Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

3 January 2011

Histon 1 (NOT SIX) Grimsby Town 6 (SIX)

Warm beer, old maids cycling to church and hot chocolate with cream! Where are we? We are in the village.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: Arthur, Wood, Atkinson, Kempson, Ridley, Bore, Sinclair, Cummins, Coulson, Connell, Ademeno. The substitutes were Croudson, Leary, Hudson, Eagle and Peacock. There's nothing to change, so nothing changed.

Histon turned up in red and black stripes, Town in that squawky faded blue. There are more of us than them and there are probably more toilets than Histon supporters. Lovely leylandii, it's like Brigg Town with cash to splash.

What do you want? Information? Well, you will get it.

First half: Stodgy starters
Knock, knock. Who's there? No-one. No-one who? Hasn't he just signed for Bolton?

Messy pitch, messy game, biffing and banging, little and larging. Supercharles scraped near, Connell scrapped far. Welch clasped, Welch grasped: there is nothing but fear, death and murder. Or is that just Hull?

Ooh Charles. Ooh Alan. Kenny Fingers chucked, Coulson scampered, Welch parried, Connell slurped, the centre-back Clematis climbed the wall and flowered over the bar. Welch flapped, Connell missed, Ademeno sliced into the top left corner.

Cap'n Bob nodded, Supercharles noodled over. Histon... Histon... Histon... nope. The Histon piston was broken. Town did things now and again, but why dwell upon inconsequence.

Ah, the Stutes tooted. Young boy number 22 headed straight and softly at Kenny Fingers, who chucked to Coulson, who ran the length of the pitch and scrimpled wide. The end of the beginning.

Easy.

Second half: Ah, sweet dreamers
Neither team made any changes at half time.

They attacked. They missed. Kempson slipped, Wood extended his table legs and Margaret Atwood was put off from writing a short story.

The time has come again for slaughter, on the lawns by the river Cam's still waters. It's a slaughter, it's a slaughter. Welcome to the garden party.

Carve the turkey, slap on a little pickle and forget the vegetables. Let's us eat meat. A corner cleared, Supercharles spun, spun again and prodded. Ah, Mr Welch, please don't lie upon the grass, unless accompanied by a fellow. May I be as bold as to suggest Ademeno-o-o-o-o?

Breaking, breaking, breaking their back. Coulson tippled, Coulson tappled, Welch paddled: a corner. Connell nodded, little Wooton chested off the line. In again, out again, in again, out again, Welch punched, Sinclair crunched straight into the top corner. Job done, off he walked and on came The Hud.

SPB put on his fancy roller skates and danced the blues. Kempson bonked a header, Ademeno stooped and stonked a bibbler over Welch, over the bar. All Town. Town, Town, Town...ooh, they had a shot. Town, Town, Town, waves of blue, Town, Town, Town, Town, Town, Town, Town, Town, Toooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn, chips and Town.

Coulson and Connell were replaced by Eagle and Peacock.

You could almost weep at the imperious sweep: Eagle caressed, Ridley roamed, Ridley rolled, Hudson stroked into the empty net. A fancy dress conga skipped towards the toilets.

They scored. Riza clumped after someone fell asleep.

Ripping and roaring, Histon were history, they were baloney without the mayo. Town could score as many as they wished, there is now no opposition, just red and black shop dummies.

Bore found his batteries and electrocuted his heels. Once, twice, and on the thrice Peacock cheeky back-heeled inside the near post from an SPB rocket launcher assault. Phwoar, what a scorcher.

How many do we want?

And in added time the ball fell to Little Bob near the halfway line. He espied the creeping Welch, licked his finger, and dinked a sand wedge straight into the hole for an Eagle at the last. Please do join in a chorus of "Ea-gle from the halfway line" when you have a spare moment.

Town fought for their right to garden party and the champagne corks are firing at the sun again. Happy new year? Oh yes, said the nodding droogs.

We're been dazed and confused for so long that some may believe it's not true. These are facts, not fiction. Believe.