Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

27 December 2025

Under an azure sky of deepest blue, a vista as clear as an unmuddied lake, what do you see? You see a sea of faces, some seeking sanctuary, some seeking solace, all seeking escape from the Boxing Day blues. Ah yes, the traditional local derby, Oldham, who often give us the blues but who had turned up in red today.

Town lined up in the usual processed cheese 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Burns, Green, McEachran, Vernam and Kabia. The substitutes were Casper, Warren, Staunton, Walker, Khouri, Amaluzor, and Soonsup-Bell.

I spy with my perfectly normal-sized eye some alarming strapping on Smith's left knee and two alarmingly strapping red-backed centre-backs. Ahoy there, Crème De Monthè and his big buddy, Simeu, one of the very few people who will be able to claim "I was Monthè's double". I am pretty sure David Niven didn't recruit him.

Stop staring, it's only Ogle an old Aussie Iron, but I do see Micky, son of Micky. Big Micky must have left his nephews Nicky, Ricky and Dickie at home. Don't get picky with these pre-match distractions, he's a real son of his father, just like his dad, following in the same tradition.

Boxing Day at home, a full house, I never thought I'd ever have to use the phrase that's a sausage roll too far.

1st half – Past three a clock
Hanging around on a piece of ground in our home town, c'mon Rossy it's three o'clock and it's getting nippy. Town kicked off towards the Osmond, stuffed with a thousand and more fun seekers, all full of Latic acid after a full morning down the slotties. It's more tiring than you think, having fun. So why not have a little rest now you're here, have a little snooze why don't you.

Oof, 'ave it! No messing about from Monthè - no frills, no spills, for if in doubt get it out. A ball bobbled and a red sock launched it long, long, long into the dying days of 2025. A high ball, some barge ball and Town's glamorous glimmer twins collided. The ball dropped, a red toe poked, a red foot prodded and Smith scuppered their fiendish plans by smothering Hammond's slap.

Town flaky and holey, held together by Turi and some string. Oldham, up and at us, all vigour and vim, a real meat and potatoes team. Will they get any gravy though? Did they remember to stir before they poured forward? A hint of this, a suggestion of that now and again, here and there. From us, from them. A moment of clarity, a pass, a man moved. Kabia swished right, Burns sauntered down a cul-de-sac and Rodgers dinked into the very centre of the six-yard box. Up went the crowd, up went the linesman's flag and stooping Green trotted back home without his present.

The Latics' tactic was never to be static. Irritants they were, especially Garner, a narky little flying ant, the referee far too indulgent of his antics as McJannet and Tharme took it in turns to be air-mugged. The game a controlled chaos, the ball forever chasing pigeons.

I'm sorry to distract you from the action, but I need to know, is Herr Soot a hairy man from Hamburg? Christmas coats ahoy!

Town rightly raiding as Rodgers galloped gaily, cheekily poke-tickling Burns behind his marker. A winkle back to Harvey, a tinkle back to Burns and the Irish rover carefully steered a low roller across the face of goal through a thicket of sockery. With Hudson squatting underneath the kitchen table Kabia's left foot waggled and the ball carried on regardless. A corner. There is no need to proceed further with that sentence. The verdict is guilty as Town overclevered themselves into doggie bag, shortening corners, quickening free kicks and turning attack into defence at the drop of a hat. Mmm, let's not get started on those Christmas hats.

Wake up!

A vaguely long chuckle in was sidled halfly away by McJannet's short and curlies. Garner pounced, his volley bounced and Smith smartly flicked aside for a corner. Monthè and his double trundled upfield and the man himself managed to head over from two yards whilst slaying McJannet and Tharme, left laying on the turf clutching heads.

Town suddenly upped the pace of their passing with Marinermen moving hither and thither. Kabia rolled Sweeney free to swipe across face of goal. Green sniggled to Vernam on the right corner of their penalty area. A draggle and waggle and Slim Charles lashed with his left foot, Hudson aching left and pushing the thwack aside. Corners, free kicks, words, words, mere words. Poppycock! Actions speak louder.

Turn it down will you! Smith unPymly plunged upon the sneaky squirtle. Smith unPymly danced across his line to pluck a slow coil from the air. A nothing moment that came to nothing but it tells you everything you need to know, for our temporary custardian laid a blanket of calmness over the green, green grass of home.

One minute was added. There's nothing more to add.

We've had our moments, but so have they in a game poised at the point of possibility. What's the probability Town will find a way to avoid a happy ending?

2nd half – December in the north
Neither team made any change at half time.

Incoming! McJannet Mcclobbered by Garner, who was playing by Australian Rules, but without a mullet. Triangulation and Kabia skipped down the right flank, fabulously caressing a cross through the middle of the penalty area to someone who wasn't there. Where were they? Elsewhere, running their fingers through their hair in the universally agreed form of public displays of 21st Century disappointment. It is indeed a very disappointing century, just like any one by an Aussie batsman.

And finally, Cyril, Garner was finally booked for air frying McJannet. At this Mellon triple-subbed, taking off his hamstrung son and the gittish Garner. Personally I prefer triple chocolate. Ooh, hang on who was the third man? Do you care?

Between the humps, lumps and dumps, there were scraps and scrapes in front of the Pontoon, the game ducking and diving, swinging and dodging. A corner, a scramble Kabia turned and spun-scraped into the side netting. Off they jolly well ran, slipping between Town's sheets. Does our goalmouth look too big? No, it's the perfect size…for missing. Town stripped of dignity as Latics lacerated them down their left. A cross was passed into the six-yard box, bereft of stripes, a red man alone. Hannatt shot, Smith spread his wings and the ball spindled behind the stretching, slipping Sweeney towards Drummond. Calm down dear, Rossy took pity and awarded a Town free kick for loitering with intent to use a pedestrian crossing.

For a brief moment in time Oldham were ascendant, dominant, pressing and probing. Black shorts blocked and a young man employed to play football carefully side-footed over after being nudged free.

With 20 minutes left Turi and Burns were replaced by Walker and Amaluzor, sacrificing control for chaos; suddenly Town had some pace and power on the wing. And Charles Vernam. Direct action, direct running. Kabia hurtling forward, running into a red wall of flesh. Here we go again, revving up the right. Green cushioned, Amaluzor acted as a wall not a flower, Rodgers roamed to the bye-line and raked back into a void beyond the penalty spot. With a gaggle of Oldhamites shuffling across, Vernam's shot slipped past red toes and ballooned up off Hudson's toes and back across goal. Kabia waited. And waited. And waited. The ball descended and Kabia, four yards out, nodded goalwards. A single Oldhamite leapt in front of him and the ball bounced off his back and…and…nothing.

And suddenly Latics began to fall, to clutch and claw, to foul and growl. 'Orrible Ogle was finally booked and immediately subbed so couldn't rugby mug Vernam anymore. ANYMORE. Released from the shackles, his tormentor sent to prison for his crimes, Vernam was suddenly free to roam the land unmolested. Charles chased a punt into the corner, Caprice fell and Ross Joyce fell for Charles's charms. The free kick was under-elevated but corner followed corner as one flew through the cuckoo's nest and Hudson began to flap.
And on bounded Soonsup-Bell for Kabia.

An ooh, an ahh, an approximation of almostness around and about but alas a series of unfortunate events unfolded and Oldham careered off downwind towards their excited throng. Slaps and dashes and Quigley's blast was blocked by Sweeney. The ball rolled back into the flightpath of Drummond whose drive flew past Smith towards the unmanned and open left side of the goal. Now, I've seen the world, I've been around, I could tell you stories that would quite astound you. But I've never seen anything like it, I've never seen anything like it, I've never seen anything like it in my life!

Charles Vernam, the Count of Caistor, thighed off the line and over the bar.

Quite extraordinary. Who'd have ever thought they'd see the day that the Wolds Panther would hurtle back to throw himself along the line, all in the line of duty. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.

Nine minutes were added

Remarkable. Quite remarkable. McJannet dissolved before our very eyes. A square pass across the back line went straight to Drummond and off he cantered into the darkness beyond. Another sloppy slip and then a trip. We're in a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world here in panto season, where the laws of gravity and football are inverted.

Somewhere within the great jelly of life beyond the 90th minute Sweeney was replaced by Staunton who is, at least, taller. Or possibly, at most, taller. The game flopped this way and that. Vernam wiggled and waggled and tangled Caprice in tinsel, dripping perfectly to the far post. With Hudson flailing, the goal open, the ball sailed beyond Amaluzor and grazed off the stooping Green's finest follicles and failed to arrive in its desired destination. A miss from no yards.

Hey, wait, come back, it's not over yet! A dallying Lancyman's punt was charged down by Vernam and off he scampered, releasing Amaluzor, who waited, waited and waited for the cavalry. As horses hooves thundered past, bugles blaring, Big J passed straight to them darn injuns, passing behind Soonsup-Bell and passing up the last chance in the saloon.

No, no there's more. In the tenth minute of the nine Green surged down the right, espied stripes alone in the penalty area and scraped across into the red emptiness towards those two Townites a-sailing by. The ball spun off Walker's toes and spun behind Soonsup-Bell and there's no positive way to spin that moment, the very last kick of the game and yet another kick in the teeth.

Could have lost, should have won. Who? Both and neither.

A not uneventful game, strangely entertaining with just a hint of mystery, a match always threatening to erupt into activity, but always with the promise of nothing actually resulting from the sound and fury.

Town were terrible and tremendous at very snapshot moments. Over all being simply Town in their ability to be both, and end up with something that is both good and bad at the same time. What a perfect match as a metaphor for Town's season. It looked like something would happen, but it didn't.