Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Monday 22 December 2008

22 December 2008

When I received a text message from Durham Diary on Saturday to tell me that Town had taken the lead at Aldershot, I assumed that the clock on the kitchen wall, which said the time was 2:58pm, had been running slow. What a good job I couldn't be arsed to get up and change it, because Matt Westby in today's Grimsby Telegraph explains that, in fact, the Diary's clock was right and the referee was running fast. If you wanted to drastically condense Mr Westby's report you might relate simply that the Shots were pretty much all over Town - but you would miss out on the rather resonant closing thought that it would be "churlish not to cherish" the very good away point earned by the Mariners at the Recreation Ground. 'Tis not the season to be churlish, if we can disown our Grimbarian nature for a little while: personally, my glass is half full of mulled wine, and the Diary can't see beyond Barnet joining Luton in the relegation spots come May time.

In the meantime, here's another yuletide chant from Chris Beeley:

God rest ye merry Mariners; let nothing ye dismay
For Mike Newell our saviour will keep Blue Square away
With Proudlock, Jean Paul, and young Rob
We'll take it all the way
Good tidings of Ryan the boy, Ryan the boy
Good tidings of Ryan the boy.

And here's an email from John Kirk:

Seeing the name Steve Lang on Cod Almighty on Wednesday reminded me of my old mate of that name... and I can't believe that there was more than one Town fan with such a moniker in the sixties. Steve and I were at a top-secret teacher training facility in the late sixties, and if I divulged its name then I'm afraid Cod Almighty would be taken off the net and all its readers would have to be eliminated by MI5... so let's just say it was somewhere that you might find a Club Franchise.

Anyway, being poor students of the time... might I digress to explain to today's youngsters that being a poor student in the sixties meant having a bank balance of nothing, or greater, as opposed to a bank balance resembling the national debt of Zimbabwe... anyway, back to being a poor student sixties version.  To afford the occasional visit back to civilisation, a Lincoln City fan, Steve, and I all used to cram into my minivan and shoehorn in the cases, bags etc, finally ramming the third passenger into the back anyhow they could be fitted in, the other two would lean hard against the doors and fasten the door handle.  Yes, all good practice for being a tail gunner (though I believe these days that expression has connotations none of we students ever contemplated whilst there was plenty of rampant totty about).

Of course, once I and the co-pilot had settled ourselves comfortably in the front of the van, communication with the poor bugger in the back was nigh-on impossible, until we had meandered homewards, and were able to peel them from the back of the rear doors, and wait whilst blood flowed once more into knee joints, nose ends, necks, and toes.  Such cramped conditions did have the distinct advantage though of suppressing the movement of the two large blocks of granite I used to carry to counteract the lack of suspension in the back wheels.

Now, on this particular occasion we were heading home for Christmas, and looking forward to a happy visit to Blundell Park, and it was Steve's turn to draw the short straw and head backwards for Christmas.  Unfortunately, it had been raining heavily, and on the rolling hills through Northamptonshire we were confronted by a steep downhill stretch, with a lake of water at the bottom.  As brakes were an optional extra on minivans, the chance of pulling out before slamming into the water was never a possibility.  Nor was there any chance to have training in how to drive through such a lake, so it was with a mixture of bravado, fate, and studentish "Nothing fazes me!" we hit the water at top speed, or 45 mph as we say these days.  Not knowing what the fuck to do, I did nothing, which turned out to be probably for the best.  The van aquaplaned, lurched sideways, up, down, and sideways again, as spray flew in all directions, and a muted shout from the back was heard: "What the fuck was that!"

I'm just surprised that that was NOT Steve's most memorable Christmas, that's all.

But on second thoughts, it might have been in the summer.  And it might have been the Lincoln City fan in the back, with me and Steve laughing hysterically in the front from the sheer relief of survival.

Glorious stuff. Keep 'em coming, readers, and I'll see you tomorrow.