Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

27 September 2026

The grass is greener, the grass is longer as we ponder, why are we here? What brings us to Newport on a sunny afternoon? Ah, the age old battle between hope and expectation. It's Town, what you expect is what you hope not to happen, not what the data tells you.

The data tells you it's a long, long way to go for a sausage bap.

Town lined up in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Kacurri, McJannet, Sweeney, Walker, Cartwright (F), Green, Shelton, Vernam and Morgan. The substitutes were Auton, Staunton, Doyle, Reynolds, Amaluzor, Finch and Cook. Walker for The Geezer from the Freezer, our international bright young thing, the only change from the last proper football match. Hey, hey, hey, the Cookie Monster! Oh Dave, you are a tease.

Newport. Jordan Wright had a nice long natter with the Town keepers' union. The rest of them? Blokes in the distance. Should we really concern ourselves with people in a far-away land of whom we know nothing?

Shall we start? If we must. We're not here for the beer.

1st half – All down the line
Town kicked off away from four hundred or so monochromers sitting in the open sunlight. This is my seat, and I'm never gonna leave it, well, until full time, but I will take my jacket off.

For all the dreams and schemes, people are as they seem. They seem to be asleep. It must be the heat and dust of this September dog day. Morgan chucked longly, longing for some human connection. Only Newportian heads apply. Newportian feet applied some welly and the ball sailed unto the sun until it was found in the sea of green seats.

Wright flapped at a corner, Morgan slashed out for a throw-in after a long chuck was returned. These are the days of our lives remember. Do you remember the days before today, the days when balls weren't flung? Why can't we play today, why can't we blow these teddy bears away?

Ah-ha, a ball that hung with possibilities. Shelton's sensational spinning reverse sweep to deep midwicket flew into empty spaces, Green barundling into the void and rolling gently across the face of goal. With Wright stranded by his near post, still nursing his pre-match coffee and with fond memories of his chat with Old Steve and Young Seb, Morgan stretched and stretched credulity by sitting on a sitter, the ball dwimbling off his backside and slowly, slowly past the farthest, emptiest post.

Is it going to be one of those days where we cut them into little pieces and come away with nothing but their very best wishes?

It is often said that rugby is a game for barbarians played by gentleman. Gentlemen, there are barbarians at the gate. They play at a rugby ground, they play rugby football at their rugby ground, forever punting into the long grass, chipping, chasing, gaining yardage for a scrum or line-out. A chase chipped and a clatter-splatterspun their way. Adu-Poku foraged past McJannet on their right and, hitting the bye-line, looked up and espied a chum or two alone. Fear not, dear reader, put down that handkerchief, cast away the nose gay, Maldini is a Mariner. One look was all it took.

Long balls, longer balls, balls that went long. Once, twice, three times an amber laddie tried to pass shortly. Oh the hilarity. They really shouldn't try that fancy stuff. No, they should, it's a great comfort to see opponents stagger and fall against the Mariners wall.

Sauntering stripes occasionally roused themselves into collective cohesion. Shelton slowly coiled into Wright's waiting gloves, Green bumped away a midge and scrumbled perfectly into the path of The Panther, but Vernam Vernamed lowly and slowly straight to the ancient Mariner. A Town surge caused merriment and mishaps inside the Amber penalty area. Drooping and scooping crosses missed Morgan and back-post Cartwright flimbled across the face of goal and wide of the far post, which was originally the near post. Which is which and who is who? Who's on first? What? No, he's on third. You see how easy it is to confuse fourth division defenders?

Quickness of the mind deceives the eye! You see how easy it is to confuse fourth division referees. Three times the referee blew for a foul with Town springing forward, advantage not given. Topping his cake of cack-handed decisions, his coup de grace, Dizzy Daz Drysdale intercepted Shelton’s precision pass to the scampering Slim Charles.

Shelton stood on, Shelton down, Shelton off, Reynolds on. Just the facts. Some facts you don't want to know.

You want more facts? Ten minutes later five minutes were added. They wanted a penalty as McJannet's point blank block of a cross diverted for a corner. They didn't get it, nor should they. Wee Cam's arms were in a totally natural position – attached to his body.

This was like the first half at Cheltenham, just against lesser mortals. A wavy-gravy wanderfest of failing triangles, less a performance than a training ground practice session against the youthers and assorted ramshackle reserves. The better team is drawing. And so are Newport's noodling hamsters.

C'mon Town, you don't need to give it some welly, just some oomph.

2nd half – Torn and frayed
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Sleepin' in the sun, how you expect to get your day's work done? Homesters hurling and whirling, balls curling into the ether, neither or either side connecting with each other.

Ooh, wakey-wakey. Reynolds cutely passed through the eye of several needles, Sweeney high stepped across his man and crossed to the near post, where Green beat all comers to the ball and fell over Wright's hands as the ball travelled on and out. All heads present spun and eyes swivelled towards the referee. Dizzy Daz stood still, whistle half to his mouth, arms half stretched towards somewhere indeterminate and indecipherable. He thought about it. He thought again. He considered his options and considered the lily before making no decision at all. Carry on, nothing to see here, goal kick. The jury behind the goal had no need to retire, but this was not a jury matter.

Town's balloon was expanding, go on, keep blowing. Stripes sniggling and smuggling, Amberites' eyes a-buggling and Vernam Vernamed infield but slightly underhit a bedraggler to the near post and Wright's long, long arms saved their day.

And off they wellied.

Headed back into the molasses, Town calmly triangulated on the left, piddling about with tappy tips. Reynolds, just inside the Town half, attempted an artful across field pass but a big Amber leg charged down and the ball spundled over and behind McJannet straight to a lurking old dog, lazing in the sun. Doidge took a touch across the slip-sliding McJannet and dragged lowly, but precisely, across Pym into the bottom right corner.

A deeply annoying goal, a deeply annoying tannoyman.

Upon this distressingly distasteful turn of events Morgan and Cartwright were immediately replaced by Cook and Finch, with Morgan turning to the crowd holding the back of his thigh and limping off the pitch. So they do teach them the basics at Premier League Academies then. It's all in the thigh – slap it when you miss a sitter, hold it when you get substituted. Useful things thighs.

The Wolds Panther underpiffled wide in the usual underwhelming fashion.

And now to sigh. McJannet took a battering with constant clatterings from a succession of Welsh rabbits. Off for a minute after a head crush and on his return one-legged hobbling for several more after a suspiciously 'just' late scrape. The garryowens began to rain down as percentageballing began to tip the game towards Newport. A corner became a corner became a corner that drooped beyond the far post. Reynolds didn't follow his man and his man hoiked a half lob back into the mixer. The ball gently arced over Kacurri and Gwenwge stooped to conquer two yards out, dead centre, with Pym stuck on his line. A dozen striped arms aloft seeking salvation in a linesman. There is no salvation or absolution, just the absolute certainty of death and taxes. And Town with a dearth of attacking and lax defending when faced with mediocre opponents.

Concede a goal, make a change, that's in the pre-planned plan of action. Vernam and Sweeney were replaced by Amaluzor and Staunton. The game became, if not wilder, then certainly more livid. Ankles were tapped, elbows sharpened. Cook was booked for 'accidentally' colliding with Wright, Green was booked for complaining after Walker was dredged with no enforcement activity from the local council despite the offence being caught by CCTV in John Frost Square.

Beware the Newport Rising!

Sneaky homesters were playing on the break, awaiting that inevitable stray pass or flimsy flick to release their hounds. Adu-Poku gambolled down their right, crinkling lowly towards the penalty spot. Biggins swept in to sweep lowly towards the bottom left corner. The Pink Plunger flew across to parry aside, springing back up to spectacularly toe poke Biggin's follow up shot up and across the face of goal to crawl over the angle of far post and far bar. They had this and that, a soft header straight at Pym, Adu-Poku's weave through the traffic ended with a waft well wide.

But all the while Town were gently knock-knock-knocking on their door. Moments, always just moments, where an extra fiddle really killed the mood. Finch! A touch too much. Cook! Blocked by amber socks.

Maldini surged forward, brushing aside a gnat, releasing Amaluzor way to the west. Jinkin' Justin crimpled a wayward low cross straight to Wright who, with no Townites within the same county, nutmegged himself and back-heeled in at the near post. Now, if a Brazilian had done that they'd be fawning over it all night. We'll just have to do with guffawing on the YouTube.

I can't think of anything to say except…laughing is nice.

Ooh and ahhs, all Town are we? We are. Just flippin' shoot, stop faffing!

As the digital clock ticked to 90, Town pulled out an old move from the analogue age. In and out we came, rotating our crops and Reynolds tapped back and aside to Maldini. Big Mal surged again and tinkled out to Rodgers who, from exactly the same spot as Amaluzor, crimpled a low cross through the six-yard box. A yellow foot stretched and missed, Green attempted a back-heel but, possibly as an homage to Wright, nutmegged himself. The ball rolled on. Wright was nowhere as, five yards out, dead centre, Reynolds skipped in and stumble-swept over the ball. On it rolled and Cook, stood by the far post, let the ball roll past. And that, my friends, is the end of anything and everything.

Eight minutes were added within which Young Master Finch managed to not pass into Cook's path, which rather sums up the day – Townites managing to not do something simple.

I can tell you the toilets haven't been so angry after an away game since Swindon in 1993. Well, Swindon most years really, but especially that one. It really was a massive achievement to lose that game, and this. Very slack, very sloppy, very annoying.