Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

10 August 2025

There was never yet a bar room philosopher that could endure the toothache of an away game at Harrogate patiently. Will we ever rid ourselves of this troublesome beast? At least we've worked out where to park and not to snark at Weaver's eager beavers. There's a big summer breeze blowing through the waifs and strays, hope we'll feel fine.

Town lined up in the snazzy red'n'blue ensemble in a 4-3-3, some say 4-1-4-1, formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Burns, Kabia, Vernam. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Turi, Walker, Brown, Amaluzor, Gardner. Why change a winning team? Why, he hasn't changed a winning team. Everyone's a winner that's no lie, but we know that one day they will fail to satisfy.

The Homesters home for the fallen laddies and stray waifs of olde Grimsby Towne currently comprises the Fox Force Five - a mixed bag of offcuts, offal and the awfully missed Ben. It really is performative tosh for those amateur barroom thinkers to boo Morris and Cass, shruggable polyfillers, neither good nor bad, not Town Players, but men who used to play for Town. Save your ire for the dire.

OK, let's get ready to grumble

1st half – Chips or mashed potatoes?
Harrogate kicked off towards the Town expeditionary force, one thousand and fifty lost souls swimming in a fish bowl and wrapped around a little finger of this foreign field.

Bump and grind, hit and hopeless, it's merely open air Sumo wrestling with a ball passing by. I tell you what, that was a cracking steak pie. Extra gravy too! And peas. Northern portions for northern folk.

Has anything happened? Is anything going to happen? If a Town player falls in a forest of yellow will anyone notice? Kabia wrapped and tapped and one of their twin peaks was booked. Duke-McKenna dived between two flapping toadstools, arising to see a yellow card flapping. Burrell booked for doing the can-can in a residential area before midnight.

And somewhere within this palaver of piffling Evans sliced wide after Harrogating interrogating our deeper recesses.

Shinning, shanking, sloppy and slack, Town drifting and dishevelled, pushed around and tumbling to the ground, our Achilles Heel refound. We're not very big and can be intimidated around the edges. A full-on full-court press from the Harrogate Pigtrotters and there is nothing but cabers being tossed and some highland dancing.

Will anything happen involving the football? Moments, here and there, mere slivers lost as thoughts were thunk and hopes sunk as stripes collided. Vernam blocked, Vernam coiled over, Vernam fiddled and faddled, Vernam swished over from the penalty spot, bucks were passed and so it came to pass that time passed by as we all know, naturally. People come and people go, naturally. The toilets are near the entrance, young man.

Within and without this harrumphing Harvey Rodgers was booked because Bog Ol' Burrell squealed as he wheeled around in faux agony.

It's all just bumbling and stumbling and fumbling and grumbling, a shoddy parody of fourth flight wrestleball as the homesters' cunning plans worked a treat.

Two minutes were added and Town awoke from their less than golden slumbers. Wiggling and waggling after a loft and waft, Green's lefty bedraggle scrumbled slowly, lowly through yellowsocks and bumped against Belshaw's left post. A Town throw-in under the wandering gaze of the huddled Mariners masses was cutely curtsied this way and that. McEachran dinked, Green roamed and rolled and crinkled across the face of goal, perfectly dissecting the space between fiends and friends. If. If we were asleep we could at least dream of something happening here.

And here it is. Half time.

Forty five minutes of artless stodgeball and two minutes of football. This was a tremendous advert for fourth division dominoes. Town were incapable, individually or collectively, of coping with a bit of basic Harrogate hassleball. There were too many shrivelling stripes.

2nd half – Batty bananaballs
No changes were made by either team at half time.

Nothing happened. Still. Again. The linesman lurking under our collectives noses was missing in action, missing offsides, constantly five yards behind the times.

Nothing happened. Again. Still. Town dissolving into a collection of flapping shirts as the buzzards swirled.

Near the hour, near the halfway line, Duke-McKenna tapped and tumbled under a Green light. And the ball rolled on as the whistle peeped. And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people and all the nobody people, and all the somebody people could see the ball was still rolling and five yards on. Town disturbed, disgruntled and retreating on the right, Smith rock'n'rolled around Rodgers, swithered through the keyhole and into the bottom left corner from the right corner of the penalty area.

And now they've got us exactly where they want us, forcing holes into which they can pile. An up, an under, McCoulsky rolled his thunder, nurdling McJannet aside and slashing across the face of Pym, the face of the goal and, face facts pop-pickers, wide.

Half way through the half, greeting them with a knowing smile, Walker and Amaluzor came on for Khouri and Burns. Youngish guns go for it!

Flicks and tricks and head and tails, Amaluzor and Green linked and jinked and whoopy whoosh, a cross whip-a-rolled towards Walker at the near post. The celtic fringer feigned interest and the ball rolled into the path of Vernam who swipe-steered into bottom right corner.

A Garryowen, a grubber, a rolling roister and Tharme slipped. The ball bounded on, across the face of the penalty area, away from goal. McCoulsky lurched, Pym lunged and over the wall he went. There's a kind of hush all over our world as Taylor passed left and Pym pre-crumpled rightly, but wrongly.

With the dissolution of the monotony Gardner replaced Sweeney, and Town moved to two up top and three at the back with Vernam and Amaluzor as backless wingers.

Charles Vernam. There's a word that describes his next move. You can decide which it is yourself, or perhaps choose a synonym. Or just an alliterative profanity or two. A pass to the Wolds Panther on the halfway line, such close control, such strength and determination. Perchance to dream and all that. Morris, a minor player in our history, mugged and chugged and rolled into a gloop of flailing legs. McCoulsky sat down, poked the ball back into the 'D' and the latest arrival at Platform 3, McAleny, coiled around the flying Pym into the right corner.

Why in the world are we here? Surely not to watch in pain and fear?

And Harrogate did sit back, watching, waiting for an alibi, waiting, watching for the wheels to fall further off. McEachran belted widely and Town edged forward, beating out a rhythm as the yellowmen hung back and de-pressed. Time to think, space to race into, Walker ticking, McEachran tocking, a cross flipped and dipped. Heads arose deep in the centre of their penalty area, Gardner thwunkled, Belshaw sprung his heels and flung himself low and right to spectac-u-parry up and aside.

Triangulation deep down in the invisible corner of Yorkshire. Walker and McEachran exchanged glances and swimpled back, across and over to a lone lurking stripe. Rodgers, unmolested, central and near 30 yards out, took a touch and slam-belted a grasscutter hoovering across the baize and into the bottom right corner.

Listen lads we can still do this!

Gungs were hoed, pans were flashed, Harrogate sunk back again, seeking solace in the wide open spaces, the places where their big booming balls would bounce. In and out, big balls bounced and out they flew, once, twice, perhaps even thricely wasting moments of understaffed stripery. McAleny blocked and Curson dringled across Pym and inchlets wide of the left post, McCoulsky flabbergasted across the face of goal when two chums were waiting, alone.

Six minutes were added.

'Arragut ailing, slowly failing, as a flailing yellow foot sliced backwards. Gardner hurled himself highly, flicking on behind the last giant redwood standing. The previously marooned and cocooned Kabia wriggled beyond the massif central, tempted Belshaw forward and calmly, beautifully prodded in off the far right post. And the crowd went wild, some in anger, some with renewed hope in their hearts. Home dreams were tossed and blown.

Town tap, tap, tapped at their window, but it was only this and nothing more, a score draw.

Should have lost, should have won, both Towns got both more and less than they deserved from what really should have been a rather turgid and low quality scoreless draw. The game, the ref, just went batty for half an hour. Harrogate enacted the perfect plan to negate Artellball, but ran out of steam and let Town get their mojo back. Yes the salvaging of a point was remarkable and uplifting, but the savage truth came before. The 7th cavalry doesn't always turn up in time.

Still, better than losing, eh.