Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

22 April 2025

Hanging around and nothing to do but frown?

What's more British than a rainy old Bank Holiday in beautiful downtown Burslem? Poor old Potters, the whole town has that Freemo Street vibe. In a land that time forgot after a game we'd like to forget, now remind me, why are 1,264 of us here? If you've bought the ticket you may as well go, I suppose.

It's this or defrost the freezer.

Town lined up in a 3-1-4-2 formation as follows: Eastwood, Rodgers, Tharme, Warren, McEachran, Svanthorsson, Green, Khouri, Hume, Vernam and Rose. The substitutes were Wright, McJannet, Ainley, Luker, Barrington, Burns and Obikwu. How will we be resurrected after the Good Friday filleting? Here's Warren, a little Easter Bunny, let's hope it's not stuffed.

Port Vale. Funny but it seems we always end up playing you, funny but it seems that it's the only thing left to do. They've finally finished that stand, you know.

Are we here to see the season finish?

1st half – Valed threats
Town kicked off away from the 1264.

They boom, Town get out the broom, sweeping up, sweeping away, Svanthorsson swept off his feet and Vernam kicked freely over.

Noise. Colours. A hooh hah about nothing. Poor Vale, just big blokes running around and barging into the nearest object. Town triangulating, strangulating, brushing up the droppings into a dust pan. It would be nice to have a shot. Green had a shot, that was nice.

Crosses, corners, the illusion of activity. Eastwood imperiously stopping all passing pigeonry.

Hey Davey, what's your hurry, relax and don't you worry. As yet another Valiant's slackerball drifted out of play Artell lobbed to Hume who chucked to Chucky who swung to the rhythm past the gargoyles and goblins. Vernam blustered a swirler and Amos batted back out. With the keeper flapping his limbs like an upturned beetle, quick-witted Rose made a twit of the keeper, heading back across and over and into the farthest, leftist side of the net.

Like dice they did tumble down the stand, the happiest folk in all the land.

There's some funky football playing from funky Grimsby Town, but they were chopping us up, they were chopping us down. Warren ducked down with a feint and a slip and Clark was kicking from the hip, yes he was Kung Fu fighting and for a moment it looked a little bit frightening. No, it's OK, Bunny's fine.

Triple Town pressuring with Tharme torpedoes homing in on the heart of Vale's penalty area. Vernam, drigggling and draggling hither and thither. We had moments. Well, we had some corners.

Port Vale. Top of the league? You're definitely causing us to chortle with much mirth in Marinerland. For all the strumming and humming, all that sturm und drang, all that huffing and puffing, all that amounts to is a hill of rotting beansprouts. If you really, really want to know some specific fact. type things. A Tolaj drubbler dribbled unremarkably wide and then, of course, there was Harper's bizarre comic sans twist into the side netting.

It's stroll in the park. What a lovely day.

Two minutes were added, which was nice. How nice, two minutes have simply flown by, just like their crosses.

Big Daz's Beefballers were surprisingly, pleasantly a pleasant surprise. They were ruddy awful. The problem now of course is to simply hold your horses, for to rush would be a crime.

2nd half – Where's the beefball?
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Badabing, badaboom and off they flew. A medium chuck half headed away, a coil into the centre and Stockley, barely five yards out and dead centre, thwackled a header. Eastwood star jumped on the line and sensationally swiped away from behind his ears. Worth seeing and worth going to see.

Balls in the box, balls in the box, more balls in the box. More balls, more boxes. Cry now whilst stocks last, offer ends at five o’clock. Lumping and dumping, head tennis mixed doubles Virginia, ooh I say! Rose headed on and was butted by a white head. Advantage played to the sound of a wall of fish-based wailing. Vernam caressed behind the lumpier of their lumpy centre-backs, Khouri cutely crossed paths with Mr Lumpy's toes and felt obliged to inspect the beautifully manicured lawns of Potteryland. Rose ignored the hullaballoo and hoo-hah and calmly clipped high and left as Amos sighed low and right.

With this game, their season, dribbling towards the drains, seeping towards the sewers, Big Sad Daz ripped the emergency cord and pulled out his Plan B, which is Plan A with bigger blokes. Subbing and subbing again, each new player bigger and beefier. And all they had to show was Croasdale's daisy-flutter swept into Eastwood's big mitts.

Town triangulations and tribulations, moments withering on the vine of over elaborate keep-ball. Ole, ole, ole, The Denver Boot with a swish and a sway, shanked a coiler across the face of the farthest angle of post and bar.

Immediately after a trademark Vernam shallow shrug let a beefyboy barundle away downstream, Obikwu replaced the shrinking Big Caistor Cat. I suppose his height would come in useful. Here we go - faster, stronger, higher they go. Heads and tails, heads and fails. Heads, heads, heads, heads, what are the chances the ball always lands on heads.

Ups an unders, nicks and knocks. A scrimp and save, a corner headed up to the stars and down it came. Barging and charging, scrapping, flapping and slicing, feet flailed and the ball was hooked and poked, beyond humanity, through the Kuiper Belt and beyond the heliopause. Tolaj, suspiciously alone and lurking in the Oort Cloud, took a touch and passed across Eastwood into the bottom right corner.

And so wheels have been set in motion, and they have their own pace, to which we are condemned. Each move is dictated by the previous one - that is the meaning of order.

Fliggling and wiggling, home invasions and infiltration. Eastwood battering aside from the near post, plunging low to his right to paw-claw aside a Richards' rollerball through the street life. Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, where's it going to end? And this is the end for Svanthorsson and Green as Ainley and McJannet bounded on with eight, maybe nine minutes left.

Town sinking, Valiants linking and dinking, dinking and linking. Tyrell's toes and Rose's nose, Tharme's arms and hey-diddle-diddle, Ainley's the piggy in the middle. Keep out, whack it out, get it out. Out!

With a couple of minutes left limping McEachran was replaced by Barrington.

We need to relieve Mafeking! A chip, a chase and Spiderlegs spinning, rolling, rolling on to the bye line as Amos stood by his near post and waited for the ball to bounce off his big baggy shorts.

Five minutes were added. Here they come, put yer tin hats on. Incoming…duck…boom!..boom!..boom! Back went the ball off Duck Farm's big bouncy bonce, Valiants racing around to come up behind us again. Obikwu chased and scraped, Rose chased and scrapped. A Town corner, another Town corner, seconds tickling away, Town fans chuckling away, we can't chuck this away. C'mon get it away!

Make up your mind in your own time, we know where there's a will there's a way and them Valers are just running on will power, they're missing with confidence. A minute left, who will be bereft? Shoves and shovels, Vale trusting in their thrusting, Town rusting. A breeze down their right and a mighty block of red shorts smothered their spoon.

Thirty seconds left, a corner, thrumbled farly by the big head of doughty Doug. Ainley ambled, Richards retrieved and returned to the corner man. Barrington poked and bounced off the ball, stumbling, crumbling and toe-poked back. A dink, the yellow sea parted by standing still and Stockley drifted past the Easter Bunny. A diving header, a sprawling block and Debrah walked alone, following up and then the game was up.

There is no more, there is no more to say as history repeats itself. Again.

For something that never looked likely there was an air of inevitability that somehow, in some way, Town would find a way to avoid victory against Moore's miserably mundane bunch of brickies. And they did. It was a game like this season, like this team. Not quite, but almost. Still, what a difference a year makes.

Audiences know what to expect, and that is all that they are prepared to believe in.