Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

21 September 2025

No hot chocolate! Call the Football Regulator! It's a crime against high society.

The Hive is alive with the sound of old memories, if not humans. Behold the grey emptiness filled by a billowing breeze flying into the faces of 1,275 travelling Townites. Peer into the horizon, what do you see? The Wembley Arch winking between two distant trees gently swaying beyond the car park, behind the muddy mound.

Where are the ladies loos? Somewhere in the distance hidden from view, it's a mystery, we're still searching for a clue and for a steward who knew.

Town lined up in the cookies and cream dream team kit in a 4-1-4-1 as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Amaluzor, Walker, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Sweeney, Brown, Turi, Oduor, Burns and Soonsup-Bell. It's Tuesday's Wednesday team but without Green energy, so who's going to power up the old DeLorean today? Turi or Walker? Our celtic fringer, Jamie the artful dodger, stood near Rodgers.

Barnet. A small team but a big team, exactly the profile of Town's perennial Achilles heel: big shorts, big shirts, big blokes, small crowd. Are we doomed to watch history repeat itself? That would be a farce.

1st half – Sign of the times
A mini beach ball of doom appeared, just as a pigeon settled inside the Town half and Town kicked off away from the cacophony and into the voiceless void. And the similarities to Sheffield end there. The similarities to the Cambridge calamity begin here. It only takes a minute girl. Yeah, I remember every little thing, it started with a mishit, though not into the back row of the Town stand. McEachran underhit a tickle pass and off they roared, stymied by McJannet's psychic aura. A cross, a corner, a header wide as Town's defence was wide open, wide-eyed and legless.

They've gone and done it again.

With their natural exuberance spilling out all over the place the urban spacemen and supersonic guys were having fun. Pinball panic, there has to be a twist, and here's the twist: Pym did not need supple wrists as busy Bees buzzed around the half-cocked half clearances of Amaluzor and Rodgers. And finally, after much muddling just off Marsh Lane, Smith slimpled overly.

Pym's drop kicks and goal kicks faded out into the home stands, Staunton shanked endlessly into the local leisure centre as Town couldn't handle the truth. Well, a less than mighty wind through the willows. Long throws, short throws, a constant diet of corners and crosses, a constant, consistent flow of failure. Dishevelled, disjointed, disastrously dreadful in every way and every place. A shapeless mess, men shrinking into boydom with random acts of self-harm; raise the alarm, no-one can keep calm or apply any balm.

An overwhelming sense of déjà vu. You can say that again. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu. We crumpled again, they crossed again, did they miss again? Oh, I think they missed again. Barnet charged, Townites were bundled and barged, left and right, right and left, up and down, and Pym primly palmed Kanu's header into a scrambled egg.

When you go away in Europe you need to spend the first 20 minutes quietening the crowd. Town brilliantly turned the Cream Wall from a raucous rolling medley of greatest hits into a sullen stupor, a brooding silence. That's the way to do it!

At last passing, movement as Town sprung through their leaks. Khouri clasped, clamped and tamped the soil gently, germinating some vague Vernamating. A corner lowly scruffled past a wafting home boot and Warren can-canned to toe poke wide. A chink of a chance, a hint of hope, we'll cling to anything that floats.

Kabia briefly slipped the dogs of war, but faced with a long walk to freedom, stumbled and tumbled across Collinge's flightpath. The free kick? It happened one night, but not tonight, Josephine.

There's too much confusion Harvey can't get no relief. Kanu burned the dying Rodgers all along the watchtower, dinking deeply and Mr Gloverman, working up a sweat, headed down into the side net. Back they came, back they came, back they came again as the strange brew that was Town kept messing in the glue. Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl as Rodgers muffled and Senior simply punted and up'n'undered. And Warren did blunder, air-bumped aside by Stead. The ball rolled into Ndlovu's wheelhouse and Pym parried aside his low gruffler.

Walker waltzed and Walker wafted. Lyrics could be waxed about the passing, the movement, but what's the point, there is no point, Town are neutered sheep waiting to become pie.

Turn around, look at what you see. Them again, something or other, I dunno, it's a neverending story of imploding cabbages masquerading as Mariners. Wahey, muggers be mugged! A slick, quick chuck-in and Khouri and Kabia quickly, slickly slid in Slim Charles lurking precisely in the position from which he unzipped Onana the Banana all those years ago. Control of an elephant! Imprecision, indecision and Vernam knocked the ball five yards, allowing Senior to slide across. A corner.

Wahey, muggers be mugged again. Khouri chinkled down the centre into the corridor of maximum uncertainty. Slicker strolled out of his area and was caught betwixt and between a vast expanse of air and turf between him and goal. Vernam hared across and, with the ball perfectly set for a chip and pin, fumble-croaked a zillion miles from happiness.

The goal kick walloped, fingle-fungle fumblings and a corner on the Town left was deeply coiled, far beyond humans to the very farthest edge of the penalty area. Kabia hopped like a drunken Morris Dancer as the completely unmolested, unnoticed Ofoborh volleyed into the ground, the ball boinging slowly up over the huddled masses, over Walker airily leaping near the left post and into the net.

What took them so long?

Can we keep the score down, can we keep the ball down, are these two things linked? Another up, another under and another Ndlovu man-wrenching of Warren. The big man with big shorts bedraggled across Pym and across the face of the far post as McJannet shuttled across. Face down in the dirt Ndlovu lifted his chin and cheekily, cheerily smiled at a crowd of cross choi-oikers.

One minute was added. Like Town this was a pointless exercise with no substance or outcome. It simply happened.

Settle down with your half-time hot chocolate. Ah, yes, of course, we don't even have that to hold on to.

There is nothing positive to say. I blame the return of the beach ball of doom.

2nd half – Dead end street
Neither team made any changes at half time.

Has anything changed? The lucky ones were still stuck in the queue for a cup of tea.

Them, theming, I'd rather watch a Theramin being tuned. Watch, not listen, obviously. Kanu crossed, Glover headed wide. Kanu again, Senior leaning back and heading wide. Corners, corners, corners and crosses. Heads and tails, heads and fails. Are we just waiting for them to score again?

Jamie Walker? We believe him missing with a number of men, don't expect to see him again if carries on like this. Moments of Mariner almostness, the pop fizzling out as it reached the top of the bottle. Warren stepped in, McEachran slinked and Vernam Vernamed into the stand. Yes, you can ooh if you want to but the facts are the facts. Here's another: actually, no I won't tell you that one, we don't want to hurt Charles's feelings. He does seem an awfully pleasant young man, there's no need for a gratuitous kicking.

As Burns and Oduor waited on the touchline Barnet bundled forward with their upping and undering, rocking and rolling. Tavares headed onto the roof of the net. A corner, identical to the goal, was flipped and whipped deeply and volleyed back, deflected once, twice and thricely before being headed over by Ndlovu. The goal kick was tapped short, McJannet shuffled on to Staunton, who intercepted but retrieved and tapped infield to McEachran. Kanu white-water-rafted past Little George, swished to the bye-line and rolled across the faceless goal for Ndlovu to tap into the empty net.

And then the awaiting substitutes replaced Kabia and Walker. Clarke Oduor. He's giving off very strong Ainley vibes. As for the vibes in the stand, well, if the players could stand inside our shoes they'd know what a drag it is to see them. Amaluzor became the centre-forward. Oh well.

Somehow, for some reason that only Barnet fans need recall, another amber corner emerged. Oduor stepped forward and stopped a quickly shortened one. Oduor retreated into a hinterland of nowhereness, neither here, nor there. Barnet took the short corner anyway, tapped sideways as Oduor and Vernam crept uneasily towards them and Oforborh, 20 yards out on the right corner of the Town penalty area casually coiled up and over and into the bottom left corner.

Don't worry, I shall not detain you further, you must have something more emotionally fulfilling to do: trim the hedge, scrape out the moss from the drive, paper the cracks in the ceiling or that kitchen sink that's peeling. I can see my lettuce has bolted. That may be a fact, it may be fiction, it may be a metaphor.

Staunton did a tackle. Khouri and Vernam were replaced by Turi and Soonsup-Bell, who did a rather impressive impression of Luca Barrington. For the sake of clarity it should be noted that I didn't say he was impressive, only that it was an impressive impression. You may draw your own conclusion of the meaning of within.

Turi. For the sake of clarity he did a couple of nice things nicely and Town had a corner. Amaluzor headed wide. Barnet did things. The bus driver started up the engines, the stand emptied as the rain beat down.

Six minutes were added. McJannet exorcised some demons with an exhibition of wing play and midfield dynamism, surging through step-over city with gay abandon. Are you watching Charles? That's the way to do it. And finally, after 91 minutes and 51 seconds, Amaluzor rolled and Slicker was required to touch the ball with his hands. The first, the last, the only Town shot on target. Yes, 91 minutes and 51 seconds. Ten hours, 272 for miles, and this was it? And that was that.

Apart from the two Mac lads, each and every outfield player should personally write a letter of apology to every single one of us present. An utterly abject and rotten non-performance in every way as Barnet's intensity and physique intimidated our poor boys. Totally timid, terribly tepid and at their very best, at the peak of collective competence, they were a shocking shambles. There was no heart, no brain, no courage. All those faults and imperfections that we've happily glossed over were laid bare by a team that was simply strong, organised and effective.

Pace and power. That is the Kryptonite for Artellball.