Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

30 November 2015

Grimsby Town 1 Kidderminster Harriers 0

Wind and wind, and gusts of wind on a day of windy wind and biting chilly winds. Down in the Osmond there were people. Over to our correspondent Collaterlie Sisters for the international overnight carpet to inflatable fish index. Shagpiles at 70, Chris. Kidderminster brought 4 per cent of what we took to them.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 as follows: McKeown, Tait, Gowling, Nsiala, Townsend, Arnold, Clay, Disley, Monkhouse, Amond, Jones. The substitutes were Pearson, Henderson, Pittman, Alabi and Bogle. At least with Alabi on the bench The Short One has an excuse, if no wide players.

No-one looked like they wanted to be outside.

First half: Fun with flags

Town kicked off towards the Osmond as the corner flag twixt Pontoon and Frozen Horsemeat Stand bent forwards and waved at the distant carpetbaggers. A lonesome dove hovered in the wind and the Main Standers flicked their fringes with gay abandon. Out on the Humber a small vessel vaulted seahorses and a nightingale sang in Riby Square.

I won't waste your time. Four things almost happened; the rest was creaking crabs and long-distance dabs. Town, dominant yet desultory, were playing lonely squash against the playing field pavilion before being called in for their tea. Four things that almost happened. Choose your shampoo moment from these four options and win a very special prize.

Option 1: Townsend feebled, they crossed. The ball bounced, Tait ducked, Fazlic headed straight at McKeown. Softly, gently, like mild green Fairy Liquid.

Option 2: Slow backwards triangles and inert Town were in a comfortable stasis. Amond clevered back and Arnold slung a swing which grazed onto Disley's knee and into Snedker's hands.

Option 3: The referee was so bored that he spiced up our lives by awarding a yellow corner after Amond shepherded the ball out of play. At this point, the 34th minute, a noise was heard. Yes, there are other people here. I thought I'd arrived early and had been watching the warm-up.

Option 4: Triangular chucks and a Townsend surge. Arnold alone again, naturally, ducked and daintily deflected a header wide which was unnecessarily fingertipped wider.

In between? Forty to forty-five minutes of wind-assisted lofts and wafts and goal kicks galore in a right snore bore. Was it worth putting your shoes on?

Oh, the prize? Our very best wishes.

Second half: Vexed about vexillology

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Kidderminster kicked off towards the Osmond stand as the corner flag twixt Pontoon and Frozen Horsemeat Stand flapped forwards and headbutted the turf. A billowing bag twinkled in the floodlights as curtains of rain glided into the covered corner. Out on the Humber boats and buoys bobbed. They had a shot. Wide.

I will waste your time. One thing actually happened, and some things almost did. Town fitfully flickered and fanned flames of your actual football. Now and again, if one of Townsend, Arnold or Amond moved quickly.

The Arnold-Amond combo hit some hot jazz licks. A slap-shot blocked and Townsend dribbled through the custard, along the bye-line and straight into Snedker's arms.

Some Arnold surgency foundered on shins of disappointment. Ah, a crazy corner routine! Amond looped from goal-line to the edge of the area, chested aside, and volleyed through the haze. Snedker ached left as the ball deflected just past the right post, off the three-legged Jones-Gowling.

Here comes Alabi, on for... Amond. Stop, what's that sound? Three thousand heads in simultaneous scratchulation

Tricky triangles and a Townsend welly deflected up, up and away. Jones spun and cross-shot. The keeper easily clasped at the near post with no-one near. It was nothing really but, you know, beggars can't be choosers.

Ah, here we are. Bogle replaced Jones. Ah, here we are, the thing that happened. Town tiddled and piddled around here and there. Townsend cut infield and caressed a cross with the outside of his left foot. Amond arose on the penalty spot to lean back, nod firmly down and watch the ball skip gaily through the flapping hands of Snedker and into the centre-right of the net.

Welcome to the Bogle blunderland. Bogle bundled and didn't look up, curling wastefully wayly widely over. Bogle bundled, didn't look up. Bogle bumbled and things didn't look up. Oh look, here comes Alabi for... Amond. Stop, what's that sound? Three thousand heads in simultaneous scratchulation.

Alabi? Alabi is what those with a penchant for triteness would call "a big unit". But then so is a Welsh dresser. I forgot he was on the pitch as the ball was magnetically attracted to Omar's fragile ego.

Well, here are two things. Tait toe-ended straight at Snedker's chin. Townsend half-volleyed lowly and left at Snedker. There you are: two things. Town did nothing else you want to hear about as the fragile begloved ego shattered. Begloved but not so beloved.

As the game and weather worsened, Town stood around and watched the diddy-widdy Kiddymen. Toto didn't bother, Gowling missed a desperate poke, and Toto pathetically crumbled as a very small boy approached. The small boy was free and inside the 'D'. He carefully coiled around the sprawling pink and against the inside of the right post. The ball pinged back straight into McKeown's arms. How fortunate.

Nothing kept happening, then carried on not happening, often involving Omar's shins and thighs.

Arnold was replaced by Pittman. Three minutes were added. Three minutes passed. No-one else did.

Not worth seeing, not worth going to see and not worth fluffing up with more words than necessary. Rotten weather and a rotten tomato of a game.