Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
25 February 2016
Grimsby Town 3 Woking 1
Well Monday morning felt so bad, everyone seemed to nag Hursty. Comin' Tuesday do we feel better now we've got Woking on our mind?
A beautiful crisply still evening in the land of receding hair and reclining chairs. Under a haunting moon ten gallant Wokingites seemed to vanish in the haze down in the vast expanse of the Osmond. We do appreciate them being in the ground. Or were they really there? Were they holographic projections? It's the future of football, you know: virtual supporters. They virtually had some support here tonight, and Town virtually had a barely acceptable rump scattered like confetti. So what's it gonna be? Are you a nay-sayer or Leo Sayer?
Town lined up in a 4-4-2 line dancing formation as follows: McKeown, Tait, Pearson, Gowling, Horwood, Arnold, Clay, Nolan, Monkhouse, Amond and Pittman. The substitutes were Robertson, Nsiala, Henderson, Jennings and Bogle. After the great unpleasantness we can see which goats have been scaped.
Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, have no fear of wind energy. Woking played in yellow with players who had names and boots and that sort of thing.
First half: Moonlighting
Woking kicked off towards the Pontoon. Nice.
Monkyhouse lofted and Amond almosted. Arnold nicked, Tait knocked and a Clay hanger hung high beyond the far post. Amond ambled around the back, nodded sagely and Pittman swept into the empty net. Very nice. Put your feet up. Town did.
Woking waltzed in pretty patterns of tatty triangles with Sole the flannelling fulcrum. A yellow dive ignored by all, a yellow corner cornered, Pearson pulled a yellowman's shirt over his head and Chuckles the Chicken missed the ball.
Sole swizzed slowly, Robinson fizzed lowly, Jamie Mack nizzed bowly. Sorry, I sneezed, it's below freezing and an exposed nose gathers no moss. McKeown dived low and right to parry-block and gather before any humans arrived.
Gowling was in no mood for dancing or romancing, but he was giving his all tonight. If in doubt get it out. This is no time for Toto-type tiki-taka. Oof.
A chuck and chase and Pittman missed as Hamann whizzed out. A corner flumbled, Town shots left and right, blocks without socks, men without hats and claims for handball.
Ah, now, the referee, a Mobius strip of anti-monochromeness. Arnold was tripped and pulled and on play was waved. Arnold chased as the referee put his whistle to his lips awaiting the first yellow fall. They plunged, he peeped. They dinked, Monkhouse aged and withered, as Sole brushed the Old Beard aside to arc a header into top left corner.
Ain't that a shame.
The ball bumbled laterally into the sweet, sweet flightpath of the Amazing Mr Amond to ping a zinger straight as an arrow into the net mid-height, near post
A Town free kick nowhere interesting, McKeown punted, Monkhouse flicked on, Horwood scampled and skipped, and the majestic Amond arose alone to throw shapes and head firmly and fruitfully through the purple keeper.
Ain't that sweet.
A Town throw-in by the dug-outs, nibbled and nurdled off many a multi-coloured shin. The ball bumbled laterally into the sweet, sweet flightpath of the Amazing Mr Amond to ping a zinger straight as an arrow into the net mid-height, near post. Now that's what I call being spoiled; blind revenge on a blameless victim.
Another yellow plunge and another yellow free kick, mis-scuttled and a-bibbling off shins and chins. A shot stuck under the confused old man and Monkhouse panic-sliced to a yellow head on the penalty spot.
Amond was felled when foxtrotting, a murder in suburbia ignored by those amateurs in neighbourhood watch. A Woking corner glanced goalwards and Nolan swiped from the foot of the post.
Those were the moments, this is the end of the beginning. Redeemers, you know they are redeemers, so put your hand on your head. Oh no, there's not a lot Woking can do.
Second half: One-man band
Neither team made any changes at half time.
Put a little swing beat under your Amond organ. Let's go for a walk in the black and white forest gateaux, shall we.
A punt into the nether regions of their box, an outrageous Amond back-heel and Monkhouse shingled straight to Hamann. A jolly journey into the centre of their universe and Amond scrubbed straight at Hamann. A voyage round the farther areas of life and Monkhouse's slap-shot was superbly slipped aside by the purple plunger. The corner arced, Pearson be-thwonked down and the Teutonic tipper turned inside out and upside down to brilliantly beat aside.
Doodles bugged and Sole tried an audacious chip from the halfway line. Jamie Mack saw that coming before the potatoes had been cut. I'm not an Audacious Chips fan myself, rap isn't my scene, but I have seen Star Wars. Somewhere in England an old rocker bought a packet of Dumpy's Rusty Nuts. Salted, of course.
A Wokerman headed over and may as well have headed home. That's the end of them. And the end of Pittman. On came Omar and things perked up. Ping-ponging with Amond and Bogle steer-volleyed into the empty heart of the Pontoon before defenders had raised their eyebrows.
The ref was an idiot, but the linesman under the Police Box was off his head, defying the laws of logic and proportion. Amond was flagged offside for being in his own half. A sliced Horwood cross was transformed in the madman's brain to be a wickedly hooked swerver which went out and came back in. Doesn't he know Albert said e=mc2? Amond and Bogle drivelled and drubbled. In one beautifully balletic flow, Omar fell, arose and swivel-scrunched lowly across Hamann. The Saxon Savemeister parried and Monkhouse rolled the ball into the empty net. Up went the flag, for the Old Beard had only been three yards onside.
Shot on, chance on. Ooof!
And in the end Jennings replaced Amond, with Arnold moving up front. Is that it? It surely is, save for a bookful of Jennings for a scything scissor on one of the bigger boys at school.
What a lovely evening.