Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

13 August 2025

Oh to be in Cleethorpes now that August's here. C'mon down to the restored Mermaid Café and I'll buy you a bottle of wine.

Ah, restoring our past glories. They put a parking lot on a piece of land, where Rammy's used to stand. All our pasts turn to rubble. The Pier is the Sub, Freshney Place is the Riverhead. And the League Cup is the League Cup. If you live on the past long enough you end up living in the future.

All change! All change!

Town lined up in a 4-3-3 formation as follows: Pym, Warren, Tharme, Lavelle, Staunton, Walker, Turi, Khouri, Amaluzor, Gardner, Burns. The substitutes were Auton, Sweeney, Rodgers, Onoh, Green, Brown. McEachran, Vernam and Kabia. Is the bench strong enough? Can it hold the nine? Do we have reserves of strength, does it depend on the strength of the opposition? Questions, questions, questions, it's merely a question of balance and there are no round pegs, just square holes.

Shrewsbury. Do we have to? Nah, let's not bother.

1st half – Come Dancing
The day-trippers kicked off towards the emptiness in pallid puce. How fitting, they were pallid, they made their 134 fans faces turn puce. Less of them later. We have no time to stand and stare, there is no life in Appleton's bedraggled army, but we don't care.

Their eyes are full of hesitation, let's make our reputation, it's a striped sensation. Yes Sir, we did boogie. Swishing, swaying, Shropshire shoppers already praying for the torture to end. Town slick, Salopians slack, Big J rampaging, Young Cam lurking as tripping toes poked at their nearest post.

Allez! Allez vite! Sweet, sweet music, Turi conducting, Walker on clarinet and trumpet, Khouri first violin. Ah, but who's playing the triangle? All of 'em.

Away day Pep-ball pressed into the covered corner and clamped. Turi watched and waited as Perry panic-balled across the face of the penalty area. The Geezer from the Freezer stepped in front of a fey foot, za-zoomed into and across the area. As Toto tip-toed, Turi back-flipped into the path of Amaluzor, who fair flabbergasted into the right side of the goal around the flying Harrison.

Ooh-la-la. Pools of Shrewsbury sorrow, waves of joy as Town drifted through their open midfield. Turi possession with purpose and caressing perfectly to every striped flightpath. Was it Burns, was it Staunton? Does it matter who did what, when? Smell the vibes, sniff the feeling, just close your eyes and drift away in this liquid gold. Turi steered, Harrison splendidly snuffed aside the stroke of genius.

Shrews meek, Town sleek.

Khouri's cross-shot diverted wayly wide, wayly over by Gardner. Burns slapped, Perry tickled, the ball swivelled and swerved into the empty seats as the referee pointed to the penalty spot. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay, what a wonderful day. Walker plucked the ball from Big J Amulazor, plonked the ball down and rolled it right and right softly into the plunging keeper.

We can but tut.

OK, let's crack on.

And on we cracked, as Shrewsbury cracked open further, dessicated, dreadfully dire and drowning. And Khouri blampled over.

Them? A line or two on paper wouldn't go amiss. How is Shropshire?

They had a throw-in, they had a corner. They had a free kick and finally they kicked the ball into Pym's hands. They are no more. How sad, how sad, it's a sad Salopian situation, and they're getting more and more absurd.

Interchangeable infiltrations, left and right, a cross through, behind, over and round, almost and nearly at the near post and far post and all the bits in between.

Three minutes were added. Town hounding and bounding, lacerating at will and Walker's spin-volley crept over the bar. Oooh, I need a lie down now. I feel quite faint.

Carry on at your convenience and don't lose your head. No sloppy seconds in the second half please.

2nd half – Everybody's gonna be happy
Rodgers replaced Lavelle at half time. Lavelle looked and played like a young Waterfall.

Now then, the theme from Vision On is called Left Bank Two, which just makes the Ramstanders think of Staunton and Burns. I can't get it outta my head. La-la-la, la-la-la-la-la. Bunny Warren's flick-header from a free kick under the Police Box was flicked over by fringeboy in goal.

Tic-tack-toe, Burns-Staunton-Warren, quicksilver flash passes and in a bound he was free behind the defence. A rollerball into the near post and Gardner poked. You have to say that's magnificent. You have say that echoes of a distant time come willowing across the stands. Gilbert, Childs, Rees, Mendonca. Emson, Ford, Wilkinson and Lund. Irresistibly fluid flankery.

Burns having a whale of a time burning rubber, turning his full-back into blubber. Tap it to Toto! They tapped it to Toto and Young Cam chased him into the corner.

Them? A shot or two for their poor huddled hundred wouldn't go amiss, as long as they miss. A couple of seconds of striped slackery, Staunton standing back and allowing a deep, deep cross from the far end, some say the dark side of the Ramstand. The ball sailed beyond Warren, a puce head plonked back to the edge of the six-yard box and Sang’s shin-shank hook flukily floated over Pym, drooping into the far corner. It is rather irritating to get bitten by a tiny midge.

Let's chase that midge into the kitchen and hit it with a paper.

Subbing, grubbing, rubbing it in. Khouri roaming, Staunton va-vooming in a swarming orgy of counter-breaking brilliance. Shots. Shots blocked, let's look at the clock. With a dozen minutes left a triple change. Off went Walker, Gardner and Burns, on came Green, Kabia and Brown. The sink holes in Shrewsbury grew larger and larger, the earth moving under their feet, the sky tumblin' down as, under striped smothering, they just lost control. Shots, shots blocked, crosses knocked, moments lost and Kabia edged wide after a copycat move incinerated their right side. Oh yes, the occasional foray from them occurred, you have to spice up your life. A big cross, a big bounce beyond the Duck Farm and a visiting head nodded widely.

Oh yes, oh yes. A puce man turned pink with embarrassment as he kicked the corner flag, not the ball, right underneath the covered corner. Slapstick Salop, summing them up in one comic clownery.

Six minutes were added. How are we going to mess this one up? We're not. This is now, the future is now, for now is the hour.

Relax, they have eased our pain and got us on our feet again. More striped spirographing a-swirling and Warren's shot was blocked back to him. He followed up, followed through and made sure he was blocked by a puce Pacman. Down he went, up went the ref's fickle finger. Old Seb just wanted to go home. Kabia plucked the ball off Amaluzor and calmly walloped lowly and across those green fingers into the bottom right corner.

It's all over now baby blue. Yeah, yeah, George Lloyd headed and Pym spectacularly slapped aside from near point blank range, but 15 seconds later there were no more seconds or minutes, just happy, happy, happy talk of the teams we'd like to do next. We can all have a dream, if you don't dream how you gonna make a dream come true.

I love a bit of Salop slapping in the evening. It smells like…victory.