Cod Almighty | Diary

Chelsea Hotel? Or a B&B in Cleethorpes

26 September 2019

There is a reason why Chelsea are the club more than any other that Middle-Aged Diary would most enjoy seeing Town beat. Unfortunately, that same reason is the reason why it has become less and less likely.

Chelsea symbolise how the unequal distribution of football revenues has allowed the richest clubs to stockpile not just all the best players but even the best prospects. They can afford to blow the several thousand on a half-decent teenager who may one day turn into a proper player that we would hesitate to spend on a 'proven' striker.

After last night's 7-1 defeat, Radio Humberside was quoting one or two messages accusing Michael Jolley of getting his tactics wrong, or the players of putting in a shambolic defensive display. That a few will respond to a thrashing by lashing out is inevitable. They are angry and frustrated, but direct your anger to a football industry which last night gave Jolley an almost impossible hand to play.

Now and again, a Colchester will upset the escalating odds. Even then, chances are it'll be taken as proof that big teams don't take the cup seriously. But every game matters. Concentrating on the league is the philosophy of a joyless utilitarian who has forgotten that this is sport we are talking about. No wonder at that: the sport itself has forgotten that it is a sport, turning a game into a rat race.

The cliché is that last night was Grimsby's cup final. But how does a team prepare for a cup final? For a week, two weeks, in advance, everything is done to make sure the players who will take the field and the ones who may be required as subs are honed and ready for the big game. Town, playing Saturday-Tuesday-Saturday almost every week and with a squad of 22 (when everyone is fit and available, which they never are) do not have that luxury. It was the Chelsea team picked for the game who could prepare especially for last night. If it was anyone's cup final, it was theirs.

Except in the stands. I lived in south London years before anyone there had heard of Roman Abramovich. I had friends who supported Chelsea because, just as I support Grimsby, that was the team who fate threw their way. I talked to one once, bemoaning the money he had spent on Chelsea in the hope they might one day win something, countering my protests that as a Grimsby fan, I didn't expect to win anything.

We are forced to dig deeper, to look for our joys where we find them. Like it or not, the mood and the expectations of Town fans when we travel to a big club now are different from our previous spells in the fourth division in the 1970s, 1980s and even the 2000s. The team we are there to back aren't world-beaters – the way we could fancy a team featuring Kevin Moore, Joe Waters and Bobby Cumming or John McDermott, Dave Gilbert and Tony Rees might just be. But they are ours.

So when James McKeown kicks long, and James Hanson flicks on, and Matt Green flays the ball over the Chelsea keeper and into the net, we will celebrate the moment. We were already two down, but had kept on singing. Later, chasing the game, we'll make a bad situation worse, but we still applaud the players off the park.

We lost 7-1. Well, never mind. We are ugly but we have the music.