Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

24 November 2016

Grimsby Town 2 Cheese Curle's Carlisle 2

A surprisingly sedately still evening in the home of Marcus Beeeeen-yo's beany-hatted army with around 250 curious Cumbrians clambering and clattering into the Osmond stand.

Town lined up in Bignot's balanced diet of four defenders, five blokes in fiendishly clever positions and the solo soul man as follows: McKeown, Mills, Gowling, Collins, Andrew, Bolarinwa, Summerfield, Berrett, Comley, Jackson, Bogle. The substitutes were Henderson, Boyce, Pearson, Disley, Vose, Brown and Vernon.

Carlisle played in all blue and looked awfully sturdy. They looked like they were serious. This'll be a test of our new world order.

First half: Tell me what you see

Town kicked off away from the distracted Pontoon and the Cumbrians clobbered Town with a whirling dervish of up-and-at-'em swirls, curls and very long and tedious hurls. Down the wing, up in the air, snaffled out for a throw and chucked. Up in the air, down the wing, bubbled out for a throw and chucked. Up in the wing, down on the ground and free kicks hurtled into the mosh pit.

Danny Collins.

That's the answer to your question.

Another stumble, another free kick and Raynes ducked over the bar. And in the blue corner we have an in-swinger. Collins snucked onto McKeown's roof garden. Breathless bashings, Town stewing in a corned beef hash. Summerfield caused blind panic with his statutory blind pass across the back four and Lambe lambasted into the Pontoon. Andrew dug a hole, Andrew filled the hole. Oh a storm is threatening, if we don't get some shelter it's all going to fade away.

Ah, that's better.

Jackson in action, roaming and raiding down the left, flibbling flubberingly straight at Gillespie, who didn't fumble. Bluemen falling down the drain with the old full court press. Omar oomphed and Tombola tumbled as a Blue Meanie mugged the marauder. Yellow card. Free kick. Summerfield coiled from the left, Omar ducked under the ball and a big blue inadvertently diverted for a bit of a muddle. Summerfield elevated and Omar, beyond the far post, bicycled into the side netting.

Tombola tiptoed through the tulips and tickled behind the remnants of the Cumbrian Wall. Omar sneaked, Gillespie spread his wings and flew out to smother.

McKeown studded a shocker not to Gowling, but to the day tripper and the crowd was howling on the inside as Wyke flipped the ball over the orange legs and walked the ball into the net

Oh, it's their turn again. They battered back with biffball.

Flying and flowing, the ball constantly dumped behind the Town defence. Long chucks, big hurls, and Kennedy scribbled an over-hooked bike kick alarmingly scruffily through unobservant legs, past the unseeing Jamie Mack and safely wide. Kennedy bustled down the middle. Gowling stretched and strapped the bold bald ball boy to the turf. Dead centre 20 yards out, the wall crumbled before the Cumbrians and Adams chipped into the bunker behind the green.

Half time approaching, the oasis espied in the distance. Stay on the path boys, never stray off the path for there be quicksands and quirky monsters lurking. Nothingness nowhere. Gowling passed back to McKeown, on the left of the goal, and the lone blue man waddled forward, vaguely between two stools. McKeown studded a shocker not to Gowling, but to the day tripper and the crowd was howling on the inside as Wyke flipped the ball over the orange legs and walked the ball into the net.

Let us sit in solitude for 15 minutes to consider the folly.

Carlisle were ascendant, Town had the chance. Carlisle were big and butch, Town were smaller. The half was played in 15-minute spurts, where superiority led to naught but the occasional flash of the fair maiden's garter. And then McKeown regressed to last season's model.

Second half: Young guns go for it

Changes needed, changes made: Disley replaced Comley at half time.

Rockin' and rollin', the blues given a rawhide as eyes flickered and legs moved quicker. A right old hotchpotch of various variable proddings in front of the Pontoon. Jackson wandered around in circles, flipped a flick and Berrett plunged inside the penalty area under a Lambe chop. No protest, no doubts about it. Omar waited, the mist cleared and he did not miss. Bogle crinkled lowly and around Gillespie's grasping fingertips into the bottom left corner.

A sonic boom flattened the blues, the crowd awoken from their slumberings. Town ripping, the tide turning, Town rising above the macho posturings and mediocrity. Berrett hustled and bustled and burstled down the centre, with just Omar and their last man for company. Alas the pass was delayed, the moment floated away like a leaf in a gale. Omar bundled, Raynes trundled into the flightpath. Jackson jinked and dinked, Tombola tumbled to volley vertically. The door ajar, a sneaky little peak at an oh so tempting world there is inside.

Town's tornado blew out.

A blue plunge, a blue trick and a free kick pulled back to the edge of the area. Kennedy mis-swept through monochrome legs and safely into the waiting hands of McKeown. Andrew absent, a cross cracked and Jamie Mack plunged to plucked as two lurked beyond. And on came big beefy Ibehre. Oh dear, a twist and turn, and will we learn from his burn?

No.

A niddling noodle of nothingness on the halfway line. Andrew miscontrolled a ridiculous flick to a Carlisler. A pirouette and pinkle, a little dink over the ill-placed Andrew and Ibehre ran off with the silver spoon. The penalty area a swarm of blue and Mills attacked the near post, volleying expertly through Jamie Mack.

Tombola smacked a header down against the keeper's legs, and carried on running to tap the rebound into the empty net. Then carried on running around the ground doing eight laps of honour

This ain't rock and roll, this is footballing suicide. We're at the anti-Parslow point already.

Oh yes, ch-ch-ch-changes. Look out you rock and rollers, it's Dominic Vose. Berrett was whipped away and on came the mobile bobble hat. You may scoff, but maybe you should have eaten that cake at half time.

Evidence of the Beanyo evolution: pace, strength, determination, persistence, intensity. Five words rarely placed next to the name Dominic Vose. Five words now highly appropriate as the Vosemeister swung his pants hither and thither and crinkled and winkled, scuttling around and through the traffic and wide of the left post.

Town hunted in packs, and threshed around the blue blob as Carlisle retreated into two banks of five, then sunk into one blob of ten. Knock, knock, knocking on Carlisle's door. Andrew hurled longily from the burger bar corner. A blue head nodded straight to Summerfield, dead centre, in the D. Straight off the training ground, a brilliantly disguised return pass with the outside of his boot swung back onto Andrew's toes. Whaddaya mean a rubbish shot? Professionals work on this all week on the training ground, you know. That's what the double shifts are for.

Andrew controlled in a trice and delightfully dobbed a lob back into the unmanned dead centre of the penalty area. Tombola flew through the air and smacked a header down, dead centre, against the keeper's legs, and carried on running to tap the rebound into the empty net. Then carried on running around the ground doing eight laps of honour.

Stick or twist? Twist. Browne replaced Jackson and Town kept on keeping on. Tickles and tuckles up and down the left, and Disley swingled wide from the edge of the area.

Five minutes were added.

Town thrust, Carlisle parried. Town pushed, Carlisle pulled the other one. A stray and rare saunter from the blues and a chip over Andrew. Here we go again. Some bloke strolled long the bye-line and pulled a pass back, dead centre, in the D. Collins tobogganed in from Siberia and Jones delicately placed his dross beyond the stars.

And when the night had ended, in the entire crowd was there nobody, young or old, who did not say it was a noble game. What a cracker that was in the end.

So set aside your rude drunken ribaldry. It is a great folly and sin to injure or defame any man on the field of play, even Dominic Vose. You can say plenty about other matters, but it is not boring.