Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

2 April 2025

Mothers, brothers, there's too many of us crying. You know we've got to find a way to bring some understanding here today. Rose is out but Rose is out there. What's going on?

Fathers, sisters, I'll tell you wha'’s going on. Town lined up in what became a very broken hearted, very lopsided 4-1-3-2 formation as follows: Wright, Rodgers, Tharme, Warren, Hume, McEachran, Svanthorsson, Green, Khouri, Barrington and Luker. The substitutes were Eastwood, McJannet, Thompson, Geza Turi, Davies, Ainley and Burns. With Danny boy knocked out of the team there's just two little boys up top. Don't worry, when they grow up they'll both be soldiers.

I spy with my little eye, some old Towner beginning with O. Oh my, it's Omar. Omar's back! How is Omar's back these days? He could have had class, he could have been a contender, he used to be a contender, he could have been somebody. Instead…

…the game is afoot.

1st half – Garlic bread?
Town kicked off away from the silence, the small red void of emptiness behind Wright.

Foul, foul, offside, offside, foul, foul. Oi ref are you watching this? Ten yards! Foul, foul, foul, murder most foul. No chickens being counted, just the number of feathers these sneaky-snidey trainspotters are plucking off our rare bird with such beautiful plumage in broad daylight.

Wright punted longly, Green chested offly and Svanthorsson slap-shot straight at their keeper's head. Wright longly punted, Green headed on, Svanthorsson wiggled and waggled, hesitated and deviated but never quite got to the point.

They're timewasting already. Get on with it!

Nicks and kicks, twizzles and fizzles as Crewe sizzled up the Town right. A long leg extended, over Long tumbled and a free kick transformed itself into a throw, to the stage-managed chagrin of the homesters. Oh, what a farce, Cooney hurled, a striped head noddled out and a red head nurdled back into the groove. Warren weakly wallowing, Rodgers serenely somnambulating. The lonely Long tapped into the zeitgeist and tapped in from barely five yards out.

Oh, they do have some supporters after all, they aren't just discarded cardigans dotted amongst the dusty seats.

The ball flying high without ever leaving the ground. The rest of us folks are tired and weary watching the referee slowly unravel. Advantage given, advantage not given, for us, for them. He'd get more right simply by spinning a coin.

Foul, foul, offside, foul. Some Nordic ballet between the barrage balloons and a swizzing cross scraped across the face of goal. Foul, foul, foul, foul, foul, foul, foul.

Home higgles and home piggles. Wright plucked low, Wright scooped lower. Home niggles at striped wiggles. Such foul deeds will rise.

Eventually Demetriou was eventually booked, as was Luker for an 'ickle tug on a passing red shirt. Town mugged a chugger, an excess of striped swarming over the thin red line. As the penalty area beckoned Demetriou debagged Barrington in public, the evidence caught on CCTV. How did he plead? He didn't have to, for the park keeper turned a blind eye and just let the rascal carry on regardless of his accumulation of foul misdeeds.

A Tharme header plopped, Barrington almost flicked at the near post, a Lankaster shot rolled but didn't rock and they kept on hugging, mugging, tripping and snipping our little darling buds who may without fear of any consequence.

One minute was added, rather than the extra 44 that was legally binding.

There's tea brewing in the dressing rooms and a storm brewing on the pitch. Mercy, mercy me, Town ain't what we've recently been and Crewe ain't what they used to be. What a bunch of peevish gits.

2nd half – He's gone totally insane
Crewe replaced Holicek with Sanders at half time and they went nipping and zipping, tripping gaily through the shards of broken glass. A home tumble and home stands grumbled.

Town? Abstract and arbitrary, passes underhit and yet also overhit, challenges robust yet fey, legs spinning but standing still. A moment of nearlyness as Green barundled down the wing and Cooney swept off Khouri's toes. And then what? Two corners that couldn't possibly mean anything to you, Mr Bond.

And then what? Marschall waved a dripping free kick goodbye, turned to look but the chance was gone as Green dived forward and headed straight in to the keeper's hands. High jinks and little dinks, Green reverse tickled and Svanthorsson slapped into the side netting.

On the hour Thompson and McJannet replaced McEachran and Warren. Poor old Bunny, somewhere along the A534 he remembered he was Warren. Thompson was unable to touch the ball without the referee awarding a free kick against him for walking on the cracks in the pavement.

And, with all this homespun hullaballoo and hoo-hah, Town slowly subsided further from organised slackness into disorganised dissolution. Balls of fury as Khouri, just inside the penalty area, leapt and toe poked away from where a red head would have been if it was. That didn't stop the Crewite from kissing the turf and writhing like a recently dissected earthworm. The decision?

Why, the most obvious one, of course: a suspended sentence and two point on his dog licence.

An indirect free kick, no card. The free kick wafted into the wall, bouncing out for Cooney to loop a long thrupper into the nearest post. Red shirts, striped shirts and a grey shirt all fell down at the same time. The ball sauntered into the far corner. Up went red arms, up went striped arms, and both teams chased the ref hither and thither to the tune of Yakety Sax. After some friendly persuasion he wandered over to the linesman. They had a chat, they had a discussion, they held a symposium and they submitted some academic papers for peer review. Their peers, watching on tv, helped them reach a reasoned conclusion.

With 20 minutes left Davies came on for Luker. I have nothing more to add in the vicinity of the Welsh Wizard.

Us. A breakaway, a Khouri pass and Hume shinned softly to their keeper as the ball hit a divot just as he swung his pants. Pants? That's what we thought.

Them. Shots. Shots between the elongated, exaggerated obfuscations and deliberations at every stoppage in play. They may have been near, they may have been far, none them involved our old friend Omar.

Holes. Left, right and centre. Barrington bustled forward and buffled wide. And on came Burns for the Brighton Belle of the ball. What did Darragh do? Allegedly he fouled the keeper once. Don't worry lad, you won't go to prison, you have seven hundred eye witnesses for the defence.

There is no structure, no shape, no hope of anything turning up. It's a book at bedtime we've read a thousand times and we know the ending.

Ten minutes were added. Striped slapdashery, a red corner coiled and Demetriou arose afar above no-one and thumpled back across and above the wafting Wright. At this a third of the Town support upped sticks and decided to start the queue out of the car park. The rest? We stayed put and waited and waited for the end to begin. As the dejected, distraught and defeated trouped over we stood up as one to roar them home. It's called support.

A dreadfully dreary game between two distinctly average teams and officiated by a madman. It had its moments.

Town were insipid and disjointed. They just were, it happens. No moaning, no groaning, it is what it is, we are what we are. No excuses, just crack on.