Cod Almighty | Diary
Three dipsticks short of humanity
24 February 2017
Retro Diary writes: There are some people in this world that can't seem to get their heads round the fact that it isn't always about them. That a degree of compromise, internalisation of frustration, acceptance of others' decisions, and moderation of behaviour is sometimes required to make society function without chaos. That having a tantrum when you don't get exactly what you want ruins things for everyone, but most of all, yourself.
In our glorious game, three such characters raised their heads above the parapet last week. Firstly, our old friend Richard Brodie, whose natural-born talent should have been a godsend to National League North Boston. Having declared that it was a place he wanted to lay down some roots, Brodie lasted a miserable three games, before an "internal matter" left him no longer wanted at the club. As per usual, there was total lockdown on information getting through to the outside, but let's take a wild punt, and say that somewhere along the line he forgot about his team-mates completely and used the club and its fans as a vehicle for the rollercoaster-ride of his own stupid issues. So many chances not to make the same mistake again, yet so many mistakes. He just can't help himself. What goes on in that brain is a mystery, but the waste is annoying for those of us who never got the chance to make a living doing anything as brilliant as playing football.
The second? Well who else? Now at some point we’ve all been extremely annoyed with referees. There are occasions when behaviour like Steve Evans's on the touchline last Saturday is completely understandable, and I've admired the calm of managers in not going completely piggin' mental. But what, I mean what, in that game, was he on about? The first thing he seemed to get apoplectic about was the world's most nailed-on booking. Did I miss something? I mean, was I asleep, or were there no game-changing issues to argue about in that match up to that point? Does Evans think that football could even function as a thing if every manager stood on the touchline and behaved like that? One wonders whether he gets home at night, calms down and thinks "Why do I do it?"
What was very telling was how the disruptiveness of this one man spread – first to the pitch, where Hayden White effectively ended his team's chances of making a comeback by barking some needless expletive at the ref and getting sent off, and second to the terraces, where Mansfield fans adopted the ill-disciplined "don’t accept anything you don’t like" attitude of their manager, tried to storm the Lower Findus, and when they failed, left early to wait for the Grimsby fans outside.
It was a shame, because early on I was thinking how good the Mansfield support had been. OK, Herman's Hermits' I'm into Something Good makes a really crap football song, and every time they sung the line "I’ve got Mansfield on my mind" I slightly died for them. But still.
The third dipstick to spectacularly break the "What would happen if everyone did that" rule was perennial bad apple Joey Barton, playing - if you can call it that - for Burnley against Lincoln in the FA Cup. Our intuitive response to Lincoln's cup adventure has been interesting, and in a way rather spirit-lifting. One has, of course, a natural tendency to support the underdog, all other things being equal. Here, they're not equal, but we find that our unsettling identity overlap with our Lincolnshire neighbours - usually the raw material for such bitter antipathy - actually snags our subconscious and takes us with them on the ride. I found myself involuntarily wanting them to win very soon after the kick-off in the Burnley game, but once Barton had slapped Terry Hawkridge and stamped on Matt Rhead, before going down holding his head when Rhead's arm thrust out sideways to point to something and inadvertently brushed against Barton's hair, I was well on Lincoln's side. Tell me - what Premier League player comes to the conclusion that the best strategy for beating non-League opposition over ninety minutes is to cheat?
I'm not letting Lincoln off the hook that easily though. Rhead has form himself – do we remember that "I went down like a professional" quote after being brushed lightly by Josh Gowling in the Stacey-West end penalty area? Oh right Matt, so you go down against Grimsby, but stand up against Burnley and moan about play-acting? They're a pair of shysters, the two of 'em. But of the two, I dislike Barton much, much more, probably because he has the talent and the brains to know better.
Changing the subject, Monday just gone seemed to pass without note. In fact, it was the 80th anniversary of Town's biggest home attendance, which, as all Town fans know, was 31,651, against Wolves. You would have to be well into your nineties now to remember that game. There are things I often wonder about it – were there many away fans? Was that 31,651 the total number that turned up, or were there countless thousands more outside who couldn't squeeze onto the terraces?
If you've ever wondered just how many Town fans there are – y'know, altogether in the world - this number accords well with other measures. First among these is Town's first ever appearance at Wembley in 1998, to which we, again, took about 30,000. If you make the extremely unscientific assumption that for every neutral that went to that first Wembley match along with a Mariners-following mate, there was someone back in Grimsby for whom London was just too far, you can probably assume that this number pretty much captures everybody. You'll be glad to know then, I'm sure, that Town's 30,000 fans constitute a cool 0.05% of the population of the UK. Henceforth known as the "Goldilocks number".
Tomorrow it's Morecambe. Personally I like the place. It has the same airy, anachronistic charm as seaside resorts everywhere, with its elegant beachside frontages concealing a discernible whiff of deprivation. It has a combination of Victoriana, clear white light, miles of glittering mud, the smell of chips and burning sugar, and low-planning aspirations of a distinctively provincial type, the latter never better illustrated than by the huge Aldi right on the seafront. Indeed, if it weren't for the distant view of the Lake District across the water, you could think you'd travelled 165 miles and wound up in Cleethorpes. We may laugh at their Aldi, but our resort, remember, has a historic market place dominated by a bookies.
Morecambe were rubbish at the BP on the opening day, but that fixture was a pretty rough piece of scheduling for them, and they rallied impressively. Our team is completely different now. Football's natural rhythms aren't much help on this one, so we simply hope for the best.
For us, Dom Vose is a couple of weeks of training away from a return, and Craig Disley is being assessed for a hip injury but may be OK. For them, the bizarre battle for ownership of the club goes on, leaving the players unsure as to who will pay their wages, and creating some doubt over the future of the club. Players and manager have pulled together impressively and battle on. Thirty-eight-year-old Kevin Ellison, a perennial thorn in Town's side, makes his 200th league start.
UTM