Cod Almighty | Diary

He was Ted when I knew him, he'll always be Ted to me

19 May 2025

Your deviously Deviant Diarist was pondering how to entertain and inform you, yes you, the diaspora desperate for details of the next Great Leap Forward, when up popped some utter tosh about the 20 happiest places in Britain. Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, I ask you to dismiss this travesty of a case immediately: Chesterfield.

A field in Chester maybe, but the miserable home of those crooked Spireites? I don't Adam and Eve it, especially now there are new planters in the Riverhead!
Yes, yes, there are some things you only know if you're from Grimsby: The Pier Hotel is The Sub, the Upper and Lower are The Findus and whatever that shopping centre claims to be it will always be the Riverhead Centre.

So new planters in the Riverhead it is.

We may be resting our heads on the sea bed, but the wide world of world football carries on and on and on. The Petrostate Playthings were undone by the plucky Billionaire Backstreet Boys from Sarf of the River as Dean O'Hendo saved a penno and Pep went loco, though not in Acapulco. What a hoot that was, especially given the magnificently terrible yet marvellously magical Ross Joyce Memorial Decision. According to our sneakily squirreled seismometer cunningly located behind the Little Chef near the Oaklands it took 0.354 seconds for North East Lincolnshire to rise as one and declare it was "too early, don't want to spoil the game".

Wait, what's this…an aftershock…let me get out the abacus, set square and log book. Ah-ha, the data shows it took 3.542 seconds for half of North East Lincolnshire to rise as…half…and declare it The Hend of Cod.

Yes, yes, I know it's not a Little Chef anymore, but it was and so will always be. It's a local bye-law, like riding a bike without lights, preferably whilst pagging. Things will always be what they were, even when they aren't; it's our version of Cockernee rhyming slang.

Down in the depths Notts County and Chesterfield's apples crumbled. Are they happy? Well, they made us happy with two localish games guaranteed for some more jaunty japes as we drive down the A46, passing the Little Chef, of course.

Oh yeah, Scunny won. I could have sworn I heard the crowd singing their club song Up Where We Belong underneath that teenager commentating.

No matter how they tossed the dice it had to be. Happy now?