Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

23 August 2026

Walsall. Again. A place closer than you think but further away than you thought. Is it a thought experiment in concrete? Today's an extra special day when they finally get around, 40 years on, to honouring their living legend. There really should be a trophy for this old match up, the Buckley Derby, it's almost as old as The Ashes.

On another gently temperate 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, Lavelle, Catchpole, Reynolds, Brown, and Morgan. Well, what a bench that is, barely 90 minutes in a Town shirt between them. Is there anyone left at Cheapside? Is Steve Croudson going to be the fall-back centre-forward next week?

So Walsall then, the perennial flakers. We've been here so many times, there's nothing more to say about the club, the town or the car parks. It's like looking in a morose Midlands mirror.

Let's get the show on the road before the traffic builds up near Tamworth.

1st half – Opportunity knocks
The game began with a kick and a rush as Town set off towards Poundland. A chip and chase and chuckle as upon the grassy knoll afore the gathered Townites Maldini dealt with Andy the word salad, that serial Hurstian refusnik. Once a non-league player, always a non-league player, unless you've been Artelled, of course.

A twist and a turn and Amaluzor down and temporarily out, his family face clutching as Justin was a-knee-clutching. Ah, he's back and we're hoping as he's hopping.

Saddle up, here they come. Nibbles and nobbles, dinks and winks, almost this and almost that. Holy-moly, jammy roly-poly, Clarke crossed deeply and dippily from their right. The ball whipped and slipped past blue heads towards two toes a-tapping beyond the far post. Nah, nowt to worry about.

Town stretched, Walsall etch-a-sketched what looked like a house, with a door, windows - one, two, three, four. Ready to knock? Turn the lock, are we in for a shock? Hancock's way out welly hit the stanchion. No, not the Staunton, he's injured remember. You really should clean your ears out.

Town wibbling, Walsall waltzing. A big boom and Ahui's momentum took him past the swaying Sweeney. Bibbles and bobbles and Sprangler wrangled out to the lurking Clarke who happily flumbled a pokey prod wayly over. Don't worry, be happy, no need to frown at Town.

Ah, now relax. Everything is going to be alright in the end, as the game went from the Town end to the Poundland end. Grips were got and Town's taps turned hot. A hint here, a suggestion there, and once in while Town unlacked guile. A cross too high, a cross too low, a block and flap, a tip and a trip down memory lane. Passing and movement as McJannet slippered through to Doyle who reversed into the void for some minor Vernamation. The rinky-dink Pink Panther crumble-crossed against red socks and the ball rumbled back out to the retrieving Doyle who slam-crinkled safely past and around Ward's rightest post. Well, it's a shot.

Do Town have a shot at this game, which is less a rolling thunder than a rumbling stomach. Just a minute, here's Justin jinking and jiving, Turi tickling some ivories, the Wexford Waters wriggle-wrangling and Rodgers leaning back to slide-sidle wide and high. Well, it's another shot.

You know, it would really help if that linesman would get at least one offside decision correct.

Woah, darn it, he has. A jingling jangle of nothingness in the middle of nowhere and suddenly they were through and free. A delightfully delicious wink down the centre sent Simper scampering towards Pym. It ended with a Walsall whimper as Sweeney's sensational pokey-slide snickled the ball away from Simper's twinkling toes. Oh, you have to say that's magnificent. That's magnificent. There, I said it. Can we go on now please?

What is there to go on about? How about this then? Amidst much hilarity Amaluzor reversed his polarity and Rodgers rumbusticated down the right. To the bye-line, to cross, perchance to dream that the Cookie Monster won't mess it up. A miscontrol or clever flick, you choose. The ball rolled on and Vernam, a dozen yards out, flailed and the ball sailed over the bar.

OK, I know there's 20 minutes left until half time but you can go and queue for your burger and chips now, you won't miss owt. Offside, foul, foul, offside, offside, foul, foul, twist, knock-knock, knock on wood, knock three times on the ceiling, can we not knock it? 'Tis time for another miracle as in the final knockings Pressley blew the candle out, carefully looping a header across, over and wide whilst not given offside from a free kick that wasn't.

Two minutes were added. Calamity Clarke woefully dribbled at Pym. Yeah, that's that, that is.

A half full of knocks and blocks and it was not a shock that we ended up exactly where we started. It passed the time and at times passes were indeed made.

2nd half – Hard knocks
At half time Sir Alan of Buckley was wheeled out to be worshipped by his adoring fans. The Main Man waved immediately and enthusiastically towards the mass of serenading travelling Townites. Eventually a cursory hand was raised momentarily towards the vast red emptiness as the locals went to the bar. He knows, we know, they now know.

Oh yes, of course, we're here for the association football match between the them and us of now, not a nostalgiafest for a heritage hero. No changes were made by either team at half time.

A punt, a shunt and a silly corner conceded as Sweeney headed back but Pym was not there. For the avoidance of doubt this corner and every corner was headed clear by a defender. Their corners, our corners, all corners from all comers, all cut out or slapped out no matter what the shenanigans below around and about. Shouldn't someone try a different corner?

Saddlers streaming, Town fans squirming as Clarke danced past and around Rodgers, skipped gaily along the bye-line and blumped against Pym's mighty chest. Today was one of those days when all the pigeons gonna run to him. In and out and in and out and in and out there's no escape from the mood music as Walsall upped the intensity and Town's back line never gets no rest. For a while.

Simpering on their right with a little give and go and a-creeping along the bye-line. Don't worry, be happy, he's here to help those in need. Kacurri swept away from red toes at the near post. Crosses, crosses, heads and fails. Corners. Schmorners. Headed away, finger flapped away, away the lads. I told you, each and every corner produced the same outcome. Insanity or inanity, there were certainly some profanities tumbling down the Poundland Stand as Sad Andy Dallas became Smith. Ah-ha, silly boys, you took too long. In a cacophony of misplaced chuntering Smith was made to wait and wait and wait to come on as Walsall were down to ten men for a minute. Well, they had been for the previous 66, so what's the problem? Town really made the most of this as Vernam's corner, well, you get the drift. It would help if it had some lift, Charley.

Sweeney was booked, Morgan came on for our old man and Maldini squashed a thrip, protecting his vegetables from unnecessary nibbles. Momentum swayed back towards the mass of Mariners. Town pounced on dilly-dallying in the home defence as flicks were flicked and Doyle foiled by a Saddler, some say felled by a Saddler, deep inside their penalty area. The ball trickled out to the unmarked Vernam, or was it Green? They both, like an OXO cube, crumbled and dissolved in the same place in the same situation at some point somewhere in this half. That's their stock at the moment, currently plunging in value, when will they rise again?

Parries and prods and in a bound he was free, Amaluzor burstling through the Walsall gap and felled for a free kick, 25 yards out. We watched, we waited, we are still to be sated as Morgan puffled a piffler into the wall. Town turning the tourniquet imperceptibly slowly, Walsall sinking further and further from their promised land. Morgan pressurised their keeper into a mini-muffler of a scuffed clearance straight to Doyle in the centre circle. Rhomboids and pentagons, terrific Town trigonometry. A slip to Vernam, a clip to Turi, a perfectly weighted tap into the flying Sweeney's path and Ward arose to parry aside the slapshot. Crosses and flaps and scrapes and the Saddlemen escaped with barely a paper cut.

Oof, do you need a plaster for that, or are you just going to run it under a cold tap? Surging Sweeney swept up and away from Simper, Green dinked delightfully, perfectly over their Skuba diver and onto Morgan's chest. A flick up, shuffle and scrape across the face of goal and an elite level Premier League pantomime thigh slap of disappointment.

Sure, sure kid. They'd had shots, loads of shots. But nothing anywhere near almost being nearly on target. The blue wall was impregnable, Pym perfectly protected.

With ten minutes left Reynolds replaced Doyle, who slowly soaked up the adoration of the crowd as he sauntered around the perimeter. He's a Town player already.

Barging and charging, clattering and the occasional moment of clarity. Amaluzor barundled and crossed just too high just too far behind. Morgan's long chuck caused minor panic as Turi's slash was blocked and off they flew. The Geza shut the freezer door with a tremendous track back and slide-scrape. Sweeney dredged, Reynolds slam-dunked, this Town shall not be moved. Two minutes had been added as Adomah provided some late comic relief, falling over his feet and flattering to deceive.

If you hadn't noticed, it's all over now baby blue.

Two teams evenly matched in their inability to shoot. Two teams equally negatively competent in their ability to stop, but inability to create. Yes, it was a not uneventual game, always on the cusp of something happening, but, ultimately, nothing did happen. Town could have stolen a win, Walsall could have sneaked a victory, neither team deserved any more or less out of this arm wrestle than the other.

Well, at least no-one goes home in tears today.