Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Simon Wilson

14 April 2007

Accrington Stanley 4 Grimsby Town 1

It's April, the time of the year for the recent fad of Town travelling to one of the clubs handily placed for Mancunian exiles. 2004's Hockless rocket at Stockport. The year before, erm, Kidderminster. Last year Macclesfield.

How do you get into the ground? Look for the entrance hidden at the end of car park on Livingstone Road. Not Steve Livingstone, I presume. The ground sits between the past and the present - behind a row of traditional housing behind the left-hand stand, a collection of seemingly erratically placed red bricks houses scattered behind the right-hand stand. The two stands either side of the pitch are low, low, low.

The 350 or Town fans spread out on the terrace behind one of the goals were treated to a clear sky and sunshine. In 50 years they will try and reignite the sun just so we can relive this kind of experience. It was short sleeves and tank top weather nonetheless. Yes, you read that right. Don't just look at that youthful fashion victim in one; just look at the number of elderly Accrington fans walking along the catwalk at the front of that stand to our left. The terrace behind the other goal seemed full, with a throng of about 20 in the middle at the top singing, bouncing around.

A lone sprinkler pumped out a thin spray of water over an area of about ten metres square, just inside the half in front of us. Come on! This is The North! We don't have hose pipe bans up here! Drench the pitch! Anyhow, expect any slick passing to be exclusively reserved for that well-watered patch.

Alan Buckley sent out the following employees of Grimsby Town Football Club: Barnes; Croft, Whittle, Fenton, Newey; Till, Bolland, Hunt, The Mighty Bosh, Toner; North. Waiting in the serene shade were Bore, The Lump, Bloomer, Grand and Murray. Accrington - what of them? We can learn their names as the game goes along. Their subs were perfectly placing shots towards goal. And placing them all about a foot wide of the post. Here's hoping their first XI are just as inaccurate.

With silence around the ground, the game kicked off.

First half
Town kicked off towards their fans. Within ten seconds Town has their first throw in, far down their left wing. Someone to my left started to beat their drum. It was the only noise, sounding like the slow throb of your blood during a hangover.

DUM.

DUM.

DUM.

The Bosh, Toner and Newey play passin' and movin' down the left, realise that Accrington aren't gonna bust a groove, and work the ball back to Hunt in midfield who, alert, rolls the balls out to the right for Gary Croft to saunter onto. Croft seems to be having a siesta and fails to even jog onto the pass. Blame that Accrington throw-in on the weather! We are that much closer to the Caribbean in Lancashire after all.

The ball is slung down the wing, and Croft is still in bed. Don't spoil his day; he's miles away. Without any undue menace Whittle is startled by the ball's presence and softly concedes the first corner of the game, and an ineffectual one at that.

A minute later and the ball's with Newey on the half-way line. He's running down the wing with the ball. Still running. Still going. They can't stop him! He's cutting inside... towards the edge of the box... NEWEY! No, that isn't me exploding in a moment of Peter Drury-inspired commentary. It's frustration. Two last ditch tackles on the edge of the box stole the ball away. Great run, and one that raises the Town fans' expectancy and the noise.

Accrington launch the ball up field. Fenton gets to it and softly plays it back towards Barnes. Arrrgghhh! It's like last Monday again! The Accrington number 14 tries to sneak in, but Barnes collects. Phew. A 'nearly' moment. You don't want to be a 'nearly man', Nick.

A wibble, but Town regain the ball and control of the game. They're strolling, passing, moving, out-classing, and comfortable. North finds himself in a useful position out wide but crosses over. Some more plip-plopping in midfield. The ball bounces towards Town's goal, and Barnes is there before their number 8. The ball is eased out to the left wing and the mighty Bosh, hugging the line, pushes it into Newey who slides the ball five yards inside to Toner. Instantly Toner plays a lovely measured ball from just outside the box into the path of Newey's continued run. Man and ball meet bang on the touchline, where Newey has time to realise he has no support in the box other than three Accrington defenders to who he places his cross. Gah. It's that one-man up-front routine. Isn't it?

Town continue with the possession. The game's going nowhere. People are reading matchday programmes. "It sounds like those Accrington fans are singing '1-1-8'." Mmmm, Frazzles.

Oh! It's five minutes later! There's a quick passage of box-to-box-to-box play. Till, relatively anonymous until now, cuts inside, is tackled. Accrington then show a collective urge to surge forward. A tricky situation is masterfully defused by Whittle and Fenton's combined efforts to block 20 yards out, and again that wing wizard the Mighty Bosh, is hugging that left flank, like a four-year-old with an over-sized teddy. He rolls the ball to Newey whose cross is - PEEP! - calmly put away by North. Someone was off-side.

Ball's pumped upfield. Croft's trying to work out if he's put a Grand National bet on. Whittle is trying to help him. Till gets the loose ball, but is tackled too close to his own box. Barnes, alert, picks up the ball.

Accrington are starting to swing the tide their way, the lanky Proctor making them tick, and have a good five minute spell denying Town the chance to do anything useful with the ball, other than a 'launch it' for North to have a race with their 43.

In the 23rd minute Peter Bore replaces Peter Till. Instantly Town were reenergized. Newey curled a great ball 60 yards down the left, and North finally got the beating of the number 43 ('Antwi' as we saw the back of his shirt as North nipped past him). In a similar position to Newey earlier, North crossed the ball from the byeline, straight into the hands of their 'keeper, Martin.

Toner returned to the action as well, for a fun-filled two minutes down the left: getting into a position to have a cross blocked; then trying a flat ball inside; and having a go at chasing one of those punts upfield. The head-throb was off again, this time andante.

DUM-DUM.
DUM-DUM.
DUM-DUM.

Accrington has a lofted free-kick from their right that went well over the massed throng in the box, and just past the far post. And moments later Crofty softly let their number 14 have the ball, he drove square and hit a rising curler two foot wide of Barnes's right-hand post. Ooooh!

Accrington were caught off-side, then Town followed suit. The home team continued to gain the upper hand, with Robbie Williams starting to dominate North, Town's only outlet up front. Accrington took the lead in soft fashion. For once the pass from the Accrington midfield wasn't blocked or too strong, and Mullin was able to reach the ball ahead of the slumbersome Fenton to balloon the ball over Barnes with an unsaveable effort in front of the jubilant Accrington fans. To quote Gene Hunt: bastard. Still, it was Mullin's 36Second appearance, a record for the Accies. If you wanna be the best, you have to beat the rest and all that. One fan behind me wasn't impressed: "He's the worst keeper we've ever had!"

Town kicked off and moved the ball towards the Accrington goal in a direct fashion. Goal kick. Their keeper went down for a couple of minutes' treatment. A goal to the good, the players sought liquid refreshment and instructions from the sidelines. A couple of Town fans could be arsed to boo, another chose the bizarre accusation of "IDLE BASTARDS!"

"Does that sign say Ambling Construction?"

No, it's Hambling Contruction, but ambling was the right description for the next ten or so minutes of inaction. Accrington had the lead and sat back. The wind was out of Town's sails, who also sat back. The distance between the two teams allowed the team in black-and-white halves to string together a good 14 passes at one point.

The impasse was broken when Williams fouled North on the edge of the box. The Mighty Bosh and Newey stood over the ball. Bosh looked to pass the ball to his left once, twice, and then on the third slid the ball to Newey. Usually you expect these shots to screw widely wide, bang off a defender, or miss by a matter of OOOO inches. Not this time. Perfectly placed into the corner, Martin was beaten. Newey ran towards the bench, finger pointing. Save your energy, lad!

The Accrington retaliation was instant, wrestling control in midfield and forcing a corner on their right. The ball curved like the top of an egg, sailing over Barnes and the throng in front of the goal, dropping for an Accrington player to slap the ball towards goal. From my vantage point the ball seemed to ping off another red shirted player. The referee blew. Some Town fans cheered. At the referee signalling for a penalty. He beckoned a Town player over, and revealed a red. Is that red? Noooo! What is it Gene Hunt says again? Off trundled a visibly unhappy Gary Croft, left to contemplate his summer job of estate agency until early August.

The ball was placed on the spot, and after a brief wait, Todd placed an unstoppable shot into the top corner. Barnes's fingers were singed by the slightest of touches as he dived to his left, but it was as perfect a penalty as you'll see. 2-1 to the Stanley of Accrington.

The PA celebrated by announcing "the fourth official has indicated there will be three minutes with Royd Hunt Nurses." Ooo, matron!

Town managed one last assault on the Accrington goal, winning a corner on the left after some bristling play from North battling with Antwi. Toner's ball floated towards Fenton, who hung in the air to push the ball onto the bar. Ooo! The ball looped up and fell towards an awaiting Bolland. An Accrington defender nicked the ball away. OOO!

The ref peep-peep-peeeeeeped and the players strolled off at the corner to our left. Ho hum.

Second half
What was the supergroup made up of members of Emerson Lake and Palmer, Yes, and Buggles? Think about that, for the six or seven minutes of nothingness that existed on the pitch. The monotony was nearly broken by Bolland almost getting on the end of a long ball down the right wing. If this is getting tedious already, just skip to the end. I'm only conveying the match.

Ah. Town got into the final third. Time for Accrington to return the favour. Doherty showed good control to beat Fenton, filling in at right-back (it was hard to tell whether Town were playing three or four at the back), and tease the cross between Barnes and Whittle. Mullin was hiding behind Whittle, but didn't have the spring to pounce. The ball was picked up on the left by Newey, who flung it up to the Lump, who looked to control the ball with his sleeve within touching distance of the opposition box. Is it handball if you touch it with your synthetic chicken wing? The ball came back towards us, the ball picked up by Fenton, who gained quick revenge on Doherty by turning inside the winger, with that feint thing he likes to do. Not that Fenton was to have the last laugh.

A couple of minutes later the messy midfield play saw the ball squirm out to the left where Doherty was alert enough to fire a quick cross in. In the box, the Bosh, arms up, blocked the ball. Whisper it, lads, if you have to say anything: hand ball. The ref must have agreed with the Town fans with a clear view of the incident: ball to hand, not hand to ball. All nod in agreement. The Bosh boshed the ball away.

Town were going nowhere. The defence and midfield were always outnumbered, the only breaks the referee's constant and regular interruptions for nigglesome offences. Like Sly Stallone in Cliffhanger Town were in a precarious position, struggling to hold on.

I missed the build up for the third goal: the blokes to my left obstructing the view. The next time I saw the ball it was coming across the six yard box, and my view was unobstructed as Doherty lofted the ball into the net. Mr Anti-Barnes behind blamed the goalie for the goal. "He's the worst keeper we're ever had!" 3-1, the game was effectively over, and with just over half an hour to go.

Buckley's animated, pointing and swaying his arms, in the shade to the left, while Watkiss is sat back, leg crossed, like a lounge lizard. They look like Dudley Moore and Peter Cook in shorts.

A couple of minutes later, Fenton was in full-on summer mode, dreaming of reading a dog-eared Barbara Cartland paperback on Blackpool beach, trying to sell another dummy. This time Boco read his not too subtle intention, stole the ball and again Doherty benefited. A sturdy challenge halted any threat.

The Bosh, trapped in the Bermunda Triangle between right-back, right wing-back and right wing, was hauled off for Matt Bloomer. About 30 Accrington fans were clapping and applauding, although possibly more at their team's attempts at League safety than their appreciation of the Mighty One.

There was about 15 seconds of play in the next few minutes. Luckily Barnes's number one fan broke the silence with some constructive criticism aimed at the Town goalie's attempts to direct his defence. "Don't tell them what to do Barnes. Concentrate on your own job, you useless twat."

Hunt showed some fighting spirit when caught betwixt two Accrington midfielders, a snapping tackle towards one, a bitch-slap push-off towards the other, but the ball was absorbed into the Accrington midfield now camped in a line ten yards outside the Town box. Play was directed wide, a cross pinged low into the box and Proctor effortlessly scuffed the ball with a clear sight of goal. Doherty - who else - was on the right, his early shot blocked by Bloomer. The ball again rattled about, Newey bring an affirmative halt to proceeding with a hefty challenge.

The midfield battle was lost, creativity was reduced to long punts. Even when Lump reached one, he trapped the pass with his arm. Bloomer managed a sortie down the right wing, even managing to show some nimble footwork. Not bad for a winger, let alone a squad defender.

An hour of the game gone now. Please make the tedium stop. An mishit effort from Boco on the edge of the Town box curled through 90 degrees, where Bloomer was the lurking right-back. Barnes came in for more stick. It's only a matter of time before he's blamed for not scoring a hat-trick.

"Don't fancy gloopy Chinese tonight."

Bore suddenly appeared, bursting onto onto Newey's beautiful weighted pass through the middle of the pitch. As Bore ran with the ball, Williams grabbed his shirt, and the players tugged at each other for a good eight seconds. The referee gave nothing, Williams's bulk eventually blocking Bore from getting past him.

Once Town did manage to coax a couple of passes together, Jay Harris showed the wisdom to scythe down Bolly with a nasty hack. Bolland received some treatment, while Harris also lay on the floor. The referee waited, and waited. Harris's rise to his feet was greeted by a booking.

Some excitement on the terrace: "Silver Birch first, Slim Pickings third. Dunno who's second - my mum's old and can't write too fast these days." Someone cheers as they've got odds of 20/1 on a nag.

Barnes pulls off a good double save, a bobbled shot from Boco. The bloke behind me is full of instant derision. He. Still. Hates. Barnes. But wait! A sudden re-evaluation. "Credit where it's due. That was a decent save." What were the odds on that happening?

A Newey pump upfield is headed down by Fenton. The referee blows for climbing, but his arms look like you could put a hanging basket on each. Some more whistle blowing as the game stop-starts-stop-starts into Town's half. PEEP -PEEP! PEEP-PEEP! PEEP-PEEP! It's like a 90's rave. Anyone brought some glow sticks?

Whittle gets another aimless ball away with a commanding header. The ref blows again. Something's happened on the edge of the box. Free-kick to them. Sigh. Barnes punches it away, and blokey behind me is off again. "Why didn't he catch it? Why did he punch it? God, Barnes, you're shit!" The ball's cleared while he's remonstrating.

Five minutes left. Bolland's ball out to the right is read, and someone in a red shirt shoots over from 25 yards. Lump gets the chance to have a jog from the goal kick, which their goal picks up with about ten seconds to spare. I wonder if I watered the tomatoes before I left...

The best is saved for last though. The ball disappears behind the bloke to my left, and the Town fans shout "HAND BALL!" Anger spews forth and play continues with the ball again played across the goal mouth for Cavanagh to look up, see there's no-one around, and daintily slide in their fourth.

The final whistle is blown, a couple of Town players applaud, before trooping off the pitch. The home fans are happy, and are at their most vocal. The match officials go last, around fifty fans squeezing into the corner of the stand to suggest the referee is illegitimate. The Phil Barnes fan club behind me is joining in, but probably not aimed at the man in black.

An awful game for Town, the players clearly aware the season ended last weekend for them. I only paid so much attention to the match so I could bring you this report, otherwise my mind would have wandered as lonely the cloud in the sky at the end. If Town has applied themselves by half they would have beaten Accrington. But apply some utilitarianism: if Accrington's three points stave off relegation and somehow put down Cheatin' Steve Evans, then it will be for the greater good.

Un-man of the match
Plumping for Gary Croft would be far too easy. And as much as I am sick of turning up to games to watch yet another pathetic referee, it's the easy option. So step forth Mr I Hate Phil Barnes. You, my son, really were a bastard. Just look up what 'supporter' means in the dictionary.

Man of the match
In the first half Ciaran Toner was at the hub of most of Town's best attacking play with Newey and The Mighty Bosh, having the beating of Accrington's right flank. He was far from alone in being subdued after the break. Whittle brought his usual blood and thunder, doing his best to stem the tide in the second half. But there is one person who dallied and gave the ball away slightly less than anyone else, got in two crunching (and therefore great) tackles, played some lovely balls, and still had time to break forward from left-back. You don't have to be Jessica Fletcher to realise I am saying "Tom Newey". He's come a long way, baby, since the derision of last season. That three-year contract seems to be the shrewdest investment of the Rodger era.