Cod Almighty | Diary
“That's all water under the fridge, Danny.”
5 December 2022
There are colours, there is noise. At what point did your synapses snap this weekend? After or during the adoration of the Messi? Po-land from Grange Hill's performance art entitled A Happening with stale baguette and sauerkraut dumplings? England's Senegalese stroll?
Your Deviant Diarist's mind melted at the same time as the Mariners', somewhere between Michee's alarming tumble and Big John T's grumble with gritty Marty about baffling offside decisions. Town were mugged Sarf of the river and simply withered away in Wombledon.
First things first: Michee Efete's freak fall could have been extremely serious. Unlike an unnamed arsehead in blue, we share with you, dear reader, and the rest of humanity a concern for our fallen full-back's health and wellbeing. Unlike us, arsehead in blue, Luke Waterfall knows who you are. So does Kieran Green. We look forward to 6 May.
Town were bullied and butchered by bandits on Saturday, but they won't be Butchered in the match report as the man of a thousand words for bumbling couldn't be bothered to trek through the metaphorical and metaphysical storm clouds to a prison yard in Plough Lane. What are we apologising for? We will have sensible Mike Worden using words you will find in the bible and most good dictionaries from most good book shops to review the Harry Pell Kabuki Theatre version of The Winslow Boy. Or was it Foetal Distraction? He definitely boiled a bunny during the second half.
All very admirable and pleasant though their new club and supporters may be, they are still old Wimbledon on the pitch - narky, snarky, distinctly unloveable and unlikeable. You gotta be crazy to like this gang, the boys that don't entertain you.
With Town not so much roaring as drifting in the mid-twenties what the heck is going on out there in the wider world of hoofball?
"He's had a calf strain in the back of his mind all week."
Refractions, infractions, attractions, distractions, it's that World Cup again, the gift that occasionally gives. It's what it's for. Don't let my glad expression give you the wrong impression. It shouldn't be happening where it is and it shouldn't be happening when it is, but it is. Passive televisual observation is not complicity in a crime. And since when did we watch these things for anything but the glory of the ludicrous posturing and posing. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit A: Luis Suarez, behold the tears of a clown.
What else? In London, they say, you are never more than six feet from a rat; in this World Cup you've never been more than six passes from a Brighton or Fulham player. Or that comic Aussie twist, the ex-Brighton player. It's very hard to take all this malarkey seriously, even…even when Senegal's secret weapon used to be on Boreham Wood's bench. Even…even the commentating has been professionally dull, oddly bereft of a surfeit of Colemanballs, though we can all enjoy Ally McCoist reliably going full Spud-job-interview-from-Trainspotting whenever anything…anything happens at all.
As a semi-serious football fanzine we really should say something about Poor Old Pluckless Scunny. Erm, at least the rusty Irons may get new owners, and if they're lucky the white knights will be a diluted version of Chairman Wow and Petite Andy. Hey, a promotion from the Conference North is challenging but achievable in the medium term! They still exist, that’s a positive. Sometimes you have to be knocked down to get back up again.
Maybe, one day, the luckless lowlanders can dream the impossible dream and once again have glamorous trips to sun-soaked, far away places. Like Mansfield. Do you like Mansfield? Would you like to go to Mansfield? As the legendary exchange between Paul Groves and Fred Pontin had it: get in there and book early. Tickets on sale NOW.
And finally, a skateboarding duck…
According to our surprisingly local newspaper for local people, The Yorkshire Post, Grimsby is the 8th happiest place in what they now claim to be Cod's Own County.
Crank up the T-shirt press, Mr Sulu, warp factor eleven.