Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

12 March 2025

Isn't it rich? Aren't we a pair? The whiff of promotion wafting through the air, we're no longer clowns.

Town lined up in a flexible 3-4-2-1 formation as follows: Wright, Warren, Rodgers, McJannet, Svanthorsson, Turi, Khouri, Hume, Green, Luker and Rose. The substitutes were Eastwood, Tharme, Ainley, Thompson, Brown, Barrington and Burns. McEachranless Mariners led many to murmur and mumble, but at least the Geezer from the Freezer is finally among us…and wearing white boots. If this was 1972 he'd have to be good to wear white boots. Well, the pitch is from 1972.

Right, this is going to tell us something. But will we like what it says on the tin?

1st half – It's not unusual
Town kicked off towards the 807 Piepeople with a slippy-sloppy slice and off they roamed down the undermanned right. An overhit cross and a slap across the face of goal and the furthest threads of Jatta's jaffa jersey.

Phew. Whoops. Whoopsyphew.

Cuts and thrusts, ups and unders, wary wandering and Bass rolled over Rose, rolled over his ankle and Mr Slocombe rolled back the years to roll on to the pitch to a chorus of disapproval.

Interesting. Very interesting, just look at his pace, just look at the space.

C'mon Keiran Green, things round here have changed. The iceman really has cometh! Turi-Turi-Turi-Turi-ay. He's far too young and clever, nicking, knocking, oozing, easing, pleasing with a perfectly weighted pass on the pudding pitch, there's purring at his unerring ability to shake, rattle and roll.

Mmm, next year, it's arrived already.

Stripes swamping and chomping upon the tangerines. Luker snuckled, Geza truckled, Green caressed and Luker tickled into the path of old Twinkletooth. Rose crackled and Slocombe parried aside, parried past the Green machine.

Snapping and crackling, passes popping, Green shanked across the face of the right post.

Orangers tactically overhitting, tactfully missing their mojo. Rodgers befuddled by a back pass, Whitaker waltzed away, Warren waltzed across. A Mandarin moment here, a Mariner moment there. Jousting and jesting, both teams testing the water. Don't carp, he hasn't got a mullet but runs like a bullet - Taramasalata wiggled and waggled and bedrifted a rising floater over the angle of post and bar. And that's them over and done with.

Plump up your cushion, stick your feet on the pouffe. Oof! Rose arose and Slocombe plucked. Top Town tussling and happy home hustling, sneaking and tweaking, and Green whipped a cross into the Fanzone. Turi, very Turi, how very Turi indeed ooh, nice…ooh, ooh, just there, yes, that's it, scratch that itch, he's everywhere on the pitch, where's the hitch?

A scribble, a scrabble, Rose back-flicking with back to goal and soft-shoe shuffle of blocks by orange socks as Luker lurked and Khouri clobbered. Bibbling and bobbling, and Geza slapshot straight down Slocombe's nostrils.
Town ascendant, dominant but dilatory when shooting. Always a touch too much.

Three minutes were added. And there we have it.

After a wibbly minute Town just got smoother and smoother to soothe and satisfy with football as we once knew it. The Geezer was ice cool and relaxed, running the game. Town were ticking tantalisingly with Turi.

2nd half – It's been a long time coming
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Here we go! Green surged bigly with a whooping, swooping swayathon down the middle. A pass to his left, a sexy little sidestep and Luker lamped straight down the middle. Slocombe arose to tip over.

Can you see what's going down, can you feel it in your bones? Can you feel it?

And then it all dribbled away, Town receding like the tide, regressing towards last summer as Svanthorsson fell down, Svanthorsson hobbled off, Svanthorsson limped back on. County sniffed the air and smelled…victory.

Someday our run was always gonna end.

Can you feel it?

It's coming.

A free kick way out right deeply dipped, deeply over-dripped and the unmolested Platt nodded into the melée, some say melange, others the messy meringue in the Mariners' six-yard box. Macari nodded, Wright parried, bodies headed for the same spot and Jatta nodded off Rose's head against the post and bundled the ball into the net over a scrummage of waifs and strays.

It came.

Town. There is nothing left to say, for they had nothing left to give. Every minute on the pitch Town got weaker, every minute County squatted in the Town half they got stronger. We're going….were going…

He's going…On the hour Thompson trotted on for the too-tired Turi, Burns scuttled on for the snaggled Svanthorsson.

Shapeless. Formless.

McJannet sat down and limped off. Barrington came on and Khouri moved to leftish back.

Formless, shapeless, hopeless. The midfield bereft of heft. Hopes were hit as Town hit and hope. The ground silent save that little knot of Nottingham down in the Osmond.

Town stretched and wretchedly wide open. Jatta headed wide and McGoldrick bounded back into their lives to make them even happier.

Bumbling, bundling, Green semi-surged and Rose was alone, centrally place on the edge of the area. Salvation, fortune with a little luck, we can make the whole darn thing work out. Danny Twinkle opened his body and carefully steer-lopped over Slocombe and watched, and waited, and waited and watched as the ball crawled over the angle of post and bar to riffle along the top of the net.

Minutes passed by. More minutes passed by. Who will save us? Ainley replaced Green. No comment.

Countymen passing the ball, passing the time, everything fine. With a couple of minutes left a moment as doors slid. Shut. A rare infiltration and Luker swung his pants and slung a low pass into the path of the lurking Barrington, unmarked eight yards out. A shin-fluff strolled through to Slocombe and off they went. McGoldrick man-rolled Khouri, wibbled wide of Rodgers and snaffled a sneaky low cross shot across Wright into the bottom right corner.

Three, now four thousand sets flipped up and the sad snake of the disappointed slunk down from the stands. They demand undying commitment from hired hands whilst running away themselves. That's just the spirit that won us the war you know.

Blah-di-blah, McGoldrick wide, hi-de-hi another something or other.

Six minutes were added. A Tangerine dreamscape of flailing, flatlining stripes, will there be anyone local left inside the ground? This and that, another lollipopping fly-kick from Wright and Jatta was smother-swamped by the diver Jordan. Two, three, does it matter? This game's long gone as Town's collective legs have long gone.
And as six became seven a Barrington cross was finger-flipped over the bar by Mr Slocombe, permitting Hume one last opportunity to underhit a corner. Denver, elevation means hit it high, not to the nearest Mandarin thigh. One can only sigh.

There we are, that's that then.

Sometimes I feel so low-down and disgusted, can't help but wonder what's happenin' to my companions in the stands. We've seen this slow trainwreck a comin' for weeks, so why cry now? There's just not enough power in the engine to reach the top of the hill. Town've just run out of players, for we lack reserves of strength. It's just the way it is, but with fans some things will never change.