Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

16 November 2025

Every why has a wherefore.

Grim, grimy and sodden, the rain doth pour on and on to the muddy fields of Merry Marinerland. Is it on?

It's on.

Let's crack on. Town lined up in a 4-lopsided-upside-down-diamond-4-2 formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Green, Walker, Vernam, Kabia and Rose. The substitutes were Casper, Ecclestone, Khouri, Oduor, the artist still known as Amaluzor, Burns and Gilsenan.

Eh, what's going off out there? Diamonds aren't forever, but they are four for today with Little George sweeping and swooshing behind Walker and Green, and don’t forget Vernam's a flank-based floater. Go on, stimulate and tease me with your fancy formations.

I see a gaggle of ghostly figures fleetingly glimpsable through the drizzle sheets. It's Cookie's Midland monsters: some things old, some things new, one or two borrowed and all dressed in blue. Oh-oh it's Mr Darcy again, will no-one rid us of this troublesome beast? This man is a man, so has faults enough, but they are not in understanding how to score at Blundell Park. Perhaps he's a bit of a drip and doesn't like being wet. One can but hope.

The game's on but the scoreboard isn't: there may be fog on the Tyne, but there's water in our works. How will we know when we should start to panic if we don't have the big clock tick-tick ticking away on the corner?

Let's crack on before the cracks appear.

1st half – Flim-flam
Town kicked off towards the Pontoon, away from 1,148 dry daytrippers from Derbyland who'd travelled east in a caravan of charabancs from Chesterfield.

A parry and thrust, an occasional gust of Grimsbyness. Town pressing buttons, Spireites pulling levers and pulling down Kabia behind the referee's back. An ooh, an ahh and nearly a cross, nearly a shot. Rose nearly through, but swamped by blue. Town nice and early does it, very nearly but not.

Loud the crowd howled and loud the crowd roared, baffled Bonis stood on the shore as McJannet mugged the bonny-bonny boy from the banks of Lough Neagh. Walker tinkled and the Wolds Panther Vernamated under the Ramstand. Could you conjugate the verb to Vernamate? What does it mean? I know what it means. You know what it means. A shuffle and shake and the ball swayed way, way high into the Pontoon, not the top left corner. It's wonderful when it goes in, it's a goal kick when it doesn't. Is it a sin to try?

And suddenly the referee walked over to the Main Stand, miming to an unspecified audience. Is it a book, film or song? Is it Agadoo? No, it's a call to arms, a call for a pitch fork, for a little piece of Cleethorpes was causing a right mither and tither. A soggy circle was flustering the fun lovin' criminal in yellow. Put some cornflour on it, it works for gravy. Or just put half a brick under the sod.

Fork off! We're back.

And back Town came, gentle wave after gentle wave. A Warren cross drifted and caressed the roof of the net, Walker twisted one too many lemons, and, well, you know, things, like that fork in Blundell Park, but what about a miss before it gets dark?

Ah, here we are. Warren chucked in and exchanged handshakes with Rockin' Rodgers. A cute low pass and Kabia snickered around his marker to swipe from eight yards out at the near post. Hemming stood still, lifted his hands and flinger-flipped from under the bar. More Town, moreish Town munching their way towards the Lemming Town triangulation, Bluesmen befuddled. Vernam rubbed Green free to the bye-line. A roll across perfectly dissected two lines of hungry monochromers.

Chesterfield? A Naylor header way over from a corner, or free kick, or a free hit at a corner after the referee called a no ball. You know, the usual, the humdrum hump and dump of English Football. And then, you know, the usual, the dilatory dozing in Town's defence. A chip and chase and Vernam not so much in a parallel universe, more on a divergent parallel path with Markanday. The cross Mcshinned out to the dashing Mr Darcy. The crowd gasped silently, sighed inwardly expecting the expected. Yes, Mr Darcy, that's the right thing to do! He who always dismays us carefully stroked wide of Pym's right post.

Well something's lost, but something's gained, the game suddenly a scrapathon of tasty tackling and blazing blocks from both sides now. But Town in the ascendant, dominant, the more assertive aggressive and articulate force of nature. Widdling and waddling and a Walker shot returned for another Walker steer towards the bottom right corner. Alas, a blue boot poked out to loop away. A corner, a corner, this and that, Chesterwobbles, flaps and pushes and shoves and McJannet stooped at the far post, the ball grazing off his follicles and flashing wide.

The game permanently played out afore the Pontoon, Pym joining the Spireites behind him for a chin wag. The game is in the bag! Ah, but let's get the ball in the onion bag. Gimme a bullet header, gimme a smash into the top corner, let's not do art for art's sake. In the lengthening shadows of the Ramstand, McJannet barundled between bluesmen, Green big dripped and Kabia performed his party trick, the trademark headed miss from inside the six-yard box.

Scrimps and scrapes, a flurry of shakes, a scramble as McEachran's shot dropped and died off the soft tissues of Spireite thighs. Like a new born baby, we're dribbling towards tea time.

Three minutes were added as the rain reappeared, just in time to drench the half time drinkers and burgerbar thinkers. Playing well but not scoring? We've heard that song before. There may be troubles ahead.

2nd half – Spam
Neither team made any change at half time.

Town. Town. Town. Town. Lovely Town! Wonderful Town!

Swinging and swaying, pressing and praying for a moment of clarity. A corner drumpled out to Walker. The blocked shot returned and the moustachioed Mariner wrangle-clapped a scudder through the onrushing blue wall. Hemming leapt low and left to spectacularly parry aside.

Ah Monsieur, you've had you amuse bouche, here's your lobster Thermidor aux crevettes with a Mornay sauce, served in a Provençale manner with shallots and aubergines, garnished with truffle pâté, brandy and a fried egg on top.

Rodgers boomed from West to East, right onto the toes of Charles Vernam. Swingles, swangles, don't forget the spangles. The Vernamator va-voomed into the heart of Derbyshire and smuggled a snuggler through the undergrowth. Hemming plunged and pawed aside, straight out to a blue boot.

Now, I wonder, did someone tell McJannet at half time that a hair transplant is tax deductable for comedians? That may explain his Alf Ippititimus impression. No-one wanted one in the first place, let alone a 21st century reboot.

With Town cruising they just had to give themselves a bruising. Ticking away, Walker fed the Vernamator by the manager's dug out. Staunton pelted forward awaiting the chinkle, but Slim Charles turned back from London and espied safety in a long trip back to Pym through the Bogmire of Forkland. The ball rolled and rolled and died like louse in a Russian's beard as McJannet blocked off Bonis, then just stopped, awaiting the arrival of Pym's boots. But Pym's boots were not there. They were here. Where? A couple of yards outside the penalty area. Bonis tumbled and poor old Pym, a wretched soul, bruised with adversity, stood and waited his inevitable fate. Out came a red card and on came Casper.

But who shall be sacrificed on the altar of expediency? The players stood around watching, waiting. The fourth official put up his illuminated sign. It's a sign! It's a sign! It's the number 1.

Do you think we'll get away with it?

Sorry Charles, look up the number, we know your name and your number is now up. You've got that feeling you've been given no choice but to slink off sadly, perhaps madly, as it all ends badly.

And Fleck flicked the free kick farly over. Farly over? It's only fair.

There's over half an hour left. Do you think we'll get away with it?

Casper's goal kick scuttled straight down the middle and the home crowd shuffled in our seats. A little bit of home huffling with Green nearly near a ball that was nearly near. McJannet stoop-headed over, Kabia plunged inside their penalty area, Kabia plunged outside their penalty area. Howling and growling all around as the referee wilfully refused to help the disabled in their hour of need.

Half way through the half Kabia was replaced by Amaluzor. He shall not be mentioned again, for there is nothing to report beyond him running onto the pitch. Where we expected chaos he merely brought calm to the Chesterfield defence.

And now that our end is near these bluesmen finally revealed their riffs, getting closer, closer, and closer still. Moments of almostness stopped by a succession of striped socks and blocks. A bunch of stuff and a blast from the past, Darcy half-volleyed and Casper smartly sprang right to claw away. The crowd arose to acclaim the save, McEachran stood still and admired the action. The ball stayed in play and Chesterfield rotated the bowling, Town subject to a barrage of fast medium seam bowling in favourable conditions.

Each ball on its merits lads, leave them if they are missing the stumps.

McEachran lost the will to run, twicely trotting as terror plots emerged on Town's right. Halfly cleared and rotated to their right, Markandy shrugged past Staunton, pirouetted and crossed. Oh Harvey, hapless Harvey, it had to be you didn't it. The unfortunate Rodgers stretched and poked as the ball skimmed across the face of goal and knee-knocked past Casper's wave.

With a dozen or so minutes left Town triple-subbed, taking off McEachran, Rose and Walker, bringing on Oduor, Khouri and Gilsenan. Each did one splendid thing in isolation, I'll give 'em that. I won't give you the false hope of hope itself.

Yes, the dead cat bounced and a couple of crosses were scooped by Lemming. There we are, that's that, the last wind has blown, Town had blown it.

With Chesterfield sufficiently adequate to deal with Town's ten men Boycott Cup team there is nothing but the passage of time. Gilsenan was dispossessed whist fiddling about as a trio of Spireites converged on McJannet. With chums free each side Markandy weaved and wafted over bar. If you have blue eyes you'd ponder why they failed to have any more shots.

Eight minutes were added. Eight minutes passed. A Khouri surge and Town had a corner, a last, last chance at redemption, of saving the day with a rousing rollicking last-ditch equaliser, from the depths of despair. Casper charge forward, the ball sailed high and meekly and there is no more.

Town were the dominant team until…until… there's always an until. Until they learn that learning is not itself the point of their exercising we shall be doomed to be forever comfortably numb, dazzled by our own beauty and the comforting words of the victorious, hailing our magnificent plumage.

There's no comfort in defeat, especially self-inflicted defeat. The fact is Chesterfield didn't even have to score to win, we had to do it for them.

'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

And now to Swindon.