Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

6 September 2026

Coming in with the golden light in the morning, Artell's Army is here in Cheltenham to stay today, though some are still on their way, for it's a long way from Tipperary, and Wicklow. And Oslo. Who'd go to Oslo when Town are in the beautiful sparkling spa waters of Cheltenham nearish the Avon? Would you rather be anywhere else but here today? Will Town play today?

Well, today you'll have to pay £3.50 for homeopathic hot chocolate. Now that is Norway pricing, no way are we paying that again. They're having a laugh, premium pricing for cut-price football, next year we'll be laughing as we bring our own sustenance. Robbing Robins, shame on you. Never again. Boycott Rip-Off Bargain Basement Britain!

On yet another gently temperate afternoon with the hint of a breeze Town lined up in blue in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Harrington, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Finch Green, Doyle, Vernam and Morgan. The substitutes were Auton, Foulkes, Shelton, Walker, Reynolds, Cartwright (F), and Cook. What a lovely long-sleeved Harrington jacket we have, gleamingly resplendent in yellow. He's built somewhere between Eastwood and Wright; let's hope he doesn't treat crosses like those two false prophets. The bench is getting stronger by the game, so at least errors may be rectifiable if the starters are unreliable. We'll see how viable this is.

Cheltenham. Well, we're here, as are all their players parents, lined up on the touchline just like the under 11s game going on in the park opposite the ground. I forgot to look it up online, who won in the end? The blues looked bigger and better than the greens.

Bigger isn't always better, small isn't always beautiful. Can't you see it's the chemistry that makes life beautiful. Right, let's stick it in the mixer and see who turns green first.

1st half – Something for the weekend
Cheltenham kicked off away from 700 or so monochromers, away from the leafy lanes of genteel Georgiana and towards their Oakley massive packed to the rafters inside a woodshed. Is there anything in their woodshed? I can hear it seething as Green did indeed turn first and Morgan long chucked into the muddle.

Backslidin', how do we do? Are these slippery people gonna run you through? Sweeney stumbled and crumbled, Evans skipped away and, as a distasteful disaster beckoned, Kacurri dredged an old and forgotten stream. Full steam ahead, Town sweetly swaying until the white lines approached. Vernam Vernamed and we heard a rat-a-tat-tat and the silhouette of the ball bouncing along the roof above. Tips were tapped and Rodgers slapped into the choir above the toilet. Town petering out when it needed some clout.

Watch out, there's something nasty down by their woodshed, and I don't mean Cotterill, he's prancing about outside his box, never in his pram. A hum drum lump and Sweeney arose on the touchline to head to Vernam. Soccer superstar, you know who you are, running, dribbling, scoring goals. And feyly backheeling to the already slipping Sweeney to set up Evans for a jaunt. Doyle scampered to shepherd as Evans sauntered laterally but the ball bumbled to McCann, who lashed lowly into the right corner from 15 yards.

Bluesmen faffing about with wimpy flicks, a creaking disjointed and arthritic mess, increasingly internally tetchy and sluggish. Vernam fading by the millisecond, Finch all fingers and thumbs, Morgan waving his arms around blaming others for the home smothers brothers wrapping him in cottonwool. Big boomers, the midfield brought out their binoculars, left plane spotting at the gates. Motionless waves of attacks and Turi bedraggled where no Mariner Man had feared to tread. We've read this story a thousand times before with different characters. It's the same plot when we've lost the plot. There's not a lot going on 'cept Townites taking it in turns slip-sliding to let them get away. There's irritation at the irrigation, the massed Mariners shouting larger, larger, larger, larger studs boys. Were we born slippy?

If we fell over they threatened. If we remained standing they were milquetoasts. They had one tactic. Wait for Townites to fall over and run into the space behind our full-backs. That's it, that's the game. We kept falling over.

Ooh, ooh, a thing! Deeply punting, Morgan flicked on, Green raced on, their keeper betwixt and between here, there and nowhere. Alas poor Green neither lobbed nor throbbed, freezing up and passing the buck with a running backheel against their Sweeney, who, alas, had put his long studs on today.

Morgan sighed and McJannet scraped away the deep, deep swinging cross as a redster lurked behind. Have you seen Charles Vernam, baby, hiding in the shadows? Well, he is just passing time. Town passing time, passing the ball across and back and finally back to Harrington to scoop in a soft loop straight to a chirpy Robin 30 or so yards out. And no-one spoke and no one smiled, there were too many spaces in the back line. A tip, a tap and Evans refused to not fall over the slip-sliding McJannet. With four or five minutes left till lunch no-one laughed, some may have cried as Weimann swept left as Harrington sprawled right which, of course, was wrong.

The shadows of clouds rippled along the ravines of Cleeve Hill, a delightful distraction form the dreadfulness afore us. We should have gone to the snooker, gone to the snooker, we should have gone to the snooker.

Three minutes were added. Screw back for the red into the centre with just a little side, lad. I dunno, this and that, what's the point, there is no point, they have the points. They headed a corner wide.

Town playing in terror of an error, all timid taps and mechanical waste. If you ain't takin' care of business you can expect it gets slippery when you’re wet. We came all this way for that?

2nd half – To the rescue
Vernam and Doyle were replaced by Cook and Shelton at half time. We may have some more oomph, we definitely have more heft. I just know that something good is gonna happen, I don't know when, but just saying it could even make it happen.

Harrington humped and Cook flicked on. Green licked on further and Rodgers burned down the wing to the bye-line. A begrumbled pull back bombled behind their back line and Town's advanced troops and, as if by magic, Shelton arrived to sweep lowly into the bottom right corner from the penalty spot. Black and white feel the vibrational, c'mon, c'mon, feel it, feel it, what a sweet sensation.

Drive boy, dive boy, dirty dumb angel boy. Get up you Gloucester Tart. All blow a raspberry at Evans for a pathetic penalty tumble. You know these people round here, they're so resigned to what their fate is, but not us, this Town are far too young and clever.

Tur-eye, Tur-eye, Tur-eye, hey, he can hum this tune forever now we're playing football on the floor. Turi ticking, with Shelton shovelling coal into the furnace. They seek him here, they seek him there, he stands out from the crowd, his passes never square. Oh yes, that darn elusive loan player from York fits Town like a glove.

Corners and crosses a-go-go. Morgan coiled a corner onto the top of the bar, shimmering Shelts' free kick badoobled off the wall and the remarkably unmarked Cook unremarkably noodle-nodded exceedingly over. Town triangulating them to death. An ooh, an aah, a delicate Morgan tinkle sent Turi along the bye-line to cross-pass beyond the keeper. Their Sweeney body slammed Cook's sweep and arose to body rock Cook's follow up tap.

Cheltenham sinking, Cotterill blinking and double subbing to no effect. Kacurri squashed another flea.

With 20 minutes left Reynolds and Finlay Cartwright replaced Finch and Morgan. This did not unimprove things. The flanks were firmer, the attacking brighter. Cartwright alert and perky, sensing danger three steps before the move, covering Rodgers, just as Reynolds provided a leftish ballast. Moving, passing and a Green infiltration swivel scraped into the side netting. Bluesmen probing, Shelton and Turi a pleasing pair of pivots. I said pivots – divots are for the golf course these days.

Oh, ok, if you must. The local lads had an occasional visit to the sweet shop, but they just didn't have any cash to splash. Harrington plucked and clutched a couple of crosses and a couple of hopeful mid-distance mumbles.

Sweeney surged and Reynolds passed past a marker and passed across. Cartwright swept and Stanway legged away. More of this, more of that, but every thwack went splat against the twin towers at the heart of home matters. Stanway dawdled, Cook disrobed him, but a free kick for ankle tappage ended the comedy.

Onwards upwards, well up the pitch towards the Cheltenham goal. Green was mysteriously booked for dissent after triple Cheltenham chopping led to them getting a free kick. Ooh it made yer sick. The linesman by the Town end shrugged his shoulders. That's just what he does, his raison d'être, his function, a nodding donkey, a waving cat, a complete waste of a pair of socks. He saw what we saw, has he no dignity?

Wahey, finally, a home throw-in overturned for a creeping malaise and the erosion of time. Time, time, ticking away, slowly, quickly, slow and quick there's no time to lose. Waves and waves of blue and corner followed corner followed corner. Elevation Mr Sweeney. Mr Sweeney swung his pants and swung in. You know what happens next, the opposition know what happens next, it stilled happened next. The Green glance turned red faces green and we can party on the positive side and pump positive vibes. Where do we go from here? Rock on.

Robins on the ropes and rocks, minds flipping, toes a-tripping Townites. Woah, what's going here then? Their Sweeney tumbling under a Shelton tap, within Cotterill's sphere of influence. Out rushed the West Country clown, raging at Shelton, shirt flapping, spittal spewing. Their Sweeney stayed down half on half off the pitch. Play on, play on and play the game. Cotterill raging as Town crept forward. Shut up, sit down, he's only got cramp.

Three minutes had been added and Town carried on carrying on forward. Left, right, right, left, Cartwright wriggled and wafted and Stanway pluck-parried aside. The corner drooped, his hand looped up and flipped away and as the whistle blew Cotterrill flew into a rage and onto the pitch, making a beeline for the old Beesman. Mass argy-bargy handbaggery, all revolving around their barmy boss, their mad manager, their loopy leader. Sugar Ray Shearwood strolled over and deflected attention, saving Shelton from some unsavoury and unnecessary attention. Somewhere within this rolling maul McJannet ended up on the floor. This was all about one man's deflating ego.

It was awful, it was tremendous, it was another point gained but it was two points lost and so here we are stuck in the middle of the division with another two-two.