Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

11 January 2011

York City 1 Grimsby Town 0

York on a Tuesday, and over 800 Townites gathered in the still, dark, open-top gloom. Temperature dropping, fever is low. Just like old times: we expected nothing but nothing.

Town lined up in a 4-4-2 formation as follows: Arthur, Wood, Atkinson, Kempson, Ridley, Coulson, Sinclair, Cummins, Eagle, Connell and Bore. The substitutes were Croudson, Samuels, Hudson, Garner and Peacock. Bore was up front, Coulson on the right. The injured and ill were all present, but were they correct?

First half: Power to the Feeble

Town kicked off and failed to kick it out. York scuttled, Reed truffled behind Wood and dinked over Kenny Fingers and wide. Ha-ha said the clowns behind the goal. A free kick dipped and dimpled, Wood fell over, Reed crossed; ankles, shins, head and tails, head and tails were the details of fleeting moments of returning normalcy. Town weary and dreary, fulfilling a fixture.

Ooh? Connell shot, Connell turned, Coulson was blocked as Town nearly did something. Then they scored. They whacked up, Atkinson headed back, they dinked back and Constantine waddled free and lobbed over Kenny Fingers.

What took them so long?

Some things happened but they were rubbish things. The holy trinity of Connell, Coulson and Sinclair all looked unfit, so Town played like ghosts.

Second half: Cold turkey

Neither team made any changes at half time.

York sort of threatened to do things, Town almost had attacks. Kenny Fingers caught crosses, York's keeper gurned at the Town fans. Town made changes, so did York. Yeah, groovy.

Bore moved to the right wing, then to right back. He shrugged and sauntered, dazed rather than dazzled. He was the Peter Bore we know and loathe.

Huzzah! SPB ran past Carruthers and a big lad shinned away from goal. Connell was felled inside the penalty area, Peacock headed inches wide. Peacock? Leapy Lee came on and added his little arrows to Town's arsenal. It was indeed just like watching Arsenal - they wore their shirts and Town were that listless version that plays weak walking in circles: training ground football.

Hey hang on! Ridley and Eagle piddled together and crossed, Connell leant back and steered a volley over the bar from eight yards.

No need to go on any further. It all just dribbled away in to the night. The inevitable nothing of being.