Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

28 August 2024

What's the tactics today? Win, you fool!

A small big crowd basking in the afterglow of some perfectly battered haddock. It's Wednesday on Tuesday, that's enough to confuse a stupid person. Let's not think about our full-backs just yet.

Town lined up in a variable 4-3-3 formation as follows: Eastwood, Warren, Rodgers, Hume, Khouri, McEachran, Green, Svanborsson, Rose and Vernam. The substitutes were Wright, Cass, Ainley, Carson, Brown, Barrington, Cribb, Gardner and Wilson. Are we stronger, are we weaker, are we just wee?

It's a free hit they say. For whom?

1st half – Half the world away
Town kicked off towards the Osmond and the Owls are not what they seem, they are falling apart at the seams, all their schemes are empty and meaningless.

Fussing and fighting, we can work it out. Rose double charging down Charles, there's panic in the side streets of this provincial town as the Orangistas jog around. Toblerones and walnut whips as the Wolds Panther piffled widely.

Hume messing around, Wednesday switching in the witching hour and Warren slurpy-sliced the cross over the angle of post and bar. Corners. Big Men. Unelevation, no excitations with paltry plopping and flopping inside the Town area.

Hassling, harrying and Khouri a touch too much. Hume in-coiled the corner, McJannet grazey-flicked and the ball arced beautifully into the vacant right side of the goal. I'm happy, hope you're happy too.

Time and again we tell ourselves, let's keep a clean sheet tonight.

Oh no, not again. Flaky flanks, dumb Owls crossing. McJannet scrappled off Eastwood's waiting fingers. Rodgers knocked his knees and Khouri whipped some cream.

A rumble and a bumble and Ugbo tumbled over wavy-gravy Warren. The referee stood still, stroked his chin, smiled wickedly inside his head and decided to have a little fun. A free kick to Town. Barely disguised sniggers from the Pontoon, fairly disgusted orange fingers wiggled.

Full court pressing and Wednesday heading for a dressing room dressing down. They ambled and strolled and sauntered and began to have a haunted look. Bunny Warren coiled, Green head thwampled and the ball drooped down off the face of the crossbar. Rimbling and rumbling, Khouri swiped low and Charles scooped up.
One minute was added. It's all too much for me to take. Wednesday'll just have to roll with it. What about the orange? They're big men, but they are not in shape.

2nd half – Slide away
Wednesday made two changes at half time, J-Lowe and Rudolph Valentino replaced futile Fusire and McNeill, who'd only come for the ice cream.

Darn it, they'd gotten annoyed by pesky little flies buzzing round their ears. Out came the full strength insecticide and va-va-voom, off they went. Town were left lying upside down, legs wiggling, slowly, slowly dying a painful public death.

Vernam? Maybe. Hume? Definitely. The stubby stroller rock'n'rolled by Rudolph Valentino and Ugbo swept the pull back through the only space between friends. Home heads down, Yorkie danders up, Warren weakly wimpled to where Dadi used to be. A tip, a tap and J-Lowe slipped through the eye of the needle to slop against the plunging Eastwood, but the ball balloombled arcingly, achingly in.

Danny, Danny Rose, Danny, Danny Rose? Why are they singing our song? Ah, it's the accent, I suppose we'll just have to Rohl with it, they'll be gone soon. Town have already gone. Deflation and a silent acceptance of fate. It's going to be a long night. A long ball, half noodled away and Joltin' Jake flew out to smother oncely, twicely, excellently.

Subbing by us, by them, just faces changing. Ainley, Wilson, Barrington. Every minute we stay on the pitch we get weaker. Every minute Charles amuses himself doing squats in his goal, Wednesday get stronger.

Meadow Lane redux. A short corner, dozing, strangled by triangles, a cross passed and Paterson steering. No sneering please down in the Osmond. More changes yet changeless as canal water, Town nestling in green nowhere. Prattling around, a cross Paterson heading from near. It's nearly over. It was over when Rohl plugged the gaps and realised they were verrrrrry interesting, but stupid.

Four minutes added with stripes surging, the residual crowd urging a consoling moment of something to remind us we were here. Attacks self-medicated. A corner, glanced wide. Ticking away, tick-tocking away, Charles dimpled up the line, Bannon chipped behind the lines and, as if by magic, Pol Valentin appeared, stepped this way and crinkled lowly across Eastwood into the bottom right corner.

This was a game until they remembered they were Big Wednesday and so, so much better in every way. Twenty years ago we were partners in dire crimes against football. Now? We're not even in the same solar system.