Cod Almighty | Diary

Wake up!

18 July 2022

The heat is on, tell me you can feel it!

It is Monday and it is I, your Deviantish Diary deep, deep inside Cod Almighty's bunker, hiding from the heat, wasting my time, resting my mind and I promise you I'll never pine for the sad days and the bad days when we was working from nine to five. Yes sir, some people boogie but I'm just biding my time, waiting for the Wearne to put on a black and white shirt.

And if you manage to work out what those references are you will be eligible to apply for Cod Almighty's Gold Membership Elite Level II, which entitles you to feel extremely smug about things every other Thursday.

News! Things! The undisclosed Keiran Green and the hop, skipping Bryn Morris arrived post-Friday diary, depriving the Tetney Tupac of hot topics to ignore rather than be ignorant of. What do we know of these new creatures in our lagoon? They work hard for their money, so we better treat them right.

If The Green Man is the symbol of rebirth, representing the cycle of new growth that occurs every close season then what is The Morris Man in this wayward metaphor? Sorry, but the answer is only available to Thetan Crustacean Gold Members (Elite Level V). Or anyone who went to Alfreton.

A boiling day and Town toiling away, but our Morris was magically oiling the gears, sweeping and leaping into the breaches, dear friends. Town's adults were coherent and cohesive, flicking and tricking, passing and moving as a whole as home holes appeared and Alfreton were sunk. Their nuggety keeper really didn't read the room, making saves that made the home fans rave. Ringo Glennon may need a little more help from his friends than Jogging Maguire-Drew will give, whilst Dani Orsi and his musical teeth played some of the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.

It was hot and Town were not bothered by Alfreton. Especially after fat Matt Rhead scuttled off early before he spontaneously combusted in a pool of melting adipose. Like pulling mussels from a shell or shelling peas from a pod, pointing our squinting faces at the sky and everybody wants a hat.

BOTB Diary has been watching the defectives, his observations are so cute: there were two lads wearing coats. And someone else came dressed as Hunter S Thompson.

If you haven't got your ticket for Orient yet, tough mate. Details were sidled out on Saturday night, warning the exiles that only the first 500 lucky dippers at 7am this morning could buy tickets via the internet, the remaining 750 were held back for local queuers. Missed it? You most certainly will. We flagged this up a fortnight ago, but the process was changed to move the internet scramble forward three hours and ration the market. Tut-tut Town. This will not do, how very old school of you.

At least it gives us our first opportunity to rage against the machine, as the old faithful are left to the vagaries of the fickle finger of fortune.

We work hard to spend our money on Town, so you better treat us right.

And finally, Cyril, Town's very own Zelig is at it again, promenading his purple prose for a Stockport fanzine. Have a gander, or perhaps a shufty, it's diverting enough for a manic Monday lunchtime. As a special incentive readers will automatically qualify for a lottery, opening at 7am yesterday for five minutes, to apply for the right to apply for the right to reply to BOTB's rage against men in coats.

Black socks! Sort it Stockittses!