Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 February 2025

A grimly grimy morning of mizzle and drizzle in the desolate Donny funpark with 2,897 travelling Townites packing and raising the rafters, with music and laughter to help us on our way. We're messing about, hoping not to feel blue with Town in awayday two-tone blue.

Town lined up a higgledy-piggledy 3ish-5ish-2 formation as follows: Wright, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Svanthorsson, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Hume, Rose and Obikwu. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Thompson, Luker, Burns, Ainley and Barrington. The Wolds Panther has not been sighted this week.

Ah, hang on, Town seem to have acquired a Gallic Grimbarian, for we have Tharmé making his debut in defence replacing Duck Farm in a like-for-like swap. It must have been the hair that confused the tannoyman, who could not countenance the notion that flowing locks would be seen this side of the Humber. Or Doncaster has upgraded itself into a metropolitan, cosmopolitan oasis of sophistication in the last year. Well, they do have hot running water in the loos.

And there he is, no longer Our 'Arry, just another pro who has passed through, no longer one of our own, just one we have known. For the next 90 minutes we wish you ill. Tell Harry it's nothing personal, it's business, we always liked him. We won't let him off the hook for old times sake.

And now we'd like to have a lovely lunchtime in the lowlands of the nebulous netherland 'twixt Rotherham and Goole.

All right ramblers let's get rambling. Let's get to work.

1st half – The mid-day ramblers
Town kicked off away from the bubbling cauldron of Marinerdom, from front to back to back to front and back again. A nibble, a noddle – or was it a bibble and a bobble – Clifton clobbered and Wright swayed right to forearm parry-smash up. Svanthorsson headed halfly and Hume grazed away the sweeping cross.

Take a breath.

Here they come again. Sterry this, Sterry that, space, pace and grace but a cross skiffled off his bootlace, another into a steward's face. Ooh, a Town corner, nice. Elevation Mr Bootboy! Alas Hume could not hear the faraway implorings. Green ducked and danger is not a word associated with the rest of this sentence. Well, at least not for anything but a passing pigeon, a distracted dove or a swooping seagull.

Have you taken another breath? You'll need to. Sterry forever drifting through the opencast mine on Town's left. Incoming! Like clockwork, every three minutes. Gibson flashed straight at Wright, Sterry stepovers and a coiling dripper dipped beyond the farthest post. Molyneux, then Bailey, repeat action, repeat act, repeat fact. A shot, from distance, from an angle, from a little drummerboy, straight into Jordan Wright's middleriff.

Something must be done!

Oh, dear Danny Rose is hurty, honest. Let's take a break. Let's tweak in the break to make them meek.

Something was done, and Donny were done for, the hoops now hopeless. The weather broke, the Donny attacking waves were broken. They are just little boys running into cul-de-sacs and running round in circles having run out of their idea.

Town clamping down on nonsense. Passing, movement, McJannet and Rodgers roaming and raiding. How quaint. Wee Janet's sweeping, surging trundle and cross was finger-flipped away for a throw-in. Hume overhit a cross and our loping, languid long-legged lackadaisic airshot Svanthorsson's return. Khouri's swing and swayer left his boot on a wing and a prayer and left the earth's atmosphere several seconds later.

Is there more: there is, but only after some more British Bulldogs in the playground. We won, every time. The poor little Donnyboys never did breach our barricades and reach the wall behind the bike shed. A shuffle and shake and Spiderlegs left his cake out in the rain. Hume big dripped the corner way, way, way beyond the farthest post. Gorgeous George sumptuously snuck into uncharted space and his voluptuous volley veered off course only because their Teddy boy plopped down to push aside from the near post.

There really is nothing to say about these helpless hoopers, reduced to being hoofers. They were merely on the pitch making up the numbers.

Red wafting, blue grafting. Green mugged a dilatory dilettante, McJannet muzzled to Rose who rolled to Spiderlegs. Obikwu stepped across and inside the rolled up t-shirt they call Olowu, strolled into the penalty area and their custardian just couldn't read his poker face as the ball was toe-poked under and through for a fine deadly but delicious dénouement to this vignette of vavoomballing.

Let's just sit back and swat some flies for ten minutes.

Four minutes were added. Town slept as hoops slunk through space and Molyneux bedraggled widely. Town's sandcastle was still intact, their tide was still out.

Well, that was nice, all it took was a little bit of light mugging and then Spiderlegs does what he occasionally can. It was hairy and scary up to the point of Rose's mysterious but mercifully mended hurtiness. All top tailors know you need cut your coat accordingly and a little bit of restitching and strategically inserted elastic made Town's straitjacket pleasingly comfortable.

Oooh, lovely. Nice and snug.

2nd half – Shut that door
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Home furs flew as Sterry was in a hurry with a flurry down their right. Hoopermen were wandering far and near but there's nothing to fear as they all sat down with a quack and a waddle and a very unhappy tear. The ball may be in the net but the lineman's flag's been a-fluttering since breakfast.

Some badminton in midfield ended with a McEachran lob into the wastelands way out wide. Spiderlegging around, Green sledged past and slipped on the bye-line. With the ball boombling freely, deeply but widely inside the penalty area, Rose theatrically tumbling over Anderson's Tiller-girling. With the remains of their day shift defence distracted, our Icelandic Glider slip-slalomed through some stick insects and along the bye-line. Teddy boy ached as Svanthorsson sneakily poked under the yawning yellowman and brilliantly billiard-balled a cannon in-off the crossbar via the omnishambles that was Olowu's boots.

Ah, it was everything we've been dreaming of.

Emancipated from mental slavery, woah, we have no fear of Harry Clifton's atomic energy. And then he was decommissioned, sealed in a barrel and dumped in a cavern under the sea. He and two more were no more, a triple home subbing that changed everything and nothing.

Don’t worry Harry, under the sea there'll be no accusations, just friendly crustaceans. The box-to-box chuntering chatterbox was no more.

Svanthorsson, gliding on the thermals. Green and Khouri slamming the door shut to save on the leccy bill. There's no doom in the gloom with dashing Doug, the cerebral Scouser, a man at the centre of everything, quite literally heading in the right direction mate. Maybe we ain't seen nothing yet? Let's rock!

Or at least let's not roll over. Olowu left alone to roam as Obikwu thricely ambled in his head. Nothing happened, nothing to worry about. There's nothing to say, but it's ok.

Scrapping, scrimping, Rodgers limping off, Green trudging off. On came Warren and Ainley. I know what you're thinking. You know I know what you're thinking. I know you know that I know that you know. Don't say it, don't say the 'P' word!

If we look at the data it was three minutes later that McEachran and Obikwu were replaced by Thompson and Barrington. I know what you're thinking.

With ten minutes left and Hoops feeling low down, their fans heading for home, Donny finally started to roam and then they were into Town. Some Sharp practices, balls in the box, roistering rumbles, home grumbles and Wright almost fumbled. Heads and tales of woe as glances were exchanged, toes poked the thinnest of air. Town sinking, sinking deeper and deeper with just a will-o-the wisp presence atop in the grizzling mizzle.

Back and forth, once, twice, thrice and fourthly. Svanthorsson hooked to nowhere because there was no-one to hook to. Back it came again, and again. Way out right, Thompson just laundry, Warren and Duck Farm in a quandary as the ball made its way towards the near post. Street, like a hare in the headlights, ducked and looped a flick-header from near post to far post.

Burns replaced Rose, which only opened the door wider.

Suddenly we weren't the team we used to be and Donny believed they could soar and run through an open door. Upping the pace, upping the ante, into the mixer as the self-styled artballers took route one. Blocks from blue socks, corners here, there and everywhere. Hume knock-kneed for a corner that dipped, that drooped, that dropped and slapped against a big block of Dougness. Hibbling and bibbling and Molyneux carefully curled a shot across Wright that drifted, drifted, drifted wide.

Somewhere in all this excitement six minutes were added.

Into the box, out of the box, plunges and lunges, hacks and whacks. A corner again, dipping beyond the far post and two hooped heads conspired to head down and wonderfully wide. Into the box, out of the box, into the box once more. A hooped foot waited to strike and Ainley tumble-knicked in the nick of time. And now is the end of time.

Safety!

Well, you got to pay your dues if you wanna watch these blues, and lordie, don't we know it don't come easy watching Town. The first ten, the last ten, were a harem-scarem kaleidoscope of scrapes, but in between it could hardly have been easier, because Town worked so hard to make it easy.

Another day, another dragon slain.