Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Wednesday 18 April 2012

18 April 2012

So then, folks - that's it. York won at Cambridge last night, so finally we can stop blabbering on about the play-offs.

"Youths in action" might be the sort of headline that attracts the attention of the internet police, but what it's really referring to in this instance is the youth team's final home match of the season against Hull City at Cheapside this afternoon. Kick-off is at 2pm. Light snacks - including salt and vinegar crisps for the fully recovered mouth of Dayle Southwell - and drinks will be available. I'd tell you what our youth team has achieved this season if I could find any information on them, but I suspect it's chuff all.

If you're making the trip to Telford this weekend then you might find this information useful from the superb new official website, which has remained superb and new for about five years now.

As predicted by yesterday's Middle-Aged Diary, there's sod all to report today, save for the news that Andrew Wright has returned to Scunthorpe just before his month's loan was about to expire anyway. All of which means that your West Yorkshire Diary is going to have to resort to doing that thing that teachers say you should never do in essays and waffle. Pad it out. Do what you have to do to up the word count. Sneak in the word 'that' a lot, unnecessarily, for example. Talk drivel. Verbal diarrhoea, as my mum prefers to call it. And so on - you get the idea. I'm already very proud of the length of this diary (although I doubt it's a feeling you share).

"Don't let the absence of news stop you from writing an informed and mildly entertaining diary for Cod Almighty," I said to myself just now. I'd love to write an anecdotal piece about the inevitability of treading in dog mess that my grandad used to face when walking down Harrington Street on the way home from every home match, but there isn't a lot else to say about that because it is what it is - a man treading in dog shit. I think it was the same dog each time. I like to think it was the dog's way of tormenting my grandad.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, when you're quite literally talking about dog shit you know that you've run out of steam. So it's over to tomorrow's diarist to do what all good strikers do in the box and create something out of nothing. Cheerio!