Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

1 September 2024

The days float through my eyes but still the days seem the same. Ah, the end of summer, even the worm has portions of pleasure you know.

Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, have we got a beautiful feeling that finally everything will go our way against the Chicken Shackers of old Bradford town? One day our prince will come and our Bantam boils will get lanced.

Town lined up in a 4-3ish-3ish formation as follows: Wright, Warren, Rodgers, Hume, McEachran, Khouri, Green, Vernam, Rose and Svanborsson. The substitutes were Eastwood, Cass, Carson, Tharme, Ainley, Barrington and Wilson. No ch-ch-ch-ch-changes but there's definitely a different man on the bench: Duck Farm!

Oh dear, what can we do, Town in black and Bradford in blue. Should we always end on a down beginning? O friends, not these tones, let’s strike up more agreeable ones and more joyful. Let's be positive, let's be natural.

1st half – Decanted chickens
Town kicked off towards the Yorkied-up Osmond. Time goes by, as we all know, naturally.

People come and people go, naturally. Dull crosses, hopscotching hopeballing from the cantering chickenmen. Town's flanks tickled but the centre isn't laughing. This is serious.

Tackles, triangles, and much sitting down. Heads you wince, a stop-start poultry affair. Off went Baldwin after an MRI scan, some blood tests and a trip to the physio.

Swinging and dodging, Hume swerved and surged with a serving suggestion. Dadi dropped his dinner as the ball drumbled underfoot. Perhaps our blond bombshell was simply stunned by the elan, the effervescence, the sheer joie de vivre emanating from those Denver boots. Cucumbers were being pickled in the most p-p-p-peculiar of places.

Is it a blue cross day? A cross through the box, a cross into the Police Box, a dink and a wink and Cook flickled. The ball safely sailed into Wright's waiting gardening gloves. Blue big-balling over Bunny Warren, blues chasing the lady between Hume's legs. Fear on the flanks, cheer on the banks of the Humber as McJannet swept the horizon and swooped upon drones. Isolated moments of bantering Bantamball as the invasive weeds were pruned back and their roots dug up.

Town strangulation and triangulation. Dadi held, Green felled and Hume in-coiled a big dipper from the shadows of the unnamed Frozen Horsebeer Stand. The ball swooped and drooped with Walker walking to Memphis with a suitcase in his hand. And he's walking reeeeeeeeeeeal slow. Bodies bumbled, the ball rolled beyond to the penalty spot. The prostrate, reclining Rose in his Oxford bags, pastel jumper casually wrapped around his shoulders, flicked his fringe, flicked out his lazy leg and scootled the ball into the emptied net.

Everything is everything, naturally. Yeah, people cry, laugh and sing, naturally.

Miffed at the massed Mariner merriment the blues cruisers partied up the river on the right, winkling wayward wafts into the nowhereness of somewhere safe. Rodgers spared Warren after yet another long ball sailed beyond and T Wright twinkle-toed into the void. Nowhere men don't worry, take your time, don't hurry, keep making all your nowhere plans for nobody.

Don't you dig the scene? Dadi Cool's playing his piano machine! Fantabulistic flowing football from our petunias and begonias, it's like hypnotizing chickens. Wright rolled out, pivots and fulcrums, dashes and darts, Svanborsson exchanged air kisses with Rose and glided past West Yorkie wraiths. The Wolds Panther growled, Hume za-za-zoomed and the unmolested Khouri swiped over from eight yards. I tell yer what, John, you'll never see a better goal not scored ever, today, in this division, probably.

Between the fouls and the throws and the head scratching and the woes there were higgles and piggles and Vernam plunged over blue boots near the near post with much public chagrining in the Osmond. Rose was tickled free by Slim Charles's toenails but a sliding Shepherd shaved the shot away Walker from where the sun ain't gonna shine anymore.

Six minutes were added during which comical Kavanagh controlled the ball out of play and an ill-gotten gain was clattered straight into Warren in the wall. Down there in the muttering distance those day trippers must be very cross at all that crossing out of play.

Where there's a yin there's a yang, for where there's a will there's way. Town had the will and had found a way. Wahey.

2nd half – Don't count your bantams
Sanderson replaced Kavanagh at half time. Shame really, we really liked his stand-up routine.

Of course out they came all revved up and ready to overrun their feeble foes. We're through the looking glass here people, for they are we and we are all together. See how they run like chickens from a gun, we're flying. Warren clipped, Green rolled around a big log and roamed down the right. Serene Mr Green looked up and tippled a tap to a parallel pal. Svanborsson calmly waited, wiggled his hips and rolled a pass between blue legs into the bottom left corner with Walker left motionless with static legs akimbo. Cool Dadi cool.

Keep it movin', keep it groovin' with some energy! Khouri knicked, Vernam va-voomed across the pitch to the awaiting Green. Warren distracted in the corner of blue eyes as our Action Man with real hair stepped in and carefully curled a coil to the bottom right corner. Walker plunged low and flinger flapped aside.

You raise the left arm up and your right arm too, let me tell you just what to do. Start both of 'em to flapping, start your feet to kicking. That's when you know funky Town have got the rubber chicken flapping.

Hey look over yonder, out in the Osmond people hollow laughin', feelin' blue, blue, blue.

Mariner moments, here and there. Shuffles and shakes, Hume barrelled and bustled and blocked after a shortened corner. Double blue subbing, on came Junior Walker for their small star, Pointon, and the fortunately spelt Oduor.

Ole, ole, vanilla ole. Town on the show boat to China. Green ducked and headed behind Vernam and orft ran Smallwood. And on and on and Warren backed off and off and off Oduor. A slithering dribbler thrubbled through and Wright shovelled straight to Sanderson who swept straight in. Somewhere, deep in the Pontoon, someone wept and it wasn't Jesus. He's had his haircut. Haven't we seen that goal before?

And back came Town for one last hurrah. Warren's infiltration deflected for a non-corner. A quick free kick, a Vernam flick and Svanborsson's sly slipper slapped agin a blue hand for a non-penalty. A barundling break and Rose's slapshot deflated off a blue thigh and parabulated over the angle of post and bar. And finally, Cyril, Town with one last Big Mo moment. A full court press of marvellous Mariner movement, walls were passed, tickles before tackles and Khouri sidled through and slashed lowly past the slurping keeper, the far post and the sliding Rose.

Stripes waning, Bluesmen waxing their skis. They wanted a penalty. They didn't get it. Time ticking down, ten minutes, nine minutes, eight minutes. Hoiks and hoofs and Townites visibly wilting. Ainley for Khouri and tonight, Matthew, Louis Cass, replacing Vernam, shall be Danny Parslow.

Things happened, but they didn't really. Sanderson swept a drooble straight to Wright, Walker sliced so wayly the ball remained in play. The Cornered George chippled straight to Halliday, Walker sent Cass on an errand to collect a bill, but managed to caress across into a corridor of nothingness.

With a couple of minutes left we went full Hurst – four full-backs. Ambassador Artell you spoil us! We'll be having a well-run three next. Barrington and Carson replaced McEachran and Svanborsson. Carson dredged and was dredged himself and four minutes were added. One lump or two, Mr Alexander? Three? Too much sugar makes you sick. Bradford left for home feeling quite unwell.

We've unjinxed ourselves at last, playing football, scoring goals, like we haven't for decades. We're still defending down the flanks like we have for decades but we're not in terminal decay. Bradford came to town like an unhappy spouse visiting relatives they don't like. They were physically present, there was the superficial interaction with their hosts, but they went home as quickly as they could.

Town. Juicy, real juicy at times.