Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

13 September 2026

We'all know Town. Know how we earn a livin'. We'll catch Evan's sharks, but it ain't gonna be easy. Bad fish. Not like going down Chapman's Pond chasin' bluegills and tommycods. We gotta do it quick and it's not gonna be pleasant.

On a blustering day of sun and the occasional shower Town lined up in a 4-3-3 formation as follows: Harrington, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Green, Turi, Shelton, Finch, Cook and Vernam. The substitutes were Auton, Pruti, Doyle, Walker, Reynolds, Cartwright and Morgan. Dave's long lost jigsaw piece is finally in the building and the team. Can we tell what it is yet? There's height and heft on the pitch, there's enthusiasm on the bench, there's quiet trepidation in the stands, or maybe we just aren't awake for this breakfast-time kick off.

Slimline Steve's table toppers trundled into town with a certain look in the eye and an easy smile. If they follow their leader then watch out Town, for when you turn your backs on them they'll take the chance to put the boot in.

It is a long way, it's an early kick off. Excuses, excuses, we'd take double whatever the day, whatever the time, wherever we are in the league. Well done the 367 who bothered, you are excused from the general dereliction of duty.

1st half – Two good to be forgotten
The Brizzlers kicked off towards the Pontoon and off they go with their humpty-dumpty pudding and pie ball. A chip and chase, a corner nurdled away from the memories of a man in his old age. Big boomers charging and barging, strong arming and aiming solely for Balmer's barrage of one-armed long chucks into the mixer.

Get it out! Got it out, but Town stopped in their midfield tracks by a torrent of tripping, seen and unseen and mostly ignored by the referee. A hailstorm of hacking, a tsunami of slapping, a mudslide of muggings and Harrington swept up a muddle in the middle after a Balmer's bazookaball.

C'mon Town. Stand up, stand tall, stand your ground and in a bound you'll be free of oppression.

Play 'em at their own game, they may not like it up 'em. A Geza Garryowen boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boomed and harassed Harbottle hesitated. Cook and Green slithered and smothered the dithering Young and the Monster arose to head wayly wide and highly high. Well, goodness gracious me there's a flag flying, I can't be lying, the linesman calling an offside.

Mmm, they really don't like it up 'em.

Leigh clattered a passing stripe and pulled his get out of jail cards: a winning smile and a brush of his hair. Purrington rag-rolled Rodgers. They were presented with the free gift of a corner when a shot didn't brush Finch. Town were presented with a free gift of a goal kick when the corner dropped onto Balmer's big toe and brushed against Town socks on its drimbling way past the post.

Isn't it time for some football? More slaying of stripes in the middle of nowhere for nairy even a waggle of a finger. Way out West, Vernam scrimpled a free kick into the netherworld. Many heads nodded, but Green was the sagest and his graze skimmed over the bar and shimmered across the top of the netting. A swinging switcharoo from right to left. A step over once, a step over twice and Vernam Vernamed infield to Vernam a Vernam lowly from 25 yards out with Young plunging to parry.

Oh look, Leigh's legged up another travelling Townite.

Pressure, crosses, corners. Vernam curled sadly straight into the side netting. And then, moving in silently, down wind but not out of sight, Town struck when the moment was right; it helped that these airless Gasheads were sinking and not thinking. Harrington's punt was snickled on by Cook into the greyzone twixt defence and keeper. Hapless, hopeless Harbottle stooped to pick up some conkers, the ball carried on regardless and Green nicked in to flick past the lost boy Young. As the rappers delight dissipated Harbottle was still prostrate. After three months on the waiting list the stretcher bearers finally arrived and off he went.

Now then, you pirates on parade, what have you got?

When Town moved up close to them, they got quivers down their backbone, the shakes down their knee bones. Yeah, tremors in the thighbone, they're shakin' all over; passing out of play when they tried to pass, hoofing out of the ground when they tried to hoof. And they carried on cruising for a bruising. Leigh fouled again with no enforcement action taken. Look lad, we all know that criminals will carry on until they're stopped, and their offending will ratchet up in seriousness. Lock 'im up, throw away the key! Vernam's free kick dripped but stretching stripes missed. Finch tumbled and a blue hand blocked as the officials put the telescope to their blind eye for anything going on inside their penalty area.

With five or so minutes left of the half, Town carried on camping in the Bristol half and continued the pursuit of liberty and happiness. In and out and wandering around near the covered corner, Vernam twinkled a tap back infield to the serene spare man, forty, forty-five yards or more from Young. With no humanity near nor approaching, Turi tipped and tapped and tapped and tipped as a choir called out, a smattering siren call of "shooooooot". And still they stood still. Well, why not, eh? Turi, fully 30 yards out, took aim and launched a tremendous torpedo straight as an arrow into the clawing keeper's top left corner, undeviating from its course, unerring in its accuracy. Unbelievable, Jeff, simply unbelievable, believe me when I tell you that angel trumpets and devil trombones were playing for this goal made in heaven. Now, where's that contract extension Geza, just sign right here, right now.

And some in the covered corner went straight as an arrow for the bar. Who wouldn't hate to disappoint the boys in blue. They'll have to grin and bear it and find something else to do.

Five minutes were added with these bereft Bluesmen occasionally glancing up through their pain, wondering which of their brothers to blame. Shelton sauntered slinkily and blue toes bashed away from effervescent Finch. Vernam's corner dropped and drooped across the face of goal with arms and legs flapping with no humans making contact with this alien missive.

Well, what a turn up. Professionally cynical bogtrotters undone by their own obsessions and tamed by terrific Town terriers. Steve, you should know by now, football is superior to rugby.

2nd half – Strength through unity
The lunchtime blast from the past was that elegant old master, the artist always known as Andy Tilson, still gliding effortlessly across the Blundell Park pitch with that ever-present smile.

At half time Fat Boy, now Slim Steve, hauled off his fabulously flaccid front three, abandoning their direct rugby and going full on Aussie Rules. Awww mate, no worries. Have you ever met Maldini? You do know we have Shelton. We're not the tiny tot tiki-taka Town these days.

An exercise in exercising, Town just helicopter parenting these brats. Moments of nearlyness here and there. Finch was almost through after a Green pass, but he wasn't, so didn't.

They pushed us over, but we're no pushovers, we fight for our right to party; they just wanted to fight. And when you lose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown. It's too late to use the weight these raggedy-trousered Pirates need to throw around. Fouls, fouls, fouls, offsides and fouls in a tedious up and under boom-boom barrage of Bromleyballing. Without being Bromley, it's just balls.

So have a good drown as you go down all alone. A handball call and a lonely bluesman tumbled once, stumbled twice in a forlorn fall-athon seeking penalties.

And all the while Kacurri simply used his personality to deal with Diddley Squiggley Quigley. I just don't think they understand who they are dealing with.

Do I have to mention Slim Charles's rather feeble draggle after a shortened corner? I don't, but I will. Oh, I have. I wish I hadn't now. Like the act itself this paragraph only disappointed. Surely something, somewhere happened? Not for those bluesmen who were permanently on the verge of doing nothing.

Deaf, dumb and blind, the officials just keep on pretending they see only slips. A sledging dredge upended a monochromer in the middle of the pitch. Tapped on quickly, Vernam was chopped down by Balmer's chainsaw for no consequences other than a retaken free kick. Roll on a minute, Green and Balmer were booked after a rolling maul of a hoo-ha, some say contretemps. Hang on a minute, if Balmer had been booked before he'd be off. After witnessing Vernam being viciously assaulted by a particularly sharp blade of grass, the worm may have turned. No way José. Three fouls on Townites flowed directly into Balmer squealing when the Wolds Panther walked across his eyeline. And Vernam was booked. BOOKED. Vernam. How can that be? He wouldn't, no couldn't, hurt a fly.

I suppose you want some facts to figure out what was happening when and where. Halfway through the half Pruti replaced Rodgers, adding more Balkan brawn to the back line. Pruti didn't let anything pass by without at least a word in the ear to the good.

Town let the Pirates play ping-pong against the sea wall, awaiting a big pong to set them free on a jaunt towards their Pontoon happy place. And yes, the Pontoon was a happy place indeed. In the shadows of the Ramstand, Shelton burst onto a loose ball, burst through swiping challenge and burst down the wing. Espying space and movement, the curiously loaned lad teased a perfect pass with the outside of his right boot behind the last defender, in front of the keeper and into the flightpath of Finch. As Young wandered lonely in a cloud of doubt, Finch knocked the ball past him and across the face of goal between retreating defenders and the stretching, sliding Cook.

Fouling, hurling and crying in the chapel. One day Harrington will have to touch the ball.

As Bristol were about to take a free kick and with 15 minutes left, Cook and Vernam were replaced by Morgan and Cartwright. A punt, a header, a block, a corner cleared as men wrestled and tumbled in their dozens inside the penalty area. Behind you! Shelton rolling, Harrington confronting Leigh and out came a red card. Yes, the stamp tax does still exist Tommy, you obviously read the wrong newspapers. Oh hang on, you're young, whatever is on your newsfeeds on your dumbphone.

Are they still here? Why do they bother? McJannet stepped across to step in, cushioning an interception and caressing down the line to Cartwright, standing on the touchline by the dugouts. A sweet flick over a lurking bluesman, a roll, a stroll, a feint and a back heel into the path of the overlapping Green. Just one look is all it took and a cross into the centre of goal, a perfect parobola for the on-strolling Turi to make the impossible possible and lift a lullaby over from four yards out. Oh well, nobody's perfect.

An overlap, on overload, an overly due visit from Bristol Rovers to the Grimsby Town penalty area. Harrison swiped from Vernam's Onana point, but though playing in yellow Harrington ain't no banana. A low finger flunk aside from the foot of the near post was his first, last everything in terms of actual, factual saves. The corner cleared and our latest safety jacket was suddenly seen lying in the floor. Has the Blundell Park Keeper Curse struck again, is this the footballing version of Spinal Tap's drummer? On came the physio as Seb the forever bridesmaid warmed up on the touchline. A finger was pulled and I'm not pulling anyone's leg but do we need a replacement for the replacement bus service? Can we get an Uberkeeper or will the data lead us to a driverless taxi. Do they even come this far north?

Stay frosty everyone, Harrington's back on his feet with his gloves back on his hands.

As we contemplated our afternoon's post-match entertainment, Sweeney's switcharooing punt dropped down way inside the Bristol half. Morgan wrestled his markers aside, twisted, turned and bedraggled past the keeper's right post just as three fellow stripes arrived in support, pleading for a pass. Captain Green had words of advice for the greenhorn, this young buck, the Town tyro. Morgan, you're still a suitable case for the Town treatment.

As the clock ticked within a couple of minutes of the mysterious land of added time, Town double subbed Doyle and Reynolds for Shelton and Finch. Nice for them to have a little jog around the ground whilst we, the people, are still in it. And then there were five….five minutes of added time. Town half-attacks, half-cleared, half-heartedly petering out in the corners as time was wasted wasting time. For all the twists and turns all we had left to remember was twisty Morgan's crash against blue rocks and Cartwright's sumptuous slide tackle (ignore the overhit pass that followed).

Town worked hard to make it easy, doing to them what they wanted to do to us. They never looked like scoring, we never looked like not winning. Town were just too strong in every respect. What can we say, what more do we need to say?

Compelling and commanding.