Cod Almighty | Match Stats

Saturday 5 January 2019

FA Cup (R3)

Crystal Palace 1 Ayew (86)

Grimsby Town 0

Attendance: 19967 (5399 away fans)

McKeown, Rose, Hendrie, Hall-Johnson, Cardwell, Clifton, Hessenthaler, Woolford, Embleton, Thomas: carve their names with pride.

St Michael of Jolley levelled his head and brought the monochrome nation together in a great big bear hug of peace, love and understanding:

"The key thing I'll take away from today is the moment at the end where the players and the fans were together."

There's a whole lot of loving going on in our world.

More on this

The erudite Eagleman was glad it was all over, yes he was glad it was all over and perfectly pitched his politeness:

"We made a lot of attempts, made a real effort to get through, but they were fantastic and there were incredible performances from some of their defenders throwing their bodies on the line.
...The only positive that you get from the game is that you actually win it in the end. You spend 90 minutes bashing your head at the wall."

More on this

Indefatigable, redoubtable, awesome and immense: and that's just the Town back four.

After the fleeing Fox was shot, it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich footballer to enter the Town penalty area. Mitch stitched Zaha into his pocket, Woolford stuck to Townsend's coat tails like chewing gum, The Hess and Little Harry towered over taller opponents, Big Harry won headers – he's never done that in League Two.

Town followed instructions to the letter, flinging, flying and many a balding eagle seen crying with frustration at the most disciplined display of determined defiance this side of Stalingrad.

This is our team, this is our brave new Jolley world. This was magnificent.

This is the story of the Premier League's new clothes.

One day, a long, long time ago when mullets were worn rather than pan-fried with a red pepper jus, some swindlers came to sell what they said was magic football. Now, they held up a picture of Crystal Palace and they said, "This is a magic football team".

Well, the truth of the matter is, there was no football there at all. They're bigger, stronger and faster than your average fourth division team. That's all there is to them.

These tatty bald eagles' sole tactic was to pass it to Townsend and Zaha and hope they wiggled through or fell over and got a penalty. Or to get a set piece so they could send the big men up. That's as subtle as Lincoln. Or Port Vale.

Zaha met his match in Mitch Rose, a second-choice central midfielder filling in at right-back. Townsend struggled to beat Martyn Woolford, a fading journeyman substitute midfielder filling in at left-back for a mid-table fourth division team.

Is this what £114.3m per season gets you?

The Premiership really is in the altogether. Remember: we only had ten men, we only had ten men.

We felt it in our fingers and in our toes, the love was all around.

Mr M Atkinson (W Yorks)

Forget the Fox folly: that was a VAR ear infection. He was only following orders. It was everything else.

This fawning fool bowed before the moneyed elite, automatically awarding free kicks if Zaha simply lost possession, when Eagles landed on the turf, or simply asked. Palace pushes, prods and pulls were simply part of the game, of course.

He's rubbish on telly, he's rubbish in real life, typical of the petit bourgeoisie doing the working man down by kowtowing to power: -2.109 (MINUS two point one zero nine).

A fleeing Fox shot, our backs to the wall, all for one and one for all. And the shame was on the other side.

In a word: unforgettable