Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 August 2026

Ah, the circle of life, another busy week draws to a close and another season opens. What's another year? The possibilities! The probabilities! Oldham, Burslem, Creepy Crawley, step onto another year on the treadmill of the left-behind. But I'll tell you what, after seeing this a'here story about to unfold – well, I guess I seen somethin' ever' bit as stupefyin' as you'd see in any a' those other places. Look, there's a giant doing cartwheels and a statue in high heels.

Ah, no, that's just Josh Andrews lumbering out onto the green, green grass of home.

On a gently warm afternoon with the hint of a breeze Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Amaluzor, Green, Doyle, Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Auton, Foulkes, Walker, Reynolds, Brown, Morgan and Andrews. Will we be guiless without Wee Jimmy Walker wandering? Will we be touched by the wheels of the keen Doyle's industry? We'll just have to wait and see.

The financially fraught descending Devonians arrived in an old Man City kit. There were men, there were boys. And that's all there was to them.

What lies ahead? Will we have rainbows day after day? We can only hope, after all, that means it'll have rained. Rain. I remember this from the days of my youth when I was told what it means to be a Town fan. Let's get the ball rolling.

1st half – Great Expectations
Exeter kicked off towards the Pontoon and away from the near four hundred long trekkers, most of whom looked like they’d never lost one minute of sleeping worrying about the way things might have been. It's the circle of lower league life, you win some, you lose a lot more.

Sorry, got distracted, there's a fruit fly on my melon. If this was the swinging sixties Goldie Hawn would star in the film version. Can someone please swing a cross in.

Don't do the short goal kick boogie! Oh no, they did the short goal kick boogie woogie all day long. Knees trembled throughout the land. Sticky balls, bouncing balls, balls knocking knees knocking balls. Knock-knock, who's there? Well it ain’t Greeny Kieran Green. Can we not knock it?

Miss, Miss, tell him, it's not fair. They're taking in turns to clatter Turi.

And finally, Cyril, an Exeterian exited his half stage right, pursued by a bare minimum of Townites. A cross above and beyond the crowds, perhaps a forlorn attempt at seeding the clouds. How very public spirited of him. No harm in trying.

Doyle and Turi hunted as a pair, pick-pocketing unwary and weary waifs and strays. A covered corner clatter and Slim Charles took off his top hat to coil into the heart of the matter. Rodgers leant back to head highly. A big dripping diagonal dropped onto the Panther's toes and apple-plucking Vernam danced his little dance, the Pouton pirouette, a polka that sometimes makes someone a plonker. A shovelling shotty-cross-scoop befuddled off The Sweeney, disturbing no pigeons.

Ooh-la-la as they say in the land of the ice and snow. The Geezer from the Freezer's magnificent slide, glide and drive brought the crowd to its roaring feet. A champagne moment in an afternoon of stale ale and pickled eggs.

What dribbling drabbery is before us. Just have a shot, Justin, stop faffing about. A slick flick and go down the left and the Wolds Panther wandered free to slip a cross through the corridor of uncertainty. Bycroft lunged lowly afore the sliding Cookie Monster, picking up courage, the ball and the pieces.

Drifting along with a tumbling tumbleweed, slaps and tickles, slapstickery and tackles on Turi. A sky bluesman kissed the turf way out east where the wilds things roam. Four horsemen did the Arsenal walk behind the Town back line and the free kick dripped onto the penalty spot. Amidst local static caravans the tallest poppy in Devon arose alone to carefully noddle down and past Pym's left post.

Turi clattered again and finally a booking. About time. It's about time someone in stripes actually had an actual shot. Turi, again, mugging and marauding and poking to Cook. A swing and a sway and from afar the ball skipped lightly off the turf and off Bycroft's gloves as Town began to turn the tourniquet. Greeny Kieran Green muscled and bustled through a thicket of tourists, a shot spinning slowly off some toes. Bycroft sailed rightly, momentarily alarmed as the ball died in dead air as he dived too soon. Elevation Mr Vernam! He elevated. Rodgers snickled into the middle of a muddle at the nearest post, grazing a glance onwards. Bycroft beaten but a blue boot scruffled off the line straight to the lurking Doyle who calmly wellied into the net. With half the ground acclaiming the Wexford Waters the other simply perplexed, it finally emerged that Harvey would be happy. For the record, the goal was officially scored by Rodgers.

OK, what's next? Ten minutes of Kabaddi.

One minute was added to the game but not our lives as a longish chuck-in bumbled around and Wareham, menaced by Maldini, corralled by Kacurri, swivel-hooked into the back gardens of Grimsby way beyond the Pontoon, somewhere beyond the sea. Ah, peace and quiet and the open air, time together and time to spare. Somewhere there's a queue for the loo too.

So what was that all about then? A sludgy scrap of skittish nothingballing. Let's take the positives, at least it's one-nothingball.

2nd half – Bleak House
Today's sentimental journeyman is back to 11 May 1989. Who's that waving to the adoring crowds? Is it Murray Jones? Here be Sir John of Cockerill, applying Hurstian principles to his retirement years. He's kept his shape and his T-shirts tight.

No changes were made by either team at half time. Nice of the Grecians to come out in the sun, are there green shoots of recovery for the dreary, dismal Devonians? No.

Drop some more coins in the penny arcade. Drop some more shoulders, Justin. A Town free kick under the Police Box dripped to the near post by Vernam. A blue head flicked on and the ball arced slowly across and over the keeper and across and wide of the far post. The corner, well, I dunno, maybe we should call it quits and just fast forward to Exeter getting forward for once.

Yes, that's it. Woah, stop, now go back ten seconds. There, there it is. Ooh, a comedy cross into the crowd again. Who? Vincent Harper sluicing sloppily into the weathered faces lined in pain. A ragged man in ragged clothes causing rage in a far off corner of England, a mishap menace to his own team.

Is it time for a non-sequitur? In a rare moment of activity far away by the Osmond, perky Pym flicked Fitzwalter's header over from a corner. The next corner? It must have happened, but nothing happened. Well, I believe nothing happened. Are we all nihilists now?

Total football! It's like watching Ajax in action, you know, the scouring cream. Huddles and cuddles, Exeter in a muddle. Handy Andy disrobed hapless Harper, vimless Vinnie and with Bycroft back pedalling, Cook ran aground. The ball squirtled off Green's stomach. Bashings and bargings, Town semi-charging. A nick and knock and Amaluzor smothered. A knock and nick and Amaluzor didn't shoot, nor did others who shall not be named for data protection purposes.

Hang on, what are they doing now? The Grecians burned down their left exploiting the absence of the attacking Rodgers. A dink to the far post and Samuel ducked deeply to steer a careful header way over, way wide. Way to go City boy. And one last hurrah for hopeless Harper befuddling his way into our hearts with a magnificent mis-control with Townites scattered across the sand dunes.

Frantic and frenetic fumbling dice, the ball a balloon, heffalump humps and dumps. Ain't got time to wait, something better change. Morgan and Reynolds replaced Doyle the diminutive dynamo and the rather arbitrary Amaluzor.

A throw-in immediately obtained and Morgan hurled a torpedo deep into the heart of the six-yard box. Butterfly Bycroft flapped his wings, bouncy-bouncy hopscotching and McJannet ducked down into a swinging boot. Town, insurgent and urgent. Turi driving on, a shot blocked, a Turi glide and Green sighed as it passed his non-twinkling toes. Thought I heard a rumbling calling a name. Andrews replaced Cook. No, it wasn't that, Dave, you may have to go to Drews for a hearing test. Big Josh is…big.

Morgan marauding, Morgan bedraggling after the keeper miskickled and ached to the ground. More Town, more pressure, more this, more that. Sweeney big dripped into the middle of the middle, Morgan sidled past a static Grecian and nobble-headed back past the angle of post and bar.

With five minutes left Walker replaced the man lacking in Green energy. There were almost moments of almostness, nearly some nearlyness. There was time when, briefly, the stars aligned as Vernam's venomous swipe swung through the hedgerows and was bizarrely batted aside by Bycroft's extendable right hand.

Don't they know their place? Don't they realise they are only here for us to jeer. Jingles and jangles and a cross from an angle. Wareham flicked at the near post, but straight into Pym's ample midriffery. Andrews turned but a flicker of interestingness dissolved. Crosses drifted, crosses dropped, McJannet duck-headed wide from a Sweeney corner scrumbled slappily by the Bycroft and his boys. Town are simply succeeding in avoiding scoring a second. C'mon, every second counts. Are we gonna like this?

Four minutes were added and deep beneath the rolling waves of angst in the Ramstand Walker stretchy-poke-tackled straight to a bluesman. A turn and tweak and Burch was a-haring down the wing, striped shirts flailing and trailing in his wake. As he hit the bye-line the boy Burch crossed at head height. Pym, just like last week, flew and flapped the ball straight to an unfriendly face. Wareham, dead centre and the goal a-gaping toe poked over the emptiness.

And that was that. A suitable ending I feel.

A hard slog for the players, the fans and all inside Blundell Park. Town were incoherent and unconvincing but ultimately happy in crawling past mid-table grinders. The family favourites are still way below par and that's an albatross around our necks. Town were lucky to be playing such enfeebled opponents.

That was hard work.