Cod Almighty | Diary

Have you heard the news? Can't afford no shoes!

2 September 2020

BOTB Diary writes: The problem with writing the diary over the summer months has been the absence of any news or gossip to whet the appetite, thrill the blood and cleanse the palette of the footie-hungry Town faithful. Now, however, I seem to be so drowning in news that any attempt by myself to convey it all will result in me staring at the camera like Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan mouthing the words "ich nichten lichten" over and over again. Which raises an interesting question; is it the diarist's job to convey news, comment on the news or simply blather on about whatever takes their fancy? I know I've done all three. Sometimes in the same sentence. Today, Matthew, I’m going to take the blathering option.

With lockdown having pretty much wrecked football for the time being another question springs to mind. Can you emotionally engage with something that isn't happening? We've signed some players who seem to have something about them, but at the moment it feels like I'm looking at, say, Colchester United's signings before a regular season - I see them with their well-scrubbed, smiley faces, holding pens and shirts, and wonder idly who they are and if they are any good. Then I go off to see if my tomatoes have ripened. No, in case you were wondering.

I assume my season ticket pack will arrive today and I have a good chance of getting in to see the beloved stripeys but with lots of ritualistic keep-the-evil-at-bay shenanigans (staggered entry times, anyone?) sucking the joy from everything. I suspect it will feel more like a slightly weird, half-remembered dream than a comfortable reality. By the way, does anyone have football dreams? Considering the major role it has always played in my psyche it seems peculiar that I cannot recall a single one. For some reason I always dream about being in the Isles of Scilly and not being able to go out and enjoy myself due to having too much administration to do. This has never happened. Brains are mental.

I once read Michael Tippett's autobiography and found that about halfway through the book he got bored of telling his life story and decided to go into great details about his dreams. For a pacifist it revealed him to have a sadistic streak a mile long, for nothing is more painful than an account of another's surrealist night-time wanderings. Perhaps he was jealous of the attention Harrison Birtwistle was getting for torturing people with his music and wanted some of the hurty action. Whoah, I've gone far too middle-class. I must pull myself back from the suburban brink with my footy mantra!

Pies.

Put it in the mixer.

Stand 'im up.

And... back in the room.

So, we can watch Town games via screens, starting with Morecambe in the whatever round of the whatever cup. Then the real (unreal) action starts with us visiting someone or other on another date, followed by our first home game against someone or other on a date after the first date. I can't wait. Is there anybody out there?

I’ll get into it, doubtless. The first time someone kicks a Town player, we concede a last-minute goal or the ref gets something horribly wrong in our opponents' favour I'll become emotionally attached again. Until then, my name is Peter O’Hanraha-hanrahan, and ich nichten lichten. Back to you in the studio.