Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

23 November 2025

Are we as unhinged as the toilet doors to carry on keeping on coming to this land of confusion, where Town are forever floored as their flaws are as exposed as the old away end? As it ever was, as it will ever be, will be, just turn left at Coventry. The only ecstasy we find here is on the tinny Tannoy-type sound system. One, two, three, four, five, our sense of dread is working overtime.

Why do we keep doing this?

Town lined up in that cookies and cream dream team kit again in a 4-1-4-1 again as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Warren, McJannet, Staunton, Turi, Burns, Green, McEachran, Vernam and Rose. The substitutes were Casper, Oduor, Khouri, Walker, Amaluzor, Kabia and Soonsup-Bell. Ooh, the bearded Turi is fluttering free, is that enough to make you happy?

Now then, your every wish, your every dream, hope, desire was for Young Charlie to be held in reserve: here comes the Zimmerman! No, not Bob, but old Dickie O'Donnell, a long-forgotten borrowed boy. He was just a child then, now he's an old man. Do you remember him, how he used to be? Me, neither. Like fame I remember the name but he doesn't live forever in the Blundell Park brain. Maybe we ain't seen the best of him yet. Give him time and maybe he'll make us forget we forgot.

Now then, Swindon Town. Well, we're here. We've nothing against them per se; as the record shows we've often had nothing playing against them, but we can distract ourselves with some hollering at the Hollowman. Or it could get called off, you never know your luck in this muck as a wretched wall of rain descended in sheets of drenching drizzle.

No lads, keep your hair on, just ignore him, he's not worth it.

1st half – Wrapped in grey
Town kicked off away from the emptiness with a punt straight into the stand opposite the 603 day dream believers in black and white.

Red socks be quicker nickers, hustling and bustling and directing all traffic downwind into the faces of the cream T-men. A Robin plunged to earth beneath us in search of some seeds. Monroe coiled, a striped head grazed and a goal kick was given to the giddy delight of the travelling Townites.

Maybe it's our day?

Swindon, tactically simple, just a dump to the lump who's getting a little plump. Searching for another overload, a big red scrump skeetled off a cream follicle as a local lad lurked beyond and offside, right in front of the linesman for the county. A throw-in when a redster was offside and a rumble of grumbling from the travelling Townites. A hooped chuck flicked on, Rodgers was man-wrangled aside and Palmer’s little plopper gently rolled across the purple zimmerframe and in off the left post.

Why do we keep doing this?

Shakin' Warren, driving us crazy. Every time he gets it our hearts starts speeding like a train on a track, we'd rather he just gave it a thwack. The Swindon plan was simply to let us swipe right. A couple of Town corners, signs of life, is it the sign of times?

Flicks on the flanks and Robins swarming. Bunny Warren blocked and a corner shortened. Oldaker scootled as a back-heel spindled. Burns poked, Green swiped and the ball ricobounced straight to the unmolested Bodin, who precisely placed a shot into the top right corner from the edge of the penalty area.

Two half attacks, two goals conceded? Why do we keep doing this? Do we only have questions, not answers when way out west in Wiltshire?

That's the British Bulldog spirit, it's what put the Great in Grimsby. A grim little gaggle of Grimsbyites walked off. We never do anything, so now's the time to begin, not to just go down the pub.

Darn it, that wretched linesman is still running the line.

And slowly, slowly the metaphorical winds changed even if the real one didn't. Town began a triangular torture session, almost thissing and nearly thatting. A cross, a lob and chase and Ripley slashing. Ripley, believe it or not, always game for a laugh, suspiciously drop kicking from beyond his penalty area, wibbling and wobbling wonderfully.

Under the nose of Bignot, Burns mugged a dawdler, toe-nicking to Turi. One look, one pass and Staunton was swinging, Vernam was swaying. The artist never to be known as the Cotswolds Cougar crossed into the ditherzone and Green, our action man with real flair, star jumped across to snickle from inside the six-yard box.

Eyes right! The game permanently flowing West. Green dissected as Robins diddled, Rodgers hurtled into the penalty area and hit the bye-line. The cross defloopled and a redster stepped across the hooking Rose, delaying not dealing with danger. The ball squimpled straight to Burns who carefully side-footed over with many a Mariner in the middle awaiting a pass.

Swindonites steered effortlessly into corners, bumbling and bombling abounds, causing clown pandemonium inside their penalty area.

Swindon stirring themselves into a T-bag trying to play football. Ripley rolled, a dawdler was trawled and trolled. Ripley received a back pass and strangled a chum into the corner. Green stepped in, Burns chipped in, Green and Rodgers rocking and rolling gaily through the canyons of their mind. A scrimble, a scramble, a poke, a stretch, a block and tumble as McEachran found himself unable to resist the mighty awesome power of the balls of Kilkenny's feet. The referee pointed appropriately and Rose stroked to his right as Ripley plunged to his right. Everything was now right with world. Parity, clarity, hilarity. Marvellous.

Smooth cream, frothy cream, double cream tea delight! Burns in, Burns out, Burns back again, shuffling across the razor's edge and dragging lowly through a hedge. The unsighted Ripley whoopsie-daisied a swipe away from his ankles and the ball flooffled across the face of the left post. Oh, what a lucky man he was.

Infiltrations and scrambles, tumbles and fumbles. Green here, Green there, a-ring a-ring with Rosey and everyone fell down. Was that a hand I see before thee or merely the fever dream of a monocled man?

Two minutes were added during which I forgot to eat my sandwich. And Rose flicked a corner across the face of goal.

Town were woeful, Town were wonderful, Town were Town against a team veering between Harrogate and Gillingham in their level of mundane League Twoness. They're top, we're not losing, we're not winning, we're here not just for the beer. How did that happen? Strange times in a strange town.

2nd half – Ball and chain
Neither team made any changes at half time and I still forgot to eat my sandwich. Shall we go on playing or find a new Swindon Town this half?

Shadow dancing down their right, puppetry and muppetry on the Town left. Crisses and crosses, nothing to get hung about. Slinky dinky tickles and a Town corner on the left. Elevation Mr Vernam. Mr Vernam elevated. The ball dipped and dripped into the heart of the six-yard box. A red leg wifted and wafted, Green turned and shin-swiped. 

Becalmed, bestilled, bewitched, drowning in the real feel of complacency. Stop counting chickens! A red swipe flew fastly but vastly wide. Home corners, cream breaks, all fizzing out with piffles and puffles and miscontrols. Their way, our way, all the way, a game drifting away. Where there's a will there's a way.

Halfway through the half Swindon double subbed, removing Bodin and the limping Tafazolli, replacing them with Princewill Ehibhatiomham and McGregor. To save a tree or two we shall call him The Prince, for he royally entertained the locals who became vocal when he moved.

Swindon becalmed, bestilled, but perhaps not so bewitched, waiting for the moment to strike when we're thinking you don't get points for style you know. A series of chunky clinks and clanks fell the red way. Sloppiness, slippiness and a hint of silliness as The Prince winkled through the prairies and Palmer slapped over.

Mariner moments lost with too much thought, too little thought and here's a thought: we're gonna get caught. Town's left slowly dissolving as we had a vimless, verveless Vernam for the last quarter of an hour. Burns, ooh, Burns, aah, and a Green header plumped nicely into Ripley's arms as Rodgers' cracking crinkle drooped into the middle of the middle of the penalty area.

Another double subbing from them as off went two blokes and on came two more, including a Mr William Wright, born to a family of milliners. Ah, so now they have The Prince and the pauper on. If you're not in the mood to dance, step back and grab yourself a seat.

Woosh: up and down, back and forth, and end to end. Palmer plinked when he should have plonked, Khouri replaced Turi and ain't that a kick in the head. Yes, it was, and Tabor was booked for Warren heading his brand new booties.

A Townite caught between land and sea, a red swarm descended. A break, a cross half shinned into the path of The Prince but Dickie O'D's legs of steel clamped shut. A tish, a tush, and further pouncing upon cream imperfection. Wright slap shot from afar, the ball za-zoomed, arrowing goalwards, but diving Dickie diverted spectacularly.

Right, ok, take a breath. Kabia came on for Rose. Forget it, Jaze, this is Swindon Town.

Got your breath back? We go again.

We go left, they go right, they go long, we go short, you say smile, I say cheese. We'll take shelter in any old port in a storm. Palmer wrangled Warren aside and passed a shot across the face of goal. The Zimmerman clawed and pawed, Tabor pulled back his left boot but Rodgers saved the day stretching to hook-block from a couple of yards out. Dickie D clutched the ball, clutched his head and time ticked on and on.

A cross headed towards Vernam's head but was headed out, or was that later? It happened one night, I know that. As did Walker's arrival, replacing Green with four or five minutes left. We're still pinging in the rain. A big drip dropped and Walker's swingling volley dipped and retreating Ripley patted aside.

Six minutes were to be added. Or so they say. But were they?

The home fires burning, home hearts yearning, home heads gurning as a slash volley zigger-zagged across goal blanging against a red head and out for a goal kick. Glatzal? Schmatzel. Over and out, matey.

Balls up! Town pressing caressing crosses, red shorts amassing near and far from goal, but the ball dropped into the nether zone. Go ahead, go ahead and light up the Town! With no red shirts, shorts, socks or boots inside the Swindon ring road, Walker, with time on his side, volleyed over from a dozen yards. Is it the time of the season for the Vernam non-header? Town crossed, red heads tossed. A corner. Someone, somehow flicked and the ball drifted through and across and wide.

With 15 seconds left, bodies strewn across the sodden sods, the ref had had enough, seeking a dry place, a warm place, a happy place. Are we happy together? No matter how we tossed the dice it had to be in this weather.

We could have been hammered, we could have hammered them. Both things could and should have happened, depending on the colour of your spectacles and depths of your despair. If we hit the nail on top of the head a draw was the least Town deserved for perseverance and resolve. Add in a soupcon of football and we have the ingredients for a season of tantalising almostness. At least it'll keep us entertained and interested.