Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

12 April 2026

Oh the wayward wind is a restless wind.

Another swirly day of big breeziness as perennially annoying Crewe breeze into town. How are they going to annoy us today? They'll find a way, they always do. Let's start with their paltry platoon of support shoved into the covered corner, very much the naughty step of away support. We only put the tiddlers and fiddlers in there.

Tifos are for teenagers. We're grown-ups. All you've done is leave some litter on our seats.

Town lined up in a 4-2-3-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, Oduor, Burns, Green, Kabia and Cook. The substitutes were Pym, Sweeney, Warren, Walker, Amaluzor, Vernam and Soonsup-Bell. Ah, this must be our C-team, if it's good enough for Crawley, it's good enough for Crewe. Ah, but deep down the team sheet there's a surprise. Di-dum, di-dum, di-dum di-dum di-dum, it's the Return of the Wolds Panther. Well, it makes some people happy.

And on that beumshell we move to ponder the mysterious case of Darragh Burns's boots. They are curious: orange. Oh, Darragh, Darragh, What about the orange? In terms of your shoe selection rip it up and start again you poor old soul, you're on a hiding to nothing. We can see your every step, you're even being tracked from space.

From a feint into a slip and a kicking from the hip Smith was a-Kung-Fu-kicking the crossbar, and it was a little bit frightening for the watching Cheshire cats as he did it with expert timing. For those of a daintier bent, let's say he can-canned the crossbar.

Yes, yes, the Cheshire cheesemakers. In red, with our old friend Omar waiting in the wings for a grand return to the one place he was loved. There's nothing else to say about them. They exist and they are in our way.

OK, let's get to work.

1st half – Do the litterbug
Town kicked off towards the Osmond and the Crewe massive, what a massive crew from Crewe, such big numbers for a big game too. One fan for every day of the week (except Christmas Day, there's no football on Christmas Day these days). Oh no, none of their tea pots are made of tin.

What was that? Sorry, was it Frankie Lane or Frank Ifield who sang The Wayward Wind. Yes, to be frank, we missed it, just like Tezgel. Head tennis and a lob with Town's defence caught at the net, if not in the act. Tezgel lurking, McJannet lurching, the red star racing away.

Smith. Smith. Smith.

That's all I have to say, that's all I need to say. There's nothing more to say about them. The wind, the wobbling wind, the chips, the chases, Crewe eternally chasing chips, chasing rainbows on a sunny day.

Lobbing and bobbing and sad trippers sobbing. A Rodgers side-swipe straight down the middle died in the dead zone between dithering Demetriou and lackadaisical Lawlor. As two gentlemen debated who shall place their cloak upon the ground, Cook entered stage left with a bound and twist and flip over the flapping lemon. Lawlor chased back, pursued by our bear as the ball bumbled and bumbled and bombled towards the emptiness. The Lemon head flip-flapped the ball back but the linesman semaphored sympathetically.

Woah, the hokey-cokey. Woah, the hokey-cokey, Cook's knees bent, Lawlor's arms stretched, ha-ha-ha. We're comedy Cooking tonight.

Crewe chipped. Crewe chased. Crewe chased. Crewe chipped. That's what Crewe do, who knew? Well, Town. In an isolated and singular moment of potential almostness red shorts nibbling our toes as they pranced across the face of the Town penalty area. Kacurri and McJannet slammed the door shut. Maldini mauled and hauled when necessary. Are Crewe feeling chaste?

There is nothing but rubbish skittling across the park.

Now, at some point we have to say…Clarke Oduor. He's spinning round, move out of his way! Well, nothing became of his demi-pointe pirouettes, but they were lovely. Bravo!

Once or twice, perhaps thricely Town triangulated through the red jelly. Moments, mere moments as the final pass deflated against the final red sock Ooh, nice corner Rice. No, sorry, my mind is wandering, nice corner Reece. What have we got for all this huffing and puffing? Cook headed softly down with the ball nurdling towards the bottom left corner. A Creweite kicked it away from near the line. Infiltrations and excitations down the Town right but Cook's backwards airshot cleared for them. And finally, Cyril, Burns underhit his pass releasing Kabia into the area, behind the defence, allowing Demetriou to drift across and block the swizzle.

Three minutes were added. Why what's the point?

I know, I know, there's a big question here, one that has yet to be addressed. So what comes after thrice? A quarce, a quatrice, a quadrice, a quadrille, a quadrilateral, a quad bike? The answer is plain and simple: unfortunately there is no fourth dimension. In this game there's barely a dimension at all. What a great advert for reading a book.

2nd half – You are what you is
Neither team made any changes at half time. Garry Birtles, a semi-professional Jason Stockwood look-alike, eventually left the building. Look, there are his footprints right there climbing back up those heavenly stairs to the Ramstand VIP lounge. Yes, he has style. Bring back The King for the man on the street!

Ah, we have already. There's something in the air of which we all will be aware. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah, they're gonna do it, it won't be long, they've got the word and now they're coming on strong. It's Cook on the rampage…now.

Maldini musclemashed a header boinking back into the shadows of the Ramstand. The Cookie Monster rolled over Connolly, roistering away down to the bye-line, turning right and battering a blaster lowly for the onrushing Green to walk a tap-in from a yard.

All over this land, Town are finally getting the upper hand, turning on the heat and soon they could be completely in command. Cook ducked and Kabia slashed overly from a narrow angle.

Storm the halls, and then tear down the walls and the doors! Break down the doors and hunt them where they are.

Tipping, tapping, passing, movement. Burns released by Rodgers but sighed to a stop. Tapping, tipping, passing and movement as Green purrfected into the flightpath of our Clockwork Orange. Burns hit the bye-line and dinkled a winkle into the heart of darkness. Cook came from behind sending them out of their mind slammer-volleying a blockbuster through the slithering slithy toads.

Shrivelling and shrinking Crewe carried on chasing, Crewe carried on chipping. Frying tonight!

Half way through the half Warren replaced Rodgers as Artell began to withdraw his assets. In an isolated incident, involving red shirts moving south, Kacurri was booked for impeding the forward momentum of a peripheral actor in the events of the day.

Town in eco-saving mode, holding ground, shuffling sideways, content to maintain the status quo. Is there any point in carrying on with this? This game is won, their day is done and here comes the sun. It's all right, it feels like years since Crewe got near. Stripes sinking and Tezgel winking wide as he crumpled and prod-nodded wide from nearby with Smith caught twixt a Mars Bar and a Milky Way.

With fifteen minutes left Turi and Oduor were replaced by Sweeney and Walker as Artell stripped the midfield cupboard bare. A touch too much, an amble and flick too far, Mariners moments messed up by a surfeit of thinking. Don't think, do!

Ah, Omar Bogle, Omar Bogle, Omar, Omar came on and was smothered in surround-sound lack of loathing, an absence of antipathy, and reciprocated the love with a succession of pratfalls and miscontrols. Thanks for the memories Omar.

Walker pounced on red flakery and Cook prod-lobbed early and widely. And the phased power-down entered stage three where the safe cooling of the core is complete. With ten minutes left Soonsup-Bell and Amaluzor replaced Cook and Green. A Warren cross was toe-clawed away for a corner. Staunton's cute drooper-looper dropped between the lemon Lawman and his unable deputies and Soonsup-Bell's dinky back header loop-looped onto roof of the net.

Crewe, blimey, you still here?

With a couple of minutes left fiddling and faffing about nowhere in particular, Bogle free-kicked quickly. Holicek hobnobbed into the penalty area, Sweeney lunged and the redster plunged. Silence, men standing around, shoulders shrugging, and eventually the arm of the law stretched out. A penalty, Oh really? O’Reilly swiped left with his right and Smith guessed right to his right, but the flight of the ball had too much height and try as he might our keeper couldn't keep it out. Yeah, whatever, what a drag.

Seven minutes were added as the faithful flooded out enumerating their poultry. Town in training mode, faffing about near goal, poncing and preening and turning back from shotting for one more trick and flick. A red chip, a red chase, a deep red lob-cross from their right. Demetriou arose above and beyond the wandering Smith in the wandering wind to nod in and wonder what might have been. You can carry on wandering lad, you cannot reach us now, no matter how you try, it's over, walk on by.

Stupidly easy but stupidly close. This was, in reality, a walk in the park. Crewe were terrible, flattered by the scoreline as they were flattened by an old bulldozer that chugged and tugged and bugged them into distraction. Like at Crawley, the greatest danger to Town was Town themselves, complacently conserving the spoils of war rather than continuing to crush feeble opponents.

What a delight to be grumbling about winning easily. Onwards and upwards, tomorrow the world! Well, Chesterfield.