Cod Almighty | Diary

Sock it to me baby

17 June 2024

He never played for Town, but he was a Grimbarian. It was not an esoteric, abstract and arbitrary accident, but a deliberate choice by his parents and something he was not shy of stating, as this amusing and affecting anecdote from Bobby Madley reveals. The shocking and truly sad death of the Millwall and Montenegro goalkeeper Matija Sarkic reminds us yet again of the arbitrary, unpredictable nature of existence. His mother Natalie (nee Todd) flew back from Moscow especially to give birth to Matija and his twin brother Oliver here, her home town. Somewhere in North East Lincolnshire there are people for whom this is a very personal loss, not just a news insert.

Town haven't yet got back to the level where we could even have thought about seeking to sign him, so Matija never got the opportunity to come back home. But when we get home to Blundell Park we'll find we do have a nice big keeper to keep our bones warm beside the fire. Big Jordan Wright-Wright-Wright's already done the fish'n'chip catch of the day moneyshot and a wet weekend provided fertile ground for us all to go planting our flowering border of clever-clever punnery with his surname.

Not since Big Steve Mildenhall, Big Max Crocombe and that fleeting glimpse of Big Dave Beasant have Town had such a satisfyingly solid stopper. And now we've got that feeling once again as the boy with the wingspan of an albatross is set to be hanging motionless upon the air to pluck off lurking foreheads and swoop down upon scampering scuttlers. Even the Impies have sent him along with good wishes and sad hearts, with no sniggering at the back of the Sincil Bank, no hint that they've offloaded a duffer. He's come from not very far and your Deviant Diary likes what he sees.

And so to Europe.

What have you seen so far? I've seen 'em all. What about the Oranje? T'was a cool and lonely breezy afternoon. You could feel it 'cause it is the month of June. Did the pesky Poles even try to go past the Dutchies on their left-hand side?

England. Classic England, back to being England again. Our Brave Boys almost got a deserved kick up the Balkans.

With hair-based humourisms rather passé in this new and modern century of ours, we can at least fall back on those old staples for some wry chuckles - the egregious fouling of the throws, and favourite shirts. Upon espying the shimmering glimmering gold of the officials in the Italy game the cultured man and/or woman about town cannot help but go the full Mark Lawrenson: "Ooh, I just love the colour of that shirt!" A touch of Kirk beaming down to explore strange new worlds and seek out new life and new civilizations perhaps, but that ref was definitely glowing slightly from his clothes as his psychic emanations flowed.

Hang on, did you just say shirts, Bert? No, not Sherbet, they had a hit in the sensational sunny summer of 1976 with Howzat. We're talking the talk of the town over the weekend – the unfeasibly unseasonal queues down Blundell Avenue for the new Town shirts, shorts and socks. Are you doing somersaults in your head? Is your favourite shirt on the bed? Ah, but what about the socks? Are you red or white? Are you one of those people who get blue in the face about the colour of the peripherals? Pat Bell’s putting us all straight on the genesis of the tradition.

There may be a legitimate debate about the socks but there is no debate about the shorts. Black and black only. Face facts Jack, no red shorts is the red line in the stands.

We all must make our stand somewhere.

Romania v Ukraine. Yum-yum.