Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

30 December 2024

What day is it?

Does it matter, there's a game to go to.

Town lined up as follows: Wright, Cass, Rodgers, McJannet, Hume, McEachran, Luker, Khouri, Davies, Ainley and Rose. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Tharme, Green Svanthorsson, Barrington and Pyke. A little light crop rotation never did anyone any harm, gotta put the oxygen back in the soil! This is no time for turnips.

Look who's riding into town on his trusty horse. Stand and deliver, it's Darren Moore, Darren Moore with his ragtag bag of things. Have they come in fancy dress as stewards? They have, and they'll regret that when the linesmen mistakes the lad near the lavatories as their last defender.

Port Vale, eh, how can the light that burned so brightly, suddenly burn so pale? I suppose we're about to find out.

First half – Always look like a zebra
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon and we were treated to a full five minutes of promenading and faffing about, twirling and whirling, our old school friends from way back showing off their new shoes and fancy hats. Ooh-la-la!

And into the Lower Frozen Horsebeer Stand you go. Khouri sorted it, no nonsense.

As McJannet awaited under a plunging satellite a storm cloud rumbled in from the Wolds. Oh, they arrived at the ball within an hour of each other as Wee Janet was sent cartwheeling across the floor. By whom? His name is Debrah, Jesse Debrah, that name sounds sweet but it doesn't suit ya, laddie. We may have seen red but it was merely yellow for yellow as McJannet, winded and wounded, was dragged off for some oxygen and a cold sponge or three.

Debrah carried on and McJannet was erroneously made to stay off the pitch for way over 30 seconds. This was merely the most egregious of the slights to stripes by the whistling wallyman. 

Richards bustled through the middle and Wright pushed the coiler onto Hume's surprised forehead. Paton's plopperhead and a stray shot across the bows give the illusion of tension, fear and the possibility of unhappiness, but slowly, slowly Town ground down the muzzled and mute Staffordshire terriers. For all their prancing and dancing those with eyes to see and ears to hear could only conclude that there was nothing to them but a shiny surface. And by half way through the half they were no more than colours moving in the background.

Mariners' moments began to accumulate. McJannet played one-two off a passing seagull to set Davies free down the centre. Tip-top teasing and Luker sliced wide, Luker wriggled and was wrestled to the floor but the referee saw no ships. Cass raided on the right but Rose retreated rather than attacking the near post. Cass half raided and Luker bedazzled with soft shoe shuffling, scuttling infield, into the penalty area and bedraggling lowly. The ball squintled past a quintet of static yellow legs but Ripley's toes edged the ball past the leg stump. The corner hoiked and half cleared, and Rose leant back to glance loopily over the left angle of post and bar.

Cass roamed and released Davies. The ball took a nick off a defender's toe and, eschewing the corner and stuck on the bye-line, our Welsh Wizard twizzled and twirled and curled a dreamy dripper that dipped over the cack-footed keeper. As if by magic McJannet arrived to steer in from a foot in front of a yellow boot.

And relax. Everything's going to be alright.

Control. Aggression. Controlled aggression. Town in control of their own destiny, probing for moments of meaning. What does this mean? Whatever you desire. And who doesn't desire McEachran's mazy meander muddling many a Midland mind? What about Davies's up and under causing the talented Mr Ripley to fluff and flap as Rose arose above the stubby, tubby keeper? That'll do, and, in the end, between the waves of Town attacks, two minutes were added.

Port Vale weren't bad, Town were just better. No frilly faffing about at the back, just sensible soccer from sensible stripes standing in the right places, running around in the right places.

The gull survived by the way. That'll do for me, Tommy.

Second half – Plein soleil
Poor Vale replaced shocking Shorrock with John at half time as the skies above the Humber turned a pleasingly pleasant, plummy purple.

You won't get your lupins with long chucks and balls in the box Big Daz. I predict an evening of song with Petula Clarke and the Mike Sammes singers. Easy listening, easy watching.

Cass fell over and the Town crowd murmured like starlings, startled and alarmed as on came Bunny Warren. You may scoff, but the Mike Sammes singers sang on I Am The Walrus; every dog has his day you know, we all have our uses.

Dirty Debrah chucking long and the Pontoon chuckling long into the night as a succession of striped heads bonked aside. Is there any danger? The referee, he's out there heading our way and out of control. A farcical free kick to the fluorescent flowerpotmen as a yellowman cynically stooped to head Ainley's boot. Pottymen clatterings and splatterings ignored.

On the hour on came Svanthorsson as the thermometer dipped to the Ainley tipping point.

Somewhere, sometime, statistically speaking they had a shot or two. High, wide, wide and high, all from way, way out, nothing of note, nothing of consequence, nothing to get hung about. Hall shot, Wright saved. It happened, it happened one night, it happened by accident, for accidents do happen. There was no jeopardy.

Rose lunged near a couple of crosses, Rose careered back off a yellow elbow and Rose artfully caressed a slow, low curler that Ripley, believe it or not, saved. Those were the moments between the delightfully dogged defending. They don't need to be magic, just memorable, that'll do.

With a quarter of an hour left Tharme and Green replaced Davies and Luker, with Town shapeshifting into a back five bulwark. No harm in adding another padlock is there.

Them, those silly, frilly fluorescent fools forever faffing about, always high or wide from outside the box, running around in their own circles of despair...I reckon they could hit that tree over there...the one just behind that hillock...not the big hillock, the little hillock on the left. You see the three trees, the third from the left and back a bit - that one - I reckon one of these Valiants could hit that four times out of five...on a good day. Say, with this wind...say, say, seven times out of ten...

But they couldn't hit Steve Livingstone with a banjo, let alone score.

Ah, now Town on the other hand, there's a different kettle of fish. Rose plunged, Hume chipped the free kick deeply and Tharme swooped to duck and loop over Mr Purple.

Debrah headed Rose and remembered to stay down and hold his own head. I see little pirouettes from yellow men, will they do the fandango? You can't start a fire without a spark, they're just dancing in the dark.

Six minutes were added. Eh up, that purple loon, what's Ripley's game? Svanthorsson, the boy who followed Ripley across the edge of the penalty area, charged down a limp lamp, chased down the loose ball and silkily swung into the empty net from a narrowing angle.

And the crowd went wild about Dadi cool.

It's time for Khouri to cuddle and cull and leave the rest to mull over their choice post-show cocktails. The vimless Valiants' spirits were crushed and their remaining supporters rushed down to greet them with words you'll never find in the bible. If I repeat them here, we'd probably get sued for libel.

Port Vale frightful, Grimsby Town delightful. This weird run doesn't show signs of stopping so get out some corn for popping. We're counting down to ecstasy. Three more wins!