Cod Almighty | Match Report
by Tony Butcher
16 March 2025
They were there at the turnstiles those Salford fans, all 107 of them, with the wind at their heels. This is how it feels to be lonely in the corner of a foreign field, this is how it feels to be small.
A crispy, bright afternoon of endless possibilities on the Costa Del Troll as the ailing Artellians wrenched themselves out of bed again. So who'll be hobbling around today?
Town began in the vaguely 3 or 5 at the back but let's call it 3ish-5ish-2 formation as follows: Wright, Warren, Tharme, Rodgers, Svanthorsson, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Hume, Luker and Rose. The substitutes were Eastwood, Thompson, Turi, Ainley, Burns, Brown and Barrington. We're getting weaker by the week, belief dribbling away by the day and everyone's looking a bit washed out and weary, the players, the fans, the grass.
Salford turned up. Never a good sign
1st half – Careless whispers
Town kicked off towards in the Osmond. A full five minutes passed before a train passed by. And that's the only passing and movement you'll see all day.
Bibbles, bobbles, the occasional hobble, as those devillish redsters cynically sneaked and snarked Town to a halt. Two yellow cards in 12 minutes. Ooh, we've got a good 'un here.
On with the show, let's go with the flow. A nick, a trip, a Hume sweep and Rose strechy-poked into the side netting. This happened. Didn't it? Didn't it? Did anything really happen at all? Were we really there?
Underhit, overhit, it was all so…
Bobbles and bibbles, the occasional nibbles from Nmai, running rings around Svanthorsson and himself. Unfortunately, what goes up must come down, though not necessarily in DN35. A foul throw, nay, nay, nay Mr Doughty, you know that the Laws of The Game state that no such thing can occur without the appropriate Pontoon proclamation. This will not do!
Slowly, slowly it dawned on us this worm was turning, looking less kindly upon striped shrieks, more fondly upon the foulest of red robbings and street muggings. Quickly, yes, quickly, it had dawned that this was one of those days when the pitch is going to be cut to little pieces and Town were stuck in their own mud.
Fading away…fading away…fading away. It dawned on all present that Town were no longer playing with three at the back. We're doomed! We're doomed! No zip, no zap, it was all so…
Under the Police Box Mnoga mamboed down the wing, wriggled along the bye-line between the Duck Farm and the Denver Boot, waggled his tail and wiffled against the swooping Wright. Teeth were sucked as the ball ballooned up and was headed goalwards by a big Red head. McEachran thighed away, the rest of us sighed away.
Slices and slaps and woeful wafts. Mariner moments forever lost in undynamic dithering. A minor Mariner moment in Salford dithering. Luker lobbed into the nether regions and Rose stretched and toe-poked a dozen yards wide. I haven't mentioned their keeper's name yet. There is no reason to. Did they actually have one or did they bring a scarecrow?
Is four the new three, for three minutes were added that became four? It was all so poor, show me the door, show me the way to go home I'm tired and wanna go to bed. If I want to watch pedestrians aimlessly wandering in vaguely straight lines trying to dodge the droppings from above I'll go down the prom-prom-prom.
A feeble farrago of football
2nd half – Wake me up before you go-go
Neither team made any changes at half time.
To boldly fold like no team has folded before! Townites forever falling down asking for free kicks that never came. A red surge and red plunge and a free kick that wasn't on the left corner of the penalty area. Garbutt scuttled a scruffler lowly, Wright shovelled it up, Forneh walloped it back and Wright leapt left to punchy-parry away.
Back through the gears he goes wanderin' again. N'Mai turned Hume like a ripe cheese and chiselled lowly through the six-yard box successfully avoiding boots of many colours.
How many ships and boats and trains are passing by? They mean a trip to Barnsley or Artell's home for someone else but not for you or me. Town going nowhere slowly. Stripes standing still; sullen, sulking standing stones to a Greek chorus of groans.
After about ten minutes Burns replaced Svanthorsson.
Thoughts meandered like that paper cup slithering wildly across the failing pitch, back to the pre-season. I recall a bag of rags that someone gave us but every piece was small.
Skittling moments of almostness as Town broke through Burns. Alas this Irish rover underhit too early, then froze too late. Moments lost as he stopped when he should have gone, and went when he should have stopped. And then he was just another striped shirt, out there, somewhere, present yet absent, everywhere yet nowhere disappearing into the fog of befuddlement.
We pictured a rainbow as Garbutt briefly held the ball in his hands. A Town corner as Garbutt handcrafted away from a surging Striper, unseeable by the ref, unnoticed by the linesman, definitely seen by the whole of the Pontoon. There is nothing more to say.
Sometimes, now and again, Salfordians spurtled forwards, harassing and hassling the hapless homesters. A scoop that Wright plopped upon, a slow scrape onto the roof of the net, a bungle through the jungle snuggling into the big blue chest.
With 20 minutes left Barrington and Turi replaced the Green machine and Gorgeous George, two toy soldiers with flat batteries. Burns! Slipped through the eye of the needle, the waltzing winger crimped a cross into the near post. Barrington poked and the ball apologised as it ambled wide. That was it. That is it.
We've been here before. We're here again. We can see what's coming. We can see how it's coming. It's coming. Here it is.
Red shifting and lifting, Hume chased a laddie, nicked away and was half-tugged back. Hume stopped, requested a free kick and allowed the ball to roll out of play. A peeping shrug, a corner drifted over Luker, the unrelated Lund stooped at the near post and the ball looped achingly slowly over our tiny tots into the right side of the goal.
Some people were still watching the pitch, they thought it wasn't over. It is now.
We're back to the future with a shapeless procession of revolving possession, for it's all just a ball of confusion. A drop ball? What utter nonsense. Appalling falling and dreadful dawdling in gruelling duelling banjoball.
Five minutes were added and Brown came on for Khouri. Who knew? Did anyone notice? Did he touch the ball? Why didn't Barrington just kick the ball rather than fall? It's all dribbling away with drivel.
There was absolutely no point in this game being played. The inevitable inevitably occurred in the predictably predicted way. This was just an extension of Tuesday – we've run out of puff. Both teams were utterly terrible but Salford did deserve a draw far more than Town, who never had a shot on target all game and never looked like doing so.
No potency, no existence. We started this game with a whimper and the season has gone bang. This is the way it ends.