Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

11 January 2026

We didn't get where we are today by looking a gift horse in the mouth. Or by trusting easy chairs, or even easy draws. Woah-woah-ho, it's magic, it's the most wonderful time of the footballing year with Town nicely hosting minnows for toasting. Ah, there be scary ghost stories of tales of glories of being giant-killed in cup games from long, long ago.

Let's not put the cart before the trees. After ten years in the wilderness the Blessed Cleesemakers hath returned. Well, obviously, this is not meant to be taken literally, it refers to any manufacturer of 1970s' sitcoms. But – and I want to make this absolutely clear - not Love Thy Neighbour, you have to draw the line somewhere near Scunthorpe.

A briskly still evening of songs and laughter and jokes old and new as we meet the gang who are supposed to entertain you and me in the usual 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Warren, Lavelle, McJannet, Staunton, McEachran, Burns, Walker, Khouri, Vernam and Soonsup-Bell. The substitutes were Auton, Tharme, Rodgers, Green, Turi, Amaluzor, Oduor, Sellars-Fleming and Kabia. A bunch of changes here and there, for good, for bad, for the indifferent, which matches the mood music within the mass of Marinerdom huddled under hats of many colours. Big Sam returns to do what he was born and bought to do – heading off danger, literally. And Bunny Warren at right-back. Some things are best left unsaid.

What cultural gifts are these you lay before us dear Maresmen as an offering to the cods? John Cleese, Jeffrey Archer, Ritchie Blackmore, and not forgetting light sub-glam chancers Racey. Actually, please do forget those frothy popsters Racey, it's for the best. We don't want to scare the children. Some parts of that decade are best left in the dungeon.

Will these blue and yellow-striped seagulls scare our back four? When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea. Well, we are the Big Fish today.

At least the Macc Lads have given us mass media cover. Whatever happens, happens and whatever happens will only be the skateboarding duck at the end of the news. A game destined to be forever merely an "and" to all but those present.

Right, crack on, let's get through this with as much dignity as possible.

1st half – Goalposts for jumpers
Town kicked off towards the Osmond bouncing along with 571 Zummerzetters sommersetting on solid ground. Having been some days in preparation a splendid time was not guaranteed for all, but they hoped that they might be topping the bill, or at least have a thrill with a giant kill.

Trippers trilling at the sight of striped seagulls milling around the floss and dross. Is it a stockbroker? Is it a quantity surveyor? Is it a church warden? A corner cleared and a spanner in Luke Spokes' wheels as a bicycle repairman flew out to the rescue.

Tickles and tackles, unlock the shackles! Walker ran onto Warren's pass and slash-poked wayly wide. More Wallker-Warren wafting, the Bunnyman drifted in to scrunch through and off blue socks and Harris slapped aside from his leftist of posts. The Town corner? No-one knows. No-one cares. It's like it never happened.

What happened next?

Wahey, non-league leg ups leaving a slew of striped Marinermen face down in the dirt. Khouri clattered and cleaned out, Cummins booked for dredging Buck Beck and finding Slim Charles between the shopping trolleys and nappies. And? And, well, Vernam wuffed a scuff and Harris plucked. Parries and thrusts, I like my pies with crust.

Another vague and underhit Town corner was cleared. Upping and downing, passing and movement, Cummins twisted one of the melons by the bye-line. The chip dipped over Smith, drifted past the posts and Coulson slapped lowly calling for some action from Jackson.

Vernam Vernamed into the crowd of delighted day-trippers. It hadn't taken them long to find out what we found out long ago. He's a big teaser. Remember, what the eye doesn't see is goose for the gander!

What appeared to be action was in fact inaction with no traction gained. No maybes, no supposes, no fractions. You can't travel in space, you can't pass into space with fractions. What are you going to land on? One-quarter? Three-eighths? What are you going to do when Big Sam has the ball at his feet? He's got it, baby he's got it and Town may as well be playing on Venus. That is not our desire, we want fire in the belly, blood and thunder, give it a go, keep on passing, keep on moving, keep on running, don't keep on hiding. Pace, pace, pace, who's gonna be our man? McJannet stepped forward and swept upfield waiting for a friend to lend him a hand.

We've seen this same game where Town are tame, lamely lapping from side to side, slowly rusting, whilst the parasites wait for the moment to strike, to finally burst out of their eggs.

Smith. No egg on his face, just a save with grace as the Seagulls swept and swooped upon a loose Town chip, like Harpies.

Harris. Should be egg on his face. An aimless, artless, anaemic cross drooped and Harris dropped the ball. Do I have to tell you what you know already, that no Townite was within the sound of Bow Bells? No, of course I don't. Wee Janet McCammeron stooped and slide-headed loopily high and wide, Soonsup-Bell was near but far as blue socks blocked the road to nowhere. Can we go inside soon, it's getting nippy.

With five minutes to the half-time heaters, the Wolds Panther crept out from under the mulberry tree, cut infield and lowly crossed into the hazy, crazy 'good areas' of hope and possibility, also known as the middle of the penalty area near goal. Soonsup-Bell ducked, the keeper flew and fantastically flipped over. Which way, right or left? With two balls in a fountain, the referee ordered leftly. The corner shortened, Vernam cut infield again and flash fried his signature dish, the dreamy Good Vernam with creamy cheese sauce pouring over forlornly flapping fingers into the top left corner. Any more pie?

Time and motion wait for no man. Higgles and piggles and Burns and Soonsup-Bell blocked as some more things almost happened again far, far away.

One minute was added. Beans on toast? Possibly, don't quote me on that. Footballing crabsticks.

2nd half – Inspite of all the danger
Neither team made any change at half time.

There's no smoke without the worm turning. Up and at us, here they come. A long lump and two Townites failed to stop the flick on. Louis Vuitton walloped and Smith spectacto-pushed over the bar. On they pressed, back and back again, lines being drawn but not cleared.

Warren’s messy meander ended with a missed tackle and off they ran. In an out, up and down, and McEachran bumped a Bluesman aside. A free kick way out but central. Coulson coiled towards the top right, Staunton twisted in the wall, the ball ballooning off his backside, spindling and spinning up, up and away into the top left corner with Smith back-peddling.

Now that's put the cat in the china shop and the pigeons are well and truly out of the bag.

Town threaded needles in a haystack, stacking up on the flanks, coagulating into a gurgling mess of nothingness.

On the hour a double substitution as Green and Kabia replaced Walker and Soonsup-Bell.

Moments, movement, some Green energy enlivening the mediocrity. Burns didn't cross, Burns didn't pass, Green overstepped the line, a cross to the near post, a cross to the near post, a blocked Burns shot rolled to Kabia who oddly prodded a poke slowly wide.

The Seagullers sank further back, watching Town pass the parcel. Staunton cranked a cracking cross, Warren ducked and headed over from five yards. Triangulation unpicking the locks, Warren gambolling to the bye-line and perfectly bisecting the brace of monochromers at the near post and Green beyond.

They forgot that we were here, so had we. Ah, now we remember. Vernam's underhit corner was headed out and headed back by McEachran. McJannet flick-scooped back into the void and Kabia poked out a leg, flicked out a foot and toe-poked past the startled Harris.

A break, a flaky McEachran spin and fling and Khouri hauled down an escaping rabbit halfway in Town's half. The free kick was tapped short, chipped deep, headed into the far post vagueness and Britton, alone, simply steered past Smith. A simple training ground routine. Very simple, all round.

Self-belief. We can do it. We can do it. We can do it. We can do it, we can really move from our head right down to our blue suede shoes. Isn't it? Rubettes, 1973? Marvellous. Burns' mazy meander, Khouri shot. A deep cross deeply dipped and Green flicked as Warren licked his lips awaiting behind.

With five or so minutes left Turi and Sellars-Fleming came on for McEachran and Vernam. Turi was felled by a stray blue arm, Sellers-Fleming, swung and swayed strongly, tantalising with possibilities.

Urging and surging down the right. Green crossed, Kabia swept and the ball buffled off a blue backside and past the left post as the keeper sprawled right. Sit down, we never score form a corner. Staunton corner, Green flicked at the near post and the ball arced beautifully into the farthest corner. Are we there yet?

As five minutes were added Rodgers replaced the wayward wind that is Warren. The Westoners? Rush goalie, two at the back, three in the middle, four up front, one's gone home for his tea. They flung, they hung and finally the Seagulls were in Ciao City Arizona as Staunton dribbled into the corner.

Well, that's out of the way. Could have been worse.