Cod Almighty | Diary

No pyro no poetry

14 March 2018

There are many reasons why your original/regular Diary feels out of step with football culture in 2018. For one thing, I have become completely uninterested in my club signing players. This is a thing that happens far too often. Sure, when you're struggling you'll inevitably do like Town in that Groves/Rodger/Law season and burn your way through 19 wingers in a month. But even when we're doing well, we still seem to have this compulsion to loan another one in just for the sake of it. Yes, Paul Hurst, you are a gifted manager, but I'm looking at you. You and Christian Jolley.

Give me the days when Alan Buckley would sign a player about every two years, and we'd get to know each other properly. Show me a GTFC team photo today and other than James McKeown I wouldn't have a clue who any of them are. It's like downloading a gajillion albums and never listening to any of them, or hot cross buns being available all year round. It's possible to have too much of a good thing. And, as Russell Slade has proved beyond all doubt, it's possible to have too much of a really shit thing as well.

I don't know if you've seen the Telegraph's article about 'free agents' who Town might sign but won't. But it's for the reasons outlined above that I must declare it the most pointless work of journalism ever committed to either print or cyberspace.

And while there's some injury news ahead of Town's game this weekend, I basically cannot be doing with it. The one from Derby is injured and the one from Leeds has maybe gone back there or maybe not. There might be some more injuries but whatever. Oh, and what happened with that keeper, by the way? Did he go back? I can't ask you where to because I can't even remember where he came from in the first place.

A second reason why I feel disconnected from the times relates also to Town's game this weekend. It's that I can't get all shouty and blood-pumpy about 'local derbies' in the way that seems to be obligatory in 2018. I'm not saying local derbies were never a thing. But not that long ago, you used to go to them, wonder who all these people were who were doubling the attendance, sing a bit more than usual, and then carry on as you were. In 2018 it's silly. You're supposed to actually hate Scunthorpe instead of the far more enjoyable tradition of just patronising them. You're supposed to be interested not just in the pre-match preparations of your team but also those of the police. No. Just no.

Oh, and don't ask me who any of the top players are in the Premier League or the England team, because I've got even less idea about that. For the first time in ages I put Match of the Day on last weekend so I could see the protests at West Ham and laugh at the pundits pontificating about it. The actual football though? Also no. Increasingly the Premier League induces in me the kind of tranquilised detachment usually only seen in a great-uncle from Gainsborough when the wedding DJ plays something for the young people.

I'm not going down that whole 'against modern football' road, though, because plenty of things about modern football are good. The game seems more inclusive for women supporters than it used to be, for example. I don't really mind sitting down that much, because I think the atmosphere at a match depends more on other things than on whether your body weight is resting on your feet or your bum. And while obviously we still see colossal knobheads hitting each other, overall they do this less than they used to.

I like the way managers have changed too. There's still a lot we don't know about Michael Jolley but I suspect I'd be happier to have a cup of tea with him than, say, John Sitton, or Rob Scott. I like the fact that he can not only string a sentence together but has achieved more positive PR for the Mariners in one statement to the fans than previous managers and directors have been able to muster in several years and many, many gigabytes. There is clearly a walk to be walked, but it's a good start.

And finally, Daily Mail, get your own fucking house in order, eh? Cheers. Bye.