Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

30 August 2026

We got rid of one bunch of frauds last year, there's just one left now. BFS stole a club, Fleetwood are built on what had been stolen. What's the difference? The path of the righteous club is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil entrepreneurs. Since when has morality and ethics got anything to do with football? Cod only knows what they'd be without the Pilling shilling.

On an overcast day of impending gloom Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1, occasionally 4-3-3 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Amaluzor, Green, Doyle, Vernam and Cook. The substitutes were Auton, Foulkes, Pruti, Walker, Reynolds, Morgan and Finch. Same again starters but the dessert trolley is looking far tastier, with five new faces beaming and gleaming, including mysterious tutti-frutti Pruti, a Lavelle-a-like brooder on the bench.

Fleetwoodsmen, dressed as an Arsenal tribute act, all strapping lads, a pack of lumberjacks, who, it is understood, go shopping on a Wednesday and have buttered scones for tea. Now do we need to talk about Evans? I see a glass house, I see a stone. It would be hypocritical to chide Ched when we were so sanguine about Clayton McDonald, but it don't half feel appropriate that he found a welcome home at that club.

Yeah, but we will strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger if they attempt to poison and destroy our family favourites. Grrr, we'll tell 'em.

On with the show.

1st half – Wrestlemania
Fleetwood kicked off towards the Pontoon and away from a coach and a half of their faithful followers. Fact check: that's not even a coach and half, that would be 78 using the industry standard for private hires, tours and school trips arranged in a two plus two seating pattern. Oh hang on, if they hired a double-decker they could all fit in, for facts are facts: there were 75 of these West Coast rockers in attendance.

Paltry. No chickens though.

Fun and laughter is what we're after on their double-double-double-double decker bus. Is this their idea of fun? They may well be laughing though. Town pinned back by assertive and direct bully-balling. A fey plunge, a free kick, a clearance, a corner. I see a vision softly creeping on the left, seeds planted while Town were sleeping. Amaluzor a-snoozing as the corner shortened and lowly croombled into the corridor of uncertainty. A red leg wafted with striped legs static and Davies diverted past the helpless, not hapless and definitely blameless Pym.

All around is the sound of silence.

Town a cross across too high, too far, or was it too low, too short? Both, neither and either. Nearly moments of almostness that never happened. The fleet-footed Fleetermen, a solid red wedge and all chips and chases. Of course they had chips with everything, how could they not? They were bundling while Town were trundling. Turi targeted for extra special treatment and sprinkled with vinegar. Huffs were puffed, nicks were knocked, Town faffing, not shooting, bucks and the ball were passed. A moment of momentary momentum. Doyle deflected, Cook snickled and Green tapped into the net. Sit down, shut up, shut down, sit up, the flag was fluttering even afore the ball arrived at the Cookie Monster's toes.

And all the while they sat back and launched the occasional drone attack. We have our own early warning radar and back-up interceptor missile. A Turi sweep, Maldini made 'em weep.

Off they go again, sneaking down the left. Doyle picked a pocket and prepared for a night on the town with the proceeds, but as he prepared to hop on the bus Cannon's gratuitous mugging resulted in some continental slappings right in front of the Town dugout. Doyle's a lad who won't back down, he'll stand his ground. Cannon ended up in Town's dugout face down in the dirt, arising to face a yellow card.

And still we watched and waited for a Town attack to penetrate the red wall. We're still waiting for a shot or two to come into our lives. It's only a matter of time. Ah, a shot! Ah, from them. A tingle tangle and cross wangled deeply from under the Police Box. Evans, fifteen yards or so out, be-donked downwards and Pym skipped to flip from the foot of the near post. They had a corner. There is nothing more to add to this moment in time.

And slowly Town gained traction, gained time to take action, but were felled frequently by fowl legs. A wiggle and waggle and Doyle's blast was blocked by a phalanx of flying fishermen. A dingle and tingle and Amaluzor wangled his way to the bye-line, his cross chested past the post by Cirino, with Cook nearly by.

Danger! Danger! Davies hared past Maldini, raced up their left and headed goalwards, into the penalty area. All the while our security operative was monitoring the situation on CCTV, following at a safe distance to finally emerge at the last to hustle the troublemaker out of the fire exit, slamming it firmly shut with a disdainful glance.

Are we ever going to have a shot? Pickleball and Korfball, who is the belle of our ball? Tiring of this genteel tippy-tapping across the net, espying Mariner movement out of the corner of his eye, Turi tickled a tremendously perfect curve plonk down the right, into the vast void beyond the Fleetwood defence. Green's plundering pounding run took him to the bye-line and a low crackle shimmered across the face of goal for Doyle at the far post to tap in from a yard out.

An outbreak of emotion in the stands and a commotion on the visiting bench, with this outbreak of lawlessness ending with Lawlor booked for excessive moaning.

Striped swings and striped sways, pressing buttons, waiting for a beep or flash of light. One day we'll hit the jackpot. Amaluzoring and a corner half cleared, fully heading back into the blancmange of panic and confusion. Cook, half a dozen yards out, wafted his left leg limply and the ball simply bumbled straight to the static keeper. What more is there? Nothing but squashball, Mariners monotonously whacking against a wall, it'll drive the neighbours potty. They may not give us our ball back next time it goes over the fence.

Two minutes were added with Town in the ascendant. Amaluzor free and fouled, Potter carded. Time for tea.

And here I was thinking the Haxey Hood was only ever on 6 January. They were all muscle, we were all hustle and that ended up in a scrum. Another bog standard edition of League Two Wrestlemania ’26.

2nd half – The name of the game
Today's sentimental journeymen take us back to 4 May 1997. Too much pain and too much sorrow? Well, that was the last time SuperCliveMendonca was here. Oh, and that other middle-aged bloke standing next to him, who's that? Blimey, where's Little Johnny Oster's hair gone?

Blimey, where's Amaluzor gone? Ah, heeeeeeeeeeeere's Sonny! Will he be the spark of nature's fire? Will he sort the wheat from the Chaff.

As the late burger queuers returned to their seats Cannon intercepted Turi's pass to Sweeney and za-zoomed down the centre into the emptiness. With McJannet the sole survivor of the defence drawn to the moth, Evans was released by a simple slip of a pass. Sometimes the righteous prevail, for this Cod moves in mysterious ways. Evans strolled forward to stroke a pass around the standing stone of Pym and against the inside of the post. The ball bonked off the woodwork, across the face of goal and straight to stripes. Oh what lucky men we are.

Awoken from their slumbers Town began to twinkle, winkling space on the left, releasing The Wolds Panther into the wild. Slim Charles began to dance and we had a chance. Will we take our chance? A wing-back fried and Cook turned near the penalty spot to slapshot straight to and at Lynch. He's gonna do his very best, and it ain't no lie, you can't say he doesn't try.

Have I mentioned the curious case of the Lancashire inner ear? No, it doesn't seem I have. Well, it seems that residents of that county suffer from a blight that means they fall from flight whenever within 30 yards of an opponent's goal. It may just be one of those mass psychosis events, like the Strasbourg dancing plague of 1518. Here they fall again. Way-way out a crackle shivered straight at Pym. Pym held the ball to his bosom. They just can't stand up for falling down.

Here we go again. Big booming balls from Wee Cam, Vernam roasting his chestnut, crossing a pass back behind the gathering masses to the back of penalty spot. Finch slashed wildly wide and hopelessly high and Fleetwood had a throw-in by the corner flag. Ooh, clever! A Town free kick dripped in from the right after Green bustled through the gap in the crowds. Vernam rolled the corner along the touchline where Turi caressed perfectly to the unmarked Finch on the edge of the penalty area. Alas there is no happy ending to this fairy tale, only Pontoonites ducking.

And still we roll on. More plunging and lunging and a free kick out right. McJannet and Cook slid together at the farthest post and the ball caught under striped thighs to roll slowly, slowly towards the bottom corner. Lynch crawlingly pawed aside and away from the foot of the post. We're on a roll. If only we'd signed Fabian Schär this summer it could have been a Swiss Roll. And we'd have had Sonny and Schär too. Is tenuous punning possibilities contained within the algorithm? If not, why not? Now that is something that needs asking in the next Fans Forum.

Ooh they had a cross, how nice for them to visit their supporters. Pym collected and rolled out to Turi who rolled forward, gliding gracefully on and on and on through the sand dunes, up the slipway, through the Market Square (avoiding the roadworks), down Issac's Hill, along Clee Road, out towards the rolling hills, through meadows and valleys towards the land of milk and honey unmolested by vagabonds and villains. A perfect pass into the path of Cook who crashed a cracker right through Lynch with the ball scuddering and shuddering in. Oh the scenes to behold as Cook headed for the refreshment stall pursued by a bare minimum of Mariners and Turi paraglided down the centre soaking up the adoration and sharing the love.

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. Oh for goodness sake, it's not over yet. Route One bargeballing, Town descending as Fluttering Fleetermen lumped and dumped into the Pymzone. Cook glanced a graze off the angle of Town's right post and bar. A half-cleared corner, but back they keep a-coming, Town sitting back and simply sending the ball back into the washing machine. A free kick punched away, back in, back out, Town backing off. A header away, a blocked shot, a corner headed away, away, away and a cross from their deep left. A fleeting glimpse of goal and a Fleetwood glance, the unmarked Potter strolled into the channel between Bull and Haile forts to nod down and nod in as someone, somewhere had nodded off, possibly feeling a little green around the gills. O Captain, our Captain, wherefore art thou?

Cook slashed. No need for further comment. With quarter of an hour left Morgan replaced Vernam. Subtlety replaced by vigour. Sometimes that's enough. Not today, Clive.

Scrumbling scrambles as stripes flew across to block as the Redsters sniffed a win bonus. Just balls in the box, that's all, nothing to get hung about. Their sniff has been snuffed out.

With six or seven minutes left Walker came on for Doyle and Fleetwood made a change too - Danny Andwho? So many left-backs, so little to remember them for. Thou foulest of Fleetwoodsmen, begone with your dismal deeds, taking in turns to dismantle and dredge. Turi clattered again but no foul given, no card applied. The referee stared at the miscreant and realised he was already booked. Pah, yellow man with yellow cards.

Town cranking up the pressure, the crowd cranking up the volume. A chip over the top and the chipper felled. The referee watched and waited until Morgan had touched the ball past the last defender before applying the disadvantage rule. And still Town roared on, seeking that little chink of space to utilise Finch's pace. Probing on the right with Turi drifting into pockets of menace. Ah-ha, triangulation and Turi alone. A cross whippled wickedly into the centre and Cook headed down, heading off into the crowd oblivious to the flag fluttering behind Turi.

Four minutes were added – bumbling, bombling, bobbling and Finch's determo-rumble blockaded by all the trawlers left in port. Corners, corner, corners. Headed near, headed far, shortened to Walker and Morgan's bedraggled to the near post. Now that's that.

A game not without merit or activity, but merely following the pattern so far – 22 men running into each other in a field. If any team deserved a slightly undeserved win it would have been Town, who definitely deserved a draw more than these precision-tooled professional cynics.