Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

5 March 2025

Tuesday night and the gates are low and though it isn’t raining, we all just love complaining. And no, we haven't got anything better to do. Sit back, relax and watch us die of entertainment along with those 130 tormented Trans-penniners in turmoil.

Town lined up in a formation sort-of-almost-sometimes 3-5-2 as follows: Wright, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Svanthorsson, Thompson, McEachran, Luker, Hume, Obikwu and Rose. The substitutes were Eastwood, Warren, Ainley, Green, Khouri, Barrington and Burns. O-O-chango, changes to the tried and tested, the settled side that was sweeping all before it. This'll be a test for the rest, testing the resting the policy.

Tranmere have come disguised as Sainsbury's delivery drivers. They have run out of footballs, but here's a banana instead.

1st half – And some call it codbore
The game kicked off. Nothing else did.

Town moving without momentum towards the Osmond, Tranmere had momentum without movement towards the Pontoon. Artless, aimless and shamelessly timewasting even before the game kicked off.

A nibble of cheese yonder, Rose turning, turning, turning, Sainsbury socks churning, churning, churning. Cafe bars, idiots and pigeons. There's far too many in this town. It was a moment of momentary momentum just after the evening sun had gone down.

Shirking and lurking as Luker wiffled woefully straight to the wonderfully misplaced Patrick with Svanthorsson awaiting afar, alone, with just four thousand holes in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire between him and Booby McGhee.

Careering down the aisle like one big psychopathic carnivore Patto promenaded Pontoonwards, awaiting assistance from his fellow shelf-stackers. Hendry trundled by as Luker filled in his timesheet. Jaydon! We need more kumquats and carrots in fruit & veg! A near-post nudge and helter-skelter scrimble-scramble. Hume hoiked away from the old Ramsden's car park as eyebrows raised all around. The ball merely looped to the penalty spot where Jennings twizzled and Finley swept across and through the dishevelled shirts of stripes into the right corner.

Tranmerers in ecstasy as a season came crashing to the floor.

We're stuck behind a broken-down bus and a cartfull of steaming manure between Middle Rasen and Caistor. We're stuck between a metaphor and reality. At least I could pass.

But it's not always going to be this grey, is it? All footballers must pass at least once a day. Oh, that's how it’s going to be, c'mon you can do it, it's easy, basically it's easy as pie. Mmmm…pie.

After 3.142 seconds of cohesive interconnectivity McEachran thrustled and bustled to knickle a knockle to the lurking Luker. A swish of his curtains and a dozing delivery driver drove down Harrington Street with a can of tomatoes. He's got time, he's in the right place and he's got motion, but has he a notion? Luton's Luker didn't have the feeling as he bedraggled a scrubber across the face of the right post.

Feeble follies, drips and dollies, there's a kind of hush all over the ground tonight at this kick and mushball. Dennis dived, Dennis cried, Dennis was merely a menace to himself. Oh Dennis, Dennis, we're so lucky 'cos we found an old boy like you playing for Tranmere tonight.

Here we go again, Obikwu scrunched, Rose rambled and scrambled a cross across the face of goal into a vast emptiness, devoid of humans. Svanthorsson skated in from another game in another dimension and McGhee dredge-swept off those spicy-icy twinkling toes. And Duck Farm did hurl, hurl, hurl again into the wide dull yonder.

And Duck Farm did hurl.

Free kick pinballing, heading near, heading nowhere. And Duck Fam sat down, for Duck Farm has closed until Easter. He's down and out near Hubbards Hills. Bunny Warren ambled on.

As four minutes were added Hume dripped a free kick and Rodgers graze-headed wide. A four became three Svanthorsson retrieved a deflected cross, Warren slinkled a snipper through the barricades and Luker slip-swiped sloppily into the darkness.

The graph on the wall tells the story of it all. They scored twice from their only attack, but only one counted. Town missed from their only three attacks, nothing counted. Oh the tedious inevitability of a Tuesday night with Tranmere.

2nd half – Yesterday's men
Barrington replaced Obikwu at half time. One could hardly claim that is swapping fire with ice.

With his socks down to his toes Luca wants the whole world to know he's a sensitive outsider with Throwing Muses, Suzanne Vega, 10,000 Maniacs on shuffle.

C'mon Town, buck up, catch your dreams before they slip away.

Minor moments of accidental connectivity glimpsed out of the corner of one eye. Hume thrumbled through the vegetable section and Rose stumble-shinned into the cross at the near post.

There may be noise but there is no poise.

We're waiting for Green as we see dead ends with Rose. I know it sounds bleak but hey, don't despair 'cos even men with steel hearts love to see a dog on the pitch. It generates a warmth around the ground that augurs well for mankind and that's what life's all about. Trouble is these days you never see a dog on the pitch. The pitch is a dog though.

At least we have something to blame for the absence of action, the mess of missed passes and amateur shinty.

It must get better in the long run. To the mass appreciation of those still awake, Khouri replaced ailing old Thompson, yesterday's man. Town were going mobile, keep on movin', keep on groovin', a little more pep, a lot more pop and Tranmere brought to a total stop.

I know the supermarket weepers did have a shot at some point. They also had a cross. And a corner. If they close their eyes and really try hard it may be possible to convince a passing croquet fan or crochet lover that these were moments of high drama, of chances spurned.

Back to Park life, back to reality. The game permanently stuck in the mud inside the Tranmere half, the ball on a voyage to the bottom of the garden of the houses behind the Pontoon. Hume shook off the shackles of shoddiness and coiled into the corridor of uncertainty 'twixt Booby McGhee and Turnbull. With no stripes present in the post code the tottering tumbler swished and mished and slapped the ball back to his glamourous assistant all in one stylish swirl. Rose smiled broadly, the floodlights glinting off his top teeth, sending the ball right as McGhee ached to his left.

Now Town had the big Mo!

Sorry, I got up this morning had baked beans for breakfast, my ears are alight. Town had the big No!

No, nothing happened. Green replaced Luker. No, still nothing happened.

No. No. No-NO-NO!

Seven minutes were added.

Lumping, dumping, a corner or two. Are these my ultimate pyjamas? Is this my final dressing gown? I'm sending on this rhyme deep in injury time. The train rolls on, Tuesday's gone, this game's gone.

Utter dross, total piffle. March always sorts the wheat from the chaff, and our reserves are pretty naff as starters. We huffed and we puffed but couldn't even blow over a house of cards.