Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

22 December 2024

Ah Swindon, the annual pilgrimage to the Jan Age Fjortoft Memorial Toilet Door, now with added springs! But what's to do when you arrive before the ground opens? Join the resistance and join the queue for the orange hats? Immerse yourself in Swindon's cultural tapestry, or at least stare at the knitted dolls of Diana Dors and Mark Lamarr?

Ah, but this year's model has extra spice as we roll up, roll up to throw rotten verbal tomatoes at the Wiltshire Weasel on his troll farm stuffed with farm hands and poachers.

This one has meaning, but does it mean anything to anyone but us, up there in the clouds of the Artell Arkell Stand?

Town lined up in insipid blue in the usual 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Wright, Cass, Rodgers, McJannet, Hume, McEachran, Luker, Green, Davies, Barrington, Rose. The substitutes were Auton, Carson, Tharme, Ainley, Khouri, Gardner and Pyke. No sign of last week's dozing disappointments, that just means opportunity knocks for others to disappoint. That's what a strong squad is for, right?

The wind did rage and rain sheets drove down the ground. Time ticked on towards the witching hour. Where is that forelock-tugging fawning frontman for fraudsters, rogues and plain old inadequates? Isn't it his special day? Fearlessly, the idiot faced the crowd, smiling. Merciless, the mass of Mariners turned round. And just who is the fool who wears the crown? You could hear the sound of the faces in the crowd.

Dear old, poor old Swindon fans, stuck in a death spiral of shady owners. With The Pied Piper of lower league sportswashing in charge we can't lie about their chances of survival but they do have our sympathy. Been there, brought the T-shirts out, created the banners and flags that hang on the walls.

And the rest is football.

First half – What about the orange hats?
Town kicked off towards the Swindon end and into the gale of gales, a roaring, raging wall of wind. Wright shanked sideways and straight out. A foul throw, a gentle brush and a free kick way out left. A fizz, a whizz, a dripping toe tantaliser and the ball coiled around the farthest post.

Right, ok, it's windy, so let’s not kick it in the air, eh?

The goal kick hoiked up, up and not away, the ball stalling and sailing back towards the grey man in goal. Big Smith bigged up to bonce it back, Tshimanga bobby-dazzled around Rodgers, who stood on the ball to tee-up the lonesome, on-rushing Clarke who swept in from the penalty spot.

What's that sound? A low moan, a rattling of chains? No, it's the ghost of cackling Willie Carson.

Hume crumpled twicely and a roaving redster roamed unmolested into the penalty area, spotted the huge and hulking Harry Smith lurking and rolled a pass across the six-yard box. The burly, bulky bruiser swung his pants and clobbered against the cross bar, the ball rebounded straight back and, without a blue shirt present, he crackled way over and way, way back into Empty Seat Stand.

Right, ok, that's a lesson to be learned. That's what 'The Process' is all about: learning from mistakes, not repeating them, gradual improvement, smoothing the bumps in the road. Process that data, find a solution.

Evolution. It's a long game.

Six minutes of slipshod, slapdash sloppy slippings, a sorry series of shanks and slicing. A shower, a shambles. And those were the good bits. Boy, oh boy, this is a long game already.

Big balls to their big man. Let us be totally clear, Town were definitely not panicking. They weren't as calm and controlled as that. Smith flicked, Tshimanga flickered. Miscues and mistakes, corners, long chucks, long chucks and corners with all the trimmings, all dripping and wobbling betwixt and between, over and through, past and around. Tshimanga cycled and Wright, a Christmas goose barely plucked.

Shot across, a cross across, a corner swept against accidental blue flesh, accidentally stood on the goal line. A repeated cycle of nothingness, blue shirts standing in a field, faceless, paceless, powerless. Seventh in the league? What a pathetic fallacy we are.

A Rose header, a Cass header, a Davies free kick, another Cass header. What does this add up to? Nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. Recordable data that had no consequence. Straws that can't even be grasped. Not in that wind.

And when each Town player loses control, they reap the harvest they have sown, for the bad blood flows and hearts turn to stone.

With a couple of minutes left to the temporary sanctuary of half time, that shepherd's hut in the blizzard, Smith theatrically plunged. Oh, hang on, that was earlier. Someone, somewhere fell over for no reason. Or possibly a reason. Does it really matter?

Sort of central and sort of near the halfway line the free kick was unsophisticatedly stuck vaguely in the mixer. Headed out towards the lone blue shirt, Luker shirked and the back it came, vaguely, generally, hopefully. Flicked on by a red boot Green cutely glanced it back across and through the penalty area perfectly into the path of Tshimanga who passed the ball in from half a dozen yards out.

Swindon, downwind and out of sight.

Second half – The wayward wind
No changes were made by either team at half time, but there was a change in the weather for the gale was merely a stiff breeze.

Listen lads, we can still win this.

Faffing around after Rodgers was felled and hapless Harvey, stuck on the touchline, passed laterally and literally straight to Smith. One pass, one swivel and Mr Teasy-Weasy Tshimanga slithered a bedraggler against the outer foot of the right post.

We've got the second half blues again.

Red roving, a corner cleared, a shot cracked and Luker flew high and right to parry away from his fabulously flowing locks. Wright awaited as Wright stepped up to carefully clatter the penalty high and wide to the right. Which Wright's right? Their Wright's right, got it? Our Wright went left? Right?

Energised by the right Wright's wrong trousers Town maintained the momentum by zipping upfield with gusto, roaring back with a slowly taken throw-in on the halfway line. That was kicked out for a throw-in…to them.

Luker fell in the area, a Cass cross was tipped over from under the bar and Luker poked straight to the keeper through crowds of unhappy shoppers.

Flickers.

A red slip, a blue knick and Davies spun until midfield. He looked up, saw many a blue shirt pouring forward afar and began to contemplate his drive home for Christmas. It's gonna take some time, but he'll get there, he'll get there. As he remembered that awkward set of traffic lights just past Crewe a local mugger ran off with his mobile phone. A quick slick nick and knock and Tshimanga glided between our wet blankets to slap high and mighty.

Here comes the stable door. Off came Green, Davies and Bapaga, sorry I mean Barrington, and on came Khouri, Pyke and Gardner. Ah, finally some youth, some energy, some fire and brimstone! And Pyke. Ho-ho-ho. The facts are that Pyke, on this day, in this game, was not a man worthy of criticism for his efforts, being perfectly adequate. So stuff that cheap comment, it was the rest that were pretty vacant.

Blah-di-bluh-di-bum-diddly do. McEachran disposed a dawdler and spun over a gawky stray Swindon leg. Rose placed the penalty right as Barden flew counter-clockwise through his hypotenuse.

They are brittle but can we whittle this down?

A corner shortened, Hume diddly-squatted, Rodgers back-heeled and Gardner spundled against the startled keeper. Well, that's that.

What's that sound? A low moan, a rattling of chains? No, it's the ghost of Matty Carson, replacing McJannet and Town finally did something different, moving to three at the back. Things happened, near goals, both ends. Perhaps you saw them, perhaps you remember them, perhaps you merely imagined you saw signs of life, the flickering embers of a dead fire.

Six minutes were added and all but six seconds of them played, mostly fetching the ball out of the stands. Town could, no should, have been hit for six. We got far more out of this game than was deserved for the entire team staying home for Christmas.

Echoes of history, our history, our recent history came billowing across the stands. 'Twas the game before Christmas just one year ago, we just did not know how low this Town could go.

You lot, what on earth did you do that for? No commitment, you're an embarrassment.