Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

23 February 2025

Oh yes dear, everything's all nice and paranormal here.

The weather’s gone wild! An utterly still day of temperate temperatures and scintillatingly sizzling sunshine with the 122 Fleetermen fleetingly glimpsed in the dark recesses of our mind. Or the covered corner, one of the two.

Town lined up a call it what you wish 3ish-5ish-2 formation as follows: Wright, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Svanthorsson, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Hume, Barrington and Rose. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Thompson, Luker, Burns, Ainley and Wilson. Wot, no Spiderlegs? Careless whispers floating down, the sound resounds around the icy ground of a car crash, an accident that happened when Obikwu couldn't go home without a chaperone. There's only so much fish in the sea and up pops a little sprat in the net: Barrington for Spiderlegs the only change.

Ooh, hang on, I hear an amateur ornithologist tweeting in the rafters: is that the lesser-spotted Donnyvan Wilson? It's as plain as it could be. It is, it is, I tawt I taw a puddy tat. In a hat.

So check out mister businessman over there, they brought some wild, Wild life to the lime and limpid green first XV. As chunky as a chunky Kit-Kat and as beefy as a tomato, these travelling trawlermen had many taller men than our smaller men. The Fluorescent Fleetermen were, frankly, lanky and tanky.

Let there be doors that open when they open, and close when they close.

1st half – A landing on the sun
Town kicked off towards the Osmond. And then it all kicked off.

You might wake up some mornin' to the sound of something moving past your window in the wind. Well, Khouri was double clobbered and winded within a minute.

And if you're quick enough to rise you'll catch a fleeting glimpse of someone's fading shadow. Hume crossed and Green glanced wide.

Out on the new horizon you may see the floating motion of a distant pair of wings. In the shadows of the Frozen Horsebeer Stand Khouri stooped near a fluorescent boot and, as the referee said, now ain't that a kick in the head.

And if the sleep has left your ears you might hear footsteps running through an open meadow. Hume tickled his toes along the bye-line and McJannet swivel scraped over after a few corners more.

If you see something mysterious in the Lincolnshire skies fear not, it is only one of 17 charmless drones launched by Fleetwood Town. Don't be concerned, they will not harm you, it's only the Wild boys pursuing something they're not sure of.

Barging, charging, blocking, totally shocking. Long chucks and Artell booked, there's something fishy about this rollerballing derby.

A scramble in their box, a scrambled mind, do you mind the gap between the earth and the ball? Up, up and away. Way down south, Tharmé's hurl curled back and after a twirl the ball was passed back to the rhythm king, the little drummer boy, into the twilight zone, neither near nor far, neither central nor wide. McEachran took a touch, took a chance, took a punt and bunted a blistering bazooka flat wobbling straight over the man in mauve, the puce goose in goal.

And the crowd went wild. Except Wild, he was just livid with his lazyboys.

Bleeding Khouri! Yes, Khouri, bleeding. This isn't a 70s sitcom, even if Fleetwood are playing as a stereotypical 70s fourth division team. I wish these charmless nerks would naff off though.

Ah look left, there be Phoenix Patterson rising from the ashes, running rings around the moon. Ah but which one? Oberon, Miranda and Titania? Catalogue model Rooney, all cardigans and catsuits, a quiff in a tiff with Artell with a touchline tantrum somehow avoiding a booking for egregious gesticulations. Or was that the secret striker who stayed in Spain?

Sometimes the drones had to land to refuel. And then the cats could come out into the fields and play just like yesterday. Rodgers almost headed, but Wiredu noddled as Harvey started to nod from nearby.

What's this? I hear the horses thunder down in the valley below. Finally, in the 43rd minute of the Battle of Nevermore, the forces of darkness had their shot. The complimentary apples in McMenemy's turned to brown and black, whilst Pete Wild's face is simply red. Neal shinned a slice that swayed, rolled and groaned 18 yards wide. They need to shoot straighter than before.

A Hume free kick. Sometimes it is better to ignore what is right in front of you to save the blushes of all concerned, which is precisely the thoughts of the inhabitants of 59 Neville Street. Or possibly 57, I'm not sure who legally owns the fence. Or ex-fence, it has ceased to be.

Four minutes were added.

Two hundred and forty seconds, that's seven percent of an hour. The data doesn't lie and neither can I, that's just enough time for the Barrington Piffle.

On we blindly stumble.

2nd half – The attack of the drones
Neither team made any changes at half time. Where's wally? Where's Wild?

Hoobling and boobling and barundling, Green caressed with the outside of his right boot for an almost moment of nearlyness. And we're back to life, back to reality. Hoof, hoof, hoof, boom, boom, boom. Boom, hoof, boom, hoof, oi-oi-oi!

And Rooney stroked his sideburns, clipped his beard, plucked his eyebrows and carefully side-footed back across the face of goal and the face of the Wright's right post.

Boof!

Oof!

It's on the roof!

And Wright plucked as March mucked about in a scrambelette.

Big balls. Bigger balls. Biggerigger balls. You know what this is? Just balls.

Booming, zooming, danger looming. A welly up the line, a hooked up'n'under and Rooney rode Hume's hobby horse to head a hanging cross widely high, though possibly more accurately described as highly wide.

Are we heading in the right direction?

Hooking and hoiking out of their penalty area, up the left and on and on and up and up and higher and higher. A boom straight down the middle, straight over the top. A big bouncy-bounce bounced twixt McJannet and Wright and Graydon lobbed over the stranded slapper, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Typical, eh.

Will we be bold or will we fold?

The crowd in a tizz and a little bit of fizz, Khouri sledging Pontoonwards and a slimy limey dredging crunched Town to a halt. To a chorus of tourist disapproval a free kick was awarded, 25ish yards out. McEachran feigned to chip and dip but tickled to the shadowy figure of Dr Hume, I presume. With the Trawlermen stuck in port the Denver Boot gently crinkle-curled into the corridor of uncertainty and Rose arose dead centre to flick-graze into the left corner.

Ooh, that's nice.

And finally a replacement busy body service as Barrington came on for….oh, Barrington's coming off. Was he ever on? The elusive butterfly, Donnyvan Wilson, emerged from his cocoon to fly, fly, fly into the sky, sky, sky. Flap your wings and fly Donny boy!

Oof, boof, Rose split the Town defence and Rooney's flashing slap was flicked aside unseen. Sort it Artells! How? Ah….

It's Wrightache, nothing but a Wrightache. Bang on 70 minutes Wright sat down and only one question was on the collective hive mind: is Wrightache the new Crocramp? It ain't wise to need someone as much as we depend on him at the moment.

And again and again, up and up, a conveyor belt of unthinking wallops, every bouncing ball, every rolling ball, everything that moved or didn't automatically hooked high, hoiked down the line, dumped in the mixer. And, for all their huffing and puffing, all they had to bring home to their sugar daddy's son was one, single, shanked slip-slap.

Thompson replaced Green. Do know where, don't know when. Old Curt has the knack of falling over at just the right time. When he retires he can take his act on stage, he'll be a shoo-in for panto season.

What? What? There isn't any football, it's mudwrestling, polder jumping. Freestyle rock climbing with a soupcon of gridiron. Shore up the riverbank, bring on the boulders! Warren and Ainley for Svanthorsson and Rose. Fleeters in a flap, Bolton collapsing to earth, Wilson felled by the ripples and reverberations and Ainly plodded on, alone, straight down the middle. Callumity Ainley moved towards the mini-mauvester and what followed was less a miss more a mess.

Seven minutes were added. Seven minutes of watching the wheels go round and round. Wilson shot over. That's it, that's all folks.

With a hustle here and a hustle there these current Mariners manfully withstood the brutally unsophisticated Banarama batterballing from the Wild side. The relentless, monotonous drone attacks on the ball, and the man, were miserably reductionist. How can you watch this every week, how do you sleep, how do you sleep at night?

For evil to triumph good people must do nothing. Town did a lot today.