Cod Almighty | Diary

Semper piscatus

6 November 2015

Retro Diary writes: As I approached the Main Stand turnstile last Friday night for the Cheltenham match, I reached into my pocket for my season ticket, which lives there permanently. It didn't seem to be there. "Bugger," I thought, "I've lost it." After tracking quickly backwards in my mind to where it might have fallen out and wondering if I had time to go back, I realised that it was there after all. It was just that it didn't feel quite as thick as I was expecting.

If your season ticket's starting to get thin it can only mean one thing – Town shouldn't be ninth.

Time, then, like winter follows autumn, for the pro-Hursts and the anti-Hursts to start arguing. The pro-Hursts will say that he got us one kick from promotion. That he recruits good players and that the team has improved year on year. They say that changing manager too often is disruptive and doesn't make things any better. They say that points have been lost through things outside the manager's control. They say he is devoted to the cause, and they trust him.

The antis will say that his aspirations are too modest – that he appears too happy with underwhelming draws and an unsatisfactory league position. They say that our division-murdering team is being constantly pulled back into the pack by odd team selections, needless tinkering and destructive substitutions. They say he is a contrarian. They say we don't do very well at the things for which no particular talent is required – closing down, and seeing games out. And that we have no plan B.

Of course, they are all, all of them, right. I often wonder how many people's opinions would change if they could see the off-field stuff that the manager sees.

We have no idea how much the players actually give a toss about anything except for their wage. We have no idea about the extent to which they whine and take their personal power struggles out on each other. We have no idea how pissed off they get when they are left out, because they will never say. We have no idea how well they carry out the instructions they're given. We have no idea which players need an almighty bollocking and which a little gentle encouragement, and how easy it is to get these the wrong way round. Like the England job, maybe the Grimsby manager's task is just too hard for anyone, especially given the sky-high expectations.

The manager, of course, can't do everything. Some games the team will purr, while other performances will inevitably be subject to unforeseen breakdowns or need to be sacrificed for essential maintenance. Unexpected things happen, sometimes on the night. We know that. If needed, excuses are everywhere to be found.

Hursty has a very obvious strategy of signing players who are easy to work with. He is not a shouter, and has, in the past, clearly offloaded good players at whom he may have otherwise had to shout. His interviews show a fragile likeability, although when put under pressure he can sometimes be childishly curt in the face of very anodyne questioning. Sometimes his voice may show such timidity that it nearly disappears, and you think he may be about to cry. If anything, I think, this makes him slightly more likeable. This gentle amiability may be one reason why he seems able to attract players of quality, the promise of a slightly less testosterone-dominated few months no doubt being highly attractive to a journeyman in this most overtly macho of professions.

But what you can't escape is this: it has been shown to a high degree of statistical reliability that a huge part of final league position can be explained by playing budget alone. This means that if we have, say, the third biggest playing budget in the division, then even if the manager just recruits any player he can afford, regardless of anything else, we should finish about third. That is the statistical truth. Under those circumstances, then, finishing third is not an achievement. Success for the manager is getting us above that position; failure, below.

Games will be a whole lot less cultured without Disley – a legend in a dark time, to whom we should show maximum appreciation while we can

I haven't watched the highlights of last Friday's match – I tend not to when we've lost. I don't need telling that the handball was in the box, because I saw it at the time. Notwithstanding the failings of the officials (who obviously forgot about endless TV replays when they chickened out), for me we lost last Friday's match in the midfield.

The saddest thing on the night, for me, was seeing the game played too quickly for Craig Disley, our long-time captain, calming influence, exquisite professional, and scorer of many of the most important goals in recent times. In his time here we have repaid his loyalty and undoubted quality by achieving precisely nothing, and it is sad to see him struggling in what must be the twilight of his playing days. Games will be a whole lot less cultured without him, and we hope we can sign off with something special for him this year. A legend in a dark time, to whom we should show maximum appreciation while we can.

For our general psychological well-being, tomorrow's FA Cup tie with St Albans City is now a must-win. Saints chairman Nick Archer is taking the whole thing very seriously, and is laying on an especially comfy coach for his players for the trip. "I've heard potentially we could take two coach-loads of fans up there which would be amazing," he says in the Herts Advertiser. Better open an extra turnstile.

St Albans is a place I know and like. London's commuter belt wouldn't do for everyone – here in Lincolnshire we're rather fond of our open spaces and unpretentious cheapness. But St Albans is beautifully positioned just outside the M25, and in between the M1 and A1. You could make a better team out of the footballers who live there than will ever play for the town's own club.

Roman Verulamium, as St Albans was known, was the first stop out of London on Watling Street, and retains much of its rich history. The abbey is a real treasure. The place suffered multiple invasions in the 20th century – firstly by the onslaught of London's overspill, which has left it as an island of civilisation in what is now the capital's northern ring of death. Secondly by the motor car, whose destructive influence has disproportionately ruined the prettier places. And thirdly by rich city types, who have moved in without any feel for the place, and pushed house prices to levels of vertiginous stupidity.

One assumes that the St Albans City fanbase have eschewed the big London clubs, and nearby Watford, out of nostalgia for their lost, pretty market town – something which must be getting harder and harder to justify as the years go by. We respect them completely for that, and should give them a warm welcome tomorrow for their first ever visit.

For us, tomorrow we get a taste of life without Captain Sensible – he serves a nicely timed suspension. Everyone else is OK, although Andy Monkhouse may not start. Conor Townsend's loan is extended until 11 January.

For them… well it shouldn't really matter, should it. Really?

Finally today, check out a new article here on CA, in which Pat Bell – one of the editors of the utterly brilliant new book We are Town, which you need to order right now – ponders why so many GTFC fans are excellent writers. UTM!