Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 October 2024

A wickedly wet and wild Tuesday in October? I wonder if I should stay home, or should I go to Gillingham? What else is there to do? Through the good and bad there'll always be at least 200 who'll get along to see Town. How many today? 217 of us behind the scaffolding, under the wall, over the bridge, down the alley, round the bend and on the side. Are we round the bend or was it just a bump in the road?

Priestfield memories? A few, but then again too few to mention. In 1997 I lost no, not my heart to a starship trouper, but my contact lens just as Kingsley Black scored. And now they've built an office on that sacred, some say hallowed, spot. They always build on our past and crush our memories don't they.

As rain pelted down Town lined up in yellow a 4-1-4-1ish formation, all names mangled by the stadium announcer where the 70s survives, as follows: Smith, Cass, Rodgers, McJannet, Hume, McEachran, Svanthorsson, Green, Khouri, Barrington and Rose. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Tharme, Ainley, Gardner, Wilson and Pyke. In a mish-mash kit in a mash-mashed team, Jackson Smith at least exuded an aura of confidence and competence, constantly clapping and bellowing barks. And that was just in the warm up.

Right, shall we just crack on with it?

1st half – Snap, crackle and pop
The Gillymen kicked off away from the empty grey expanse of nothingness with purpose if not poise. Hey, can you feel that noise? Well, it's no disgrace, Smith ain't in no hurry.

Relax, calm down, we have all night. Close your eyes and drift away like the blueboys, banging their heads against a yellow wall. Knock-knock. Who's there? No-one in blue. In and out, up and down, a slash slashed, a corner lumped, a long lump chased, a hurl hung high and now we're dry. Heads up, knocks down. Wee Cameron, knee high to a grasshopper, headed past Smith's near post as Nevitt lurked behind.

And all the while Town were ticking, teasing, triangulating. Dadi sneakled behind but the ball hit blue socks. Gorgeous George gorgeously gorged upon nervous travellers, Green hustled and loped, Khouri tilled the land in preparation for seeding. Ah-ha, Barrington skipped past his marker McKenzie and dinked delightfully above the flickering fingers of Morris dancing across his line. Alas a blue boot swept and a corner is lost in the mists of time.

Home vigourballing and Ehmer duck-headed softly at the sensibly central Smith. Vigourous homeballing, all sound, all fury but of no consequence.

A tackle, a tickle, a tick-tock, tick-tock, metronomic Mariner movement of slow, slow, quick-quick slow passing, squeezing to the left, sucking Bluesmen further and further south of the river. The Denver Slipper za-zoomed, exchanged glances with Khouri, rolled infield and rolled the ball into a little corner of Kent that shall forever by empty of the Gillingham left-back. Green barundled forward past groping Gills and calmly passed past the gasping gloves of Glen Morris and into the bottom right corner of their net.

Now that's what I call music.

They hump, they lump, they dump, but this Town ain't no chumps. Ogie's oggler-boggler sniffled off Green's shins and riffled the side netting. The corner headed out once, twice and thricely and headed back, back and back again but headed onto and into the waiting hands of Smith. Relax I tell you. Relax.

Blues bouncing off the yellow wall, Harvey heading, Cameron caressing, Cass clattering, a long Blue fizz just grazed away from two lurkers.

Stop the clocks, two balls on the pitch! A photographer slapstick-slipped in front of the Town fans and a ball boy sheepishly swept the ball away. Oh what fun it is to watch Grimsby winning away.

Mariner momentum, now and again, just waiting to strike when the moment is right. Morris swept away from the toes of Svanthorsson as yet another Town squeezebox teased them like we do. An ooh, and ahh, an almost, nothing particular, nothing special, but Town a lurking presence.

One minute was added. There's nothing more to add except to note the sad sounds from the home stands. That's what we like to hear. Too bored to boo.

2nd half – The Parallax View
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Ooh, nice. Passing, movement, flicks and tricks and McEachran's shot slithered softly, safely wide. A willoppy-wallop and Rose chased Morris into the hidden corner behind the bloke with the big bobble hat. The clumsy keeper shinned out and outrageously obstructed justice. Perhaps the floodlights beaming onto those scintillatingly shiny teeth discombobulated his feet, his vision clearing as a yellow card wafted above his eyebrows.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Perhaps Town can't complain about those yellow cards for accidentally walking on the cracks in the pavement, or being in possession of a loud fan base after nine pm?

Barrirngton bundled to the bye-line after far side cuteness, but Khouri's snapper hit Blue. Well, it was nice whilst it lasted.

Pyke and Gardner replaced Barrington and Svanthorsson. We all contribute in whichever way we can, according to our own capabilities and resources. Pyke, our mysteriously missing Mariner, was booked before touching the ball, wandering into the path of a free kick. More was to follow, somehow for less.

Ah, the mouse that roared. A Humeless space, Nevitt knitted a cardigan around McJannet and roaring Rodgers raised the Thames Barrier. Clarke cantered past Cass and Nevitt the Nitwit hurtled afore Hume to knock-knee high into the emptiness from but five of the English yards from Valhalla. How soft your fields of green.

Sub-sub-sub-sub-subbing, Gillymen chucking men forward all over the place, barely a back line, an overloaded front line. And they will whisper tales of yore of how we calmed the tides of war. Smith punching, Khouri crunching, McJannet munching on his lunch - Nevitt on toast. Smith clutching catches, urging and purging the penalty area, shoving the defence up with his selective shouting, grouting the walls to avoid leakage.

We are your overlords. Well, Wilson replaced Rose.

Into the mixer! Into the Medway! No way are they passing 'GO'. Oh dear, here they go, here it comes. Coleman snorkled deep into the depths of Denverland. Don't look Ethan. Too late, he looked up. With a wink Smith did sink to the floor, exposing the fatal flaw of Fourth division footballers: don't think, just do.

What else did they do? A corner dropped and Dieng was distracted and deflected by Green.

What had we done? Everything and nothing. Then Wilson whacked vaguely near from afar. That was nothing but everything else was everything needed to repel the haughty high flyers: running, jumping and sometimes just standing still. Town were still.

Harvey was booked, Harvey was flattened, Green was booked, Green was flattened. And then, oh calamity, our emergency replacement bus service got Crocramp in the eye. Well done, young lad, a marvellously comic twist on the old fave. Or maybe he lost his contact lens. Through the lens of Town history often repeats itself as farce.

And seven (SEVEN) minutes were added. How, why, does it matter? Not here, not right now. A magnificent Khouri slide, a clever, calm McEachran burgle. Rodgers threw in another block just for fun and it's all over now, nothing left to say, just home tears and the away stand orchestra playing our tune.

Let's celebrate the good times, come on!