Cod Almighty | Diary

Events, dear boy

23 October 2023

Criminal! Spineless! It's just not acceptable, he's gotta go now.

Like ravens fleeing the Tower of London, does Cod Almighty end when our match reporter is stuck in the modern dystopia of secret road closures and an Escherian nightmare of jammed up and flooding B-roads south of Worksop, forever 16½ miles from home? Town didn't, in the end, make it unscathed through the Stockport shenanigans and Mr Tony Butcher didn't, in the end, make it through the midlands. Like Town, he failed but not for lack of trying. Isn't trying enough?

Ah-ha, but we do have a reporting of the afternoon's entertainment for you, courtesy of Mr Chris Parker, including the after-match boxing match.

Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

In his post-match ramble did you spot a gentle rain falling softly in Paul Hurst's weary eyes as if to hide a lonely tear?

Two down within eight minutes, a slow fight back to 2-2 and then the runaway leaders snuck another scruffy goal against the run of play. Boo! Criminal! Spineless! It’s just not acceptable. He's gotta go now. Who? The ref, apparently. On that, at least, everyone with one eye on their own team agreed. They were unanimous in their animus that he was pusillanimous in favour of the other team.

Win. Win well. Win properly. Win better. Just win. Is that all we want from Town life? What's the point of actually going (or try to go) to the games if that is all you care about? If you're only interested in data go and play a computer game, or wait for Final Score.

Your Deviant Diary is looking at Tuesday night and knows the crowd will be low with increasing numbers looking out for another place to go. The rules of our mad, sad soap opera are that, just when everyone has given up, Town pull out a monumental stuffing of some poor schleppers and ride the King's Highway, perhaps even as far as the A16.

Some of the walking may be wounded but as young Paul Hurst won't know until about half an hour before this slapdash hash is pinned to the mobile mast of news how the heck would we know? And he never reveals anything anyway. Keep your fingers crossed for Big Don's groin.

Oh Town-Town-Town-Town-Town. What shall become of thee? We're lost in a wilderness of pain and half the children are insane.

Oh yeah, the Slough game is on the Sunday at 2 o’clock. We've got 500 tickets, on sale tomorrow morning. The question is will anyone drive 500 miles when the probability is that we'll fall down at the door of the second round? Lose on a pitch where there isn’t grass to graze a cow, and there’ll definitely be a row going on down in Slough.

Swarm over, Death!

Now, this is the end.