Cod Almighty | Diary

Number 1 ain't you. You ain't even number 2

28 May 2021

Hullo, my name is BOTB, and I am a number.

Oooh, there is post-season (or pre-pre-season) news. Young Mattie Pollock has gone to Watford, and a £250,000 cash prize awaits us. Good luck and bon voyage to the lad. For a while he was outstanding, and I suspect the malaise that seemed to affect him in the second half of the season was more due to the toxic atmosphere around the club than anything else. Or perhaps he knew he was going and the speculation unsettled him, or perhaps he was just having a bad case of the inconsistencies. Young men are prone to that, you know. So are some of us old men! Oh no, hang on, I'm thinking of incontinence.

Incidentally, Watford? Didn't they used to be a club of about our size and stature? Hmmmm. 

All diaries this week are taking place in the dense shade of Mark Stilton's epic biography of John Fenty. When the fanzine boom/craze started they were full of this sort of stuff – well researched and erudite articles dealing with topics the mainstream media largely ignored. In my opinion this piece represents a return to the glory days and on the off-chance that you are yet to run your eye over this magnum opus I urge you to do so.

By the way, talking of the Ghost of Failures Past, I heard something remarkable about Fenty from my mate Dean. People who used to work with him say he was famous for turning up at all hours of the day and night when no-one else was available and dealing with technical issues and faults. Getting dirty, or losing sleep, or doing undignified jobs that other people wouldn't touch didn't bother him. Why is this remarkable? Well, because it's the first time I've heard anything positive about him in 20 years.

I'm not sure if I'm even allowed to mention it here on the Antifenty's favoured website. If my diary doesn't appear next week, it is because the notorious CA enforcers have got me. As if I wasn't in enough trouble for using the word "tinpot" or suggesting that shit leagues are shit. Next time I leave the village and walk down the beach, I'll be having a look behind me for the giant bouncing balls.

Please don't use that line out of context. The internet never forgets.

So, with Dembele money, Pollock money, new owners and the money I'm awaiting from the Nigerian businessman I’ve just sent my bank details to (it's a long, sad story, I'll explain later), there is a sense of optimism around the club. Things could still go wrong of course – a new Covid Scariant, the Bananarama League going bust, Paul Hurst saying a point at King's Lynn is a good result, or Jason Stockwood turning out to be one of the Illuminati Lizard people - but there is a chance that come August we might be watching our football team in the flesh, scoring goals and winning games. Hold on to the dream.

Afore I go, let's have a look at the haircuts of Grimsby keepers versus Lincoln keepers in the classic seventies golden age of football hair. Firstly, former Town sticksman Nigel Batch.

Look at that lovely cut. Shape and volume. Compliments the face type. Feathery layering. A winner.

Now, if you've the stomach for it, take a look at 1970s Lincoln stopper Peter Grotier.

Is that... a bob? No wonder the player next to him has his head in his hands.

And that is why Lincoln will always be a joke, and why we need to get out of the Shitty Tinpot League and put those wretched Imps to the sword. Oh god, what have I done? Not the bouncing balls! I am not a CA diarist! I am a Free Man!