Cod Almighty | Diary
Ain't that a hole in the hedge
28 September 2020
Who's in charge here? Ain't you?
In the words of the great lost film composer Stanley Rogers: you can have your apocalypse now or you can have your apocalypse later.
Welcome to another sad, bad and mad manic Monday mourning where confusion abounds all around after Town entered a period of (insert number of days according to taste) squad quarantine which means that (insert number of games according to interpretation of made-up rules) games are postponed. Or not. Or not yet. Or not yet not. Announcements are imminent which promise clarity. Where have we heard that before?
Serious times call for serious people. And what have we merry folk of England got? Your Deviant Diary espies a cabinet of covidiocy led by the dithering Dilbert of Downing Street, a man who came to Grimsby and hid in a fridge. One day the headless chickens will come home to roost. You gotta have hope.
What a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world it is when we can console ourselves that Town's chairman is a beacon of serious common sense and sensibility. Who'd have thought that a year ago? Ah-ha, maybe the Baldrick of Blundell Park (season 1 version) had a cunning plan all along.
Who else has had the fleeting thought that Town's board took a punt on the season not actually finishing, so didn't spend money upfront stocking up on expensive first teamers. After all, if the world started spinning again we could always use up the slack in January and save our souls with a mad dash with cash.
That would rather explain Town's recruitment policy and late activity in preparing for the season. Oh look, here's another temporary sticking plaster. As the Grimsby Telegraph says: "Who is James Morton?" Rosemary the telephone operator? A non-swearing, tee-totalling, god-fearing quarterback according to the legends of the Google.
So who's going to save football? The Government? Hey, that's for the birds, they're in the corner playing the world's smallest violin. The Premier League, those uber-capitalists for whom every action is a zero sum transaction? We know better than to rely upon those who were once us, for that distant sound you hear is the last drawbridge being pulled up right up tight.
As he sits by his window watching the car crash, Sean Dyche knows he wouldn't be convicted by a jury of his peers. A lower league bruiser whose 18-year career was played entirely outside of the Premier League. He'll understand, won't he? The Premier League shouldn't give up any of its money because Tesco don't help their competition and Amazon don't pay taxes.
Now there's a whole can of intellectual worms to prise open. Let's start with the obvious one: where will 'Big Clubs' little kids get their practice for man's football if not with a fully functioning professional lower league? Dean O'Henderson and Harry Kane are what they are because of their loans to the lower leagues, not through playing against fellow callow youths. As for taxes, well, it would be lovely if the owners or majority shareholders in these clubs paid their full taxes in the UK, wouldn't it.
Money, it's a crime. Share it fairly but don't take a slice of Burnley's pie.
If you are confused by this confusion in this confusing world of confused Pointy Haired Bosses and Wallys we have let run this planet, then here's three golden rules to apply to help you navigate upstream:
• Never assume, never presume
• Dates and facts
• Follow the money
You need to cut through the waffle and distraction to get to the heart of the matter. And in matters of our heart we have Town, still pointless after all these tears. But still here.