Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Thursday 22 March 2007

22 March 2007

What was yesterday's Diary on? A small toadstool near Grainthorpe? I think it was about this, but you never can tell these days with this bunch of abnormal diarists that drift down the Humber.

I'm Deviant Diary, you're not. Got a problem with that?

What's the big world news? The budget? Nah. The international crisis over North Korea's nuclear programme? Don't be silly. It's emergency-loans that-are-not-emergencies loans-not-transfers that's-something-else-entirely deadline day, and Isaiah Rankin is still here. The Galactic Emperor hath decreed there shall be no incoming missiles, so Town have until 5 o'clock to get rid of the undead. The de-lovely, de-lightful official site claims that there is interest in Rankin from an unnamed club, thus breaking up the promising strike force that has terrorised the Eastern Pontins Floodbarrier Reserve League. Ah, but which unnamed club? Brentford? Perhaps. Torquay? Could be. ITV's fat club? Gotta be.

Aye yes, things have only got better since that glorious day in November on the South Bank when 18 matches of misrule were ended. The reserves (aka Graham Rodger's first team and some kids) are as unstoppable as the Real Thing we see every Saturday afternoon, winning away at Hartlepool.

It's tenuous, or as some emergency diarists have sometimes called tetanus, link time. Oh thank you oh magnificent ones, we are blessed and are not worthy. How did we get this shower of stale golden breadcrumbs? Mr Neil Woods' nephew is in the Chelsea first-team squad. As Rowan - or was it Martin? - said: "I didn't know that." I do know, and the world feels a safer place already.

Town are back to normal, where nothing really happens between games, so a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of cotton imprints of ancient Mariners. Where's that T-shirt eh? Here's the answer. Flying in from Rio, or whichever foreign clime he's jaunting in today, comes an abject apology from Cod Almighty's tame capitalist and T-shirt impresario Mr Andy Holt. I quote, so his crack team of litigation specialists don't batter down my e-door: "Sorry to all those who ordered T-shirts in the last month but have not seen anything or had a reply if they've chased them. I'm in parts foreign and have been pretty much for most of the past forever and will get round to all the orders on my return". So he's sorry, he's out of the country, he has your money, he promises to come back one day and sort it out. Maybe he's not so tame after all. You can buy an awful lot of curare for £12.57.

If there was a Cyril in the room he would, for the second day running, have a final Diary paragraph addressed just to him. Enraged by the latest cackling evil being spewed out by Ponceyship employees your own, your very own, Cod Almighty has created a safe haven for dissent. You are urged to sign the pledge to save the planet. Say yes to draws and tomorrow the world, Pinky!