Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

18 August 2024

Thankfully that's all over for another four years and we can concentrate on our orange juice. The Olympic closing ceremony could have done with some semolina pilchards climbing up the Eiffel Tower.

Don't let your face grow long, we're back to life, back to reality, back to the here and now with back-to-back home games. The old house is still standing and the paint is no longer cracked and dry. Here is a team, a football team, wound up and ready to play. But this team hides a secret inside. Can you guess what it is today?

Town lined up in a 4-3-3 formation as follows: Wright, Cass, Rodgers, Khouri, McEachran, Davies, Green, Vernam, Wilson and Barrington. The substitutes were Eastwood, Warren, Carson, Hume, Ainley, Gardner and Rose. Cass is no longer in the attic and the Wright stuff is in goal. Oh and it's from men on boys II men on the bench with all the adults left standing sitting down, waiting for the sun.

Cheltenham Rugby Club turned up in Camberwick green. Are we tilting at windmills?

1st half – Feels like (Evan)
Town kicked off towards the Osmond.

Fresh fish, fine fresh fish! Herring, plaice, mackerel, turbot, whiting, cod, halibut and dab all green parsley and set upon a slab. What no haddock? Sohna carefully wiffled wide, wonderful, lad, that'll do nicely.

Little Grimsby bullied and barged by brutes from the far, far west. Get a grip Mr Orange. As if by magic a Big McJannet Big Bertha boomed on to Barrington's toes. Bundling, a corner, nothing but hints at what might have been.

Khouri surged, Vernam scraped, Evans plucked. That's something. Cheltenham big balling, tipping and teasing, probing and hoping for a hole on the dyke. Town Cassless, not cashless, and Haynes fizzled a flasher through the six-yard box, missing all knees. Khouri calmly collected thoughts and the ball and that's all there is to it.

Pressure, under pressure under the Pontoon. Blocks and scrapes, a gathering awareness of Khouri aceness. He tackles, he stops crosses, he's a full-back who can defend. Whoah, wait, an accident that happened and what a pain as their Payne scuttled away down their right away. Relax, you could see the fear rising in his eyes the closer he got to the penalty area. Figuratively he cannae hack it, in real life he actually hacked it waftily over.

Ooh, triangles of possibilities. Moments of almostness as stripes passed, stripes moved. Barrington dinked, Davies dunked a header down but straight at Evans. Davies nicked, Barrington flat-volleyed down the touchline and Bennett stretched. Wilson nurdled the mintyman aside, tizzled and draggled across the face of goal. Hints of hope.

Ah, now Wright's statutory flibble moment arrived. Or was it his obligatory flubble moment, I always get mixed up between the two. Big Jordan got mixed up between stick and twist as a sultry swinging cross tempted him up the apple tree. The ancient bowman of Olde Englande bowed and grazed widely high. Bowman, you've been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long. Stop head-butting our grass.

Lovely and luscious lollipopping and Gorgeous George McEachran bedraggled. A striped corner flicked, bumbling about, stumbling about, we're mumbling about the lack elevation. I'm not trying to cause a big sensation, but we're talking about elevation.

In the final minute of the half Dangerous Davies was felled and the referee awaited non-advantage before awarding a free kick midway along in front of the Dentists Stand. A lone piper in the Pontoon called out the local lament: ELEVATION! Vernam elevated, Davies Groves-ed into the spaces between friends and nodded sagely in. Listen to the band, Charles, listen to the band.

Two were minutes added.

The mind is a strange and wonderful thing. I'm not sure it will ever be able to figure itself out. Everything else maybe, from the atom to the universe. Everything except dear Ibrahim Bakare and his Poutonian stepover in the style of Monsieur Hulot.

With Town slowly getting to grips with sparring partners in Camberwick Green we're living on the edge of something. But what?

2nd half – The Green, Green graft of home
Cheltenham replaced Sohna and Payne with Young and Jude-Boyd at half time .Mmm, we'd better not let him under our skin and let him begin to make it better for them.

Fast flowing Mariner movements, flicks and tricks as Davies knicked and Green chested into Vernam's path. 'Tis a pity the Panther puffled pifflingly straight at Evans from exceeding near.

See how they fly, they're crying. A Cheltonian clutched his head and behold the bandaged Bowman the eggman. Man the ref really should have seen them kicking McEachran and co.

It's fast and they're getting furious. Up and down, and out again as Rogers swung his mattock. Green thighed up, spun around, headed on and burstled past a fading pest, powerwashing up the touchline, pursued by frantic ferrets. A glance to his left, a swinging swasher into Khouri's path and Slim Charles hared up alongside. Khouri tapped and tip-toed overlappingly, Vernam soft-shoe-shuffled infield and swept a coiler from afarly. The ball arced and swayed and teased around the vague fingers of Evans into the top left corner.

What a terrible cross. Oh, sorry, I meant that made Micky terribly cross as the crowd reclined on their sunloungers and ordered a piña colada from McMenemy's bar.

Micky Flynn had reached his tipping point and there be more Cheltonian changes: they subtly adjusted their trousers from big blokes barging and hoofing it to bigger and faster blokes hoofing and barging. It's route one on the A46. Ah, so that's how they get their kicks when they motor east. Town, faffing about not shooting when breaking and oo-la-laa-ing. Just let me know when the tide comes in.

I'm not saying that the battle is won, but on Saturday night we're gonna have fun. But, oh-oh, the tide is turning. A swingle and swangle and deflection over the angle of post and bar for a shortened corner. All black and white had returned to the depot and, with no stripes near, Young had all the time in the world to wallop through a battalion of bodies. Was there a deflection? Was there a diversion? There was disaster as the ball squirmbled in as Wright plummeted and parried.

Will things ever be the same? It's the final meltdown from peeping mandarin as McEachran was raked by a stretchy-slipping Cheltonian, but an unfathomable free kick for them. Vernam was booked because Khouri was dreadfully dredged.

As control of the game slip slided away, Ainley and Hume replaced Barrngton and Green, with the consequence that Khouri was shifted up to midfield.

Gorgeous George breaking away but legged up by the eggman. Waves of nearness from Minivan Wilson, positive vibes of almostness from Ainley as Town let it out and let it in; we're just waiting for someone to perform.

And don't you know that it's Jude-Boyd who'll do it. Look Denver, the movement you need is just off your left shoulder! Garryowens and grubbers from the Gloucester gladiators, Town's rubber band stretching, snapping as Khouri and Hume caught napping as Jude-Boyd dibbled a dripper into the farthest post, Cass twisted his own melons and Taylor stooped to conquer.

Get on your radios and sound an all-points alarm. Block all highways, stop all traffic, and call every law enforcement agency in the state. There's been a robbery.

More them, themming themmingly in their own way. And Young walloped wayly over. W'’re ailing, we're failing, three points have sailed away, even a point is sailing away. Cheltonain dinking, Town sinking. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Jordan Wright succumbed to the curse of modern goalkeepers – Crocramp - as a tactical time out was called. A huddle. Croudson wheeled out the theodolite. Words. Artell looked down a microscope. Pointing. Shaun Pearson held up a sextant. Nodding.

The never ending story of added time. How long? No-one knows, it'll end when it ends. A long chuck from Davies, short chuck from Khouri, a bundle and rumble and occasional tumble in front of the Pontoon. A Mariners mugging and Davies clipped, an advantage played and Wilson flingled over just as the ref tooted. A foul given, a free kick far, far out on the centre left. The crowd hushed, the crowd hopeful, the crowd expectant as Vernam was shooed away. Dangerous Davies whipped and dipped over the wall around Evans and into the bottomish left corner. You have to say tha'’s magnificent. That was magnificent. Oof.

Echoes.

Rose and Bunny Warren came on for Minivan and The Wolds Panther. C’mon Mr Orange, whistle a happy tune. A lump and dump and head across the face of goal. An eggy scramble, are Town toast? Rose plunged, miraculously emerging with health intact and they was offside anyway.

And in the eighth minute there shall be light. The end, or maybe the beginning. That was nice.

Breathless, exhilarating, exhausting but the brutish bargeballers were finally sent packing. There's something there.