfect pass back into Kabia's stride. The home defence sundered, Khouri thundered forward, Wright lay down and Evan knows we're miserable now. Khouri mis-scruffed against the prone keeper, the ball ballooned back and Town's longest serving player balloon-volleyed towards Turf Moor. Is there more of this? Ooh, ah, just a little bit. Turi tickled and teased through the right and Khouri stretched to miss a tantalising trickle through the six-yard box.

Rare shafts of golden light in a half full of buffeting and barging, home charging by the minute. A Lancashire clogfest of chuggers and muggers playing rugger.

Three minutes were added, probably. Who knows, Brian Potter was so busy telling us who won the half time raffle he forgot to mention how long.

"On behalf of the Committee, I should like to tell you we made a mistake in offering the raffle prize of a diving suit. It is in fact a divan suite."

Barry and Jean from Ramsbottom, red ticket 342, were dead chuffed. Those built-in storage drawers make them a functional choice for homes where space is at a premium.

This half will linger long only in the memory of a whelk.

2nd half – Robot Wars
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Oh, has it started again, I hardly noticed.

Turi chased a Pym punt deep down the Town right. A swivel, swerve and slick, quick flick released the onrushing Rodgers. Rowson stood his ground, Harvey hit the ground, and the referee complied with FIFA regulations, awarding Town the mandatory penalty. Kabia picked up the ball and placed it on the spot. Shall we play penalty lotto? Last time he went low and right and twice before he went low and left. Will he double or triple bluff the keeper? Will he triple bluff himself? Which way today Jaze?

To no-one's surprise he reverted to the original plan and long-levered Wright read the runes to palm away from the foot of his right post. Five penalties, two goals. That's datatainment.

Are we going to slump and lump? Not yet baby. Revved up and raring to go, stripers swept through the valley, from left to right and Amaluzor slashed and sliced before any red shirts billowed. Another minute, another Amaluzor drift and dribble wibbled across the face of goal with the Town crowd glaring at Town players staring at them.

With Town beginning to roll over them Accrington made a double substitution. Town still kept rolling over them.

A hoo-haa in the deep left corner, with Amaluzor a-wiggling and waggling, mesmerising the home defence with his dancing shoes. Turi read the tea leaves, perceptively gliding between two wardrobes and flipping to Kabia. Fluid Jaze spun and slapped high into the side netting before anyone could say antidisestablishmentarianism.
Do you remember way back when, all those years ago, when Staunton coiled and Kabia poked in from the centre of the six-yard box? You do? Good, then reverse your polarity and imagine, if you will, a mirror image half an hour later. Staunton coiled deliciously into the corridor of uncertainty and Kabia's slinky-slunk poke collided with the legs akimbo keeper. An egg was scrambled and there we are, that's just about it from a suddenly forlorn and flagging Town.

Vernam came on for Burns. This may be a coincidence. Just because two things happen doesn't mean there is a causal link.

Manhandled Mariners, stripes slashed and burned with impunity. Up and under, up and under, they seek it here, they seek it there, they seek a long throw everywhere. A quick chuck in and much messing around in the middle as Townites mugged a floppy-haired funster. Henderson threw himself to floor and grabbed the ball as a triple Townite clamp snicked off his toes and were about to flock forward. The whistling wally rewarded the panicking plunger. This central villain arose to coil the free kick over the wall and Pym skipped and tipped over.

The corner flew in, men flung themselves down as the ball boombled back out to the flank. Heads were rubbed and McEachran and a foe walked off for some sponge-based magic. The ref walked over to the wing and flip-rolled perfectly into the path of Henderson for an instant half-volley cross to the near post. Walton snuck in front of Khouri and flickled up and watched the ball achingly arc over Pym into the farthest corner.

Energised and incentivised the Cloggermen kept kicking the ball and the man higher and longer.

Huffing and puffing, Town slowing, Accrington growing. Chucking and chuckling, flapping getting flappier. A huge hurl headed on, headed up and heading into the net. Pay attention, there's a flag fluttering; Walsall redux.

Gardner replaced Amaluzor, who'd shrunk as his full-backs growled, and the homesters doubled down on change, doubling up on the flanks, doubling their efforts to spoil and foil. Fizz and whizz on their right, Mooney ducked at the far post, blamping back across and wide as Vernam froze. Now there really is a causal link.

Town threatened to threaten to appear to seem to be a potential threat to home safety. Overhits, underhits, whacks and hacks and finally Gardner swingled away on the right, carousing a clip across the face of goal. Everyone stood and admired the invention, no-one seemed to pay attention or have the intention to accpet this invitation.

Eleven minutes were added for reasons no-one could fathom. And Rose replaced Kabia, whose batteries had long lost their charge. And Rose did fall, a frequent flyer to the turf, a state of affairs that did appal all in red. Danny Rose, spoiling the spoilers, winning a series of free kicks that held as much jeopardy as a privet hedge.

There were moments when the Stannermen intruded upon on private thoughts. Matthews threw himself over a non-existent Gardner toe to win nothing but the derision of the terrace and, it is believed by scholars in collars, that Accrington Stanley had a shot. On target. The streets are clear of danger and disease, for Mr Pym walked behind the carthorse with a shovel.

As an extra minute appeared from the depths of the referee's unconscious id the game ended when a home hurl was repelled.

A cakewalk turned into a desperate draw. Town were sucked into the vortex, ailing, failing, sluggishly wilting away against your common or garden basic bullying bargeballing.

Should have been better, should have been worse. Town ended up playing fourth division football, and look where that gets you. The fourth division. Passing makes you move up. Pass it on.