Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 March 2025

It winds from Clee-thorpes to B-Bath, more than two hundred miles all the way. Won't you get hip to this timely tip? When you make that Cheltenham trip take what remains of the A46.

After heading west on the highway that's the best, we're here again in the land of the landed genteel gentry where jumpers are not for goalposts, but, of course, for horses on the nearby courses. We're no longer in the World of Similes, but Whaddon Road, as snug as a bug, like a fish out of water, is still a place with the air, nay the ambience, of another age, of amateur football for the hoi-polloi hidden under the hills, hidden away from the eyes and ears of ladies who lunch.

It feels like years since we've been here.

With the sun high, high in the sky, the early birds caught the worm of news: two tracksuits jogging along the touchlines, chunky-calf Davies cutting ever-decreasing corners whilst the Geezer from the Freezer stuck rigidly to the rules and the straight lines.

Town lined up in the modishly shapeshifting 3ish-5ish-2 formation as follows: Wright, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Svanthorsson, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Hume, Rose and Burns. The substitutes were Eastwood, Warren, Cass, Thompson, Luker, Ainley and Barrington. Burns for Barrington and there's smiles returning to our faces as Eastwood returns from his long cold lonely winter of woe.

The Robins? As ever, as always, a bunch of big blokes with some peripheral butterflies.

The Yellow Card Accumulator - not a new marketing campaign by e-Ladbookies24/7.com, but the striped Svengali, the monochrome mesmeriser – was an unseen presence, banished from this earth to watch from the skies via drone technology. So now he can groan by phone. Or moan by drone. Take your pick.

Shall we open the box of delights now? Yes or No?

1st half – Droning on
Town kicked off in two-tone blue towards the seven hundred travelling Townites scattered like pin cushions across the Chaise Longue End.

A kick into touch, a line out, up'n'under, ruck and maul. I'm appalled.

"Woah, woah," said the man who used to be on the radio, "There are some things you ought to know. There is little you can do to stop the pain and it's gonna happen time and time again.”

Bouncity-bouncity-bouncity-bounce. Spin! Spin! Spin! Spin! Spin! Spin around. Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Big balls bouncing, red stripers flouncing. Wave your hands in the air, the ref don't care! Khouri, McEachran and McJannet glided past local people and were egregiously legged up, hauled back and semi-throttled. Tut-tut said the blind man.

Fingers did wag.

A Town tickle and ickle Darragh bustled and curled as the flag fluttered behind him.

A hoof onto the roof, hoofs onto the roofs of the houses beyond. A hoof, a hoof, a kingdom for a hoof! An unthinking, automatic wallop-athon from the homesters. Ah-ha, football. I remember it now. Mariners mugging a chugging Cheltenham chappie and off they sprung, bounding along, not bouncing about. Green ran on and on and, as the home blanket hovered like history upon his shoulder, a low crinkle was foot-clobbered aside by their perfectly adequate Day. Duck Farm ducked and flicked on the corner and, well, I must say their hot chocolate was very chemically enhanced.

Town pressing and I'm guessing you know what comes next. I don't need to tell you then, do I. After bouncyball head-ducking by Dieng, Green saw yellow. Foot up, head down? Whatever it was it was one in the eye for their holding midfielder with Town left to decry the lack of latitude given to our day trippers compared to their home triple trippers.

Them, a corner. That's it, that's them. Rose headed softly and Day plucked. That's it, that's us.

And here we are, finally, that bit where the ball landed on or near the pitch, near enough to striped heads and feet, often enough for them to believe they had the big mo'.

Ten minutes of local biguglyvigourballing, where Flynn's First Law of Dynamic Football intersected with some typewriting monkeys. A big booming diagonal and the Denver Boot in a lathering tither. Their wing-back hauled, our wing-back booked, the free kick clipped to the farthest post and many men rose, as did the whole of the home end in unison, baying for a penalty.

The referee stood and stared, let play continue and, after a shot was blocked, slowly pointed towards the penalty spot. Miller feigned a Wright shove, got up after his jellyfishing was ignored and promptly plonked the ball down on the spot. Wright flew leftly to deftly, spectacularly parry-punch away. His mum and dad were reet proud of him. And so were we.

Keep calm and carry on. Here they come again, boom-boom-boom. A plunge, a lunge, a block and a shock. Them, a corner and that's that. Sleeping two-toners, the ball pulled back and Williams swept in from the tea rooms and swept lowly through the darling buds of March, our spindly, twiggy hedgerow waiting for the sun.

Yeah, yeah Cheltenham, that's all very well, but you forgot about the second law of thermodynamics when walloping higher and higher baby: the more energy is transferred or transformed, more and more of it is wasted.

They are no more. They are merely springs to be bored by.

Town's smother brothers took control of the midfield with some unexpected counter-cultural leanings, or leanings to counter their uncultured ways. Flibbling and bibbling with a bit of the old in-out, in-out and Rodgers' rocket from the right was near enough to "Ooh" with the clearest of consciences. Gorgeous George and the Icelandic glider mugged again and Svanthorsson slid his rule though the eye of a wiggle. Khouri cantered away, pursued by three grizzly bears and just Day before him. Alas Coor-eye dismayed the many by rolling it softly, rolling it softly, into his hands. Perhaps the sun rose in his eyes as he was about to shoot, or maybe he was flushed with goal fever and embarrassed by the crowd.

Fill in the gaps with one simple image in your head – a ball against an azure sky of deepest summer, gulls circling, squawking.

Did you mind that gap?

Three minutes were added. Mumbling around, bumbling about, all around the Rocky Robins penalty box. McJannet thumple-headed from the throng and Day finger-flipped over from under the bar. Sweeping infiltrations through their sleeping right, Green miskicked his shins agin his heels and Tharme stretched and missed as the ball rolled through to Day.

And the whistle whistled as Town maintained possession, fervently avoiding sticking it in the mixer.

Ten minutes of artillery shelling caused a roof to collapse. Town aren't built for rugby.

2nd half – Kick and rush hour
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Town jauntiness, Robins rocking. Hume delivered the post, Green's glance swerved away from goal, grazing a water bottle. Moments, here and there, Town ascendant, quietly dominating the flow, the thrust, the mood music, pressing slowly against a wall looking for a loose brick.

Sailin' away on the crest of a wave, it's like magic. Oh, rollin' and ridin' and slippin' and slidin', it's magic. A Svanthorsson saga, a Norse odyssey across the oceans, travelling to strange lands and meeting mythical beasts in search of treasure. Quick minds and quick feet after a quick Green chuck. Jinking Jason jived along the bye-line, awaited the arrival of Day, flicked back and Rodgers slam-dunked through munchkins, riding his cocked horse to the corner flag beyond.

A minor scramblette in Town's penalty area. Just that, only that. Hoof to the roof is their motto, their mojo. One dimension, one direction, one long ball after another won't get Town in any bother.

Short balls, now that's a different kettle of fish. A humdrum tap back to Wright and Archer went through the motions of chasing the rainbow. Wright's emotions can only be guessed at – and the crowd's easily guessed – as his languid little pass was charged down. The ball squirtled right, Archer wrenched a woefully weak shot rolling through the muddiness and Wright recovered his dignity by swooping to scoop off the line.

Ok, right, let's have a little lie down and rest for a while shall we.

With 20 minutes left McEachran and Burns were replaced by Thompson and Luker. Burns. Ran around a lot, worked hard, stood up and challenged bigger boys. He did his bit and earned his corn.

Pressure, cross, deflection, corner, long throw, back in and Thompson hurled himself to head very wide indeed, young man. Still, it wasted a few more seconds. At this Warren replaced the lightly limping Rodgers. And? There was nothing to worry about at all, Tyrrell was a tiger.

And Svanthorsson snap-slapped wide after general dithering about at one of Duck Farm's long hurls, now flatter with all traces of loopiness removed.

For poor old Cheltenham every hoof is getting longer, they never seem to find the time with half a plan that either comes to naught or comes unstuck on the halfway line with scrambled minds. They hit, they hope. Town can cope.

Whoopsy-daisy. An occasional home flurry and Hume in a hurry, stumbling upon a cross and toe-poking along the outside of the side netting for corner. A corner that was merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory, which is ironic for a team that only look upwards.

Four minutes added, six were played. Rose got his groove back, stumbling and tumbling for a series of free kicks. Town not lacking attacking intent. A corner, a cross to an unmanned near post panicked behind. Green hobbled off, Cass zoomed on. Another corner, another clearance. Hume coiled back and Tharme threw himself at the incoming dripper. Bodies tumbled, the ball bumbled goalwards, Day flopped to stop, got up and drop kicked downfield. Taylor chased and drop kicked a pleasing plodder plenty of yards wide.

There we are, that was that. Rugby 1 Football 1. The draw was the most they deserved and the least Town deserved. Cheltenham wilted, a busted flush, with just a ten-minute flurry of scurrying, hurrying and hassling all based on brute force and chance. Little Town dealt rather easily with difficult dinosaurs.

We're all right.