Cod Almighty | Diary
Abroad thoughts from home
22 October 2013
There are two common corollaries from a Grimsby win. The first is the swing of the Grimsby Reaper's scythe. Prompted by Rich Mills, Sam Kinnaird and Andy Greenfield, we have added David Hockaday to the list of managers relieved of their job following defeat by the Mariners. Those whom the Reaper wishes to destroy, he first makes give a paranoid press conference, as the Greeks so nearly said, so we all read the signs following the remarks reported by Miss Guest Diary yesterday.
The second consequence, at least of a home win, is that the quiet-Tuesday colour piece of the local paper of our opponents comes up with some disobliging comments about our town or club. Grimsby, it seems, "sadly... lives up to its name". And we can tell the Wilts and Gloucestershire Standard is a high-class journal because it doesn't feel the need to stress the point by capping up GRIMsby in the manner of red-top tabloids over decades past.
"In this derelict and drab town the only places that seemed to me both open and flourishing were the sort you cannot write about in a family newspaper," continues John Light, the author of this piece. Now there is at least the possibility of mistaken identity here, as apparently Light witnessed a game dominated by one side playing attractive, fluid football, a one-goal lead the least they deserved, a match played in front of "baying" spectators. Wherever he was, one wonders how far he strayed from his car.
Look out for Light's piece when Forest Green visit Chester. If he makes straight for the Deva Stadium, the countless examples of fine medieval architecture in the city centre will be disregarded. "Chester, sadly, seems to consist solely of retail warehouses," the people of Stroud will be told.
It happens that your Middle-Aged Diary, for the first time in some years, spent a night and a day in Cleethorpes over the weekend. A very good time I had too. Now I am a little biased. For a second-generation exile, there is an enormous pleasure in being able to talk Town face-to-face that coloured my impressions. This applies not just to the launch of Alan Buckley's book, which provided the impetus for my stay, but to chats with strangers, the Mariners providing common ground. It must be easy for natives to take that for granted.
The Mariners Trust launch for Pass and Move was a wonderfully warm event, lit up by shared memories of a great period. There were no great revelations, but Alan's demeanour (and one feels oneself to be on first0name terms now, having heard him speak and read his book) was modesty itself. This was not false modesty; he was fully and rightly conscious and proud of the teams he built, and took great pleasure in their achievements and their style. The modesty came in the anxiety he expressed, at the end of almost every answer he gave, as to whether he had answered fully and acceptably the question he had been asked. Maybe it is events like this that give life to even the drabbest, most derelict town.
My impressions were also coloured by having the time to walk behind the salt flats and the sea – not to mention the discovery that the mild at the Rutland is far better than the jaded remarks of my fellow denizens of CA Towers had led me to believe, that No 2 Refreshment Room is really worth its perennial appearances in the good beer guides, and that No 1 Refreshment Room serves Batemans. As someone who is only part Yellowbelly, I regard the greatest justifications for the county of Lincolnshire as, in order, the Mariners, Batemans and George Boole, the latter for helping keep librarians in gainful employment even as electronic media overtake print. (It is of course the fact that the local maunderings of such as John Light do not simply end up as wrapping in Stroud chippies but are projected over the internet that makes us aware of hurtful things not intended for our eyes.) As for Isaac Newton, as a Town fan I rather wish that now and again the things that go up would take a bit of a break from going down.
For an unprejudiced eye, my previous visit had been accompanied by son and partner. Complete strangers to the place, they too liked Cleethorpes. Having said that, when I arrived home enthusiastically waving the property pages from the Grimsby Telegraph, suggesting relocation, the reply was: "You are on your own on that one."