Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

3 May 2026

Up to the sunny Wirral came some Irishmen one day to sit with two thousand fellow Townites and watch the Mighty Mariners play. I say, I say, I say, why are we here today? It's a long way to the banks of the Mersey, it's a long way to go for a side show.

The sun is indeed up, the sky is indeed blue, the crowd are indeed making the noise they are supposed to do on a May afternoon. Tranmere hanging around a trapdoor in need of points, but Town in need of nothing but the avoidance of injury doubts.

Town lined up in red and blue in a 4-2-3-1 formation as follows: Smith, Warren, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Walker, Amaluzor, Green, Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Pym, Staunton, Oduor, Burns, Kabia, Brown and Soonsup-Bell. Are we weaker or stronger without our flying full-backs, Clarke the Closer and the Jazee? Do changes and rest even make a difference these days? Rodgers deserves a day off and, after all, he needs some time to pop down B&Q to buy a shelf for his trophies. Four by two by two by four, a couple of brackets and bish-bash-bosh up it goes. Harvey lad, don't forget the Rawl plugs. Like a dash of Worcester Sauce, it's the secret of success.

The good old days are gone and time is marching on for the Tranmere fans. There's a fretting far off in the home stands, but a party in the Cowshed. No, no, no not the big match comfy chair – the Beachballs of Doom be flying tonight. Hey kids, we never win when they're bouncing about. It's been in the Laws of the Game since 1875, it's in the small print below the introduction of the crossbar and changing ends at half time. Do your research, know your history!

Have we really come this far to watch some semi-Scousers cry? Were any of them a Teenage Armchair Tranmere fan?

1st half – The Hustle
Town kicked off away from the Mariners Massive with a spring in their step and a song or two in our hearts. We're teasing, we're easing through the gears and striking fear into the locals. Vernam crossed, Green headed. Four words that couldn't possibly mean anything to you without further facts. Alas, dear reader, there are no further facts beyond this act.

How can I say it with tact? A huge hump and Green flicked on into a vast void populated only by Andy, Andy Cooke. The unmolested Cookie Monster successfully avoided scoring by swipe volleying across the face of the farthest post.

At last, the first hints that there is an opposition. Insipid despairoballing nonsense; aimless, feckless, hopeless. Are they even bothered?

Watch, watch it now, here it comes….a wallop towards Woolly Bully Woolery, their woeful wafter atop a pyramid of piffleballing. A babble, a bobble, and the scrambled slap bimble-bumbled off Town toes and skittled to the unmarked Whitaker, ten or so yards out beyond Bunny Warren. The bleach baby blurted into nowhere. Aimless punting, a bit of shunting, Town messing around near some water. Warren, on the edge on the Town area, tried to nutmeg through a nearby white-legged Wirralite. He failed, Whitaker had visions of Vernamation to rouse the Trannerman nation. He failed. The careful coil crawled over and around what nettage there was. And that was their chance that was.

And we're back to normal. Tranmere, transparently tepid, total toshballing, a holey mess in defence, a shambles of artless ambles beyond: vimless, vigourless and hopeless. Town ticking over, time ticking on. Marosi, menaced by marauding Marinermen, fly-kicked straight to Vernam. With the keeper stranded and panicking backwards Slim Charles advanced and tickled towards two Townites to his right. At this point it should be highlighted that today, Matthew, he had come as Keiran Green, not Greeny, Keiran Green. A knock-kneed shindig saw the ball slurp straight out of play. An ordinary player who can extra-ordinary things, this was extra-ordinarily, embarrassingly sad and bad.

Walker this, Walker that, Walker blocked and Walker blocked again. Woah, hang on, there's more Walkering. An interception on the halfway line and our Little Jammie Dodgerman drove straight down the middle. The sun was never brighter, the grass never greener and Walker rarely keener for you and I to forget what happened next. A scruffled dribbler bumbled lowly, slowly into the diving Marosi's arms.

Wahey, and again. This time Turi the Tickerman glided serenely goalwards, dimpled sideways and Walker's wallop went off white toes for a corner. Or was this when he crinkled highly and widely? Mere details of history, the facts are the facts, Walker was running the whole kit and caboodle.

Now and again, when their dropkicks dropped into unmanned space, there was the illusion of activity, of danger from these curiously flaccid phantoms. Maldini and McJannet bricked up the Mersey Tunnel and Walker made a tackle. No, the tackle, that tackle, a splendiferous chase, scrape and scoop to fell a giant mushroom cloud. Just once, maybe twice, the illusions scared the horses as light cast shadows upon the Cowshed walls. A Woolly Bully header went well wide after McJannet McDermotted this ailing apology. And they messed again, oh yes they messed again. Up and under hoping, the ball scuffled around and ricobounded off stray body parts and Joseph leaned back to wimple way, way into the crowd. Has he no decorum? The ball, like Pete Wild, hit the roof and dropped onto a book reader's lap, disturbing the book mark. It was page 223, my dear, just after the bit where the governess opens the secret door and sees a flight of stairs. What a load of nonsense you say. Well, that's the theme for next month's book club choice.

That's far, far too much about them, for they were collectively and individually an ephemeral presence in our lives, like empty crisp packets blowing across the pitch. They were an ephemeral presence in their own lives. Their problem, not ours.

Town ticking over, time ticking on. Town, Town more not less Town. Jump up and down and move it all round. Rotating the bowling, a little bit of swing, a little bit of spin, a little bit of Sweeney in the sun. Vernam clipped infield, Walker dissected some frogs, Green spun and tickled and what have we got? Amaluzor  emphatically oooofed it high over the lunging Marosi. It looks like this when you're doing it right.

Two minutes were added. Two added minutes contain 120 seconds. There is no more to it than that.

Town are trying to avoid scoring and Tranmere are barely trying to avoid relegation. This is far too easy. This is barely a match. Is there a catch?

2nd half – The shuffle
Neither team made any changes at half time. Well, not in personnel and not initially.

Bermuda triangles as Cook and Vernam exchanged glances and the Monster mashed a swinging dipper into Tranmere's deepest of deep leftness. In a moment of clarity Green remembered he was Greeny and hook flashed lowly across the face of goal. Amaluzor hurtled in, stretched and made the impossible possible, massaging a poke over from four yards. Roaming, roving and Tranmere in a tizz. Total Town, total football and Sweeney totally bedraggled wide.

As a drone hovered above the home end on came two Town rejects: Dennis the occasional menace and old Ironside.

C'mon Tranners, change with the times, check out who's going down, forget what used to be, deal with reality. Slowly the cooker was turned up from Gas Mark 1, abandoning any pretence at considering association football and going full-on despairaballing. Route Minus 1: whack it early, whack it high, whack it long and just run Forrest run.

But not before Dennis shin-scraped away from their nearest post. Mr Vernam, I said elevation. Remember this rhyme all the time - no deviation or hesitation it must be elevation.

And in the distance a rumble was heard. Just a blip on the seismometer, the merest hint of an imminent eruption. Punt, a wallop, a punting wallop. Ironside chased a bouncing punt deep into the Town penalty area. Arms as rigid as a juggernaut, clenching his fists, pointing knuckles straight ahead, Smith was clattered by the failed trialist of yore and his hands wrapped in cotton wool by the magic spongers.

Town tip-toeing down the left and Vernam released. A near-post roller, a triplet of Townites converging and scattergun swipe away. McJannet trundled by the dug outs and muffed a back pass à la Gresty Road. Ironside rolled on, rolled around the stumbling Kacurri and prepared himself for the municipal reception lauding his legendary status as The Man Who Saved Tranmere. Perhaps pondering his choice of puddings a little too long, McJannet's magnificent tackle brought the Town end to its feet. The home crowd were already on theirs as this moment roused them to believe in miracles.

Into Town they flew, blocking for chucks and crowding Town's house. Up in the gods they lingered and gawped and cheered for a corner. I don't know why, they rarely lead to a goal these days. Persistent pressure and balls in the box. A corner once, a corner twice and Smith arose alone within a crowd to thumple down and thrimple in from dead centre. And they were dead happy. It led to a goal this day. At least it doesn't matter anymore.

At this Oduor and Soonsup-Bell replaced Green and Cook, thus removing or two sturdiest corner supplements. Town were getting smaller and shorter as Tranmere were bigger and longer. Up and down, up and down, higher and higher, it's a living thing. Ooh, an Oduor scraple, Town still tinkering at the edges. They had another corner, they headed over. Beyond that there is nothing but whacks and chases.

Kabia came on for Turi, Town got smaller.

Town still ticking away. Kabia wandered, Vernam's steerage was blocked. Kabia wondered at Walker's trickery-dickery-dockery and Amaluzor's sensational step-over. He wondered even more as the wicked wobbler swerved away from Marosi's bat, but the showystopper edged it through the gully area past Soonsup-Bell.

With five minutes left Staunton and Burns replaced Sweeney and Amaluzor and five minutes later five minutes were added.

Warren dallied when he could have dillied, Walker was booked for upending fleeing white shorts and Dennis had a shot of no consequence or interest to anyone ever, anywhere at all.

And now there is no more time at all. Go on ref get the ball as we recognise their ages, it's a Tranmere teenage rampage. On to the pitch they tumbled with hilariously inept posturing, flicking the Vs and telling us our mums smell. One day, way, way into the future, a semi-famous semi-Scouse comedian will publish his memoirs, attributing his love of the stage to the day he had an audience of two thousand laughing along with his antics. Dear boy, for the record, we were laughing at you, not with you.

Throwing a smoke bomb into the Town end was beyond the joke, but a few clips round the ear from the local bobbies kept them in line and it's the end of the line for that lot. For us it was merely an inconvenient stop on the line, destination finally known.

To Salford, and beyond!