Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
10 March 2021
Carlisle United 1 Grimsby Town 1
Lovely flags flapping for two flagging clubs.
Wet and windy in the west, let's hope they're wearing a waterproof vest. I jest, for Town are back to the best formation: 4-4-2 and wingers winging? So when are we going to reach the Parslow Point today?
Here we go, hold your breath to see if something blows, close your eyes, count to 10 and see the bile rising from our guilty past.
Place your bets... now
First half – The flags of their farmers
The crumbling Cumbrians kicked off with the wind towards where we weren't. Up, up and away it's a beautiful balloon.
An Eastwood punt blew backwards and off they ran to dink from the right and, well, the ball sailed on and on and on and on and on it ran, and Town won a corner on the right. Morais coiled against the wind and the ball za-zoomed straight into the far corner as Lennie leapt with flapping Farman. Wahey, woo-hoo, booooooo who do you think you are kidding Mr Linesman, did you have to spoil our fun.
Another Town corner and Der Kaiser Hewitt flicked on by and wide and, well, where's the Carr's Melts?
Hold on, hold on, it won't be long... the only way is up! Eastwood missed a big looper-drooper, for the beams were always going to blind him. Fear not, for he won't feel blue, 'cause somewhere in the crowded penalty area there's Rockin' Rollin. Farman's punt whistled down the wind and Jiggling Jake flapped with Allessandro.
While Alessandro's head was bandaged Town indulged in some bawdy badinage. Hewitt slinked-a-slinked a slinky diagonal dink for Hanson to link and Lamy to wink. Ah, he's the saviour of the human race: John-Lewis arose and thunkled into the bottom right corner past Farman's flashing fingers.
One up with 75 minutes to go? Is it time for one up? Are we there yet?
Hanson hooked on a feeling, temporarily high on believing. Morais marauded menacingly with minor key piano pandemonium in a distant land. Ooh lala, Lamy sha-shimmied, Lennie nearly, well, nearly.
Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, like a rubber ball Farman's big bloomers came bouncing through to Eastwood. Forgettable, that's what they are, neither near nor far.
Ooh, a Town free kick pumped up and Menayese rose up to twanckle straight down at Farman. Hapless Hayden hoed down Lamy, the leaping lord of the left. That card's a very mellow yellow, and was flashed, quite rightly.
Long chucks and longer chucks and Patrick volleyed at Eastwood. And another and another and Riley whacked from afar as Eastwood spillage was mopped up. Ah some purple badinage with bandage boy.
Mmm, that wind is getting stronger and they're whacking it longer. They like bouncing boing-boing-boing, up and down until Habergham gets a pain in his groin. Down and off, and back on again, just in time to clip the hanging chad that flowed from Patrick's double dummy on Hendrie and Morias.
Two minutes were added: oh Lennie you ain't no mobile disco.
4-4-2, two wingers, soothing smotherings in defence, delightful dancing in attack, winning at half time? We know what's coming next; it’s not a question of if but when.
Are we there yet?
Second Half – Living on a prayer
Well, we're half way there. Bunney replaced Habergham at half time.
Chips and chases as Town bravely battened down the hatches with the wind beneath their wings and at their backs. Sometimes our boomerangs do come back.
A blue corner flew and a man arose beyond the back post to noodle highly across the face of goal. Cripes, stripes standing as the wind blew the ball away from goal.
What a way to spend an evening, sitting on a chair in the middle of dessert, watching the wheels go round and round. When will they come off?
Heading up, heading upper, heading down, heading for a downer. Coke pickled a pepper and Lennie's lashing wind-assisted wallop wibbled milliseconds wide of the left post as Farman flailed.
Are we there yet?
Long throws, longer throws, space vacated, boots away, chocks away! There's a desert between striped strikers and the rest. A random free kick induced random blue panic. Heads, tails, up and down, near and far, but nowhere near Farman.
The wind is willowing across the sand and billowing in the stands.
Eastwood caught a corner, the queen sent a telegram. Blue chips in-out, in-out, out-out-in-in. Atten... shun! Jay walking and talking, fancy-flicking in far out groovy places.
With 20 minutes left Clifton replaced Lamy. Are we there yet? Little Harry left bluesmen down with a rum old run down the right. Matete retrieved the cleared cross and Lennie, well, Lennie scooped his ice cream.
Are we there yet?
Every minute Town stay in their own half they get weaker, every minute Carlisle swat the ball into Town mush they get stronger.
High, higher and higher still, Carlisle whipped and dripped beyond far post and they kindly cleared their own danger. Hendrie hooked away from lurking toes after dishy diagonal dinking.
Hurling dross, a curling cross, long balls, long time no see Mr Hanson. Matete took a tour of the Lakes before bumbling a shot off blue for a throw-in. Town retreated to the deckchairs and Clifton's cream was clotted as a blue sub crossed. Like all top strikers Hewitt attacked our near post and Eastwood plopped.
Wriggling Morais mesmerised to the bye-line and Little Harry nicked at the near post as ditherers dithered.
Pumping, pumping, dumping, lumping. All hands on deck! Long throws nudged away, long throws mugged away, long throws hugged away. We can feel it coming in the air tonight. Oh lord.
Are we there yet?
Four minutes were added, and here it is – the Parslow Point with knobs on. Waterfall arrived for Morais, running off into the dark distance, stationed for the cross. Immediately, from the very spot vacated by Morais, Carlisle boomped long. Dickenson arose at the far post above Waterfall, Eastwood scooped away from the post, Dickenson leant back and made the impossible possible, slashing wildly over the openest of open goals.
Long, high, longer and higher. A chuck in from their left arced, Waterfall ducked and nosed against nearby humans. The ball rolled into a striped void, McDonald swept and Zanzala steered in from a yard.
Well, we are there now. Better late than never.
The only remaining question is: have we run out of ways to avoid winning? Carlisle were absolutely useless, an old nag waiting to be put down, but we kept feeding them sugar.