Cod Almighty | Article
by Tony Butcher
14 January 2025
Andy Todd, however… Son of Colin, he was there at the Pringle mangle, the pummelling of Palace, the wrecking of Wimbledon, the bashing of Burnley, the wonder of Wolves, and Dave Boylen's finest 1-2-3 wahey days. Those were the days, perhaps that's why Mad Andy turns up in TVFTF 21st century team of teams. He certainly was a 21st Century Schizoid man.
A dozen games, half a dozen smiles and half of half a dozen goals. That's it. How could that data possibly tell you anything? To see is to believe, and you had to be there in those glorious, glamorous days when Town frolicked with gay abandon through some of the finest journeyman second division players ever seen.
Ailing, failing Town were cut adrift as Lennie Lawrence's band of brigands drifted to the bottom of the sea. Paul Groves plugged holes, but the water was still seeping in, just more slowly. Town were drowning, they needed a saviour.
On 23 February 2003 the world changed, for in stepped two gunslingers from outta town, Pringle and Todd, unwanted by premiership Charlton, Grimsby a shop window for their sale. A silky Swedish international striker and a rather sulky, sullen centre-back with what is known euphemistically as 'a reputation'.
A reputation? Oh indeed. Andy saw red in every sense. In 1997 he'd beaten up Stan Collymore, in 1999 he'd beaten up Graham Stuart and followed that up at a team bonding session when, as teammate Matt Glennon reminisced in one of those lads banter sessions about football being a man’s game of boozy lock-ins and bust ups:
"Andy followed Phil Brown to the toilet and…they've had a discussion. It didn't go well for Phil. Andy had these fists, they were like Thor's hammer, if Toddy hit you, you stayed hit."
And in hospital, Matt. For a long time.
"He was a quiet, nice lad, but in a football arena he had a bit of bite in him."
PsychoTodd was only available for hire because of yet another 'training ground incident', this time with Dean Kiely. Where better to go when you are under a cloud than good old Meggies. Any old port in a storm, eh, Andy.
But here he was and he was something alright; something wonderful, if a little wicked, this way came. At first we viewed him with some suspicion as our match report records for that very first game:
"Who's that rugby league player with the Tin-Tin quiff? Ah, that'd be Todd. Quite short for a centre-back, but very sturdy looking."
It took a few minutes to get used to Todd, but only a few. Perceptive, anticipating, rather than reacting. Forest barely got inside the Town penalty area and a scoreless draw was bagged up and taken home in the back of the bus.
Three days later we had the infamous Stockport game.
"Town won a corner after another lightning quick break initiated by Pringle. Butterfield hit an outswinger beyond the far post. Todd opened his body and placed a right-foot volley across the keeper into the bottom left-hand corner of the net. Such a sweet and simple strike, no fuss, just a pass into the net."
And we know what happened after that. Challinor should count himself very fortunate that Todd didn't decide to discuss this in the toilet.
Two games in talismanic Toddy, the Pontoon pin-up, was already a star. And three games in we had that Palace game.
Todd and Groves, two one-paced old pros, but a sensible, solid base, a perfect pairing for the time, the place and the Son of Colin started the rout.
"…Todd, strode forward and hit a right-foot shot that seemed to be going towards the top left-hand corner. The ball then slowly arced towards the top right-hand corner, the goalkeeper adjusted his feet, fell to his right like a spoon in porridge, and the ball plopped against the netting. This man is truly loved by the fans. He stops goals, he scores goals."
But that was merely an aperitif, for his finest hour was on 16 March 2002, the day Wolves officially celebrated their promotion to the Premier League, though someone forgot to tell Town that they were supposed to lay down and die. Obstinate, resolute, bloody-minded, time ticked on and the Mighty Wolves were starting to fret, starting to worry, starting think they may be the rabbits in the headlights. With 15 minutes left Town sneaked a rare visit upfield. A corner!
"…swung high towards the centre of the penalty area and seemed to hang in the non-existent breeze…rising higher and higher and higher Todd nodded sagely, the ball thumped into the ground and drifted into the left-hand corner as Oakes fell like, well, an old, diseased oak, its branches long since trimmed by zealous council officials."
The game ended, the Town fans erupted in joy, and the Town players ran to the gaggle of Grimsbyites. All of them. But not Todd, who wandered off on his own. Allen tried to organise a collective huddle and beckoned Todd over. He waved and walked off down the tunnel. With Andy it was nothing personal, just business. And there was still work to be done.
"Groves and Todd thundered in…Groves and Todd sidled around the back…Todd and Groves were extremely solid and unperturbed."
With a dynamic duo at the heart, Golden Groves and Andy Todd, all muscular intelligence, Wimbledon were defenestrated 5-2, Norwich were neutered and then, with Burnley flicked aside, Town were improbably safe for another year in a land we may never see again. Finally, at the full-time whistle taciturn Todd, the loner loanee, almost broke out a smile. Almost.
"Even Todd seemed to be content to be part of the team celebrations." Even.
With safety assured, Millwall was an exercise in contract fulfilment for Todd and for the travelling support, hoping the team would avoid annoying the locals too much. Todd played his fullest part with a suitably slack ending in the shadow of Dion Dublin, walking off with a thumbs up. And then he was gone.
Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.
That brief sojourn in stripes revived his career and revived us…for a bit. We lasted another year and Charlton sold Todd to Blackburn that summer for big bucks, but old habits die hard with a vengeance. Within a year he'd been sent off for kicking Christophe Dugarry off the ball and up the backside, then elbowed Robin Van Persie ("He ran into my shoulder") in the FA Cup semi-final and head butted Andy Reid. Not in the same match, even PsychoTodd couldn't manage that.
He even touched the seamier side of soccerball when Happy Harry Redknapp was secretly filmed in a TV sting discussing with an agent the possibility of buying Todd. "Yeah, I'd have him, I like Toddy, he's a tough b*****d." Buy him Harry didn't, but 'Appy 'Arry knew every oyster needs grit.
Andy Todd saved Town that season, his mere presence sufficient to galvanise the Grimsby team of ageing legends and loanees for a last hurrah in a golden age. Don't believe us, the amateur sentimentalists in the stands? Then listen to the man at the heart of it all, Sir John of McDermott, interviewed by our own Paul Thundercliffe in 2005. Macca summed up why, despite the brevity of his stay, the Toddmeister still causes aging hearts to flutter:
"Andy Todd was fantastic for the amount of space he gave you to play in. He got this team playing. He kept us up."
No flowery language, no soaring poetry, just solid words summing up a solid, reliable rock that briefly rolled into Town.
There we are, Andy Todd, a big fish in a small pond. Just don't go to the toilet if he's behind you.
Illustration courtesy of Alex Chilvers