Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

25 January 2026

Ah, the beautifully sparkling spa waters of Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. A place that owes its very fortune to a fashionable gathering of pigeons at a spring. The palisades, the promenades, the Regency elegance of the roads out of town with a spinet in every drawing room, a sad-eyed spinster sewing in the window of every other villa.

And then Whaddon Road.

Town lined up in that cookies and creamy dreamy kit in a 4-1-4-1 formation as follows: Smith, Rodgers, Lavelle, McJannet, Sweeney, Turi, Burns, Green, Khouri, Vernam and Soonsup-Bell. The substitutes were Warren, Staunton, Oduor, McEachran, Sellars-Fleming, Kabia and Cook. Big Sam for Duck Farm, no Walker, no Amaluzor and no substitute goalie again. Smith's wonky knee and the weekly gamble with the referee? With a little luck this whole darn thing will work out.

Why water a sodden pitch?

Ah, yes, of course, it's a rugby town. Put your gumboots on and wine gums down, it's party time.

1st half – The house that shadows built
Town kicked off away from 537 travelling Townites on a blustery day of greyness and drabness with a drab grey punt downfield and out of sight. They too can play draughts. A drab punt back upfield and Sweeney's underhit pass caused a smattering of nattering deep within the away end.

Sweeney caught staring at the sky, Thomas bedazzling between Town sticks, minor panics as scuttlers scuttled and creaking creamsters fiddled and faddled, finally finding a paddle to get out of the creek.

Home harem-scarem scatterballing, flipping, flopping and plopping into the penalty area, Town squeezed into the left corner. A tickle to Turi and trouble afoot but with a trick, a treat, a twizzle and fizzle, in a bound Town were free. Khouri sauntered, Sweeney got a message from the action man and swished on into his path, 25 or so yards out. One touch, one thwack and Green screamed straight as an arrow into the top left corner. Hope you're happy, we're all happy too.

Address the press Mr Artell. No, not Matt Dean, the Rocking Robins' full-court duvet, their frantic smotherball. A cross, a header, Thomas Thomasing the man with the child still in his eye, balls dropping, a crowded house party with no room to swing our pants. In and out, standing stones watching and waiting.

Soonsup-Bell's head was sandwiched and finally, after it became clear the Bobbins couldn't pass the time let alone the ball, the referee permitted some magic sponging of Mr Groggy's forehead. And then, finally, let him back on the pitch when it became clear Cotterill's Clangers were mistaking their fans for full-backs. Charity shirts and charity passes into the crowd. And to the charity shops beyond. Marvellous.

Oh no, don't get me wrong, we're not so aloof that we won't give it a hoof. You want some proof? Rodgers cleared the roof.

A roll out, a pass out, a caress up their left and Thomas sold Sweeney London Bridge, payable in cryptocurrency via his friend the Nigerian Prince. There's no doubting Thomas is bona fide, surging into the Town penalty area and stepping over a divot. And here he went toe-to-toe with Smith's magic toes. And there is only one winner possible. The game as a whole, of course, as the forces of goodness triumphed.

It would be nice if we stopped lumping long to Day all day. Ooh, nice. Flicks and tricks as Va-Vernam va-voomed and cut in, slapping a cross shot. As Soonsup-Bell lunged Day plunged and pawed and picked up the pieces as McJannet's wallop slithered back off many a diversion around the race course. No need for a diversion you know, they're all still getting drunk watching some old nags trundle around.

Town docile and inert, Cheltenham facile but alert. A dink and wink and Deeming spun past Turi as the defence retreated. A passing shot bumbled through the divotry and plinked against the outside of Smith's left post. The rest is history, Rodgers slid to put a lid on it.

For a while.

As a charity worker slipped by Turi tugged and up flung a yellow card. You could hear the tutting from GCHQ. Of course they could, they're listening…

Robins whipping cream, please don't scream. A header over, a header wide, a plop and drop, a swing and a miss, all scruffy scuffs and duffs as a slapshot was scooped by Smith, and as a half-clearance was slashed towards the tea rooms Smith lay down with some lambs, clutching various legs, pulling various faces as the mechanics came on to wipe his windscreen and check on his brakes.

The mid-game service worked a treat. We could see where we were going, the tracking had been adjusted, the tyres pumped up and everything was tickety-boo.

Occasional forays, infrequent interplay, Soonsup-Bell glanced a flicky corner across the face of goal, a dark leg stretched away from a lurking Soonsup-Bell toe. Isolated moments of almostness in a trifle of piffle.

What a load of piffle from the turquoise twerp. Nurse nibbling and nobbling Burns twicely and the referee acted nicely, merely wagging a finger after the second hack by the gnarly old full-back. Khouri was booked at a throw-in for passing it to Sweeney. An unnecessary caution; just add five seconds you plonker.

Three minutes and six seconds were added and Town broke away from the slack with Soonsup-Bell cynically scythed as he swayed away to the very brink of the edge of the perimeter of the penalty area. At last a booking for a homester hamster but, hey Jude, whatever you do don't mention the free kick. New balls please.

Sweeney being stripped, Burns being whipped, the ref being a big drip in a scattershot, scattergun game with no brain but at least there's no rain. Doh, here it comes.

2nd half – At the circus
Neither team made any changes at half time as the drizzle sheets drifted into the forlorn faces of the home fans. Thanks, it's nice and snug down here in the dry zone.

From the off a chip and chase, a pass, some movement and Burns clipped to the farthest post. With DayGlo Day stranded, the goal giving the illusion of emptiness, Vernam vaguely jumped near where the ball would have been had a Big Bad Wolf not headed it away yesterday.

Lumping, dumping, ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, a throw so foul even this pastel poltroon was obliged to admonish the low roller.

Nurse! Again. How many more times? Please look away now if you wish to avoid the score…once more unto a breach the ref refused to go. Four times did he foul, four times did he escape the clutches of law and order.

Ooh, hello Charles. A little bit of this, quite a bit of that and Soonsup-Bell's wriggling slip-scruff slithere straight at Day.

Moments, here and there, occasional breakaways and, once or twice, professional footballers passed the ball to each other. Miller squeezed by Lavelle at the near post, Town's left dissolved and Rodgers' last-gasp lunge left.

On the hour Staunton and Kabia replaced Sweeney and Soonsup-Bell. And things can only get better. They did. The left side was suddenly blocked off and Thomas roamed to the right. Never fear, Harvey's here, it was clear the little lad had met his match.

Town. The ball. Faffing about, not shooting. After you, Claude. No, no, after you, Charles. Oh how we laughed.
A home corner that wasn't was halfly headed out and, after some discussion down in the laundry room, old Young Big Bertha-ed back. Cundy stepped into the no-man's land between Rodgers and Lavelle dead centre, six yards out and was decidedly undeadly, satisfactorily steering safely wide. Well, we were satisfied with his safe passage.

Listen lads, he's got a plan. Big hoofy mis-kick and Smith rushed out to the very edge of his area to secure the gold. A snuggle over the top and Smith was straight out to swipe away from an advancing artisanal cheese maker.

With 20 minutes left Cook replaced Burns, a man for whom the ball was never knowingly under control, with Kabia swinging out right. Invigorated, energised and reinvented, Town seized control, encamped inside the Robins' nest.

Off came the brake on the break. Vernam twirled, Rodgers whirled, and from way out right by the tea stall, Kabia's cross floated into the middle of the six-yard box, brushing past Cook's aura and bounced softly, slowly past flapping marigolds. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom indeed, three stands deflated, one stand elated at the belated second goal.

The game is simply over. As simple as that.

For the sake of completeness and clarity at some point that no-one should really bother about, Cotterill was booked for simply being an annoying old man waving his walking stick at the moon.

With ten minutes left Oduor came on for Vernam and McEachran for Green. Let this be known throughout the world, Clarke Oduor was the man for the moment, negatively excellent, a man who got in the way and wanted to get in the way. He got in their way, which is all we ask of him. He may not open doors, but he is adept at closing them.

A Khouri cross just in front of Kabia. A Khouri cross just above Kabia and side-eyed wide. These are merely things that almost happened as we awaited the chance to join the traffic jam as those la-di-das left Race Day.

Four minutes were added as the home stands dribbled away. A punt, a shunt, Rodgers crudely body checked and Thomas's steam hammer beat many a Robin to the dinner table. And finally there was, like half the roads around Cheltenham, closure.

It was all so unnecessarily fraught, for Town could have been caught out by some enthusiastic local lads. But they weren't and, in reality, were more in danger from the referee. But there is a plan B, perhaps even a plan C. There are alternatives now. Right here, right now, every substitute came on and strengthened the team, and simply made us better, so Town finished stronger than they started.

So here we are as the spring bulbs start to sprout, lurking in the undergrowth, ready to pounce on the unwary, any time, any place, anywhere.