Cod Almighty | Diary

The burning perch

2 January 2015

Retro Diary writes: Grimsby Town's greatest ever team tore up the football world in the mid 1930s, which is within living memory, but only just. In my lifetime the years I remember most fondly are 1972, 1980 and 1998, and '84 and '91 weren't bad either. Shall we add to this sacred chronology the year 2014? No.

So what about 2015, into which we have now taken our first unsatisfactory step? Again, I think not. Even if by some miracle we win promotion, it won't so much be a celebration – which is something reserved for events higher up the football tree – but more relief, on a massive, massive scale.

In the meantime, we live with the distinct possibility that the nightmare is never ending and our historic fate is already sealed. We just won't know it until our lives have been well and truly wasted. We get more and more neurotic about this with every lacklustre home defeat, but we must never lose hope.

Three points out of a festive nine is not what we'd hoped for. Yesterday just felt like a run-of-the-mill disappointment, the like of which one must occasionally bear. But that horrible Lincoln afternoon was just sickening in so many ways. Let's start with three awful pieces of naivety from officialdom.

Firstly, the ref. This is Lincoln we're talking about. Now nobody has played this up as a dirty game, but surely everybody in that ground suspected Lincoln might kick our best two players in the first five minutes, leaving them unable to continue, and have a fat centre-forward who would always lead with his arm.

In the 1980s every game everywhere was like this, but the situation was improved dramatically by an instruction to referees to flash yellow cards right from the start. Unfortunately our hapless middle-dweller wasn't at ref school the day they did history, and as a result our two most likely match winners predictably hopped their way down the tunnel by half time. Meanwhile the fat one barged his way through ninety minutes unhindered by justice.

Best two players – coincidence? Of course not. Strong supporting evidence came by way of a couple of unpleasant attempts to finish Craig Clay off after he was already nobbled. Incredibly, some have said they thought the ref had a good game – well, it depends on whether you want a whistle-blowing automaton or a human being with some vestige of analytical nous. Take-the-piss police, or foul accountant – there is a difference. We needed the first; we got the second. (The effects carried over to yesterday too, as these things tend to do.)

Secondly, the police, who after the match closed Harrington Street to home fans, and on the peep of the final whistle let out the 'pride of Lincolnshire' (ahem) to roam our streets at will. Humberside Police, listen up – this is not how it's done. It's the away fans you keep in, not the folks that live here. If you remembered the days when all football matches were like this, you would have known that. Having started out at the Osmond end of the Main Stand, I can't remember how I finally got to my car in Pelham Road, but I think I crossed two time zones. But hey, don't mind me – I was able to warm up my tea in the microwave.

And third in a trio of irritations was Hursty's post-match interview. This had a surreal quality which made Lenell sitting under the tree with a red bow on his head look like a boring documentary. Apparently the Lincoln disaster comprised 'good football', of which we should be proud. Mr Hurst, can you please read Middle Aged Diary's Tuesday contribution and Paul Thundercliffe's piece in the current Chronicle without any further ado, and let us explain to you how our current predicament depresses and humiliates us every day that we live. We need to finish top and your job is to get us there. Top. Not 'hard luck', or 'good try', or 'we're in a good position'. Top. Or higher.

And to cap it all, the Telegraph described the minute's silence for Peter Furneaux as 'well-observed'. Can anybody tell me on what planet does that 60 seconds constitute well-observed silence?

Yesterday, for 'Macc II', it was back to chit-chat and 'sit where you like'. Compared with Lincoln, the game was a veritable 'love-in' (is such an incompetent love-in even possible?). Need I mention the ordinary opposition, missing midfield, no killer instinct and peculiar substitutions? Thought not. I'll get my coat.

If we might for a moment try to forget this week and take a longer and more optimistic view, congratulations must go to Grimsby Institute student Jay Navas for his innovative vision for the future stadium. It looks like Old Trafford but with a crazy open end, all made out of slidey gun metal. The floodlights are held aloft by three giant fish. Jay, you may have ignored the spec, but by such imagination are the world's diverse riches made. Take a bow my man, and don't give up on your dreams.