Cod Almighty | Diary

Dale, don't take the biscuits

5 August 2015

I know we're dissatisfied with our position and our place, but your ever Deviant Diary is being positive in Shorty's fourth pre-season. The temperature's rising, Bogle Fever is high! Cold turkey has gotta be in a bun (with a little bit of pickle). We're winning, our heads are spinning and Amond is shinning goals – nothing can go wrong now.

Ah.

He's on the phone, he's on the phone, he's on the… Shorty's on the phone as chickens are roosting on our parade. Mercurial Marcus Marshall's knee and John Paul George and Ringo Pittman's tummy turmoil have put us in a flat spin. Things ain't lookin' so rosy, with thoughts of the Frustratingly Feeble Scuttler Jacky Macky on the right and we don't want too much Monky business out on the left either. It was all going so well.

Let me take you on a diversion from the pain of tomorrow: here's a Pontoon placebo. Your Deviant Diary has an occasional sideline in unusual, but close, encounters with ex-Townites. A dozing and confused Brian Laws was dealt a raised eyebrow and the single word "Sheffield" as a train pulled into Sheffield. The big sign in front of the window that said "Sheffield" was the clue he'd missed.

And on Saturday a delightfully debonair Dayle Southwell politely sidestepped my shopping trolley. Of the five Bostonians cruising Tesco, only he paused in the wine aisle. Dishy Dayle pulled out a bottle of rosé and pondered the wonders of the world of wine – new life beckoned. He looked at his mates, looked back at the bottle, and walked out with four cans of lager and a packet of crisps.

The world moves on, but Lincolnshire chooses not to. Maybe next time Dayle; just have courage (but not in a four-pack).

Your Deviant Diary has an occasional sideline in cultural indulgences to obscure the pain and drudgery of life and Town. I walked into an art gallery once, and I know people who own jazz records. Modern jazz. Yeah, there's fancy, eh. Yesterday was one of those days. A visit to That London Of Theirs to watch a haunting and humorous play about the dying romance of the English game. At one point the smarmy, spivvy manager prides himself as having "kept my shape" when subject to supporter abuse. Such insights into life in the doldrums and humble humdrums of football.

But do Town keep a spreadsheet of biscuits? It may explain Wembley – did Dale dish out garibaldis when Ross Joyce is a ginger nut man? C'mon Town, adopt the philosophy of the aggregation of marginal gains. Keep a spreadsheet of referees' biscuits. It's how Barnet got promoted. That's the only explanation I can find for them being top of our world.

Well, there we are as life begins again. Keep that chin up. There are three days to go before we hit the road to see Jack Mackreth – and doncha come back with no less than three points.