Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

19 September 2016

Grimsby Town 0 Crewe Alexandra 2

A grey and mildly chilling day for the 173 Cheshire cats slinking into the Osmond with their winter coats. Luton was thrilling and we‘re so willing for more of the same, so what's new pussycat? There's a new typeface for the countdown clock. They've either rebranded time or worked out how to use the software for the big telly. Whatever, the status quo is not an option. Whatever we want, Blundell Park is down, down Fenty's dust pipe.

Town lined up a 4-4-2 formation as follows: McKeown, Davies, Gowling, Pearson, Andrew, Chambers, Summerfield, Comley, Vose, Bogle and Tuton. The substitutes were Henderson, Collins, Disley, Berrett, Tombola, Jackson and Vernon. Ah, a new man in town. Is the old man near the sea? Collins for Boyce in the mismatched plastic seating brigade on the bench, not the beach. No man should be alone in old age, he thought.

Ah, Crewe, Crewe, Crewe, what's new in Crewe? How time flew since we last played Crewe. An amateur kit and some amateur hairstyling for Kiwomya. You know, if Mickey Mouse were alive today he'd be a Gresty Road grizzler

The officials turned up in an insipid lime cracknel ensemble. No sane person ever chose lime or cracknel, let alone the two together. No wonder the Great British High Street is dying.

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap clap. FISH! Ah, Collins thought, I shall stay with you till my career is dead.

First half: Roll over, lay down (live)

Town kicked off towards the Osmond. That's Town for 39 minutes, kicking the ball towards the Osmond for Tuton to chase and win some throw-ins. Early dinkyness and dottiness from Davies doesn't count. Vosian feebling after Tuton trembling doesn't count either. That was the entirety of the entire entireness of everything Townly for 39 minutes.

No corners.

No shots.

No-no-no limit to the limits of Town's ordinariness. The wrecking Crewe wrought havoc with their hassling and harrying.

Vose feigned a shrug. A redster ambled and shambled a cross into the centre of the penalty area. Guthrie arose alone to head against Jamie Mack's awaiting hands. Vose back-squeaked a clearance inside the Town penalty area. Hilarity ensued if you are a connoisseur of Chaplinesque comedy. Crewites collapsed when gulls flew nearby and the lime and limpid greensters were gulled by the Phantom Sink Plungers of Ye Olde Cheshire.

Football! From them. One triangle, two passes and free men in the box. Pearson arrived to divert danger. Korfball! From us. A cross from under the Police Box, drifting beyond the farthest pole. A Crewman snickered between Gowling and Davies. The Gorgonzola leapt with arms akimbo and the ball dropped off his palms with a slap and tickle. Was it hidden in plain sight? No one, anywhere appealed for anything but peace, love and understanding for the ailing Hair Bear in his declining days.

Up stepped ex-Scunnyman Dagnall. Everyone in the Pontoon could see he was going to place it lowish to McKeown's right. McKeown could see Dagnall was going to place it lowish to McKeown's right. Dagnall placed it lowish to McKeown's right. McKeown flew lowish to his right to parry back into the centre. Lowe slipped, Dagnall whipped, Andrew sat on the ball and bottom-shuffled away. O'Connor at Meadow Lane, Dagnall in front of the Pontoon. Ex-Scunnymen missing penalties: the gift that keeps on giving.

A break foiled by Hollands bumping Chambers into the advertising boards under the Frozen Beermeat Stand. A silly Summerfield handball and a free kick slithered beyond far post. Kiwomya protected his hair from passing birds and half-volleyed widely.

Lowe curled perfectly into the flightpath of the remarkably unmarked Cooper, who calmly passed around McKeown into the bottom right corner

And so, we have finally reached the moment. That time something happened, but then didn't. A Town micro-break on the left. Vose diddled and daddled and swooped a crossfield pass into the emptiness. Omar awaited. Omar juggled and jaggled and waggled a wiggler from afar. Garratt gargled and Tuton tapped the dropped catch into the empty net. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with nurgh. The lime linesman was a-flagging.

And so, we have passed the moment. I have seen the future and it irks: our journey until teatime will be paved with bitterness and the brittle bones of baloney.

Two minutes were added to the year that had just rolled by. Rip Van Summerfield awoke from his sleep, stretched his arms out wide and yawned a pass towards what he believed to be Shaun Pearson. Facts ain't the same as believing. A redster tickled in, tapped out and Lowe curled perfectly into the flightpath of the remarkably unmarked Cooper, who calmly passed around McKeown into the bottom right corner from eight yards out.

No corners, one shot, two catastrophic errors and could be three down.

Second half: Accident-prone

Neither team made any changes at half time.

Keystone clipperty-clopping and Summerfield was hassled back, back and back towards Jamie Mack by increasing numbers of deckhands. The perishable goods dissolved and Lowe was rolled free. Jamie Mack sprawled out to hand-jive aside with an excellent intervention to avert angry scenes in the Stand of Many Dentists.

A free kick. Davies beware! Remember the wartime warning: walls have shins. Omar was bubbling with inner rage as Nantwich knicker-pullers were pardoned, while his every glower resulted in lines from teacher.

Let us go forward together and grow our own vegetables.

Omar peeled his fruit out on the left and coiled perfectly into the near post. Tuton shuffled in front of his marker and was squashed by a giant kumquat. Now that's what I call a penalty. The pastel poltroon didn't even bother to wave away the claims. Has he no shame? The Salisbury family has a problem with pointing for the Pontoon, if not pointing at it.

After 20 or so minutes of huffing and puffing for Town, Tuton the traction engine was replaced by action Jackson. Pace. Things almost happened. Vose powder-puffilly piddled through a gap between everything. Pearson intervened and roamed, Jackson crossed and Comley be-thwackled from somewhere close to the Memorial Hall. The ball shimmered across the turf like a hover-train pulled into Crewe's stationary keeper, by the right post.

Someone needs to bring on Omar's cape. The rage burned as he chased back his own mistake and hooked away from Holland. Omar was booked for persistent Bogling, an accumulation of not muches. The wilful wally in washed-out nylon peeped and pointed. Creweites continued to collapse near the corners. McKeown reached out and back-punched from under the bar. And Creweites continued to collapse near the corners. Did I tell you Creweites continued to collapse near the corners? Well, they did.

Gowling ended the flight of the yellow-crested Kiwomya with some buckshot on the edge of the penalty area

Gowling ended the flight of the yellow-crested Kiwomya with some buckshot on the edge of the penalty area. Lowe mashy-niblicked within putting distance of the top right corner.

Ah finally, Tombola replaced Vose, the bearded bumblebee. We have jinking, we have dinking, we have moments of almostness created by the lithe and lanky lotteryman. Crosses crossing, no-one there. Andrew thringled lowly through three red legs and Garrett calmly scooped. Summerfield twinkled, but the third toe was a bridge too far. Omar befuddled lowly, Omar befuggled his standard cut in and keep your heads down at the back of the Pontoon wallop from afar and a-wide.

Where's that man with Omar's cape?

With five minutes left Pearson was tripped and nudged while chasing a punt and hooked away for a throw-in. The limesman gave nowt but a corner. Chipped in from their right, Summerfield moved horizontally while at the summit of his leap, thus defying the laws of physics. The ball grazed away and a redman retrived and dinkled back into the area. Guthrie arose over Pearson and the ball fell between McKeown and a couple of stray crewmen, six or seven yards out. A hook, scruffle and star jump from Jamie Mack. The ball hit orange inner thigh and spun apologetically around and through Summerfield, through and around Gowling, who hooked the ball away. Red arms aloft and there was slimey lime flagging with Jones the ghost claiming to have shot the sheriff.

Five minutes later five more minutes were added. They scored again sometime, but there was some appropriate flagging this time.

That's it. Five errors, two goals conceded. Town did nothing because they were allowed to do nothing. A full court press caused a full team collapse. Crewe were capable defensively and creditably tactically disciplined.

Don't be bitter – they were just better.