Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

15 April 2026

Oh to be in Chesterfield now that spring is here. I’d rather not, thank you.

OK, it's business time, you know what I'm trying to say? I'm trying to say it's time for business at the business end of the season. Hang on, there's no rhyme nor reason to this – if we were allocated 1,046 tickets how come there are 1,054 Town supporters huddled together deep in the corner of this foreign field?

Beats me, though I'd rather we beat them.

Town lined up in the cookies and cream kit in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Staunton, Oduor, Turi, Burns, Green, Kabia and Cook. The substitutes were Pym, Warren, Walker, Svanthorsson, Vernam, Amaluzor and Soonsup-Bell. Same as Saturday save for a teasing and tantalising glimpse of the Wolds Panther crouching in the bushes, ready to strike when the moment is right.

The wind changed direction and the crowd caught a sight of our crazy keeper's jive. Well the referee won't like it…kick the crossbar, kick the crossbar.

Let the games begin.

1st half – Saved by the bell
Town kicked off away from our little corner with a whelping wallop towards the Cookie Monster…and Cook rolled his man and rolled wide.

Rolling, rolling, rolling, move 'em out, head 'em up, head 'em up, move 'em on, cut 'em out, ride 'em in, keep movin', movin', movin'. Cook snap-dripped onto the roof of the net, Kacurri's clip zipped through two Blues Brothers. Cook slippered through and rolled past the leaking Boot and across the face of goal. Kabia content to await the ball, the home fans approvin' as Curtis zip-wired into frame to save the game.

And then they had an attack. And that's that.

Town, straight and narrow, sliced like a marrow. Spritely Spireites cantering freely, triangulating and strangulating. Whither our wings? Hither and thither, Town in a dither as Naylor awkwardly noodled across the face of goal. Town winging it in defence with absence of activity. Space. Alarm bells ringing, but the we're still singing. Laceration on their left and Naylor swiped over from the penalty spot. A miss is just a miss and a sigh is just a sigh, time goes by.

They're here, they're there, but Town are nowhere, waiting for the train that never comes.

Inflitrations on the left, Kabia abandoning Staunton to his fate, the escape route clear. The ball finagled and flung farly, Rodgers a fattened piggy in the middle. A quick one while Burns was away and Gordon tip-toed through the tulips tickling into a crowded house. Mandeville awkwardly leapt and toe-steered into the bottom left corner as Smith chased the lady.

Kabia, the ephemeral gossamer galloper, dissolved in the presence of men on the edge of the Chesterfield penalty area. Braybrooke took a moment to survey the Peak District and precision passed over the lurking, lurching Maldini. Bonis, in the centre circle, chested down, scuttled on and passed past and over the plunging Smith.

The home stands bubbling, this is getting troubling. Dobra drove his sheep through the centre of Town and Smith sat on Bonis's blamp. Ooh, matron!

When you lose control and you've got no soul it's a Town tragedy. It's hard to bear, we're going nowhere. What's that flying around? No, no, not another drop kick vaguely towards Cook. There's a bat in the house! With that complex nose-leaf it's obviously a Greater Horseshoe. They're highly sensitive to disturbance you know, get on the Batphone and call the game off. Save the bat and save the game. It's a win-win situation.

As half time approached Town finally approached the Chesterfield penalty area again. And Kabia souffléd again, halfway between here and there out left. The referee took pity and Staunton loopy drooped a free kick into the heart of their penalty area. The ball plopped off Kabia's surprised thigh into Kabia's consternated path and Kabia swiftly slapped straight in before the Boot boy could say antidisestablishmentarianism.

Wahey-hey-hey!

Four minutes were added. Big Bad McFad buffled a deeply drippy corner into the side netting. That is all.

Now that was absolutely terrible, devoid of everything but luck. There was not one pass, just hoofs. I cannot lie to you about our chances, we were so bad we probably had the home crowd's sympathy.

2nd half – On a wing and a prayer
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Burns!

Kabia!

Please put us out of their misery.

Rodgers was replaced by Warren. The magic potion has worn off, he's Harvey Rodgers again.

Things almost happened now and again. A header high, a prod wide, a break, a break and panic; so much time, so much space, the Bluesmen forever hugging the touchline, unmolested by unconcerned Townites. Town? Just lobbing and sobbing, for whatever happened to the beautiful game played by beautiful people? Alan Buckley was spotted searching for a grave to spin in.

Kabia flaked out and Turi tried to sweep up the detritus, Odour a spectator. A triplet of ravenous Spireites pounced and Braybrooke twinkled Naylor free down the unmanned left. The long forgotten loanee looked up and trolled across the face of goal past the scurrying Smith into the path of bonny bouncing Bonis. The Irish rover sninkled a winkle against the post from a tight spot.

More them themming, toying with this dead cat. We are nothing, we have nothing, there is nothing. A momentary moment, the slimmest slither of false hope. A break, more tans than blues and…Burns. The ball was with Burns. Then it wasn't. An audible shrug, a visible sigh, this was Burns at his most Burnsian.

And then they were gone. Were they ever here? With 20 or so minutes left Burns and Oduor were replaced by Amaluzor and Walker. And things immediately stopped being worse. Not better, just not worse. A bit of heft, a little bit of je ne sais quoi and Town won a corner. A corner! Staunton swung it high and outly, Cook retreated, arose on the penalty spot and thwonked agin the bar.

Chickens are often headless. Chesterfield waited for the inevitable hoof, a Grimsby team never knowlingly passing along the ground. Moments of almostness as Bluesmen lurked on the edge of Town. A cross, a clearance and Stirk volleyed against the outside of the post.

Heads and tails, heads and fails. Here comes the seventh cavalry, the knight in shining armour, a hero, the man for all season. Slim Charles replaced Kabia with ten minutes or so left. Could he be the catalyst that sparks a revolution? He took a corner. What a waste.

What a waste, what a waste of time.

How long before we can go home? Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds…
Wallops and wellies, Warren's enquiry was blocked back and Amaluzor dribbled towards the furthest extremities of the penalty area and waited for Donacien to breath upon his outer garments and tumbled. Where is that fickle finger pointing? Bluesmen threw themselves to the floor in despair, the home stands bewailing the iniquity of local life. Eight months of hard work ruined, ruined, by one decision.

Whose turn is it to miss this week?

Amidst the mithering, Green grabbed the ball and handed it to Staunton who waited, waited, and waited again for the hullaballoo to subside. Silence. A cold silence enveloped the stands. One peep, two steps and a crisp roll towards the bottom corner and an eruption as Boot plunged low and right, clutching the spoils.

Elation, deflation, the end. The end indeed.