Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

27 August 2014

Grimsby Town 7 Alfreton Town 0 (nil)

Windy, wet, wonderful. It's a wonderful, wonderful life in the world of wonder after the Gateshead thunder. Fifty fretting Alfretoners in a huddle. Give 'em a cuddle, they'll need it watching Nicky's nitwits.

Town lined up in a 4-4ish-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Magnay, Pearson, Boyce, Nsiala, Neilson, Clay, Brown, McLaughlin, John-Lewis, Pittman. The substitutes were Bignot, Winfarrah, Mackreth, Connell and Disley.

They played in blue to match their mood.

First half: For You Blue

It started with a miss. Neilson clobbered for a yellow, a blue man hovered and headed wide. An omen, a portent, now this is important. Brown browbeating Nicky's newboys. A lump, a flick and John-Lewis scrapey-hooked across the fluorescent flowerpot man. Hello, David Coleman, you're in my head. Get out!

Magnay budged, Pittman fudged and flipped a screaming cross. The Shop attacked the near post, skiddy-glancing agin the post. The ball bounced against the bonce of Dawson and trickled in. Who's crying now? Crying with laughter, of course. Have some dignity when you're watching someone's dreams die before your very eyes.

Oooh, very nearly scored by accident. Sloppy slapping, Hicks coiled, Jamie Mack spoiled their party. What is the point of Ironside? Stay in your wheelchair and solve some crimes.

More things, up there in the distance. Twisty and nifty, Neilson sweetly cha-cha-cha-ed and Dawson creaked and pawed beautifully. A header, a shot, a clot, and you'll like this, quite a lot. Clay swept, Wood wept, Lennie bet on a horse with no name, and Jon-Paul George and Ringo waltzed towards the lemon. A dip, a slip and he's walking back to happiness. Pittman: cool. Calm. Controlled.

Too easy. It's embarrassing.

Second half: Yer Blues

They made a change; it made no difference. Pass and move, pass and move, playing keepy-uppy against a three year old is so, so easy-peasy. Their lemon's about to be squeezed. Triangular perfection with Lennie licking and the Feet of Clay striding on with Cockerillian imperiousness to poke into the bottom corner.

I haven't even finished my sandwich.

Oh my dear, dear people, 'twas a magnificent obsession for Town to score the perfectest goal of all time in the world ever. Lennie scrape-rattle-and-rolled over the rainbow; Neilson performed some street mime and Town bet on Paddy power with sumptuously choreographed, inch-perfect misses left and right. Twyla Tharp would be proud of this modern dance.

More, more, more. How do we like it? More, more, more. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Unbelievable.

Brown whacked a welly and the love did flow as the ball boom-boomed low inside the right post. Just look at his face! Just look at his face!

The Derby droogs collapsed physically, mentally and spiritually. They died in Town's arms tonight. Howells lost his mojo, double dutching Brown into a spinning top. Oooh scrap, scrap, scrap, scrap, scrap! Neilson butted and brayed, 20 men indulged in some continental slappings. The men in black whispered and out came a red card, off went a lump of lard.

How many do we want? Double figures?

Squiggling here, there and everywhere, the flimsy blue blancmanges gave the ball back to Brown, 30 yards out. Interesting. Brown advanced a yard. Very interesting. Brown whacked a welly and the love did flow as the ball boom-boomed low inside the right post. Just look at his face! Just look at his face!

Clay swept, Wood wept away. Lennie levered low and wide, high and wide. Neilson walloped a dipper, Dawson flipped. Too many moments of black and white magic. Substitutions, no change to the flow. Bognit marauded from right-back to left-wing. Winfarrah wibbled and wobbled a cross near something and somebody. It's getting hard to avoid scoring.

Look Nicky, we're trying to not score, we're really trying. Shame your players are determined that we will carry on regardless. Passing, passing, crossing, Mackrething and the Feet of Clay carefully swept across the static caravans and into the far corner.

Ah, the coup de grâce. Lennie linked and dinked on behind the invisible men. The slimline tonic got on his little scooter, hair flapping in the breeze, revving his little engine and hooting his horn. Neilson ignored the amber light, waved at a visiting boy sucking a stick of rock and walked the ball into the net.

I was at Hartlepool. I feel for you huddled masses of Alfretoners, but you should be used to it by now. Five is par for Town.

What an unusual game.