Cod Almighty | Diary

Don't vote for us, it'll only encourage us

19 October 2022

Back again? Dear, oh dear.

So who have we got today to drip feed your dinnertime distractions?

Surprise, surprise! It is I, your displaced Deviant Wednesday diarist, full of woe after Wednesday's paper never came and an absence of meaningful monochromic activity in the public realm.

Hey boy, what's with the frown? Let's talk about Town.

Young guns went for it yesterday as the officially re-Mighty Mariners' second string played a string of bored Yorkshire beans in an officially useful kickabout at Blundell Park. Men and boys played football together in perfectly adequate harmony as Jogging Dr-Dre and Kiki Dee Simmonds nabbed a goal apiece and trampled on the dreams of some day-tripping teenagers from Sheffield. They're young, they're learning about life in a Northern town and that an English seaside resort in October is a barren, inhospitable place where happiness and hope is crushed by the dead sky and a well-worked set piece routine.

As George Kerr once said to Fred Dinenage (possibly in the snug at The Countryman), if you score more goals than the opposition you win!

To the barricades! I'm still waiting for Chapter 23 of Chairman Wow's manifesto. You aren't moved by the leader of our pack's mission to Mars, to build a Communitarian Shangri-La by the seaside, beside the sea? Humour him, it's not going too bad so far, so he must be on to something good.

Yeah, that's it, a reserve game and a corporate lecture: scraps, mere scraps of this and that for your erstwhile ersatz content provider to feast upon. You want more?

Can we claim an inverted Grimsby Reaper? If we can have 'em when they're chopped after a defeat can we have 'em when a manager is poached in anticipation of playing Town? Our foes in the Magical Cup, dear old Plymouth, are fretting at the thought of losing their latest leader. Yep, the Gargoyle's gaffer is hotly tipped for the hot seat at the balmy, barmy Hawthorns and Home Park has unresolved happiness issues.

Ah yes, Home Park, a surrogate home for your diarist in the 80s. Memories of being all alone in the graveyard with those walks through the cemetery to watch Tommy Tynan, Luke Summerfield's dad and a dockyard fitter at full-back; to confuse Stoke's Tony Ford by bellowing "Mariners" into his right ear as he took a corner; and a slow, slow riot sound-tracked by Tony Bennett leaving his heart in San Francisco. So long ago, was it all a dream? It seemed so very real at the time. Just don't mention Mike Lyons' March madness. If you were one of the 47, you know.

Righto, that'll do won't it? Have you got your daily fix? Is that enough waffling and wiffling?

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