Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

20 September 2026

On days like these when skies are blue and fields are green, we look around and think about what might have been. If only Crawley had gone down last year. Ah well, there's always hope.

After the midday showers came an afternoon of sunshine and big blustering wind barrelling down into the Osmond as Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Cartwright, Turi, Green, Shelton, Morgan and Vernam. The substitutes were Auton, Foulkes, Pruti, Doyle, Walker, Reynolds and Finch. With the Cookie Monster and his apprentices wrapped in cotton wool it's left to Iwan the commis chef to prepare the feast. Is the force getting stronger with I-wan or will Iwan by wan? I don't want to diss Darragh Burns but it's not about joggers who go round and round and round, we're now talking Cart-Wright in Blundell Park life.

The Crawley corner was barely alive with 81 souls defying Kazim-Richards' call to surrender to the void. Yes, 81 humans who support Crawley Town actually headed to this mysterious northern wasteland despite being told not to bother. Mate, football fans go to matches, that's the point. Their team? They had turned up, or at least there were young men kicking a ball about wearing a football kit. It's a start.

Shall we get this started? Oh yes, we may as well, but not until after the linesman had leapt over the sprinkler as it gushed in perfectly timed and aimed shower into his shorts. Sometimes it's the little things that make your day.

1st half – Do it again
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon. Yes they did. And there we are.

Them. Vague higgledy-piggledy butterfly flutterings and a-flitterings, playmates. A bit of this here, a little of that over there, but local walls have local bricks held together with local mortar. Pym even scooped up a shot. Yes, they had a shot. And there it was. Never again was Pym the Custardian required to anything but pluck the occasional cross and thwack forward. Some were watching monuments, some jotting down notes, we're not in despair yet, but those at home watching were slumped asleep in the chairs.

An overhit cross, a cross into the side netting. We're not getting cross yet. C'mon Town, get up on your feet, step to the beat, where's the inspiration. C'mon, we're waiting.

Ooh, clever! A Town corner shortened, swept by Cartwright but blocked by a red barrage balloon. We keep trying, one day the ball will pass the first bollard. Another and another. Another what? Another Town corner, that's what. Underwhelmingly underhit and out for another Morgan long chuck, head up and half headed out. The ball dropped and Vernam plopped over a long thigh to great red sighs as the fickle finger of their fate pointed towards the penalty spot. The Wolds Panther put the ball down and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he had the chance to miss, placing the shot exactly where everyone in the ground could see he was going to put the ball - perfectly weighted at the perfect height for the plunging keeper to paw aside.

And here we are now gazing through trees in sorrow with hardly a sound till tomorrow.

Morgan headed over from a Vernam free kick and headed high and wide again from a free kick or a corner. Some details are irrelevant, you just need to see the big picture. Maldini. Yeah, maybe him too. The big picture was balls around the box, and balls in the box.

It would be awfully rude not to mention them having a few jaunts down towards the Pontoon. Yeah, they had some shots, they hit white socks. Shoulders will shrug. Oh yes, and once, once, Vernam disappeared, allowing their right-back to canter. A cross to the near post and two red shorts waiting. Here is the fact from which you can extrapolate the outcome: Maldini Kacurri exists, that's why Danilo Orsi didn't.

Cartwright and Rodgers exchanged passes oncely and twicely near the new wheelchair viewing platform. Cartwright was dreadfully dredged and the crowd called out as he hit the floor. Play on, play on and play the game. Turi delicately chipped out of the bunker, Rodgers rolled on to the bye-line and hooked past and over the keeper, whose attempt at smothering ended up as a body check. Ah, Town's luck be a lady, another penalty.

Amidst the hubbub and hullabaloo Artell gathered some of his troops and issued words of wisdom. To the relief of all, Slim Charles was no longer the penman. Morgan puffed out his chest, stared very obviously to his left and swiped heftily and highly the other way as the keeper flew low and rightly, but wrongly. But right as far as we were concerned.

With Crawley chins scraping the floor Town upped the intensity, increasing the speed of passing and pressing them into the ground. Yeah, Town increased the speed to walk over them. Crawley fell apart. Had they ever been together?

All the tricks of Town's trade. Morgan tinkled and Vernam's low Vernamator was parried aside from the left post straight out towards two lurking stripes. Green leapt out of the way and Michalski battered Cartwright's blast back. Green leapt into action, but his follow up follow up was blocked by a red wall. Dizzy, their heads are spinning, a lunge and plunge and Cartwright's wibbling wobbler of a free kick crawled past the right post with the keeper motionless, just wishin' and hopin' and prayin'.

Ah, poor old Crawley, they're like my garden fence - just one more little push and it'll fall over. Pym's long punt sailed over two Townites and bounced on towards Scoreboard Corner. Morgan chased and lifted over a red head, straight to a red foot, who promptly passed it back. Thank you kindly squire, much obliged. Morgan hit the bye-line, looked up and crossed with perfect precision for Green to glance down as we glanced at Crawley's keeper crawling forlornly along the line.

Ooh-ah, a little bit more please. Terrific triangulation and Green slipped Shelton behind their alleged defence. Michalski rushed out, raised a hand, smother-swooped and splatted away. Other things didn't happen either, but you don't need to know that every little thing wasn't magic.

Five minutes were added. Carry on, there's nothing to see here. Shelton toe poked back to Pym to end the hint of impending unhappiness and happily the referee saw no ships. Turi drove but Morgan greedily ignored his striped chums pouring into the spaces and scrubbed against the last red shins standing. I did tell you there's nothing more to see here.

Well, that's that done and dusted. How many do we want?

2nd half – Being boring
There's an old full-back we used to know whose hips had much more swing. Who's having a heritage house party today in McMenemy's? Oh, bless my soul, Dave Worthington.

Neither side many any changes at half time. Please do try and keep your eyes wide, their chances won't come again, the loser now will not be later to win. The times they weren't a changing.

Crawley accidentally passed to each other once, but mainly passed out of play. Now, that reminds me, I accidentally caught sight of an old darts match on ITV4. I hadn't noticed before how much John Lowe looked like Lawrie McMenemy. Or maybe it's the picture quality as it transitioned from 1970s video to 5k 3D digital widescreen surround sound mega immers-o-vision.

A moment of clarity as Townites passed and moved, possibly even grooved. A flick and Morgan was freed centrally. Alas, the lad let the ball roll on, waiting to use his right when the left was logical. There's no more to it than that. Another moment of possibility lost in time. A spectacular ram raid down the right with Rodgers released to roll across into the path of Green, who clipped against the keeper and rolled, John-Lewis like, into the path of the rebound to ricochet the ball into the net. And to turn around to see a flag fluttering for a no ball. It was fun whilst it lasted.

Shall we have some fun in the sun? Town triangulation,swinging and dodging and Shelton slivered Rodgers free behind the lines. Michalski muffled the cross-shot at the near post and the ball bumpled up. Maldini pounced a yard out but the keeper arose again to block up and over the bar. Now that's what I call keeping, which may be music to his agent's ears.

After about ten minutes of the half Walker replaced Shelton, who left rubbing his calf. And what comes next? Let's have a quiz.

An unincorporated town in Oregon. The act or process of making or enlarging a hole. This game. Can you tell Victoria what the connection is for one point? One could make a case that Town were methodically enlarging a hole in Crawley's season, so two out of three ain't bad. Ah, my mind is drifting like Crawley's passing in the wind and this mismatched match of the day. Meatloaf is rock music for people who don't like rock and rock is a seaside treat no-one wants to eat. Where are we going with this? Nowhere, man, just like the game, round and round and round we go to nowhere. There's nothing left inside of here.

For the avoidance of doubt and utter clarity I definitely said passing in the wind. Other misheard lyrics are available and equally applicable to next year's National League play-off contenders. You ears are alight now.
Crawley substitutions. Poor Colin, making all his nowhere plans for nobody.

Hello, what's this? A flurry of fluff, a Rodgers shot saved, a Town corner. I believe it happened so it must have happened. Believing is seeing, isn't that nine tenths of the law? Is that an iceberg? Don't they make your ears burn? Look, shirt, them a-tear up, trousers are gone. I don't want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde
This is nonsense. And so is Town's defending. A red corner, Gordon freely heading wide. Wakey-wakey. We may be walking through them in our sleep but stay awake at the back.

With 20 minutes left Reynolds and Finch replaced the visibly enervated Morgan and Cartwright and we were treated to a host of golden almost balls with Sonny Boy Finch fluttering, dancing in the breeze. We gazed, our eyes glazed as with so little thought all plans came naught. Finch persistently pestered, forever on the cusp and on the brink, but he's currently a nearly man, nearly through, nearly shooting, nearly scoring, near but still far away.

Nearly man, don't worry, take your time, don't hurry, some day somebody else may lend you a hand. It would be handy if we'd remain conscious. Sweeney swipe-sliced a back pass across the face of goal, past the scrambling Pym. Walker used his charm to upend a redster, a move so brazen and unsubtle he was rewarded for his chutzpah with a non-booking. Turi was clattered, the fouling scoundrel was booked and the trainerperson came on. After some TLC play resumed with Turi remaining in play, not even asked to leave the field for a minute's compulsory R&R.

With a game already wound down to zero, winding down Town replaced Green and Vernam with Doyle and Foulkes. As Crawley brought on taller and taller players, Town brought on smaller and smaller players. Yins will yang for karmic and cosmic balance.

Seven minutes were added.

Are we going to get a magic number three? Tick-tack-toe from Town and Finch barundled past their last legs. Michalski stood his ground and from a narrow angle the shot buffled off his shins, possibly his shin guards and we have no bananas.

Townites dawdling, Crawley paddling and crossing. Aderoju volleyed into the ground and the ball bounced over. Of course he should have scored. Of course he missed. That's what they do.

And at the last, the very, very last, in the shadow of the Ramstand, Reynolds nodded McJannet's high-hanging freekick punt infield. Doyle tickled, Finch burst past the last red socks and the annoyingly competent Michalski splendidly sprawled to parry out into an unmanned expanse. Foulkes followed up and passed lowly back across the keeper, but some spoiling sportsman swiped off the line.

Missed a pen, scored a pen, Green nodded in as they nodded off. Town so very lackadaisical against lacklustre llamas playing in pyjamas. We didn't have to do much to beat nothing, and there's nothing more to it than that.