Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

29 October 2025

A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. It was a black, still October night in the land of the common people in 2025 and the sight of a long queue snaking back to the bus stop on Grimsby Road was a portent of a future of silent shuffling and fidgeting frustration at powerlessness in the face of an unbending, irresistible foe. Hey, that's stewards for you.

C'mon do us a favour, open the gates and let 'em in.

Town lined up in the standard 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Sweeney, McEachran, Burns, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Staunton, Warren, Turi, Oduor, Svanthorsson, the artist formerly known as Amaluzor, and Rose. Does the Geezer from the freezer always grow a beard for winter? I suppose it keeps his chin warm in those dark days of permanent night and permafrosting pitches. He'll find he'll get a bit itchy and scratchy in the Costa Del Meggies, or is that just his mood at being a benchman, not even a henchman to Gorgeous George and his merry pranksters. Oh yes, Big Sam's back. All soccer Sams are big, aren't they?

Ah yes, Big Brentford, the little big men of the World's Greatest League©, England's premier League Two team. We remember you when you were in short shorts. You were us once, in fact, you were barely us once, you aspired to be us once, in days of yore, when buffalos and bison roamed Griffin Park. Remember, remember, it's nearly November, without roots a money tree will die.

Who's that, no, what's that prowling the perimeter? It’s Roy Kean's old muckspreader, Keith Andrew, with hair on an amazing journey, straight from the court of the crimson king. Madame de Pompadour sera jalouse!

Okay? Maybe, but not for the multitude of Mariners still stuck in the belly of the turnstile snake. Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end. Now let's get started.

1st half - What Can You Do?
Town kicked off towards 1,174 Bees waxing lyrically deep down in the Osmond Stand. Up in the air, down on the ground, Lavelle defenestrated by a stray Bee's knees. Fizz, whizz, Brentford in a tizz as Town triangulated and strangulated up and through and round and about right up to the penalty area and back again bouncing off the sky blue wall. We need blue sky thinking to get these Bees sinking.

Flashing and dashing, sumptuous and simple, the stripes supreme. Bella! Bella! Bella! Ciao baby! Off they go, bish-bash-bosh, va-va-voom. Larceny on our left and Lewis-Potter scampered beyond Sweeney, looked up and saw a blue shirt billowing farly. Rodgers swooshed his left foot vaguely and the ball rolled perfectly for a lurking left boot. Who's lurking left boot? O-oh, Dango! What was Ouaterra doing? Delighting the locals, Dango dillied and dallied and Rodgers arose to save some bacon for later.

It's astounding, our time is fleeting, with a jump to the left and a step to the right, in a bound McEachran was free to sweep majestically across the plain, right onto the toes of Mr Burns. A jink, a wink, a Green dink dunked deeply to where the Wolds Panther lurked in the undergrowth. Valhalla, he is coming! A touch, a stumble, a hooking mis-mumble bumbled through to their enormous pink plonker.

Back and forth, forth and back, at least three times. May be four. Brentford coiled and were content to sit and wait for when the moment was right to strike; Town camping on the edge of the Bees' area and on the edge of their physical capabilities. They're quick, we're slick, who's gonna get sick when the other one nicks it.

Town boxed into the corner by the Police Box. There must be some way out of here? There's no confusion, there is relief. Ooh-la-la, c'est magnifique; toes twinkled and winkled the ball all along the watchtower. Khouri to Vernam to Rodgers to Sweeney to Green to Burns to cross to Khouri to head down into the waiting arms of the Icelandic keeper from four or five yards out. It's all us, they've barely had a kick!

A glazed look and we were on the road to ruin.

A Brentford long punt sailed on and on and out for a goal kick. McJannet tapped to Pym who tapped back to McJannet who slightly mis-controlled as he tip-toed to the outer edge of the penalty area. Carvalho pounced, Lewis-Potter tapped across to Jensen, hovering by the 'D', and the Dane feigned a curl into the bottom left corner, whilst swivelling his eyes and hips to sweep into the bottom left corner through a slither of light.

One slip, down the hole we fall, it seemed to take no time at all.

The patterned cardigan juggler lifts his hand, the orchestra begins, as slowly turns the grinding wheel. A chuck in by the scoreboard, a hoik and head tennis, the ball dropped and off Onyeka juggernauted straight down the middle. Stripes were mere bumps in the road as the balls and Bees bounced off these inconsequential pebbles. Higgles and piggles as McEachran half stopped and turned but Nelson nipped around Rodgers and stepped over, twisted and chipped before poor old Harvey, the poor lamb, could shake his two tails. The ball perfectly arced to the lurking Lewis-Potter who calmly nodded down and in as Sweeney slipped.

Twenty five minutes, two shots on target, two goals. We're just wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin' their misses will start.

Keep the score down, keep the score down, let's keep the score down. Town trying, Brentford flying. Keep the score down, keep the score down, keep on keeping on, keep your chin up and we'll keep the home fires burning.

A deadening hush, an occasional rush of blue shirts. In grey raincoats kiddies cry whilst wise men shared a joke, we tried to grasp divining signs but Green's cross into Valdimarsson's midriff was just a hoax.

The safety and sanctuary of half time approaching and Town unravelling down the left. A wallop away was smooched from Kabia, the lonesome dove, and Jensen cooly clipped to recycle on their right. Triangulations past Vernam and a three card trick as Townites chased the laddie. Lewis-Potter tinkled, Carvelho winkled and Nelson, in the 'D', carefully precision-curled between three striped stools into the bottom left corner.

C'mon lads we can still…keep the score down. Can't we? Can't we?

Two minutes were added.

Three shots on target, three goals. No chance for Pym, no chances for Town. How soft our field of green, whisper these tales of gore, of how these Bees calmed the tides of war. They are our overlords.

2nd half – There's Nothing We Can Do
Neither team made any changes at half time.

And merrily they drifted along in an exhibition of financial and physical power.

Pressure, pressure, triangles on Town's right as Rodgers was persecuted by the rich kids. Flicks and tricks and flights of fancy, a delightful dummy and Carvalho tumbled under Khouri's glaring stare. Carvalho stepped up and Pym waited and watched, watched and waited and dived right, arriving after the ball had already za-zoomed into the net.

Faster in foot and mind, stronger in body and brain. This is what should happen when Princes meet paupers. Just our luck Brentford are bothered.

At this Town removed Rodgers, Green, McEachran and Burns as on came Warren, Turi, Svanthorsson and Walker. Our Icelandic glider even touched the ball. Eventually. Nice things happened now and again, which was nice. A Vernam cross with his left foot sailed into the Pontoon after swift nickery and knockery. Khouri began to roam, tantalising smidgeons of space appeared but, alas, these Bees aren't made for walking. Oof, rapido!

Tic-tac-toe, a blues break lacerated the locals and Shade's shot ricocheted off Sweeney after a swingeing Lavelle slide and out for corner. Jensen floated into the messy mass of humanity and all at once I suddenly see a tall stranger. Collins crept up and over Sweeney and bumpled Warren aside to firmly plonk down past Pym.

Five. We'll settle for five, that's enough. A hammering that isn't a humiliation, and it's one below the current Premier par score. Yes that's ok Bees, we're at ease with five. Any more would the greedy and a little bit show-offy. You wouldn't want that, would you?

There's nothing to say, and nothing to hear and nothing to see. Each sensational Bees sting evokes sympathy for our beleaguered Blundell Park battletops.

Mild moments of Mariner almostness, now and again. This cat may be dead but it's determined to have one last bounce. A Town corner bonkled out to the sweeping Khouri who swept leftly. McJannet can-canned to cross deeply where Kabia arose alone to head down and wide. And there we are, Grimsby Town were no more. Turi tapped nicely, that's nice. That's something.

And two by two they drifted away, those Town fans till they cry. Vernam was replaced by Rose. I thought I might as well tell you. There's no other reason to mention Danny Boy.

They had shots, they had goals disallowed several days earlier. Who cares? Carvalho snipped wide during or before two minutes had been added. Does it matter about this play? Half the crowd weren't watching anyway, Town's fate had long been sealed.

So now we'd better stop and rebuild from these ruins. Placing trust in Artellball can win the day despite losing to, let's face facts, a superior team, with superior players who are athletically, well, superior.

Five shots on target, five goals scored. Slickness can surely take a team where fourth tier teams can't usually go. This was an amazing journey, we can learn a lot from this you know.