Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Saturday 20 February 2010

Division 4

Grimsby Town 2 Peacock (38, 46)

Lincoln City 2 Herd (4), Gilmour (60)

Attendance: 6395

In the fog and fury all eyes and spleens were rolling towards the officials, but it appears that the tie and no jeans brigade were enamoured by the spiky Scot.

After switching wings Coulson had a stormer, reducing his marker into some ill-set lime jelly without a rabbit mould in sight. Hudson and Sinclair were unobtrusive battlers, while Devitt hinted at excitement but was rather starved of possession, partly through Lincoln tripling up on him whenever they could. It has to be Lee Peacock, doesn't it: two goals, two hearts, we need him in two places at once. He's twice the men we've had before.

"Both the players and the bench were gobsmacked we didn't get a penalty -€“ his arms were above his head. But the referee lost control in the second half in my opinion -€“ I don't even think their penalty was a penalty. I've not spoken to the referee but I have talked to the assessor and he agrees with my viewpoint. Aside from that it was a frustrating result."

"We knew it would be difficult against Grimsby who have been hard to beat and I think a point is about right. We took the lead but made some errors and they got back into it. We felt there was a foul for their first goal but there were some strange decisions for both sides."

They played in grey and they were grey. Set up to defend and hope for counterattacks, they got lucky at the start and luckier as the game went on. They tried, they were sort of organised and relied on others for their survival. Broughton was what he’s always been: a big, brutish pain in the neck (literally for Lancashire) without skill but plenty of angles. Herd came from the underworld with his psychopathic tackling and psychedelic hair, while of their others… erm… they had small ones and big ones. Their left-back was ripped asunder by Coulson and Pearce grizzled and grumped a lot. Their style seemed to mix lumping to the big man with scuttling. They looked like a team just above the gloop, neither good enough to leap forward nor bad enough to gurgle into the swamp. They were just average: they were only a shade of grey.

The crowd were behind the team and saw that they gave their all, played well and were denied victory as much by the (in)actions of others than anything they did. We’re raging at the clown, not the Town.

Mr M Haywood (W Yorks)
Come friendly bombs and fall on this cow. Was he wracked by guilt for allowing Town’s first goal and so over-compensated thereafter? It’s the only explanation I can find. For what he gave Lincoln a penalty, he should have given Town a multitude of penalties as arms hugged, shirts were pulled and legs were knocked in the frenetic wrestling in front of the Pontoon. It’s called consistency, mateyboy. The trip on Wright, the mugging of Peacock and that handball… it was shameful in context. And out of context too. As every wilful failure to see reason mounted, you could detect an alien vibration here; there was something in the air besides the atmosphere. The object of the action was becoming clear: the whistling fool’s lucky number is –12.325. Give him his due – he addressed the clashing kits by changing his shirt at half time.

We really must have run out of ways of not winning. There is only a mysterious alien abduction of Nick Colgan as he’s about to catch a last-minute corner left in that book now.