Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Saturday 17 November 2018

Division 4

Grimsby Town 1 A Rose (86)

Crawley Town 0

Attendance: 4459 (68 away fans)

After having woofed down that plate of magic mushroom risotto and washed it down with a pint of pink champagne, the corporate boxtrolls were talking backwards when they came up with Ben Pringle.

They were clearly off their heads when they chose the black and white rabbit.

On a day of dreariness let's stand for the most consistently adequate striped man: Luke Hendrie canned the can.

He doesn't want to get hurt, and we don't want to hurt his feeling, but Town are in no position to act as long-term physiotherapists and counsellors for the fragile of body and mind.

Gentle Ben just doesn't like human contact. He's fine as long as no live bodies are within ten yards, but not yet fine enough to be considered a luxury item worth spending time and money on.

He amused himself by warming up with less than enigmatic variations on the words four, clean, sheets, unbeaten, Blundell, Park, before summing up without rancour but with candour: "We've probably played much better than that and drawn or lost games – we weren't particularly fluent, and weren't great with the ball today."

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Their chief hairdresser is upset, offering the clickbait soundbite: "I'm upset by that defeat."

So click-baity that you can only get his words of wisdom in sound and vision on their website. CBA with that.

Town are finally back to the same point they were last year – grinding out accidental victories while being utterly tedious and terrible. Hey, that's progress.

A wretched, weak, woeful shamblefest with incoherent, wayward wafts. Town are physically disadvantaged by being punier. Townites bounced off bigger men, Townites smelled the gloves of faster folk, Townites couldn't kick the ball hard enough.

The wings were empty spaces, with the left side's incapabilities particularly exposed, and Cardwell a blundering bus stop. But they, mostly, tried very hard. In the end that was enough. That and Akheeeeeeeeeeeeeeem's striking presence.

Hail the spirit of the persevering parrots.

Creepy Crawley, creepy-creepy, Crawley-Crawley, creepy-creepy, Crawley-Crawley.

They sometimes did good things, they often did bad things, they rarely did anything out of the blue. The red shifters and grifters were obsessed with long lifters towards Oily Palmer's big head. And pinging perfect passes straight out of play.

The Sussex Creepers had beefy brawn at the back and just enough lithe lollopers lollipopping in the existential gaps between marching Mariners to cause alarm. They're the sort of team that you know will beat Town 3-0 at their own ground.

Bog-standard lower mid-table biffers and bargers. They won't go down, they won't go up.

Ooh hoo, everybody's talkin' 'bout the new kid in Town.

Mr A Haines (Tyne & Wear)

Ah, Mr Haines was at pains to avoid making that life-changing decision. Possible penalties were inverted, he saw no ships when studs stamped and defenders clamped. He was useless, but perfectly balanced in his uselessness.
There was a rhythm to his rubbishness: 5.000. Who can ask for anything more?

They kicked the ball out, we kicked it to them. A Rose bloomed under the lights.

In a word: blooming