Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

11 May 2026

Bring the good old bugle boys and they'll sing another song.

A bright but sneakily chill Sunday afternoon in the Park and they did sing the chorus from Racks to Imperial Avenue while they were marching through Meggies. Meanwhile the experienced old Mariners avoided the queue-to-be as we dreamed of going to Wem-ber-ley. Whatever will be, will be.

Excited? Some just can hide it. We shouldn't even think about tomorrow and the ticket trolley-dash.

Town lined up in a 4-2-3-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, Oduor, Amaluzor, Green, Kabia and Cook. The substitutes were Pym, Sweeney, Warren, Walker, Burns, Vernam and Soonsup-Bell. Ah-ha, so we're back to the team of that week, the best of what's left. It is what it is; is it safe?

Salford. One really should not patronise these little clubs with no fans nor money, they do exceptionally well to compete against historic behemoths of the lower leagues. It really is such a shame, nay, a scandal, that the media ignores their achievements. They really could do with publicity. Salford, well done you.

And beyond the Incontinence Stand ships sail by and the lone and level sands stretch far away.

1st half – Shake the moneymakers
Town kicked off towards the Osmond where Gary's Gang had taken up a MASSIVE 88.39% of their allocation. It's the Salford 62 I feel happy for, another chance to roam the seaside streets in search of proper fish and chips.

Did someone say chips?

Higgling and piggling, Amaluzor wiggled his woggle, Rodgers crossed and a red head noodled up and out into the nether regions of nothingness, nowhere in particular. The ball dropped and jaws dropped as Staunton's cushion volley plopped into the top right corner with nary a redshirt moving, their luminescent lump static and three stands ecstatic.

Did you see it on the video? Twenty six seconds and they're in trouble.

We've only just started! And yet that's the end of it.

Fast and furious, frantic and frenetic, barging and charging, over the top, down the sides. Salford direct and to the point. The point is always Graydon's head; they've got Monkhouse Syndrome. Green nudged and nurdled, half-shoved, half-pushed, a series of half fouls ignored as Action Man lost control and the ball smingled out in the shadows of the Ramstand.

A chuck and bundle and McJannet joined the fray. The ball dimpled infield, and in a bound they were free, swarming towards the Pontoon. Oh dear, Odour nibbled in the 'D' at passing toes, nicking the ball back perfectly into the path of Cesay, who turned and scraped across Smith into the bottom left corner.

So here we are again in the playground of broken hearts. This will not do, this wasn't in our script, there aren't supposed to be tears before teatime. We're losing on the swings, we're losing on the roundabouts. A collective scream that's born from sorrow as the ref indulged red shifts but blocked monochrome manoeuvres. Cook furiously waving at far off flagging, the linesman under the Police Box missing what he wouldn't see, seeing what he couldn't see, seeing him in action is believing that dark times are ahead.

They're fizzing and whizzing, one step ahead of the shoeshine, two steps away from the bye-line. Desperate lunges and desperate plunges, Town on the brink of a sinkhole. N'Mai surged into the deepest, darkest recesses of the penalty area, pursued by the Pharaoh of funk. The geezer from the freezer gave a cold hard stare and the fleet-footed flankerman fell to the floor. The weed tumbled and tumbleweeds skittled across the pitch.

Two left feet but oh so neat, Jazee, it's football not basketball.

Yoiks, Scooby. Threatened by shadows and given a fright, Staunton constantly exposed on the right. Does he know where they are? A cross, Cesay flicked, Odoh nicked and N'Mai chased and returned a dinkle across the face of goal. Yeah, like, yeah. No, actually, no! Is there an outbreak of labyrinthitis in Lancashire? They can't stand up for falling down. Have they got back ache? From smotherball to spoilerball they got it all worked out

Can we work it out? We keep getting it wrong and still they think it's alright, banging Cook's head against the red wall that won't crumble. Longer, higher, even longer, even higher. A drippy diagonal headed into their penalty area by Green and Rodgers almost, yes almost, at the point of nearlyness. Staunton's in-swinging deep dripper dropped down against something that may have been striped. Swipe right, don't try to be deft, that's daft. A minor moment of peril, tending towards a smidgeon of possible concern.

Amaluzor's extravagant step-over yielded a couple of small potatoes that were left at the bottom of the bag as fiddles were faffed. Between the interminable throw-ins and amateur swooning Green's chesty knockdown rolled to the Cookie Monster whose swivel-swinger ballooned off red socks for a corner. In, out and Turi the Teaser pretended to chuck the ball for the eager puppy to chase. With the red setter, tongue out, ears flapping, hurtling towards the docks, Turi purred past with a fabtastic feint, crimpled lowly to the near post whereupon Kabia hit across the line and ankled-skied to a passing steward.

Town hit long, Salford hit longer, how much longer left of this toshery? A lump into the future and Maldini nudged sufficiently in mid-air to head sideways back infield. Two shakes of a lamb's tail and Graydon scraped across goal.

I'm getting bored of this sludgefest of sluggery and chuggery. Artelballery at its most artless, Grimsby at their most guileless, the artillery shells kept landing in the empty fields. A corner headed over by Amaluzor, a corner headed over by Oduor. There you are. All that and all for nothing. All for one and one for all? Who can tell, we're asleep, the ground a deathly silence. At least in a library you can hear a book close.

With five minutes left to half time, a series of unfortunate incidents, a triplet of dithering and dallying led to a Salford corner on their left. Swung in high to the very centre Oluwo arose above Rodgers to thwankle down off McJannet's head and the ball slowly apologised into the centre right with Smith stranded and pointing at some red shorts standing right in front of him. The ref glanced to his right but the unwaving linesman remained mute. And thus began an academic debate between the forces of good and evil. Is it a moot point to point out Mnoga, blindingly obviously offside was stood directly in line of the path of the header?

It is a moot point. The matter has no practical significance because the situation had already been decided. They would not yield to reason and thus a season is about to end.

As was this half. Two minutes were added, so they say. They say a lot, don't they, even though not a lot happened. Actually not even that much. What just happened? Town, like the officials, lost the plot and that's your lot.

2nd half – Stop messin' around
No changes were made by either team at half time. No changes were made by the officials either at half time, despite having 15 minutes to embarrass themselves watching the highlights of their lowlights.

They got worse, so did the game. An impossible offside, an incredible offside, rolling Cook penalised for being fouled. How can you get a grip if the officials let them grip you? Town not getting the rub of the reffing green.

Oh Town, arms hangin' limp at their sides, legs got nothin' to do as Kabia bedraggled so weakly Young is still awaiting its arrival even as you read this in the year 2525, if man is still alive. Occasional infiltrations stumbling against the red wall. A Rodgers cross to the nearest post briefly befuddled their big lad and the ball bimbled and bombled about. Alas Kabia leaned back and slash-volleyed way over. Long balls, longer balls, balls that were longer than the previous long balls. And higher too. Bundling around and walking in to brick walls. Cook felled, a yellow card, a free kick and Staunton softly, delicately, precisely float-coiled over the wall straight into the pattercake palms of Young.

Half way through the half Amaluzor and Kabia were swapped for Burns and Vernam. Town were even weaker on the wings. They are very nice young men. Let's leave it at that shall we, I have no desire to hurt their feelings. Some things don't need to be said.

When Town threatened to hint at threatening down went a red shirt and play stopped. Hey ref, why not chuck in the disadvantage rule when Town are breaking? Darn it, he did, we were being ironic, you chump. Oof, Longello slipped off the pitch, rolled around, realised play was not stopping so undid his shoelaces and walked back on to tie 'em up. We're wasting our time watching them waste time.

Walker replaced Odour. Nothing changed. Nothing happened beyond Salford exploring strange new worlds of time wasting, to boldly go where no team has gone before. Basically, at the end of the day, Brian, they spent the entire second half sat down.

Seven minutes were added.

Burns! Oh Darragh, poor, poor Darragh, even when you do the right thing it's the wrong thing in the end. Cook monstered their centre-backs, the ball snickled on behind, Burns raced on. To pass, to shoot, to shoot, to pass? He tickled left to the unmarked Green, who promptly tickled a backpass straight at Young.

Can we go now please? One final flicker of nearlyness and a dead cat bounced as Burns buffled against flying red socks. You want more of this? For goodness sake ref, he's an Italian! As Town vaguely pumped up the volume Borini lay down face down in the dirt smiling as the referee halted play again.

Stop! I wanna go home. Too much, too soon, too far to go. Too late to play, the game is over.

That was utterly and totally dire as direct Salford used all their energy to enervate and would not be deviated from the path to unenlightenment. They had our number and our number is almost up.

This was that game. That game we kept watching before Christmas, that game against a team that had done its homework, that game against that type. Typically we saved our worst dance 'til last.