Cod Almighty | Diary

Nothing about hats here

24 August 2020

It's a looking glass world when Jedward are on the right side of sanity.

Unlike Town's pre-season, it's all kicking off in Ireland big time, baby, to be sure. Saint Bono of tax efficient dog biscuits is yet to mount his sermon, so we don't know what colour wristbands to wear.

Right here, right now the residents of Rotherham don't need to enter lockdown after a foreign holiday of reet good value in Cleethorpes, but there's probably a need to quarantine the Pied Piper of the Pontoon for seven days. Yep, the Love Lane Corner kick-a-bout (aka the only pre-season friendly) had Holloway harrumphing like a grumpy gnome, griping about this, that and almost certainly the other. At least he's now in tune with your average Townite, as the live streaming of a bunch of blokes huffing in a field wasn't in next generation 5G 4K 3D HD. Doh! Hit! That's my destroyer.

The game? Predictably to those who predicted it, it petered out to nothing. That's life. The renovation of the House of Orange John is slow going and old Grimble Grumble has sneakily snuck in a pre-emptive pre-pleading for patience. Wisely, no mentions of any gelling (lack of) yet, as we haven't even bought the pack of jelly cubes.

Only the nabobs of negativity, the doomsters of gloom would think that an organisation run by Top Town Tories (sic) would be late to organise friendlies, late to recruit employees, late to sell and tell about season tickets. Perhaps P-Diddy or Positive John will go before camp comedy rottweiler Peter Levy to tell us it's the fault of Dave Moore's algorithms, or that nice lady in the club shop for not ordering some dreamcatchers to interpret their whimsies? Remember: leadership these days is all about blaming your staff.

No, no, no, heaven forfend. Not so young and impatient we may be, but there's no need to act so foolishly. We fair minded yoghurt-reading Guardian-eaters are prepared to give the chairman of the board just a little more time. Human shield P-Diddy has the chance to throw his windows wide and let a million bright ambassadors of morning come streaming in. Not a wise thing to do if you're a naturist with neighbours though.

But does it really matter anyway, the end is nigh (in 2050). With sea levels rising, a quarter of the football league will be underwater by then, including Town. Whether at Blundell Park, off Freemo, down the docks, up the backside of Healing, or parked on Peaks Parkway. Let's face facts fellow fisherfolk: the next generation of Mariners will be water polo people in Waterworld in the West Marsh lagoon.

So here we are: no team, no games, nothing to see and nowhere to see it.

But where there is darkness let us bring some cheer. We thought we'd be denied it as there are no fans in the grounds, but the ever-professional Paris-based sports-wash brand brought their own crying child, just in case, for the traditional post-match camera pan. There's always tears from a clown when Neymar's around.